“My name isn’t really Gabby, it’s Marly, Marly Channing. I was just like you a long time ago, scared, but I had no choice. I helped dig these things up and now I’m one of them. I do love you,” she said.
“Come in,” I said, pulling her into my arms, finally knowing how much I truly loved her. I stared into her catlike eyes that were now full of tears. It felt as if I was sinking underwater, and the light disappeared as I sank further in. I could feel the blood trickling out. “Rest now,” she said, “you’ve doomed us both.”
STORY FOUR: LONG LIVE THE QUEEN
“I’m the bloody Queen of England! You will follow my commands, Finn. Are you really going to disobey my orders? Can you not figure out how to use a gun?”
I watched as Finn’s mouth curled up and he began to speak. “Mum, this is Britain. Had I been born in America or some gun-happy place with crazed Yanks, I would place the pistol between your eyes and pull. If I were a Yank, I might have the know-how to. I wasn’t raised with guns. I haven’t seen this type of safety before. The only guns I’ve seen are in the films. Plus, it makes me a bit nervous, topping off the queen. I mean, what if someone is filming?”
“Finn, who would be filming, Mother Teresa? Tupac?”
He retorted, “Sadly, considering our current situation, that wouldn’t be proper unusual.”
“Oh, stop your whining! Must I do it myself?” I said, staring at him. “Would you have your queen commit suicide? Do you have a baton, a bat? What did you use during the riots?”
He looked at me, totally in shock, and answered, “Mum, during the riots we mostly just stayed in.”
I screamed, “Oh, give me the gun! I’m going to top myself, you daft cunt!”
To my surprise, he grabbed my arm, looking like a lost puppy. “We need to go now, they are breaking in. Let’s hide in the kitchen.”
“I am the Queen of England! I don’t hide! But, I will go in this circumstance.” My mind flashed to Henry, my poor son and the would-be king. He was attacked and eaten by his mistress. I never could forget the icy, drained look of his skin and the jellied droplets of his blood. I would miss him dearly, but the mistress, she was a terribly wicked slag and always smelled of old clotted cream. “Finn do you remember the TV series ‘Noggin the Nog?’”
“Yes I do, Mum,” he said, looking out a hall window. “That was aces.”
“I used to watch that, Finn. I rather enjoyed it. Times like this, my mind always seizes upon ‘Noggin the Nog.’ During that time, life was so much simpler.”
“Mum?”
“What, Finn?”
“Nevermind,” he said. “I thought I saw someone outside, but it couldn’t be, she’s long gone.”
On the way to the kitchen, we heard it again, the most terrible wailing sound. It seemed like it was extending from space. Has judgment day come? They thought this would be a great place to stash me? “My guards are worthless, Finn, only good for stealing my vittles. They were wrong.” And where were they? The sky looked different these days, with its reddening tinge and its odd cloud formations. The air smelled of dead bodies, and the sounds of constant chaos and the echoes of a civilization being morphed into the unbelievable were on full display. All the warmth of yesterday dissipated into the sheer and bleached coldness of tomorrow. To look outside was to stare at the end of the world. I’d rather not; I’d rather stay focused.
“Mum, did you ever hear the story about the happy slapper?”
“What story, Finn?”
“Well there was a bloke, a young bloke; he got on at Victoria Station. He walked up to a woman and slapped her. To his surprise, she smiles and says, ‘Please do it again.’ So, he slapped her again, and again she says, ‘Please do it one more time.’ So he obliges. He says, ‘What is wrong with you?’ She says, ‘I am into submission and torture, and it’s your turn now.’ She pulls down his pants, and he’s happy. She says, ‘Close your eyes.’ He obliges. She then pulls out a huge dilly as long as your arm, and she sticks it in his you know, she like rams it in full force, and he runs off the train screaming and bleeding.”
“Oh, dear Finn, that was terrible! Let me tell you something: In Lithuania, there’s a hill, it’s called the Hill of Crosses. There’s a little village nearby, and there had been reports of strange occurrences. There was a man from that village, a shaman. He went door-to-door, telling people something was coming, that they needed to go to the Hill of Crosses. Instead of listening, they beat him and spat on him. Finn, people began to be found with their throats ripped open, horrible sights, these children lying torn apart. They thought it was the man until he was found a bloody mess being devoured by flies. The killing continued. Still, they thought some animal had been on the loose, but they began finding things uncharacteristic of animals; the bodies were found in high up trees with strange etchings on them. People began to say the wind smelled different. We got our first reports of this from a political ally and friend. His call was one of the last we received, and it was dreadful. We got a tip that something world-changing was going on down there from a man named Zen, and we sent more people. The report we got back is that a whole village was decimated. We sent a few special operatives there, but they didn’t return. That was a week ago, and we’re not sure if it had something to do with this, but we think so.”
“Mum, that’s a really scary story. I think I liked the one about the Happy Slapper best.”
When we got to the kitchen, we weren’t alone. That fat slag Chef Emma had been turned into a zombie. She looked horrible as always, like she bought her clothes from one of those fashions under five shops they have in America. To the trained eye, she also looked like she had not moisturized in ages. She was shoving raw bacon down her throat, looking just as gormless as ever.
“Do her in!” I yelled to my new royal servant.
“Shhhh!” he said, hushing me, for which, I reprimanded him with a slap. The commotion had notified the slag of our presence. Finn grabbed a pot, hitting her in the head, and she let out a groan as a W-shaped gash opened up. There was perhaps a slight look of recognition in her eyes as he hit her again and again, and low-level thuds filled the air and pasty pus rushed from the cracks in her face till her left eye exploded out of the socket and she toppled over like the Greek economy.
“That was wonderful, Finn!” I said, noticing a pained look on his face as he stared at the various splatters. “Do you know Vladimir Putin fakes pictures of himself wrestling animals and posing with dangerous cats in the wild? The world needs real heroes like you, Finn!”
“Well, Mum, that sort of brings me to a question. The princes? Ever since they started their military careers, they are saving someone everyday or doing some amazing feat, is that real?”
“Finn, have you ever heard the phrase, ‘War is hell?’ Now, let us see if we can find some food for ourselves, even though the dead are all around meandering, that does nothing to end my appetite.” Luckily this kitchen had a door; we were safe for a while. “Open the fridge!” I commanded. Still stocked as expected, but oh, what I’d do for some bangers and mash.
“Wow! There’s enough food in here to last quite awhile!” Finn exclaimed, grabbing leftover chicken and Bolognese sauce.
“Oh, Finn, I don’t see the leftovers from Nandos. This is terrible. My dearest Finn, this food is just about useless without someone to prepare it. What sort of cook are you?”
“Mum, dear, I’m an adequate cook. I cooked for me wife Abbey during her pregnancy.”
“So you have children, good sir?”
“Yes, in Leicester.”
“They are probably dead, Finn. I don’t think anyone could survive this outbreak.”
“Surely they are not, Mum, or I would have nothing to live for.”
“Then go ahead and believe what you need to believe to get you through.”
“What about the princes, Mum? Do you think they made it?”
“Walter is resilient. Danny is a bit of a wild card. That one is always causing scandal: nude p
ictures, hanging with Yanks, getting an infected knob shagging dirty birds, wearing drag, but I care for him all the same. I think they’ll be fine. At least they are where the weapons are. Did you know that Walt and Kathy were going to announce a pregnancy? That’s one that Daily rag got right. That was before everything went to shite.”
“Mum, there’s something I want to ask you, may seem a bit silly. But the Olympics? We were watching you at the Olympics, and you did not seem to enjoy them this year. Is that a fair assumption?”
“I did enjoy them, and I’ll tell you about that, but first, can you cook the food please?”
“Okay, Mum.”
Finn, I was supposed to be in the White House tonight. I rather like their new president. I see the way he looks at me. I would totally shag him if I were a bit younger. But, he too is married. His wife, of course, is very nice, a stately woman. Those kids are a bit stuck-up though; they’d make perfect queens some day. I’ll take over the stirring; see if there’s a radio in that cabinet over there. I seem to remember one of the cooks listening to music. Ever see an overweight woman do a solo black bottom?”
“No, Mum, are you going to dance then?”
“Not me, cunt! I was referring to Emma.” At that moment, we heard another loud explosion happen outside, they were becoming common. Sure enough, he found a radio. “Shall we listen, Finn?” I said, almost not wanting to hear the update.
The radio buzzed and it began to read a hollow message: “The outbreak has paralyzed our society, the police personnel have left their posts…Today, all of London is in chaos, as Britain, America, China, all the major nations are in peril. No mobile or land phone service at this time.”
“Okay, Finn, could you turn that off and fix the chicken?”
“The outbreak has paralyzed our society, the police personnel have left their posts…Today all of London in is chaos, as Britain, America, China, all the major nations are in peril. No mobile or land phone service at this time.”
“Oh, shite, it’s a recorded message. Would you happen to have a fag on you, Finn?”
“No, Mum, I quit.”
“Why did you pick this time to quit? Oh, about the Olympics, the media was wrong, everyone was wrong. I know I won’t always be here, and I’m feeling my age. Staring into the sea of youth and vigor at the opening ceremony, it reminded me that I’m getting old. I wasn’t ignoring the proceedings so much as getting lost in my own thoughts, lost in the pride of the British people. You would have to have been queen to understand what it means to the people. Someday I won’t be here, Finn, and all of this will go on without me. It’s not just the admiration. To walk amongst people you truly love, to serve them, that’s what God put us here to do. It will all go on, and that’s what the youth of the Olympics reminded me of, well…and that I would have rather been home having sex, but otherwise, I did enjoy the proceedings.”
I noticed that Finn did not look well, he looked blue, and his eyes had darkened. “Finn, you don’t look well.” That’s when he showed it to me: Emma the chef had bitten him. I had no choice. I grabbed the hot chicken broth and poured it on his arm.
He screamed, “Muuum!” before passing out. Poor Finn lay there with steaming skin.
I woke him an hour later. “Finn, do you think you could put a kettle of coffee on?
“Oh, feck off!” he yelled.
“I’m sorry, Finn. I was just trying to slow the infection. I have enjoyed your company. I will leave you now. If I make it through this, you will be remembered for serving your country; I will see to it.”
I watched as his face began to turn grey, and before his eyes slipped back into his head, he asked me one last thing: “Mum, please find my wife and children and take care of them.” He handed me his wallet and a tear splashed down my cheek. I mean, his cheek.
“Goodbye, loyal Finn. I will find them and take care of them.” Knowing I only had minutes before he changed, I jabbed a large kitchen knife into his skull, and there was a sickening snap, like bones breaking. The blood spurted out, barely missing me, and puddled beneath his head. I took a chance on the back kitchen door, staring back at Finn one last time. I knew that there might be zombies in the passage, but maybe I could dodge and make my way to the cellar and not run into anyone.
When I got there, the door was closed. I wrestled with the handle, but to no avail. Not wanting to go back the way I came, I then heard a click. I walked into the cellar; there was only the familiar space I knew and no one. The cellar was cold and dank with a dazzling musty odor and the distinct sound of dripping water in the distance. My mind must be playing tricks on me. I locked the latch behind me, hoping it to be secure. There were windows on the sides of the cellar, but you would need a ladder to reach one, and still, I could see out. Surprisingly, there were no zombies. It was dark outside, and light at each window illuminated a little bit, sort of like the Thames on a dark night. The great thing about the cellar was there was an abundance of wine and aged cheese, wine and cheese to replace the companionship of Finn.
That was when I heard it, an unmistakable voice, and there was a sound like something being dragged. “Mum? Mum!” it called.
“Danny, is that you?” That’s when it happened: My grandson sprung forth out of the darkness like a cat, catching my throat and ripping it out, and then I awoke back in the cellar alone. A mouse full of bravado looked me in the eyes and scurried away. Well, at least the Danny part was just a nightmare. I had swallowed a bottle of booze before I knew it.
I put a wrapping cover over me and settled by a heat vent, as I’d switched the thermostat to on. I now sat alone, listening to the chaos outside. I wondered where everyone had gone. Perhaps I shouldn’t have stayed behind. What a country, a zombie outbreak and no one comes to work. A queen needs her servants, her help, her loves to command, to advise. As I peered up, I saw her, her eyes a blazing pink.
“It is me, Mum, darling,” she said.
“It can’t be,” I said. “It’s been years. The car crash? The paparazzi?”
“But it is me,” she said. “Would you please unlock the window?”
Perhaps too much spirits and nosh? “Yes,” I said, feeling mesmerized, her beauty spellbinding as usual, her face enraptured in the glory of its youth. There were those eyes like sunsets, and her posh lips like suede. I could see something behind her, a thick fog, which seemed to draw me in; it was like the fog my brother was lost in as a child. I could see him in there, waiting with an evil grin; how I longed to hug him again. I grabbed the long stick and undid the lock.
“Can I come in?” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I saw Henry and Danny,” she said with an evil laugh. “We were close,” she said. “I never believed you hated me.”
“But Stefanie, I didn’t hate you! I just knew, knew that Henry loved his mistress.” And that’s when it happened, just as I was about to let her in, I pulled away as my eyes caught a glimpse of that bollocking mouse. “No,” I said, and she looked angry.
Just then, she was staked from behind by Walter! “Come on, Mum,” he reached for me. “Let’s get you out of here, that wasn’t Stephanie, it wasn’t.”
As I climbed onto a barrel ladder and stuck my hand through the window, he lifted me up and through. I was so happy to see him. Now, standing outside, I realized that it wasn’t such a good idea. My mind registered that he had lifted me too easily. In the quiet moonlight, I noticed all of my servants and my entire family was out there. The only difference was that everyone was adorned with multicolored eyes. Stephanie rose and started laughing, and they charged at me, biting and biting, as my thoughts faded and my life flashed before me. The glory of the British people lay in the dirt becoming something else. If you could have zombies, then you could have vampires. The remnants of youth and “Noggin the Nog” danced in pictures above me as the coldness of night swept me in.
STORY FIVE: DEAD WEIGHT
Everyone always asks what you remember, for me it was that day: the stormy sky, the sounds o
utside, the wind sounding different. I remember seeing the news reports of the spill on TV, just sitting there in my room. For the first time in a long time, I felt alone. There was increasing confusion and conflicting reports, and the feeling of everything getting worse. Then there were the, “We’ve got it all under control,” messages from the politicians. There was the feeling of a movie coming to life, with suspicions, speculation and paranoia. Why were they treating black people different in this containment? They were forbidding them to come out of their houses. Though I am a white male, twenty-six years old, something felt very wrong with that scenario to me.
It is amazing how soon all order breaks down. I remember repeatedly trying to call my uncle. This thing was happening so fast. When things finally had gotten too big, I tried to make it home to where my uncle lived, but I was thrown off the bus by an angry, scared crowd. Those people felt my wheelchair took up too much space, space into which their family members could be squeezing. Two guys forced me out of the wheelchair spot. I was pushed straight down the stairs into the dirt, and the bus driver just nodded in agreement with their action. I caught him mouthing the words, “Fucking cripple.” That slob, four people could have sat in the space he was taking up.
If it weren’t for my neighbor who stayed in my building, a Russian named Zencosei, I don’t know how I’d have made it. Some people thought he was slightly crazy. I wasn’t sure about him, as he had a long, billowing beard and slightly unkempt look, but it was him who helped lift me back onto my chair. I then sat in the back of his small camper truck. There were a lot of supplies in there.
Later, I’d find out that Zen had been tipped off; he knew this was coming. Zen wasn’t alone in the camper; he had a daughter who was visiting him from Maine. Her name was Ira. Zen was a particularly huge man, he looked like he belonged in pro wrestling, and Ira was beautiful, with dark hair and large eyes. She had a very inquisitive look about her. As Zen lifted my folded chair into the back of the camper, she looked at me and then looked at him and screamed, “Great! More dead weight?” Her accent was hot enough to make my legs want to move again, but she seemed like a douche bag.
In The Season of The Damned (Book One) Page 10