The Shuffling Dead Box-set

by Ian Woodhead

  “How’s your lad doing?” asked Ernest. “I haven’t seen him around ours for a couple of weeks.”

  He didn’t really wish to start a conversation with big Des but if Steve happened to look over and saw them two getting all friendly, there was less chance of him coming back over. It would of course piss Jeff off too, knowing that his beer was getting warm and Ernest having no inclination to bring it over.

  Desmond unwrapped his arms from around the barmaid’s waist and pulled himself another pint. “Our Ashton’s at your gaff tonight mate, along with half the teenagers on Breakspear.” Desmond smirked at Ernest’s shocked expression. “Oh dear, I’m guessing that you didn’t know that your son was having a drug crazed party then?”

  He shook his head. No he didn’t have a bloody clue. He was going to tear Darren a new arsehole for pulling a stunt like this. Bloody hell, they’d just bought a new carpet for the living room as well, the thing would be ruined by the time this party ended.

  “Your house is going to be in a right state.”

  Ernest picked up the two pints, ignored Desmond’s smirking face and walked back over to their table; he was willing to put down his next wage that Brenda knew all about this party. Hell, she’d probably helped to organise it too.

  “You took your bloody time.” Jeff said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry; I had no idea that you were timing me. If had have known that, I would have run.”

  Ernest placed the pints down on the table, gave Jeff a mucky look and collapsed into the seat. “Anyway, it’s about time you slowed down. You’re supping the stuff like its pop. You’re gonna be three sheets before last orders at this rate.”

  Jeff grabbed his fresh pint like a starving man reached for the plate of roast beef. His friend was behaving very strangely tonight, stranger than normal anyway.

  “Ere, did you know that our Darren was having a party tonight?”

  Jeff nodded, “Sure, our Billy took his new bird there.”

  “And you didn’t think of informing me?”

  Jeff shrugged. “With it being your own fucking house, I had the feeling that you might already know.”

  Ernest pulled a lump of foam out of the seat and rolled it between his fingers before flicking it under the table. “No wonder this place is like a bloody morgue tonight, they’ll all be at the party, wrecking my house.”

  Jeff put his glass down; he’d already drunk three-quarters. “I don’t think they’ll all be at your gaff.”

  He had a point there; the old fellow who propped up the end of the bar at weekends was missing. Ernest couldn’t remember his name, Dennis or David, something like that. Not that it was much of a shock; his wife, Ethel, had passed away last week. Those two doted on each other. He scanned the bar and saw that Scary Mary was missing too. She propped up the other end of the bar and never missed a night.

  “I wonder where Mary is. I hope she isn’t at my house.”

  A foil packet had appeared in the palm of Jeff’s trembling hand; he had four white caplets in his hand already and was busy popping the rest out. “Don’t talk wet, why would she be at your place? The fat bitch will probably be in bed with an electric blanket over her head.”

  He threw the caplets in his mouth and swallowed them down with the last dregs of his beer. “And that is where I should be tonight.”

  “So why aren’t you?”

  He caught sight of Desmond lip dancing with the landlady and turned away, bloody hell! It looked like he was trying to eat her. That sort of nonsense belonged out of sight; it was putting him off his beer.

  “Because it’s Friday night of course,” he replied. “It’s what we’ve always done ever since we left school at least it was until you got that bloody job.”

  “What are you on about? I’ve had the job at the minimarket for the past six years.”

  Jeff frowned. “Are you sure? It only feels like a week to me.”

  He stood up and leaned on the table. “I think I’d better get some fresh air, I don’t feel so good.”

  He watched his mate stagger over to the pub door, maybe he ought to walk the lad home, there was definitely something up with him tonight and it wasn’t the beer.

  Ernest picked up his own glass, he didn’t really want it but there was no way that he was going to let it go to waste, he was determined to drink the bloody stuff just for the principle.

  The glass slipped through his fingers when an ear piercing scream shattered the silence. He looked around wildly for the source. His dazed eyes stopped at the bar and refused to move. This could not be happening. Desmond still held the woman tight but the embrace was no longer a tender one.

  She struggled like a fish on the end of a line as he lifted her by the neck off the carpet. Desmond growled then bit into her forehead and tore off a lump of flesh, he spat the piece out and dived back into her face.

  Ernest’s stomach churned and he felt hot bile climbing up his throat, no way could this be real, it had to be someone’s idea of a very sick joke.

  The screamer let out another blast and Ernest discovered that Desmond wasn’t the only walking abomination in the Horse and Jockey that evening. He finally tore his gaze away from the big man crunching into the still woman’s exposed skull as if it was a fucking apple and looked over to the dart board.

  Steve Reynolds had pinned a young blonde girl against the wall, she was the screamer. Both her hands were against his head, she desperately tried to keep his snapping jaws away from her own face.

  Ernest stood up, “What the fuck are you doing?” he screamed.

  The crazed man didn’t react but Desmond did, he dropped the body and groaned aloud. He could see that the girl’s strength was beginning to fail, Ernest looked around the empty pub, and there must be somebody else who could help the poor girl. There was only him and the boy in the green shirt and he was huddled in the corner of the games room, clutching a pool cue as if it were a teddy bear.

  He pulled himself out of the seat while watching that man behind the bar, he kept trying to reach Ernest, yet not realising that the now scarlet painted bar was in his way. He blinked and muttered a short prayer before he picked up a beer bottle left on the next table and ran towards the dart board and smashed it into the back of Reynolds’s head.

  The girl screamed even louder as shards of broken glass showered her face. The bottle had little effect, if anything it helped to push the man closer to the girl.

  “Don’t just sit there,” he shouted at the boy, “Fucking help me.”

  The young lad didn’t even move his bloody head. Ernest moaned, what was he supposed to fucking do now? In frustration and panic, he grabbed the back of Steve’s collar and tried to pull him off the girl but it was useless, it was like trying to pull a pit-bull off a puppy.

  “Duck!”

  Ernest spun around, the boy now stood next to him, swinging a weighted sock around his head.

  “Move it granddad.”

  Ernest let go of the man and bobbed down. He winced at the sharp crack that the improvised weapon made as it impacted against Steve’s head. The man fell to the floor like a sack of bricks. He scurried back before the dark grey slop dribbling from the large dent in the front of Steve’s head reached his fingers.

  “Oh Jesus fuck! What the bloody hell’s wrong with him?” moaned the girl. She growled before swinging her foot into the side of the man’s head. “That’s for trying to fucking bite me, you freaky bastard.”

  The boy offered his hand; Ernest took it and hauled himself off the floor. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I’m Ernest.”

  “Don’t thank me yet Granddad, we ain’t done just yet.”

  Desmond had managed to get out through the serving hatch and headed straight for them. The boy forced a pool cue into Ernest’s hands.

  “Here you go, Granddad, now it’s your turn.”

  He look stupidly at the pool cue then jerked his head up and watched the huge pile of meat shamble towards them, what the bloody hell was he supposed to do with
this? He might as well be armed with a fucking toothpick.

  Desmond clacked his jaws together, it sounded like a mouse trap springing shut. The thing moaned even louder

  “Don’t just fucking stand there, you gormless bastard, stab the cunt!”

  Ernest thought of all those times when people like him and Steve knocked the shit out of him when he was younger; he remembered all the times when he visibly shook at the sight of them. He gripped the shaft tight with both hands then charged at Desmond, the big man made no attempt to dodge; it was almost like he welcomed death. Ernest was only too happy to oblige. He drove the point up through the man’s jaw and deep into Desmond’s brain. It surprised him just how easy the cue went in, there was hardly any resistance, almost like pushing a steak knife through a hot Sunday joint.

  “Oh God, please take me home, Adrian,” said the girl.

  The boy took her hand then let her towards the exit. He looked back at Ernest.

  “Are you coming or what?”

  Ernest nodded, wondering just when the world had gone insane. He looked around for his mate then remembered that he said he was going home. Bloody hell, he hoped that Jeff had got home safely.

  Chapter Four

  Dennis Flynn padded very slowly back into the living room, holding the cup of hot chocolate with both hands. It was his own fault; he really should have poured a little of it down the sink. It was only the surface tension stopping the stuff from slopping over the sides and spilling onto the carpet.

  The coffee table was right in front of him; he leaned over and placed the cup gently down on the cork mat, amazed that he hadn’t lost a single drop. Dennis collapsed back into his favourite chair, wondering if he dared to actually taste it. He just knew that it would taste as vile as the last one he’d made a few minutes ago, perhaps it would be best to let it go cold and throw it down the toilet.

  Dennis Flynn was an exact man. Making hot chocolate should have been as easy as putting on a hat, he’d followed the instructions to the letter and yet it still tasted bloody horrible, certainly not like as tasty his late Ethel used to make for him every night. Then again, his late wife wasn’t an exact person, knowing her; she probably wouldn’t have even read the instructions. He glanced down at the over-full cup, it looked the same as the ones she made for him, that was all that mattered, it was more of a sense of carrying on the routine than anything else.

  Dennis gazed at the television noticing that it still showed the test card; that nugget of information did not surprise him in the least. He also knew that if he chose to turn the radio on again, only static would greet his ears. He picked up his binoculars, brought them to his eyes and fiddled with the focus wheel to bring the garden over the road into clarity. The road was quiet now; it appeared that Mr. Harding and that other chap had wandered off, probably to find more victims.

  He had heard them slam their front door earlier on. His neighbours, Eileen and Donald Harding were going on their usual walk around the estate. They had been following this nightly routine for nearly twenty years now, every single night at ten on the dot.

  Their sweet, sugar spun life had been a constant thorn in his side for over two decades. Their happy go lucky outlook made Dennis physically retch. Yet somehow, at least until tonight, they had never been beaten up, had their house broken into or had the local kids give them any verbal abuse. Anyone else stupid enough to walk around Breakspear at that time at night would have had to be either insane or mentally ill.

  Their luck changed a little while ago when they saw a young man stumble over a low wall opposite their house and fall to the floor. Of course, they had gone to investigate, to see if they could be of any assistance. He watched the whole drama unfold through his binoculars, He felt like he was standing next to Donald. Just by watching the face of that strange man, Dennis just knew that those two good Samaritans were in serious trouble. He couldn’t contain his excitement when the man snapped out his arm and grabbed a handful of Donald’s hair as he bent over the man. He pulled him down and bit a large chunk of meat out of the side of his neck. The man was dead before he smacked into the tarmac.

  The woman had screamed until she was blue in the face and at last it must have dawned on the woman that their neighbourhood wasn’t made of fluffy clouds and cute cartoon bunnies. The only response to her cries for help was the twitching of curtains and the locking of doors.

  Her husband started to twitch a few minutes later, Dennis had trouble believing his own eyes, and this was getting better and better. He thought all his birthdays had come at once when both her husband and the strange man jumped on the woman and preceded to pull her apart like an old rag doll.

  The woman was still where those two had left her, slumped against a lamppost on the other side of the road. Her left arm was lying in the middle of the road. He had no idea where the other one was.

  That man may have done more damage to the woman but Dennis remembered that he had left a pan of water boiling in the kitchen and he didn’t want to the pan to boil dry.

  Of course, he had played the good citizen and attempted to phone the police. After he’d checked on the pan, predictably the line was dead. It didn’t take a complete idiot to figure that all the events were connected. Something truly earth shattering was happening on his doorstep, Dennis was so excited.

  He glanced at his watch; it had now been seven minutes since the old bag had been mauled. He zeroed in on her face, eager to see if his prediction would be confirmed.

  When her facial muscles twitched followed by both eyes opening, Dennis whooped and gave himself a high five; his dull nights had become a great deal more interesting.

  Maybe he should take the binoculars upstairs, into the spare room; he’d have a far better view of the estate. Dennis put them on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes before reaching for his reading glasses.

  His nights had become very interesting recently when he noticed, quite by accident, the young woman over the road had taken to stripping in front of her bedroom window. The binoculars were bought out of his pension money from a second hand shop in Leeds the next day. He knew that he’d feel like a right buffoon if it had only been a one-off but she was there the next night and the night after that. He may have stimulated his long lost libido but it didn’t half bugger up his eyesight.

  Dennis was rather upset and annoyed when the woman had failed to make an appearance tonight, of course now he knew why. He guessed that the poor woman was probably in the same state as Mrs. Hardy by now. His emotions changed from disappointment to astonishment when he witnessed that man crawling across the street. It was Ronald Spinks and he was dead, he’d died ten years ago. Dennis knew this because it was him who had murdered him and buried the body in the garden over the road while the house was between tenants.

  From that point on, events just escalated, exhilarating him and scaring him both in equal measures. From the safety of his living room, he watched two old men, he was sure that one of them was Albert Pannier; it was difficult to tell because most of his face was missing. They lurched out of the alleyway between number eight and ten stopped right in front of a young mother pushing her pram and pulled the baby right out of its seat. It took them just seconds to extinguish the child’s light. The mother’s screams were cut short as they both dived on her too.

  Just ten minutes later, Rebecca Westwood walked past his window holding her son’s hand. Daniel Westwood was only eight but he already had form; the little bastard had even tried to put Dennis’s windows through a couple of years ago. Dennis shot him in the leg with his air rifle from the bathroom window, the kid had been very polite to him ever since.

  The two old men had dragged most of the pieces back into the alleyway but that pram, splattered with bits of baby still lay on its side in the middle of the road. Both Rebecca and Daniel paid it no heed as they walked past. Dennis was hoping that Rebecca’s maternal instinct would compel her to investigate; it looked, as his wife had always stated, that the girl didn’t have any.
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br />   It was just typical behaviour from Breakspear’s younger generation; they were so involved with their own sad and pointless lives that they just didn’t notice anything beyond their own blinkered vision. The feeling of community pride that thrived on the Breakspear estate when he and Ethel moved here, fifty years ago, was long dead.

  Dennis had zoomed in on the kid’s face to see if the fallen pram would draw out any reaction from Daniel. His sullen features remained unchanged at least until they approached their garden gate.

  The change was sudden as it was frightening. The light in Daniels eyes just went out and his face lost all of the animation. Dennis had seen this happen before lots of times, the most recent was when he watched his wife die. He was now looking at the face of a dead child.

  His heart began to beat a little faster when Dennis realised just what was going to happen next. He moved a little closer to the window, eager not to miss this. Sure enough, the little boy suddenly lurched to a standstill just before they reached their gate, of course Rebecca must have just thought that her darling son was being awkward and proceeded to give him a good bollocking; how she failed to notice that the kid was now a walking corpse was beyond him.

  The lass didn’t have the brains she was born with and Rebecca, like the rest of her family, weren’t born with that much in the first place. Daniel wrapped his arms around her neck and fastened his teeth round her jugular. He found it unnerving how they always went for the neck first; the two old men did the same with the young mother, but not with the baby. Dennis figured that they didn’t perceive that to be that much of a threat.

  His hot chocolate was now cool enough for him to take a sip; he winced as the vile liquid hit the back of his throat. My God, this one tasted worse than the last one. This was just ridiculous, what on Earth was he doing wrong? Why did it not taste like his wife’s hot chocolate? It’s not like he could ask her now was it? Well, he could, but it was unlikely that Dennis would receive a coherent reply.