Apocalypse Cow

by Logan, Michael

  ‘We’re doing our best to contain our new …’ Tony paused, searching for the right word, then licked his lips, ‘… appetites.’

  Lesley raised a controlled eyebrow. ‘Contain your appetites? Can I point out that boats full of sex-crazed infected constantly attempt to cross the English Channel and Irish Sea? That NATO jets have had to shoot down airliners, once again full of infected, heading for the US? What were they planning on doing? Having a beach holiday in Florida? Or disembowelling anybody who crossed their path? It’s a miracle the disease has remained contained. If we can’t develop a cure soon, I don’t see any other option than fire-bombing Britain and taking out all of these zombies.’

  ‘Do NOT use the Z-word!’ Tony yelled into the camera.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, calmed his breathing again and spoke in measured tones. ‘We find it just as offensive as “mong”, or “cripple”. We are sick, that’s all. Look, I admit there is a rogue element, which we are trying to control. Lesley, do you understand the full import of what you are suggesting? You’re talking about genocide, wiping out millions of men, women and children. That’s worse than the Holocaust, Nagasaki and Hiroshima put together.’

  ‘I know it’s a horrific thing to suggest, and I take no pleasure in it. But how many would die if the virus got out? Hundreds of millions, maybe billions. And then everyone would have the virus.’

  ‘Would everyone having the virus be such a bad thing? If we all had it, there would be no need for violence.’

  Lesley shook her head. ‘Your solution is to infect everyone? That’s insane. We still have no idea if this virus is going to kill people. It could wipe out the whole world.’

  ‘I’m still alive, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, and despite the make-up you are wearing, you are clearly very ill.’

  Tony fiddled about off-camera and held a picture up to the screen. It showed a smiling little girl, her skin the colour of coffee, hair a mass of loose curls. ‘This is my daughter. I want you to look at her very closely. She is infected. This is who you are talking about killing.’

  ‘He does have a point,’ Naomi interjected. ‘We would be slaughtering innocents.’

  Lesley looked unsure of herself. She looked off-camera, tugged at her earlobe, then nodded. When she returned face-on, her features were set. ‘Tony, I want to ask you something, and I want you to answer honestly. If we were holding this discussion physically in the same room, what would you do?’

  He lowered the picture and looked puzzled. ‘I don’t think getting into hypothetical situations is—’

  Lesley cut across him. ‘If Naomi and I were sitting in your living room talking with you and your family, what would you do? What would your cute little daughter do? Imagine Naomi and I are sitting beside you. You can smell our skin, our uninfected flesh, so clean and untainted.’

  Tony bowed his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

  Lesley’s voice was soft and seductive as she continued. ‘We’re just inches away, you can feel the warmth of our bodies, see the pulse beating in our necks, pushing the hot blood through—’

  ‘I’d fuck your brains out, you smart-arse bitch,’ Tony screamed, lifting his head. His eyes were bulging, his mouth twisted. ‘I’d rip out your entrails and chew out your eyeballs and sink my fingers into your brain and … and …’

  He paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Naomi had leaned back in her chair, her chin drooping unprofessionally. Lesley remained expressionless.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Tony said, banging his fist against the side of his head. ‘I thought I could do this.’

  Suddenly he leaned right into the camera. The sores were more obvious close up, little mini volcanoes bubbling up pus. His facial muscles writhed and his yellow eyes were unblinking. ‘Sod it, now you know.’

  He grinned. Geldof realized it was the first time in the entire debate he had opened his mouth wide. Up to this point he had spoken through compressed lips. His teeth were pointy, almost as though they had been sharpened.

  ‘If you’re going to bomb us, you’d better do it fast,’ Tony said in a sing-song voice. ‘Because we’re coming. And, Lesley: I’m coming for you, personally.’

  The camera went dead, leaving a blank rectangle in the left corner of the screen. Naomi’s chin was still in thrall to gravity.

  ‘We have to bomb them,’ Lesley, whose calm demeanour had also vanished, said in a shaky voice. ‘Right now.’

  Geldof turned off the television and stared at his chubby reflection in the blank screen. He started when he saw a figure standing behind him. It was Mary, who must have silently emerged from the kitchen to watch the show.

  ‘Pretty shocking, eh? A politician who actually says what’s on his mind,’ he said.

  It was a weak joke, but he couldn’t bear the way Mary’s face was folding in on itself as the horror of what they had experienced returned. She attempted to smile, probably more for his benefit than anything else, but her facial muscles refused to cooperate beyond a slight lift of her upper lip.

  ‘You don’t think they’ll get out, do you?’ she asked.

  He got to his feet and walked over to the patio. The sea stretched before him, sunlight glittering off small waves kicked up by a couple of fishing boats chugging back to port. Off in the hazy blue distance, a cruise liner appeared as little more than a speck. Geldof thought of the many boats that had set out to leave the cursed isle that had once been Britain. He suppressed a shiver and forced himself to smile.

  ‘No,’ he told Mary. ‘Of course not.’

  Mary smiled back wanly and returned to the kitchen.

  He turned suddenly, and padded across the cool tiled floor in his bare feet to sit in front of the laptop. He opened a Google search page and, after a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen, typed in, ‘Remote uninhabited islands’. He tapped the side of the keyboard, then edited his search to, ‘Remote islands impregnable to zombie attack, also populated exclusively by horny women’.

  The search engine trawled up only thirty-eight results, none of them adverts offering a rental opportunity on such an island.

  He sighed and turned his attention back to the endless expanse of water. It would only take one small boat – a catamaran, a canoe, whatever – to slip through the patrols and pitch up on the shores of France, Belgium, Holland or maybe even Croatia, if the tides were right and the naval blockade around other countries too firm. What would happen next did not bear thinking about.

  Wherever they landed, and Geldof knew it was only a matter of time before they did, one thing was certain: he was going to need a plan.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have happened without the unflinching support of my wife Natalie Grant Logan, who continued to believe in the oddness of the tale when I was beginning to lose faith. Thank you, Nats – you are the one who made this possible. My family members also deserve special thanks, simply for not thinking I was a complete maniac when writing this book and for their enthusiasm and support in the run-up to publication.

  Sir Terry Pratchett, for first initiating his award for new novelists and then choosing Apocalypse Cow as the joint winner of the prize, has my eternal gratitude, as do the other judges: Tony Robinson, Marianne Velmans, Simon Taylor and Michael Rowley. My publicist Lynsey Dalladay and Sir Terry’s right-hand-man, Rob ‘The Enforcer’ Wilkins, deserve a special mention for being so enthusiastic and positive about this novel.

  Thanks are due to Kat Urbaniak, Leah Kohlenberg, Rebecca Dempster, Perry Seymour, Michelle Grant, Valerie Alison Grant, Nehmi Moya Klaassen, Ian Vale and Sarah Childress, who all read early versions and provided valuable feedback. Ian Vale also kindly employed his photographic skills to produce an author picture that I hope hits the sweet spot between cheesy and pretentious. I am grateful to the members of the Budapest writers’ group who were involved in the rather tipsy night that spawned the idea for this book. Wayne, Esther, Jeff, Kalman, Victoria, Sylvia a
nd Sue: long may the wine flow!

  I must thank Christopher Moore, Vanessa Gebbie, Mark Kukis and Robert Hough for encouragement and advice on writing and the publishing industry in general, along with Ted and all the members of YouWriteOn. David C. Logan, who won the Terry Pratchett prize alongside me, was a rock of support during the publication process, and Dave Beynon, one of the runners-up in the prize, was the epitome of grace and encouragement and deserves every success in his writing career. Thanks also to Helen and Bee at Multi-Story and Scott Bury for mercilessly plugging the book.

  Finally, I’d once again like to thank Simon Taylor, this time for his editorial suggestions and easy manner, which made for both a better book and a pleasurable editing process.

  About the Author

  Michael Logan is a Scottish journalist whose career has taken him across the globe. He left Scotland in 2003 and has lived in Bosnia, Hungary, Switzerland and Kenya, where he is currently based with his wife and two young children. His experience of riots, refugee camps and other turbulent situations have helped fuel his writing. His short fiction has appeared in various literary journals, and a (very) short story of his won Fish Publishing’s International One-Page Fiction Prize. Apocalypse Cow is his first novel.

  To find out more, visit www.freelancelogan.com

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  First published in Great Britain

  in 2012 by Doubleday

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Michael Logan 2012

  Michael Logan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448109296

  ISBNs 9780857521170 (cased)

  9780857520753 (tpb)

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