No… the murder wagon it is. It’s big, it made short work of an entire crew of teenagers as the silly bitch came tear-arsing into the school, it’s high off the ground and it’s got keys in, as well as being a barrier to getting any other car out of here. So yeah, it will have to be the SUV. There is one slight hindrance to my plan though… the battalion of acne-faced undead meandering around it.
I need to draw the army of darkness away from the vehicle, and to do that I need noise. Lots of noise. All the fucking noise. But how?
AH HA!
Of course. Those other cars will come in useful after all. I’ll set their alarms off. They’ll be shuffling over to the source of that noise in as much time as it takes as a nerd to start crying when the internet goes down. Man, I bet so many nerds just topped themselves the moment they realised the internet was gone for good. They’d have been like lemmings throwing themselves from the nearest high point.
I’m not really sure about a destination though. I mean, yeah, I’ve got a plan to draw the dead away from my intended escape vehicle so I can leap in, reverse out and get out of town, but where the hell am I going? There’s no use me breaking for it unless I have a clear idea of where I’m going. I’ve no idea how much fuel is in the vehicle, and a big bastard like that will drink it fast... faster than a bunch of nineteen year old girls on a Saturday night in Cardiff can consume vodka-red bulls in happy hour.
And that is fast, dear reader. I have experience. There are photos.
Now, I have one slight problem in going for a quiet farmhouse that is making me nervous. So no, there isn’t a plethora (I love that word) of guns in Britannia. People aren’t carrying handguns and every home doesn’t have one.
However, farmers are likely to have a licensed shotgun for use on their lands, for shooting game and so forth. And I really don’t fancy rocking up to a nice quiet farm looking for succour from the apocalypse, only to roll up and get shredded by a shotgun. That would really piss on my chips.
Shit, this is like a rock and a hard place. I need somewhere away from it all, but those places are likely already getting locked down by their owners who now have free licence to shoot anyone they deem a trespasser, without fear of any legal reprisal. Still, the alternate is dying a slow death in a classroom and shitting in a pencil case.
Honestly, I’d rather get shot in the face.
Okay. I have a plan. It’s shit, but it’s better than nothing. If I get the murder wagon and head out the back roads at the top of town, then head out even more along the quiet Cheshire back roads and find a nice empty house all on its own that doesn’t seem to have anyone at home, I’m golden. I’ll make the new plan from there.
First thing first.
School’s out for summer.
6th Entry
SCHOOL’S OUT BITCHES
Hey there, friend! Look, it’s me! I’m not dead.
My plan worked like a charm. I know, I know, you expected everything to go to shit, as did I, but nope. Nailed it. Everything went swimmingly on the escape, so obviously something was bound to go to shit later on and it did. Big time.
But first, let me catch you up. It’s about 9pm now and it’s been a shitstorm of a day, but I made my escape from the school about 7am this morning. Here’s my account of my crazy day. I’m writing this from a nice quiet farmhouse about four miles outside of town, with a new friend downstairs. I’ll get to him shortly, but first, let’s cover the Great Escape.
So, morning came and with a loaded backpack, I decided to go up to the roof and get a better panorama of the shitstorm below me so I could plan my route to the SUV. It took me no time at all to get out the window and spider-monkey up to the roof. However, I nearly fell off and died on the fucking spot as I was hauling myself up to the flat roof of the classroom building.
Halfway up as I was just about to swing my legs up, a shadow loomed over me and I looked up to see an undead six feet away, shambling towards me, lips already starting to peel back in that flash of lunging rage I knew was coming.
Jesus fucking Christ, my heart nearly stopped. The kid was about fifteen, shambling about on the roof above me these past few days, just feet away while I slept. The fact that I had no damn clue creeps me out like you wouldn’t believe. These things are so fucking quiet.
Now, at this point, I was in something of an awkward position. I couldn’t go backwards because… well… backwards was a thirty-foot drop to concrete and I didn’t have time to get myself back into a climb-down position. I had horrible visions of the little shit dropping to its dead knees and taking a bite out of my fingers, so my only option was to power forward.
Flicking myself up, I sprung past the teenage dirtbag, feeling its filthy claws sweep at me and miss me by the width of a
