Boom. Both feet, centre mass, and that fucker shot away like he’d just been snapped back by a bungee cord, right over the edge. I popped my head over the roof just as the undead teen died from a severe case of concrete poisoning, which caused the rotten bastard to burst like a bag of vegetable soup.
Wow, check me out, Hemingway. Check out my awesome simile. I’m a literary genius.
Like a bag of vegetable soup?
Facepalm.
Sometimes I think I should just stop saying words.
Anyway, retarded descriptions aside, I put that quick fright behind me and surveyed the realm. The burst zombie splashing on to the concrete drew the attention of some nearby zeds and they came shuffling in my direction, but as they weren’t exactly gymnasts, I was okay up on my perch.
There were three cars close together on the right side of the car park and if I could get their alarms going, they’d draw everything away from my escape vehicle, while I made a circuitous route back across the roof of the school buildings, preventing me having to work my way through the shambling mass. Then it would be drop down, scamper to the murder wagon, get in the car, grab Mum, kill Phil…. yeah, you get the picture.
So that’s exactly what I did. I worked my way round the back of the building, set those bitches off (I’m not gonna write all the technical ins and outs, because it’s boring, so let’s just accept my awesome) and off they went. Wee-ooh, wee-ooh, wee-ooh. And like a siren’s song to horny sailors, the mass began to move.
Up to the roof again, began my scamper (with far more vigilance this time) and I watched with a fat grin as the mass pulled away from my target vehicle like iron filings to a magnet. It was glorious. Now I really was feeling like a strategos after all my initial fuck ups.
This was going brilliant. As I watched the SUV clear of all zombie presence, I’m not gonna lie, I felt like a champ. I could do this planning shit. It wasn’t that hard. Now all I had to do was get in the car, grab Mum, kill Phil…
I need to leave that joke alone. I’m tugging a dead horse there. Wait, that’s not it. Flogging a dead horse, that’s right.
Shit, that changes the saying in all kinds of weird ways.
Flush with my newfound confidence at my awesome skills of strategy, I shimmied down to ground level and prepared to head to the car. Not gonna lie, I had a bit of a swagger.
Of course, that overconfidence results in anal penetration by a corroded metal sex-toy, doesn’t it? That sloppiness I was talking about earlier? That one that gets you painfully butt-pumped by spikey things with no lubrication for maximum friction? Yep, didn’t follow my own advice.
I dropped down and landed about eight feet away from three zombies. They weren’t in school uniforms; all three of them were dressed in tracksuits, with baseball caps on and hoods pulled up over. Teenager zombie chavs.
Sigh. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.
Honestly, at first glance I couldn’t tell if they were alive or not. I mean, teenage chavs are complete dicks anyway with ‘uh’ as their common response to any question posed at them. Even giving them a sniff didn’t help determine their life status, as the little bastards usually have a weird cocktail smell anyway, like Lynx Africa, weed, Red Stripe and a week’s worth of groin-sweat, all mixed together in one malodorous Eau de Twat. Honestly, that’s not much different from the walking dead.
The only reason I could tell instantly that they were actually dead was their silence. They weren’t shouting “yeah bro”, “fuckin’ tell yer, lad” and “do you fuckin’ know who I am, brah?”… though I swear the grotty little fucks were still trying to roll their faux gangster pimp limps even in death.
Even so, they were damn close, and their ass-scratching hands began reaching for me as I touched down, lips drawing back to reveal teeth that had never seen the inside of a dental surgery. I had to go through them to get to my goal, so I took five quick steps back (and I’m not ashamed to say I squeaked like a little bitch when I first saw them, such was my surprise and their proximity), pulled out the crowbar, dropped my backpack to the ground so my balance wasn’t affected, and I did this United Kingdom a great service.
Chavs are a curse on our once great and noble land. They’re like the human version of wasps. They all look the same, they’re all really aggressive and won’t just fuck off and leave you alone and—to a one—they are all little fucking cunts, and I don’t often drop the C-bomb.
Braining those three little shits—who probably spent their days in life doing nothing but seeing how much of a twat they could be—was no great labour. The other zeds I killed were for survival and generally scared the shit out of me, but this unholy trio of smelly little shits were like a bit of catharsis. I felt absolutely nothing other than grim satisfaction smashing the hooked pointy end of my crowbar into their brainpans. You don’t need a full description; suffice to say, Lockey three, Chavs zero. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bad-ass bitch with a crowbar.
After wiping the crowbar clean, I did a ninja run over to the SUV, checked the back seat first (always check the back seat like Columbus advised), and laughed aloud as the keys were indeed still in the car. I laughed louder still when I turned that key and it thrummed into life first time, so I closed the door, saw it had a three quarter full tank—hell yeah—then popped it in reverse, connected the seatbelt (Zombie survival rule
