I expected chaos and mayhem everywhere, but the truth was the roads were mostly clear. There were a number of accidents here and there, and scattered packs or lone zombies, but I think when the world shat itself a few days back, everyone just simply upped and fucked off before things got too bad. I avoided main roads anyway and trundled away into rural Cheshire in search of a new home.
Took me about an hour of crawling around back roads to find a likely place. Big farmhouse with fields all around (so good lines of sight) and it looked empty. There didn’t seem to be any signs of life, but I thought it best to sneak in on foot and check it out, rather than drive right up in my thunder-truck and give my position away. So, leaving the backpack in the car and locking it, and taking my trusty chav-slayer and a small claw hammer for weapon comfort, I decided to ghost in on foot.
And that, my dear reader, is when it all went to fucking shit.
7th Entry
OLD MCDONALD HAD A HARD ON
I think I’m pretty stealthy.
I’m quick, light-footed, and a bit paranoid because everything in the world is trying to kill me. Generally, I’m quite perceptive when I actually bother to concentrate, but concentration is a bit of an issue for me, as you have no doubt discovered from my collection of spectacular near misses along my little journey thus far and my inane spilling of random thoughts. Well, this time, I royally fucked it and almost got fucked. Literally.
I sneaked up slowly to the farmhouse, keeping low, but as I said, the reason I chose the place was because I’d be able to see zombies coming from a way off because there was clearance around the house. Well, that same pro turned out to be an equally large con when I was the one doing the sneaking. I was sure the place was empty, because no crazed old farmer came out waving a shotgun at me or trying to blast me from existence, so it seemed like a win. Unfortunately, it just meant that the rampant thunder-cunt who lived there was watching me like a predator as I approached and—knowing his own property far better than little old me—he waited like a trapdoor spider for me to wander into his kill zone. Honestly, it would have been a mercy if he’d just shot me. PTSD is gonna get me soon enough, so let me explain why.
There was a big barn-like structure attached to the side of the farmhouse, so I thought I’d have a peep in there first, but as soon as I pushed open the door and leaned my head in to check for undead… blam. Everything went dark. No warning, no shout, nothing. Just a smack to the side of the head that knocked me the fuck out.
And then this is when shit got really dark.
I woke up, feeling sick as fuck, and tried to move.
That was when I realised I couldn’t.
I was still in the barn I’d been in the process of sneaking into, judging by the open space I could sense around me, aged wooden wall four feet from my face, and the straw-scattered earth beneath me. I was locked into this weird contraption that was a bit like—I shit you not—medieval stocks. My head and wrists were firmly clamped, but weirdly there was a right-angled frame built on to it, so my body was supported. However, when I came fully to my senses, I realised I was bent over at a right angle, my ankles also clamped with my feet flat on the ground and legs pulled slightly apart… and then I felt the air on my skin.
I was clamped into stocks, ass sticking out, and my trousers had been removed. With this realisation, my senses instantly sharpened from fuzzy headache to hyper-awareness. I started thrashing, desperate to get out.
“Here now,” said a raspy voice to my left. “That’ll do you no good.”
I stopped cold and twisted my head to see the voice’s owner. I nearly popped out a log of shit at the sight.
Sitting in an old chair, butt-fucking naked, was some old guy. He was late fifties I reckon, with a dirty white beard that was yellowed by nicotine round his lips, pasty white fish-skin, a middle-aged paunch flowing around his waist like ooze and an explosion of wild grey pubic hair not three feet from my face.
Jesus fucking Christ, what a sight to wake up to.
It was horrifying. Worse, he was sat there in his birthday suit stroking himself. Leisurely working his shrivelled dick into a wrinkly spear with a look of contentment on his red face, like he’d just had a steak and a blowjob, in that order.
“What the fuck man?” was all I could hiss, tearing my eyes away from the horror of him slowly wanking himself. Death seemed like a pleasant choice at that moment.
He tsk’d. Like I was some naughty kid who’d just said a bad word.
“You have a filthy mouth,” he observed.
“No fucking shit,” I snapped back. “See how fucking calm you stay when you’re strapped to a rape-rack with Old McDonald about to go ‘ee-aye-ee-aye-aargh’ on your ass. Let me out of here you freak.”
“Out?” he breathed. Sweet Jesus, he had a voice that was so calm and detached, it was chilling. “Out? Oh no, not yet. First, you have to be a good girl.”
I cannot articulate how fucking scared I was at this point. This creepy old naked guy was going to raid my ass like an anal pirate at his leisure, and there was sweet fuck all I could do about it. I was helpless. Utterly, absolutely, completely, totally helpless. And alone.
After the past few days, after nearly dying in a toilet, having an old teacher try and eat me, and assaulted by three undead chavs, this was a real
