The corpses littered the streets around him, slashed in half, heads caved in, blasted to pieces. He had killed them all. Since the massacre at his birthplace of Chicago he had vowed to bring flannel shirt wearing justice raining down upon them. He raised his mighty head above the stench of death to clear his lungs of decaying flesh. A shotgun, cradled in his meaty hands and aimed by instinct alone, blasted through the horde as the car alarm rang in his ears. He jumped into the middle of the fray and began his assault. Immediately a hooded ghoul jumped at him and landed square on his chest. He raised his trusty blade and brought it down towards him, pulling the head clean off. He pushed many of the zombies off him with his shotgun and ran. He led the rotting hoard towards the cold, thick, metal doors of the safe-room and stood his ground. He could hear the ceiling above cracking from the weight of hundreds of bodies and simply waited. Waited for the break.
“Crash” said Chicago Ted, as the ceiling fell down around him, the masses writhing around the debris like fish out of water. He started the fight. Lifting up his sword, with his shotgun in his left hand, he jumped at the nearest one. Pop, goes the neck bone as it is separated. Blam, goes the boomstick as it goes off in the face of a former human being. Blood splattered his chin, caught in his beard were pieces of flesh, as he continued to run through Satan’s work. When everything lay dead around him he had a moment of reflective silence, now penetrated by a soft sobbing. He switched on his flashlight and looked around the room, seeing a pair of glowing red eyes huddled down on the floor. He threw his weapons to the ground and leapt on her. Her witch-like head bursting on the floor as it slams down followed by a gargantuan palm.
He walked up to the safe room door and opened it quietly. Savouring the time spent not covered with disease, he saw a pen on the table and writing on the wall. He took the pen from the table and slowly removed the lid, leaning close to the ground to leave his mark upon the world. “No zombie is safe from Chicago Ted.”
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Detectives
The apartment sat, stacked in the middle of London. The apartment is not quite as important as the people who choose to reside within it but it plays an important role in housing said people and keeping them from being dead.
The people who live in the apartment are Dan Fort and Donald Ulen and they are about to be called upon to solve a particularly nasty series of murder cases in which the murderer leaves a small rubber duck as his calling card at the scene of the crime. The reasoning behind them doing this is that they are, in fact, detectives. So far they had absolutely no solved cases involving any crimes or any cases at all for that matter. The reason the police have chosen these fine, young detectives to solve this case is a simple matter. Every other detective in London had been killed. That’s right, the other detective; nicknamed half-man for his lack of a left eye and left leg was also the police’s first choice had been murdered by the killer in question. This left the illustrious Fort Ulen detective agency the only place qualified to solve this murder. Inside the apartment hangs a sign.
“Stay out, detectives at work” says the sign, with all the feral ferociousness of a moth. The men themselves are already hard at work on a case, the case of “I left my laptop at the coffee shop, can you find it for me?” It was a tough case and the importance of it hung heavily over the heads of our heroes. The phone rang under a pile of paper. It was an old fashioned phone, the dial thick and heavy and the wire curling up towards the, quite frankly, huge receiver.
“Huh, you’re in. Good, I suppose. It’s me, John, head of the police department.” Said the phone.
“What is it you want sir?” Said Dan, shocked. The police never use us, why do they want us? And what was the last law I broke? These were some of the questions buzzing through his mind.
“Yes. Well, there was a series of murders; we need you to find the killer. The only information that we have on him is his calling card; a rubber duck. Think you can handle that?”
“Err, urm, well, that is to say, yes. Yes I think we can.” Said Dan cautiously looking over at Donald as he gave a slow nod.
“Well that is just…” John struggled to say the words, in conjunction with the current situation they just seemed wrong, “…fine. Come over to 14 Hants road, the latest victim is there.”
“We’ll be right over, sir.” Said Dan and buzzing with anticipation, he hung up. Donald looked up from his magazine,
“We’ll be roight ova suh.” He parroted.
“Hey, stop reading. Did you not hear the phone? We have work!” Dan said, persevering through Donald’s aggressive personality. “Look, this is the first work we’ve had in a few months, ever since we found Mrs. Gardener’s lost cat on the tire of our car. We have to take this seriously, you ready?”
“Suh, lemme just get a coat, suh!”
“Oh, er, ok then, nice change of tone.” Said Dan, he always got nervous when sarcasm was around. “Let’s go.” Dan’s car lay near to the pavement, it had been customised by vandals, someone had spray painted a cat on one of the wheels and “Killers!” on the bonnet,
“You know it was that old lady who did this, right? As revenge for killing her cat.”
“Who? Mrs. Gardener? She wouldn’t do this sort of thing, she’s more of a ‘puncture all the tires and remove the seats’ sort of girl.”
“Yeah, whatever, let’s just go.”
“Right, so off we go. Into the great unknown wasteland of the criminal underground, yet again. Exciting isn’t it?” Donald stayed silent, slowly making a tiny nodding gesture towards Dan.
The people who live in the apartment are Dan Fort and Donald Ulen and they are about to be called upon to solve a particularly nasty series of murder cases in which the murderer leaves a small rubber duck as his calling card at the scene of the crime. The reasoning behind them doing this is that they are, in fact, detectives. So far they had absolutely no solved cases involving any crimes or any cases at all for that matter. The reason the police have chosen these fine, young detectives to solve this case is a simple matter. Every other detective in London had been killed. That’s right, the other detective; nicknamed half-man for his lack of a left eye and left leg was also the police’s first choice had been murdered by the killer in question. This left the illustrious Fort Ulen detective agency the only place qualified to solve this murder. Inside the apartment hangs a sign.
“Stay out, detectives at work” says the sign, with all the feral ferociousness of a moth. The men themselves are already hard at work on a case, the case of “I left my laptop at the coffee shop, can you find it for me?” It was a tough case and the importance of it hung heavily over the heads of our heroes. The phone rang under a pile of paper. It was an old fashioned phone, the dial thick and heavy and the wire curling up towards the, quite frankly, huge receiver.
“Huh, you’re in. Good, I suppose. It’s me, John, head of the police department.” Said the phone.
“What is it you want sir?” Said Dan, shocked. The police never use us, why do they want us? And what was the last law I broke? These were some of the questions buzzing through his mind.
“Yes. Well, there was a series of murders; we need you to find the killer. The only information that we have on him is his calling card; a rubber duck. Think you can handle that?”
“Err, urm, well, that is to say, yes. Yes I think we can.” Said Dan cautiously looking over at Donald as he gave a slow nod.
“Well that is just…” John struggled to say the words, in conjunction with the current situation they just seemed wrong, “…fine. Come over to 14 Hants road, the latest victim is there.”
“We’ll be right over, sir.” Said Dan and buzzing with anticipation, he hung up. Donald looked up from his magazine,
“We’ll be roight ova suh.” He parroted.
“Hey, stop reading. Did you not hear the phone? We have work!” Dan said, persevering through Donald’s aggressive personality. “Look, this is the first work we’ve had in a few months, ever since we found Mrs. Gardener’s lost cat on the tire of our car. We have to take this seriously, you ready?”
“Suh, lemme just get a coat, suh!”
“Oh, er, ok then, nice change of tone.” Said Dan, he always got nervous when sarcasm was around. “Let’s go.” Dan’s car lay near to the pavement, it had been customised by vandals, someone had spray painted a cat on one of the wheels and “Killers!” on the bonnet,
“You know it was that old lady who did this, right? As revenge for killing her cat.”
“Who? Mrs. Gardener? She wouldn’t do this sort of thing, she’s more of a ‘puncture all the tires and remove the seats’ sort of girl.”
“Yeah, whatever, let’s just go.”
“Right, so off we go. Into the great unknown wasteland of the criminal underground, yet again. Exciting isn’t it?” Donald stayed silent, slowly making a tiny nodding gesture towards Dan.
Z
Note: Unfinished
May 1st 1998
We had been at the camp for a fortnight now, too long, too long to stay anywhere anymore. We’ve had four attacks; one very close call and one death. He died last night, Rob, he was the main support of the group, did most of the killing and hunting, one less mouth to feed though I suppose. The close call was Amy, we know she was bitten; she insists that it’s just a scratch but I’ve seen what just a scratch can do. World turned upside down. No contacts with anyone outside the group, the floor thick with corpses, some of the corpses move, walk after death. I have been chosen to chronicle the group’s journey in this diary. So far, outlook bleak; food almost gone, little fresh water left. We move tonight.
May 2nd 1998
Most of today spent travelling, not much to say. Set up camp for the night; hope we are far away enough. Can’t write more now. Have to help unpack.
Water stocks replenished, found river. We will be staying close to it; fresh fish and water make a welcome change to canned peas and stagnant water. Going to bed now.
May 3rd 1998
Being watched. Can see Tom peering over shoulder as I write this. I know he’s there. If I turn around he goes. He doesn’t believe in this documentation. He thinks we could be using the time better. He’ll make his move one day. I know it. Not before I make mine.
May 1st 1998
We had been at the camp for a fortnight now, too long, too long to stay anywhere anymore. We’ve had four attacks; one very close call and one death. He died last night, Rob, he was the main support of the group, did most of the killing and hunting, one less mouth to feed though I suppose. The close call was Amy, we know she was bitten; she insists that it’s just a scratch but I’ve seen what just a scratch can do. World turned upside down. No contacts with anyone outside the group, the floor thick with corpses, some of the corpses move, walk after death. I have been chosen to chronicle the group’s journey in this diary. So far, outlook bleak; food almost gone, little fresh water left. We move tonight.
May 2nd 1998
Most of today spent travelling, not much to say. Set up camp for the night; hope we are far away enough. Can’t write more now. Have to help unpack.
Water stocks replenished, found river. We will be staying close to it; fresh fish and water make a welcome change to canned peas and stagnant water. Going to bed now.
May 3rd 1998
Being watched. Can see Tom peering over shoulder as I write this. I know he’s there. If I turn around he goes. He doesn’t believe in this documentation. He thinks we could be using the time better. He’ll make his move one day. I know it. Not before I make mine.
A grim work
I had a typical day at work today. I love my job, but the paperwork is murder. The amount I have to fill out if I so much as make one mistake is unfathomable. I mean; I do my job, I do my job bloody well and at the end of the day all I have to look forward to is more bloody paperwork. “Unruly conduct” this and “Inappropriate work attire.” I wore shorts once and I had to fill out 3 sheets of A4 with an apology to the head of my office. I may just be one worker ant among many but the way we are treated is ridiculous. No holidays, full stop. The boss says that “There is always work to be done” which is ridiculous. There are hundreds of us in that building and they can’t all be working as much as I am. I work my fingers to the bone protecting the circle of life itself and what do I get in return? Minimal dental cover and £20,000 a year.
I suppose that it is my fault; my chosen career path I mean. I’m the one who took it at uni, I did it in college for a bit of a laugh, we all did, but I’m the only one who stuck it out. I should have listened to my dad. He went down the same route as me, like father like son I suppose, he told me to drop it and go after a career in medicine. Told me that the whole “death” thing was just a fad and that eventually people would just stop, whereas people are sick all the time, even if they don’t die. I should have listened. Come to think of it, work has been thinning out recently and if it stops altogether I am buggered. The only other thing I passed was a demi-godhood in astrophysics. The problem is that the market of space is flooded by thousands of new, fresh workers. They wouldn’t want me. Besides where would a skeleton fit in outer space? I should have never majored in reaping.
I suppose that it is my fault; my chosen career path I mean. I’m the one who took it at uni, I did it in college for a bit of a laugh, we all did, but I’m the only one who stuck it out. I should have listened to my dad. He went down the same route as me, like father like son I suppose, he told me to drop it and go after a career in medicine. Told me that the whole “death” thing was just a fad and that eventually people would just stop, whereas people are sick all the time, even if they don’t die. I should have listened. Come to think of it, work has been thinning out recently and if it stops altogether I am buggered. The only other thing I passed was a demi-godhood in astrophysics. The problem is that the market of space is flooded by thousands of new, fresh workers. They wouldn’t want me. Besides where would a skeleton fit in outer space? I should have never majored in reaping.
John Kirby
John Kirby, amateur explorer, was exploring a cave. But the important thing is not the cave, the important thing is the secrets it contained. The cave was said to be home to the "gene pool" the explanation for everything that is passed down though the generations. It is a discovery that could change the life of an up and coming explorer and as Kirby was about to find out, it will.
As he ventured further into the cave Kirby came to a cross road, two signs pointing either way read "The room of infinite ladies" to the left and "The gene pool" to the right. Just as you are thinking "The secret will surely be lost forever!" get a hold of yourself because; One, He is only a beginner, if he can get though this cave, so can a lot of other people and second, Kirby met with an unfortunate accident with a machete during his stay at explorers school; during jungle training, his class mates thought it would be a good idea to leave him alone in the middle of the Amazon river. As he floated downstream, he started panicking, the river was flowing ever faster and there was no end in sight. That is until he hit a rock; completely shredding his testicles. But, that is enough of that.
As he trudged down the path to glory; Kirby wondered why he had "Follow the yellow brick road" stuck in his head. He usually blamed it on his short Broadway career however he often thought it was something deeper rooted then that, the thought of having a deep psychological reason for having songs from The Wizard of Oz stuck in his head worried him. So much so that he now found himself drowning in a thick, treacle-like sea of worry, followed by wave after wave of all-consuming anxiety. It was only when his head when under and he found himself unable to breathe that he began to seriously start thinking about seeing a psychiatrist.
He woke up in a pool of his own sweat. Hmm, he thought, I can’t possibly have been sweating this much, there must be some explanation. He assumed the thinking position a few metres below the surface of the body of water he was currently occupying. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the gentle sting of chlorine; his retina was surrounded by it. A pool. The gene pool? Perhaps. He swam upwards, breaking the surface and gasping for breath. He pulled himself out of the water and sat on the edge. It looked like an ordinary swimming pool. He looked down and saw that he was suddenly and quite inexplicably sporting a set of gills. “Well” he said, to himself, “this explains why I didn’t drown.” He took a deep breath and felt a deep burning pain in his neck; he couldn’t breathe. He dove back into the pool and swam to the bottom, finding himself suddenly able to breathe.
This presented a problem; how was he going to leave? Just as he was thinking this and taking another gulp of water, he felt short of breath. He felt his neck, his gills had left him and in their place they left a sudden need for air to breathe. He swam to the surface and calmed himself down; once this had been accomplished, he took a sample of the pool water and headed back to his apartment for testing.
As he ventured further into the cave Kirby came to a cross road, two signs pointing either way read "The room of infinite ladies" to the left and "The gene pool" to the right. Just as you are thinking "The secret will surely be lost forever!" get a hold of yourself because; One, He is only a beginner, if he can get though this cave, so can a lot of other people and second, Kirby met with an unfortunate accident with a machete during his stay at explorers school; during jungle training, his class mates thought it would be a good idea to leave him alone in the middle of the Amazon river. As he floated downstream, he started panicking, the river was flowing ever faster and there was no end in sight. That is until he hit a rock; completely shredding his testicles. But, that is enough of that.
As he trudged down the path to glory; Kirby wondered why he had "Follow the yellow brick road" stuck in his head. He usually blamed it on his short Broadway career however he often thought it was something deeper rooted then that, the thought of having a deep psychological reason for having songs from The Wizard of Oz stuck in his head worried him. So much so that he now found himself drowning in a thick, treacle-like sea of worry, followed by wave after wave of all-consuming anxiety. It was only when his head when under and he found himself unable to breathe that he began to seriously start thinking about seeing a psychiatrist.
He woke up in a pool of his own sweat. Hmm, he thought, I can’t possibly have been sweating this much, there must be some explanation. He assumed the thinking position a few metres below the surface of the body of water he was currently occupying. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the gentle sting of chlorine; his retina was surrounded by it. A pool. The gene pool? Perhaps. He swam upwards, breaking the surface and gasping for breath. He pulled himself out of the water and sat on the edge. It looked like an ordinary swimming pool. He looked down and saw that he was suddenly and quite inexplicably sporting a set of gills. “Well” he said, to himself, “this explains why I didn’t drown.” He took a deep breath and felt a deep burning pain in his neck; he couldn’t breathe. He dove back into the pool and swam to the bottom, finding himself suddenly able to breathe.
This presented a problem; how was he going to leave? Just as he was thinking this and taking another gulp of water, he felt short of breath. He felt his neck, his gills had left him and in their place they left a sudden need for air to breathe. He swam to the surface and calmed himself down; once this had been accomplished, he took a sample of the pool water and headed back to his apartment for testing.
Where's wally?
Everywhere he went, a crowd followed. Colours morphed around him. Red and white; they were his camouflage. No one notices him as he glides through the middle of a crowded street; no one feels him, no one hears him, no one sees him. He spans the ages, waltzing through history as naturally as breathing is to us. His glasses shine as he basks in the sun; they glisten in the rain. Tonight he starts the countdown; he goes to death. He shudders under the freezing wind. It’s an act; it’s all an act. He didn’t get cold anymore. His jumper stood out against the grey sky. Red and white. But not for long; soon the sun came up, to aid in keeping him invisible. He reaches the cliff face and begins to climb. The wind is picking up now, as he scales the wall, his hat is blown off, lost, for others to find. He has made it to the top. He breathes in a lungful of air, all an act; he doesn’t breathe anymore, and he jumps. He hits the grounds with an inaudible thud. He hit the ground, so why was there no sound. He sees his body through his hands. His body is dead, never found, the world changes around it, disguises it, while his soul wanders the world forever. He’s a ghost, just a ghost. Where’s Wally?
New Blog
I have decided to make a new blog because I have been switching all my accounts over to my googlemail email. I will post all the old stuff up tonight and I am going to try to write something about thrice a week, culminating in a LIFE update on sunday.
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