Greg Krojac

WTF?

Dedicated to Matthew and Dean from the Science Fiction Film Podcast whose review of John Landis’s comedy-horror movie ‘An American Werewolf In London’ inspired this story.

1

Arnold Leadbetter had known better days. In fact, all his previous days had been better than the one which he was about to experience. He had never had a worse day in his life.

He woke up to hear a couple of house sparrows greeting a brand new frosty morning. He smiled at the birds’ cheerful chirruping of joy at the realization that they had survived another cold night and that a fresh day beckoned.

Except, he didn’t smile.

His eyes felt really dry and he blinked to allow his tears to wash over them and give him relief from the discomfort that he was feeling.

Except, he didn’t blink. There were no comforting tears.

He couldn’t smile.

He couldn’t blink.

He couldn’t do anything.

He couldn’t move.

He looked straight up; he had no choice. He didn’t recognize the ceiling. Where was his lampshade? The floral one that he didn’t really like but had agreed to buy, as his wife had fallen in love with it at the store. In fact, where were the light-fitting and energy-saving bulb that the salesman had included in the purchase at no additional cost? Where was the light? There was supposed to be a light above his bed. There had always been a light above his bed.

Unless he wasn’t in his bed.

Come to that – where was Gillian? Where was his wife of fifteen years? She should be in bed alongside him or, at least, in the kitchen making their morning coffee.

He turned to the right, to see if she was there beside him.

Except he didn’t turn. He just kept looking up at the ceiling that wasn’t his ceiling.

His eyes were starting to burn. He needed to blink, he was desperate to blink. In his mind, he brought his eyelids together and anticipated the refreshing release of moisture. In reality, nothing happened. He wanted to scream, to shout out – the pain was excruciating – but not a sound emitted from his body.

Please, somebody, do something about my eyes!

Who did he think he was calling out to? As far as Arnold knew, he was the only person in the room, a room that he didn’t recognize. Perhaps Gillian was there. Perhaps not. He had no way of knowing. Was he alone? He hoped not.

A sudden thought crossed his mind.

Am I dead? Is this what being dead feels like?

He hoped he wasn’t dead. He’d only just passed his fortieth birthday. Forty was still young. Wasn’t it? He remembered that his grandfather had lived until the ripe old age of ninety-seven. His father was approaching seventy years of age but was as strong as an ox and twice as lively. The Leadbetters were made of strong stuff – no, he couldn’t be dead.

He heard a door open and close.

That wasn’t right. His bedroom door was on the left and that sound had come from the right. Their bedroom window was on the right. At least, it had been. Unless Gillian had rearranged the furniture whilst he’d been at work, and rotated the bed. That would explain the missing light. But, if that was the case, why hadn’t he noticed it when he’d gone to bed?

Hang on!

He remembered going to bed. He had definitely got into his own bed in his own bedroom. The light fitting and lampshade had been above his head when he’d drifted off to sleep. But now, everything was different. Everything was wrong.

Suddenly a strange face loomed into view. It was an attractive face – not beautiful, but a face that was pretty enough. But it wasn’t Gillian’s face. He didn’t know this face.

Artificial tears suddenly exploded into his eyes, first the left eye and then the right. The relief from the burning sensation was almost instantaneous. He tried to smile at the eyes that peered into his.

“That should help a little, Mr Leadbetter. It must be uncomfortable, your eyes being open all the time like that.”

Arnold thought he nodded his head but his head stayed still, exactly as it had done for the last three weeks.

Thank you, but who are you?

The nurse ignored him and fluffed his pillow a little.

“There. That’s better. Nothing worse than a pillow that loses its shape during the night.”

Based on his current circumstances, Arnold wanted to assure her that there were a lot of things a lot worse than a flattened pillow but said nothing, partly through politeness and partly through a complete inability to speak.

The face disappeared from view and he heard the door open and close again.

About thirty minutes later (it may have been thirty minutes, but it could have been any length of time – Arnold had no way of knowing) the door opened once more. This time he could hear three distinct voices. He recognized two of them, but the owner of the third – a male voice with an American accent – was a complete mystery to him. The voices became slightly louder as they approached his bed. He concentrated on hearing what the voices were saying – perhaps they’d throw some light on his current predicament.

“So, there’s really no hope for him?”

That was Gillian’s voice. It was wonderful to hear her voice – even though it sounded upset – but he didn’t like the sound of what she had just said. The stranger’s voice responded to her question.

“I’m sorry but, barring a miracle, I’m afraid your husband will never improve. Even if he did come out of this coma, he’d have suffered irreparable brain damage. He’d never be able to do anything for himself again. His quality of life would be virtually nil.”

A third voice entered the conversation.

“Mum. It’s only the machine that’s keeping him alive. Without that, we’d already have lost him.”

That was the voice of his twelve-year-old daughter, Keira. What she said explained the constant humming and pumping noise that he had heard since he had woken up. That, and the presence of the nurse who had administered the artificial tears, meant that he must be in a hospital.

Gillian turned to her daughter and clasped her hands in her own.

“But Dad’s only forty, Keira. I’m only thirty-eight. We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.”

Arnold’s eyes tried to widen as he realised the ramifications of the conversation.

No. Please don’t do what I think you’re considering. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not dead. I’m not dying.

The doctor contradicted the unspoken thoughts of his vegetative patient.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Leadbetter, Miss Leadbetter. Mr Leadbetter has contracted a particularly sudden and rampant form of ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, – or, as you say on this side of the pond, Motor Neurone Disease. It has affected not only his voluntary muscle movement but also his involuntary muscle movement such as breathing. Typically ALS presents a gradual deterioration, a degeneration, and death of motor neurons, but this form took hold in a matter of hours. Mr Leadbetter is completely paralysed. His entire body is unable to function autonomously. We’ve tried all the treatments that we can think of – and even some that are, quite frankly, experimental – and not one has shown even the slightest hint of helping to alleviate or reverse his condition.”

The doctor looked over at his patient, who heard every word but could say nothing to change the physician’s prognosis.

“We can’t even close his eyes. The best we can do is to hydrate his eyes at regular intervals. Without that hydration, he would be in incredible pain. That is, if he can still feel physical sensations.”

Of course I can feel. My eyes were killing me until that nurse put drops in my eyes.

Gillian accepted a tissue from the doctor and dabbed at her tears before returning to hold her daughter’s hands.

“Is there really no hope?”

The doctor shook his head.

“None, I’m afraid.”

Gillian squeezed Keira’s hands even tighter.

“We’re going to have to be strong, love – for each other and for your dad. We need to let him go. It’s what’s best for your father. It’ll just be me and you now.”

How about letting me decide what’s best for me?

Arnold wasn’t prone to panic – he was normally a very calm individual – but panic was the best word to describe what he felt when confronted with what he considered to be his impending execution. Yes, panic rampaged through Arnold’s now fragile veins.

No. You can’t do this. I’m here. I’m alive. Please don’t switch the machine off. Please don’t switch me off. I’ll get better. I promise. I’ll get better.

The nurse had been outside the door, waiting for her cue to come into the room with the necessary forms to sign. Most next of kin who found themselves in this tragic situation eventually consented to turning off their loved one’s life support machine. It was their final act of kindness, a final act of love.

Gillian took the clipboard and pen from the nurse and was about to sign the paperwork when Keira stopped her.

“Wait, mum. What about dad’s organs? I’m sure he’d want to donate his organs to help others.”

Arnold agreed – in principle. He tried to sit up and say something, but nothing happened.

If I was dead, I would. Yes. But I’m not dead. Not yet anyway. Not by a long chalk. I’m in here. I’m alive, and I want to stay alive.

The doctor shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Miss Leadbetter, but we’d be transplanting non-functioning and unhealthy organs, As much as there’s a need for organs, it’s not possible I’m afraid.”

Gilliam and Keira stood in silence for a moment, looking at Arnold. Gillian’s hand gripped the pen tightly as she scribbled her signature on the assent form.

The tragic formalities out of the way, both wife and daughter gave Arnold a final kiss on the cheek and left the room in silence, leaving the medical staff to perform the emotionally difficult task of terminating a patient’s life. Even though they had done so many times before, the enormity of ending a human life was never easy.

The humming noise faded away and the flapping noise of the bellows of the respirator machine stopped abruptly. The few seconds before the beep of vital signs monitor turned into a long monotonous tone seemed like an eternity to everyone left in the room.

The doctor checked his watch.

“Time of death, zero seven fifty-seven.”

The room was empty once more, so quiet that if the proverbial pin dropped it would sound like dustbin lids crashing to the ground. Even the two sparrows had long since flown away. The silence was deafening.

A single unheard thought swirled around Arnold’s brain, unsure of what to do or where to go.

But I’m not dead.

2

Arnold wanted to go back to his bed in the hospital room. Even though he’d been hooked up to machines, at least he’d been safe there. Now, his face covered by a pale blue sheet and travelling through corridors on a gurney with a wobbly leg, he felt decidedly unsafe. He had no idea where he was going. Nobody bothered to tell the dead where they were going.

Even if, like Arnold, they weren’t dead.

In the hospital morgue, Roger Rogerson was awaiting his new delivery eagerly; he’d already sold the body to a friend who made amateur porn movies. He didn’t ask too much about what the corpse would be used for, although he did have a vivid imagination and had devised all kinds of potential fates for the cadaver. It was a porn movie after all. Whoever was the next stiff through the double-doors was worth seven hundred and fifty pounds to him. He’d tried to negotiate for one thousand pounds, but the fresh corpse market was very competitive and he needed the money.

The swing doors suddenly burst open and Arnold was pushed into the morgue. His escort, Ralph, a skinny wretch with acne scars, parked the gurney against the left-hand wall of the room and held his palm out to Roger, all the while staring at the mortician’s neck. He couldn’t help himself – Roger had the largest Adam’s apple that Ralph had ever seen.

“We agreed 50/50. You owe me two hundred and fifty quid, Roger. I could’ve taken it to St. Matthew’s down the road.”

Roger walked over to the trolley and lifted up the sheet that covered Arnold’s face. Arnold’s lifeless eyes stared back at him.

“Not exactly a looker, is he?”

Arnold felt affronted. He’d always considered himself quite good looking. Well, reasonably so. Not movie star material, sure, but he had seen a lot worse.

You’re no Brad Pitt yourself.

Roger ignored the comment, as he hadn’t heard it. The skinny one stood alongside Roger and stared at Arnold’s face.

“What’d he die of, anyway?”

Roger shrugged.

“Who knows? Who cares?”

Arnold was losing patience.

I’m not dead. Look at me. Do I look dead?

The ludicrousness of what he thought he’d said out loud suddenly hit him. Of course he looked dead. He wasn’t moving – in fact, he wasn’t even breathing. He supposed that he should perhaps forgive the hospital staff for thinking he was dead. But that doctor – he should have known better.

Ralph, was still waiting for his money.

“So? Where’s me dosh?”

Roger covered Arnold up again.

“You’ll get it when I get it. The van’s due in about an hour. I’ll give it to you at tea-break.”

Ralph did his best to sneer at the mortician, but his gesture looked more like a Jack Russell Terrier trying to smile.

“Make sure you do, Rogerson. Don’t forget – I could take you.”

Roger smirked.

“In your dreams, mate. In your dreams.”

Ralph’s walkie-talkie crackled into life with an unintelligible message.

“Gotta go, Roger. Another croaker on level three. See you at tea-break.”

Roger liked his own company, which was just as well as it was difficult to find anyone to work with him. It wasn’t the job, per se. It wasn’t even that people didn’t get on with Roger. It was just that his Adam’s apple was so large that it was a distraction. One of his previous co-workers had even asked an oncologist if perhaps it was a tumour. Upon being told that it wasn’t, the woman had requested a transfer to a unit with less of an aesthetic inconvenience.

Arnold was getting bored with the light blue gauze that was diffusing his view and was quite grateful when Roger drew the sheet back again, allowing the light to enter his eyes again. The mortician looked at the tag that was attached to Arnold’s big toe.

“Arnold Leadbetter. Born 1 August 1979. Died 13 December 2019.”

He returned to the top end of the gurney.

“Forty years old. And you didn’t even make it to Christmas.”

In his mind, Arnold blinked.

“But I’m not dead. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

Roger ignored the question that he hadn’t heard. He pointed to a machine in the corner of the room.

“You know, you’re quite lucky really. Usually, I’d be replacing your bodily fluids with embalming fluid from that box of tricks over there.”

Arnold strained to move his head so that he could see what the mortician was pointing at, but all he could do was to look straight up at the ceiling. Roger continued his little speech.

“But you, my friend, you’re going on to bigger things. You’re going to be a movie star.”

Arnold’s brow tried to furrow.

What the hell are you on about?

Roger hadn’t heard the question but answered it anyway.

“You’re going to be a porn star.”

Now Arnold was worried. He was a happily married man. He had no intention of being in a porn movie.

“I will NOT be exploited like this. I’m leaving.”

He summoned up all his strength to hoist himself off the gurney and leave the room. But nothing happened. He could think of moving, but that’s all it was – a thought.

Roger enjoyed his conversations with the dead. The dead never stared at his throat – not with seeing eyes anyway.

“You’re probably wondering what your family will say. Well, don’t worry. They’ll get to bury you – at least, they’ll bury someone they think is you. Your family will never know – unless they’re connoisseurs of commercial coitus. Do they watch porn, Arnold?”

No, they do not. And nor do I. And I absolutely refuse to take part in this spectacle.

“I imagine the movie people will get rid of your body after filming is finished. To be honest, I don’t really care what happens to you, as long as they don’t bring you back here. It’d mess up my accounting.”

Well, I care what happens to me. I demand a second opinion. I’m still here, you know. I’m still alive.

A knock on the door interrupted Roger’s one-way dialogue with the body on the gurney. He unlocked the external door and two men wearing matching black cable knit sweaters entered the room.

Roger looked at his wristwatch.

“You’re early.”

One of the men handed Roger a wad of notes.

“It happens. Deal with it. You got the goods?”

Roger led the two men to where Arnold was lying.

“Voila. One male, aged about thirty-five. Well, Arnold here is actually forty but I doubt it’ll make much difference.”

The second man stared at Arnold’s face.

“He don’t look well.”

Roger rolled his eyes.

“Of course he doesn’t look well. He’s bloody dead. What d’you expect him to look like?”

“Dunno. A bit more alive, I suppose.”

Roger felt he really was dealing with a couple of idiots.

“This is a morgue. This is where the hospital brings dead people. The living ones are upstairs, in wards. The dead ones are down here. In drawers. You want living actors–“

The first man cut in.

“Props.”

Roger sighed.

“If you want living props, I suggest you go upstairs and find someone else.”

Arnold really didn’t want to go with these two men.

There’s been a terrible mistake. I’m not dead you see. It’s all a misunderstanding.

His protestations didn’t make any difference.

The taller of the two men took hold of his legs and the shorter hooked his forearms under Arnold’s armpits. Together, they carried Arnold out of the morgue. The taller man called out as he pushed the exterior door open with his foot.

“Pleasure doing business with you Roger.”

Roger nodded.

“Anytime, Pete. Anytime.”

Arnold had no say in the matter as he was thrown haphazardly into the back of a ten-year-old Ford Transit van. He landed roughly but, surprisingly, didn’t feel the pain of the impact.

“I guess I’m going with you then.”

3

The noisy diesel van rattled along country roads, its suspension being tested every few yards by the numerous potholes it was forced to negotiate. Inside the van, Arnold bounced about and slid around. He wished he could hold on to something or at least put out an arm occasionally to cushion the impact of hitting the side of the van, but his body still wouldn’t do his brain’s bidding. All he could do was watch helplessly as the side panels threw themselves at him.

Finally, the vehicle stopped and Arnold was able to settle in one place. But he wasn’t left in peace for long; the back doors of the van opened and the morning sun streamed in. Pete and his mate, Barry, looked inside the van. Pete was not happy.

“I thought I told you to tie him down, Barry. He’s been bouncing around all over the shop.”

Arnold agreed.

Not the most comfortable journey I’ve ever taken.

Barry went on the defensive.

“I didn’t think it would matter. It’s not like he could get hurt. He’s dead.”

Pete shook his head.

“He can’t be damaged. We’re lucky his head didn’t split open or something.”

“Sorry, Pete.”

A third figure joined them and peered inside the back of the van.

“So this is him, yeah?”

Pete jumped into the van, grabbed Arnold’s arms, and pulled him nearer the opening so that the newcomer could get a better look. The man stared directly into Arnold’s eyes, an experience which Arnold found decidedly unsettling.

Not so close, mate. Personal space, you know. Personal space.

The man pointed at Arnold’s eyes.

“Don’t stiffs usually have their eyes closed?”

Pete shrugged.

“I tried shutting his eyes but the lids just didn’t want to stay down.”

The third man, who liked to be addressed as Monsieur Pierre (whose real name was Bert Muggins, and the closest he’d been to France was the ferry port at Dover), didn’t see it as a problem.

“Not to worry. It might work even better with his eyes open.”

Pete could never understand why his boss insisted on being called by a French name but still spoke in a broad East London accent. Perhaps it was down to the film director’s creative temperament. Or perhaps he was just a poser.

“So where do you want him, boss?”

Monsieur Pierre thought for a moment.

“On the slab. Face up.”

The studio wasn’t so much a studio as a small warehouse that had been difficult to rent out because of its location off the beaten track. Not that that made much difference to Arnold; the only view he got was of whatever his eyes were pointing at. So he was treated to the visual feast of a pile of empty boxes, a lighting rig, a bald fat man with a Steadicam, the rafters of the warehouse, and the surface of a large metal table.

Monsieur Pierre clapped his hands to attract the attention of his crew.

“Ok, everyone. This is the dance scene. The mortician—”

He pointed at a busty blonde woman, who was wearing spectacles, a white lab coat, and very little else; a living breathing trope.

“—that’s you, love.”

He returned to his train of thought.

“The mortician is filing her nails. She’s feeling lonely. The only company she has is a body that’s on the table.”

The actress, whose working name was Chantelle, had a question.

“Monsieur Pierre. How can I dance with him if he’s on the table? I don’t think I’ll be able to pick him up.”

Pete nudged Barry.

“She’s got a point there. He’s a dead weight.”

He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.

“Didn’t you see what I did there? He’s a dead weight. ‘Cos he’s dead, see?”

Barry did see; he just thought the joke was too corny to acknowledge.

Arnold was bored with his view of the ceiling.

Can someone give me something more interesting to look at?

Monsieur Pierre put his index finger against his chin, trying to look artistically intelligent.

“Yes, my dear. Good point.”

He clapped his hands.

“Pete. Barry. Lean our guest up against the wall, please.”

Barry muttered under his breath, wondering what the director’s last servant died of, but helped Pete to stand Arnold upright.

The director was now satisfied.

“That’s better.”

Arnold echoed his sentiments, pleased to have something different to look at.

Much better.

The makeshift studio was bustling with activity (if it’s possible for seven people to bustle). Pete and Barry doubled as stagehands and prop-men, although they would both have done the jobs for nothing – they’d seen all Chantelle’s movies and watching her perform live was reward in itself. She was a hot property in the field of adult movies, willing to do almost anything to please her loyal fans.

Monsieur Pierre gave the set one last look and nodded his approval.

“Ok. Let’s get this scene in the can.”

He nodded at the cameraman.

“Lights. Sound. Stop.”

He composed himself.

“Lights. Sound. Stop.”

His film crew was used to his quirks but Chantelle wasn’t. She threw an anxious look at Pete and shrugged her shoulders.

Pete silently mouthed three letters at her.

“O. C. D.”

She mouthed a response.

“Obsessive-compulsive?”

Pete nodded.

Two more attempts were made to get the camera rolling. Monsieur Pierre took a deep breath and whispered to himself.

“One two three, One two three, One two three, Let’s go…”

This time he felt he was ready.

“Lights. Sound –”

The director didn’t get a chance to falter again as Barry saved the day, shouting the final word.

“Action.”

The camera started rolling, and the boom mike swayed above Chantelle’s head. She looked directly into the camera lens.

“Oh, woe is me. I’m a forgotten woman down here in the mortuary.”

Arnold didn’t hold out much hope for the film’s success if that was the quality of scriptwriting. But, then again, nobody watched porn movies for their gripping dialogue and intriguing storylines. It probably wouldn’t matter.

Chantelle continued to over-act, milking every last drop of drama from a scene that contained none.

“Every day. Here, all alone. On my own.”

She walked over and stood in front of Arnold, looking at him wistfully.

“All I have for company are my guests. And they never stay very long.”

Arnold wished he could turn his head. Not because Chantelle wasn’t attractive but because he wondered where the other actor was. There had to be someone else in this scene, surely.

Chantelle ploughed on regardless with her cheesy soliloquy. She took a step closer to Arnold, who was starting to get worried.

What are you doing? Surely your co-star will arrive in a minute?

The actress took another step towards Arnold.

Now, that’s close enough. We don’t want anyone thinking the wrong thing now, do we?

Chantelle pouted at Arnold.

“Will you keep me company, Chuck?”

Chuck? Who’s Chuck?

Arnold felt he should put a stop to this, now.

Look, Chantelle or whatever your name is. The fact is, I’m a happily married man. A very happily married man. I’m sure you’re a charming young woman, but I’m taken. And my name’s Arnold. Not Chuck.

Chantelle let her lab coat fall to the floor, revealing a black lace bra and panties set. She hurled her spectacles across the set.

“You know you want me, Chuck.”

Arnold tried unsuccessfully to shake his head. Unable to do anything else, he looked at the woman in front of him, as her bra fought to contain her more than ample breasts.

Look, miss. You – oh my word!

Chantelle’s hands had reached behind her and unclasped her bra, allowing her breasts to tumble free.

Arnold tried to look away.

But he couldn’t.

He tried to close his eyes.

But he couldn’t.

Chantelle continued to walk towards him until she was within touching distance. She pressed her naked breasts against his chest and Arnold was grateful for the hospital gown he was still wearing.

That’s close enough now. You can stop now.

He wished that Gillian could have been there to take him away from this abomination, this assault on his dignity.

Chantelle swayed in a fashion that she thought was very sexy and alluring, before lifting Arnold’s hospital gown up past his thighs.

No, no, NO! That’s not how a young lady should behave.

Chantelle’s right hand reached forward and grasped his genitalia.

Arnold wasn’t sure whose scream was louder, Chantelle’s or his.

The film crew knew. They couldn’t hear Arnold’s scream but Chantelle’s was almost loud enough to shatter glass.

She spun around on her six-inch heels and glared at Monsieur Pierre.

“You bastard! You let me think Chuck was a prop. But his junk certainly didn’t feel like it was made out of synthetic rubber. What kind of sick bastard are you?”

She’d been tricked. Arnold watched as she drew her right arm back. That didn’t look good for the director. He was correct. It was very bad for the director. One moment Monsieur Pierre was looking into the face of a very irate actress, and the next he was lying on the floor, unconscious. He’d certainly think twice about hiring a female ex-boxer again. Chantelle’s punch had landed square on his jaw and given him no chance to take evasive action.

The actress picked up her lab coat and glasses from where they lay, put them on, and stormed out of the building, stopping only to give the director a swift kick in the groin as she passed him.

A few seconds later, Monsieur Pierre came to. He looked around, trying to focus his eyes. Feeling his jaw he looked at his cameraman.

“Cut.”

4

The transit van was parked in a woodland clearing. Sitting in the passenger seat, Barry was nervous.

“We’re not burying him here, are we?”

Pete unbuckled his safety belt and shook his head.

“You know, sometimes I worry about you. No. Of course we’re not burying him here. It’s too much out in the open. We’ll bury him deeper into the woods.”

Arnold, having been thrown around in the back of the van again, strained his ears to hear what they were saying. It didn’t sound promising.

Pete was obviously in charge, barking orders at Barry.

“Right, fetch the shovel and the large plastic sheet from out of the back. Find a nice spot to dig a grave and then come back here.”

“Why come back here?”

“Why do you think? ‘Cos if you don’t, I won’t know where we’re gonna dig the bloody hole, will I?”

“So why don’t you come with me?”

Pete was exasperated.

“Someone’s got to look after Chuck here.”

Barry seemed satisfied with that answer.

Five minutes later, he arrived back at the van.

“I’ve found somewhere, Pete.”

“Good. Now give me a hand to carry Chuck to his final resting place.”

Barry’s choice of burial ground was surprisingly good. It was inside a tangle of trees that, to the casual observer, looked impenetrable. However, Barry had found a way inside and there was easily sufficient space to dig a grave away from prying eyes.

A couple of thorns scratched Arnold’s face as he was passed into the burial area, but they didn’t do much damage.

Pete looked at his partner.

“Well?”

Barry looked back at Pete.

“Well, what?”

“The hole won’t dig itself, will it?”

Barry should have expected this. It had been like this since he and Pete had lived next door to each other as children. Pete had always been bigger than Barry and had taken full advantage of the fact. Barry had done Pete’s homework. Barry had done Pete’s paper round. And now Barry was going to dig a hole for Pete.

It wasn’t easy work, but he applied himself well to the task. Soon the hole was six feet long and four feet deep. He called to his friend.

“It’s about four feet, I reckon. That’s deep enough, isn’t it?”

Pete was sitting on a nearby tree stump and took a bite of one of the sandwiches that he’d brought with him, speaking with his mouth full. Crumbs sputtered out of his mouth as he spoke.

“Nah. A couple more feet, I reckon. We don’t want to make it too easy for animals to dig him up.”

Another half an hour, and the grave was completed. Barry wasn’t as daft as he might look and had fashioned a set of steps in the earth so that he could get out again.

Pete took a sip from a can of Red Bull. It was tiring overseeing Barry’s work.

“You done yet?”

“Not quite. I think I’ll dig a bit deeper. I’m not tired. Just another foot or so.”

Pete didn’t mind, as long as he didn’t have to do any of the digging.

“Alright. Do what you want. It’s your funeral.”

Twenty minutes later, Barry had disappeared from view; the sides of the grave were taller than he was. Pete called out again.

“You done?”

At first, there was no answer, but then Barry clambered out of the grave. He stood alongside Pete and admired his handiwork.

“That should do the trick.”

“It’s a bit deep isn’t it?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

The two of them rolled Arnold up in the black plastic sheet and tossed him into the grave. His body made a satisfying thump as it landed on the floor of the hole. Pete looked down into the newly occupied grave.

“You’ve done a good job there, Barry. All you have to do now is fill it in.”

Pete never felt the spade hitting the back of his head. He didn’t even hear the swoosh as the blade passed through the air before smashing the rear of his skull into several pieces.

Barry whistled as he shovelled the excavated earth back into the hole. It didn’t occur to him that he was risking somebody hearing him. All he knew was that Chuck was buried and the bully Pete was dead and buried with him.

The final sod thrown onto the grave, Barry looked solemn for a moment as if he was going to say a prayer for the recently deceased. But no such thought crossed his mind – he simply smiled.

“Actually, it’s your funeral, Pete.”

5

It was pitch black in the grave. Arnold was aware that he had been buried but didn’t realise at first that he had company in the grave.

His first thought was to panic, and try to claw his way out of his earthy tomb, but there was no point in even thinking about it – he hadn’t been able to physically move any part of his body for the last three weeks. He did some quick mental calculations and the results did nothing to improve his mood. Above him, there was probably upward of 3,000 lbs. of dirt plus the weight of Pete pressing down on his chest

Three thousand pounds! That’s a lot of soil. Even if I could move, I don’t know that I could reach the surface.

He was remarkably calm considering the situation he found himself in. He remembered his father telling him once that if there was nothing he could do himself to remedy a situation, then worrying about it wouldn’t help. So he wasn’t worried – yet.

It occurred to him that he should be having problems breathing. Surely, all that soil and a dead body weighing down on his chest meant that he shouldn’t be able to breathe. That frightened him.

When was the last time I took a breath?

His thoughts ran back to the hospital.

I was definitely breathing there. But then they turned off a machine. Was I breathing after that?

He honestly wasn’t sure. Breathing’s not something you think about normally. It just happens. It’s instinctive. Breathing is so automatic that you don’t notice if you’re breathing or not. Maybe he wasn’t breathing.

Am I dead?

He couldn’t be dead; he was still aware of things that happened around him. Had he dreamed the episode at the porn movie shoot? Perhaps he was dreaming.

Yes. That’s it. I must be dreaming. I’ll open my eyes and I’ll wake up from this nightmare.

But his eyes were already open.

He heard a gurgling sound.

Is that me? Or the guy on top of me?

The gurgling happened again. He tried to look confused but his expression stayed just as it had for the last three weeks or so.

I think it’s me.

It was indeed him. His body was digesting itself and had been doing so since shortly after the life support machine had been turned off.

He decided to approach his new circumstances logically. His body was no longer functioning properly but there seemed to be nothing wrong with his brain. Inexplicably, he still had all his mental faculties.

Hang on. What happened to my rigor mortis? I should have gone all stiff – if I was dead.

He replayed recent events through his mind again.

In the morgue? No rigor mortis. In the van? No rigor mortis. Filming the adult movie? No rigor mortis.

He wanted to grin.

Not even when Chantelle touched my bits.

Was he still flexible? He revisited the recent events again.

In the morgue, I was lying on the mortician’s slab. That’s no help – I could have been flexible then and not known it.

His mind fast-forwarded to the journey in the van.

I think I bent a little when I was being thrown around in the back of the van.

But he wasn’t sure.

How about at the film studio?

Again, I couldn’t move. But –

Suddenly Arnold felt encouraged.

I distinctly remember seeing a clock on the wall of the film set. What was the time? The doctor pronounced me dead at zero seven fifty-seven – though I’m clearly not. That’s three minutes to eight, in the morning. I must have spent at least three hours in the mortuary. Of course, I can’t be certain, but it certainly felt that long. That takes us to about eleven a.m. When we arrived at the warehouse the clock on the wall read midday. That’s a total of around four hours.

Arnold liked how his reminiscing was playing out. Rigor mortis typically sets in after two to six hours. He’d already counted up to four hours. That left two to go.

Now, the director filmed some other scenes with Chantelle’s stand-in, so what time was on the clock when Pete and Barry took me back to the van?

He dug into the recesses of his memory.

It was dark. What time was it?

If he could have, he’d have shouted out eureka! The clock had said six-thirty in the evening. They’d left for the woods at six-thirty.

Arnold could now account for the last ten and a half hours. Add to that, the journey to the woods which must have taken at least ninety minutes and the total came to twelve hours. Plenty of time for rigor mortis to have set in. And he remembered being slung over Pete’s shoulder on the way to the burial site. That couldn’t have happened if his body wasn’t malleable. And if he was still bendable, then rigor hadn’t happened.

Arnold concluded that he’d been correct all along. He was still alive.

6

Arnold was bored. The sun had risen and set three times since he’d been unceremoniously dumped in the grave, and he had nothing to occupy his mind.

His body, however, wasn’t faring too well; it had become a maelstrom of physical activity that he was oblivious to. His body was being assaulted by insects, small mammals, micro-organisms, and chemical reactions and there was nothing he could do about it. Flesh was gradually being stripped from his bones, and organs were beginning to liquefy – Mother Nature was torturing him with a vengeance.

Three days was long enough to stay calm. So he finally panicked.

He tensed up his muscles. Or, at least, he thought he did.

He arched his back. Or, at least, he thought he did.

His arms flailed from side to side. Or, at least, he thought they did.

He cried out. Or, at least, he thought he did.

But the tensing, arching, flailing, and crying out didn’t happen.

He clenched his right hand into a fist.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand into a fist again and opened his hand once more.

Was he imagining it?

He concentrated really hard.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand.

He opened his hand.

He clenched his hand.

No. He wasn’t imagining it. His hand was moving. It was a little stiff, but it hadn’t moved for over three weeks, so that was only to be expected.

I wonder if my other hand can do this?

He concentrated really hard.

He clenched his left hand into a fist.

He opened his left hand.

He clenched his left hand.

He opened his left hand.

He clenched his left hand.

Two working hands.

He’d been trying to convince himself that he was still alive although, deep down, he was becoming resigned to the fact that he had passed on. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to accept what seemed to be the inevitable truth.

Maybe I wasn’t kidding myself? Maybe I am alive after all!

He arched his back.

A few grains of earth trickled down from above him.

I can move! I can move! I’m alive!

He told his body to writhe around (or at least as much as it could in such a confined space). His body duly did as it was told.

He knew what he had to do now.

I’ve got to get out of here!

The first problem Arnold faced was how to get out of his grave. Not only was he pinned down by soil and dirt, but he was also trapped by the corpse of one of his body-snatchers. He had no idea of how long he’d been buried, but one thought overrode all others.

He was still alive.

That could only mean one thing – there must be a pocket of air that he’d been unwittingly drawing on, allowing him to survive. If there was a space that wasn’t completely packed with soil, then maybe he could dig his way out. It would be like one of those slider puzzles where there are more spaces than squares. You simply slide a square into a space to release a different space and continue in this way until the puzzle was solved. The goal for Arnold would be to continually move earth from one place to another, creating a path for him to reach the surface. It might take some time, but time was something he appeared to have plenty of. He flexed his fingers and clawed at the soil near his hands, taking a small amount of dirt into each hand.

So far, so good. What now?

He pulled back his arms as far as they could go – which wasn’t very far – and released the earth from his fists. He was surprised that he had been able to move any earth at all. Perhaps the soil was in clumps, making the chance of air pockets more possible. But he had moved some soil, so he’d continue with his plan – he certainly didn’t fancy spending the rest of his life underground. The chance to see daylight and return to his family was something he wasn’t going to give up on.

7

Almost three weeks later, a hand thrust its way through the final layer of topsoil. Arnold had been digging his way out, centimetre by centimetre, minute by minute, twenty-four hours a day. He was surprised that he never once felt tired, never once needed to stop for a breather. Forcing his way out of the grave, he stood up and shook himself back to life. That’s what it felt like, anyway. But he wasn’t dead, so really he was just loosening up his joints and muscles,

He looked down at himself. Everything seemed to be in working order, as far as he could tell. Freed from his underground prison, he blinked his eyelids at the sudden clarity of the sunlight that now bathed him. Blinking – that was something that he hadn’t done for a long time. There was something a little off with his vision but he shouldn’t be surprised – he hadn’t seen daylight for at least three weeks. Oh, it felt good to be back to normal. He looked down at his body, grateful that the staff of the porn movie set had had the decency to put some clothes on him before he was disposed of. He didn’t think he looked too bad, taking into consideration that he’d been underground for so long. A bit emaciated, he had to admit, but that was only to be expected considering that he hadn’t eaten for ages. His hands were looking a little worse for wear – the skin had a kind of green tinge about it, and was beginning to peel off in a few places – but that was probably due to the digging. He looked closely at his left hand.

Is that bone I can see? That can’t be good.

He made a mental note to visit the doctor as soon as he was reunited with his wife and daughter.

Who should I see? An orthopaedic surgeon or a dermatologist? Maybe both. My skin definitely needs some heavy-duty cream or something to get it back to its normal colour.

He wasn’t thrilled with his attire – he was now dressed in a red and white horizontally striped shirt, blue jeans, brown boots, and red and white striped socks – but beggars can’t be choosers. At least he had some clothes.

He wasn’t exactly sure where he was, but his instincts told him to head due south. Fortunately, the roads were almost deserted and the few cars that did pass him showed little interest in the pinched figure ambling along the road, except one guy who shouted Wally at him through his car window.

He began to recognise landmarks. The spire he could see in the distance belonged to St. Agnes Church. He’d visited a couple of times but, as an atheist, he’d only gone to Church as a show of support for his wife when she was giving a bible reading to the congregation. Gillian was the religious one. They had a kind of understanding; she wouldn’t try to convert him to Christianity and, in turn, Arnold wouldn’t try to talk her out of her religion. Gillian really appreciated Arnold’s support on the few occasions when he did set foot inside a church but she knew that there were conditions attached to his attendance. He would stand up and sit down at the right times but he wouldn’t sing or pray. That would have been hypocritical of him and Gillian wouldn’t have felt comfortable putting her husband in that situation, no matter how much she’d have loved it if he had found God.

Thinking about Gillian and how pleased she would be to see him, Arnold didn’t notice how the miles were being eaten up. Before he knew it he was approaching Jefferson’s the Newsagents. There was a rack outside the shop with the morning papers – not the weekday papers but the rather more voluminous (and more expensive) Sunday ones. He’d have liked to have bought one, just to see what had happened in the world whilst he’d been away, but he had no money on him and old Mister Jefferson never gave credit to anyone – no matter how upstanding a member of the village they were.

Sunday. That explains why the roads are so quiet. People are either sleeping in or at church. I can’t wait to see Gillian’s face when she gets home from church.

Now he was in more familiar surroundings, he could relax a little more. Anyone he saw would be a neighbour or at least someone that Arnold used to nod at in the street. A dog, spying Arnold’s approach, bounced towards him as if to welcome him back but changed its mind at the last minute and bared its teeth, snarling viciously. Arnold held his hand out to the animal.

Come on Tigger. You know me. We’ve played fetch loads of times in the park.

Tigger wasn’t having any of it. It was true that he did half recognise the figure offering him its hand, but all his senses told him that this was not Arnold Leadbetter. The dog turned and rushed back home to Number Twenty-Three, The Green. Arnold decided not to try to force the reunion with the spaniel but continued towards Number Eleven.

He knocked on the door, just in case he was wrong about his family being at church, but Gillian and Keira weren’t at home. Walking round to the side of the smart little cottage, he lifted up a flowerpot containing a re-potted geranium and helped himself to the spare key that lay underneath.

Turning the key in the lock of his front door, he was relieved when the door clicked open. He wasn’t really expecting it not to, but he hadn’t been inside his home for over six weeks. The door swung open and he entered the cottage, allowing the door to shut quietly behind him.

Ah… It’s good to be home at last.

Nothing much had changed since he’d been gone. The TV remote was there on the coffee table in the front room, just as it always had been. The golden cushions were fluffed up and arranged symmetrically on the black velour sofa. And his daughter Keira’s mobile phone was there on the mantelpiece. She was never allowed to take the phone with her to church – not since the strains of ‘Dance Monkey’ by Tones and I had suddenly and without warning destroyed the calm tranquillity of meditative prayer. Arnold looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Nearly midday – they’ll be back in about five minutes. They’ll be so pleased to see him back home.

Arnold picked up that day’s Sunday newspaper and tipped it on its side, to let the magazine fall out. He liked to read the Sunday papers but knew that there wasn’t time to get engrossed in any of the stories before his wife and daughter got home, so he just flicked through the glossy magazine.

He was looking through the photos of a society wedding when he heard a key turn in the lock. He was bursting with excitement.

We’re going to be a family again.

Keira skipped into the hallway, her mother not far behind her.

“I’m just gonna get my phone from the front room, mum. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Gillian had just put the kettle on for a refreshing cup of tea when the ear-splitting scream almost burst her eardrums. She dropped the carton of milk that she’d just taken out of the refrigerator, not caring that its contents were now spread over the kitchen floor. Her daughter had screamed and the only response required was for Gillian to rush to her aid.

Keira was rooted to the spot, pointing at the abhorrence before her.

“Mum! It’s a zombie! There’s a zombie in our house.”

Arnold was mortified.

Keira, honey. I’m not a zombie. It’s me. It’s your dad.

Keira hadn’t heard a word, for each one was trapped inside Arnold’s mind, unable to get out.

Gillian appeared at the doorway brandishing a kitchen knife and, in one swift movement, positioned herself between Arnold and her daughter.

“Get out of my house whoever you are.”

Gillian. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Arnold. Your husband.

Gillian waved the knife about, trying to give the intruder the impression that she knew how to use it. She was deft at carving a Sunday roast but had never yet had cause to use the kitchen utensil as a weapon before.

“I’m warning you. There’s nothing for you to steal. My husband will be back home in a minute. He’ll sort you out.”

But it’s me, Gill. I am your husband. Can’t you see that?

Keira couldn’t believe that her mum was trying to reason with the monster.

“It’s a zombie, mum.”

“No, it’s not. There’s no such thing as zombies. It’s just a man dressed up in a silly Halloween costume.”

“Halloween is months away.”

Gillian was in no mood to argue with her daughter about the existence or nonexistence of zombies, or the date of Halloween.

“Keira. I want you to back out of this room and then run to Mrs Brewster’s house as if your life depended upon it.”

Like any twelve-year-old, Keira didn’t want to miss out on any part of this adventure. It would give her loads of Brownie points in her circle of friends.

“But, mum…”

Gillian scowled at her daughter.

“Why are you still here? I said ‘go’. NOW!”

Arnold was confused. He thought that Gillian and Keira would have been pleased to see him. And now his wife was threatening him with a knife and his daughter had called him a zombie. That hurt. He knew he had a skin condition, but a trip to the doctors would sort that out. Calling him a zombie was a bit extreme.

Gillian. Put the knife down. Please. I need a hug.

Arnold moved forward towards his wife, with his arms outstretched, but she had no intention of returning his affectionate gesture. She threw the knife at him, missing him entirely, not waiting for it to fall to the floor before herself making a run for Mrs Brewster’s house.

Arnold had never felt so low and despondent in his life. He wanted to cry, but there was no liquid in his tear ducts. He looked around the room remembering the Christmas mornings, the birthdays, the laughs, the joy that the three of them had shared together. Tragic sadness engulfed him as he walked towards the front door and left his home for probably the last time.

Much calmer now, Gillian and Keira were drinking two cups of over-sugared tea. Mrs Brewster had insisted on going overboard with the sugar, saying that extra sweet tea would help them deal with the shock of what they had just experienced.

Constable Brian Pargeter, the local community police officer, was glad that he’d been able to dissuade Mrs Brewster from putting any more than his regular two spoonfuls of sugar in his tea. He needed to lose weight.

“Can you give me a description of the intruder, Mrs Leadbetter? Anything you remember will help. Was he black? White? Maybe of Asian appearance?”

“White, I think.”

Keira interrupted.

“He wasn’t white, mum. He was kind of greenish. And he smelt gross.”

Gillian shook her head at her daughter.

“People aren’t green.”

She smiled at the police officer.

“Forgive my daughter. She has a vivid imagination.”

Keira took exception to this slur on her memory.

“He wasn’t people. He was a zombie. He was green.”

Officer Pargeter wrote in his notebook that the intruder may have been green.

“Do either of you remember what he was wearing?”

Gillian shook her head.

“Not really. It all happened so fast.”

Keira knew she’d have to come to the rescue again.

“He had a red and white striped shirt – wide stripes, horizontal stripes. Blue Jeans. Brown boots. And a red and white striped bobble hat. Like his shirt.”

Officer Pargeter thanked Gillian and Keira for their help and assured them that he and his colleagues would do everything in their power to apprehend the intruder.

Out in his police car, he picked up the mic and, even though he knew he would sound crazy, he requested an APB be issued for the man that had been described to him.

“You should be sitting down for this one, Sarge. We need to be on the lookout for a cross between a smelly zombie, the Grinch, and Wally from Where’s Wally.”

8

To say that Arnold’s family reunion hadn’t gone well would be a gross understatement. In fact, gross was the perfect word, as that is exactly how Keira had described him to the police officer.

His daughter had screamed when she saw him and his wife had tried to kill him. They didn’t even recognize him. It had only been six weeks or so since they’d last spent time together watching TV – surely he couldn’t have changed much in such a short space of time? He thought about going back to the cottage and trying to talk to them, maybe calm them down and reason with them, but he knew in his heart that it would be a waste of time.

So, where should he go? What should he do? Clearly, he couldn’t go home. He had friends in the village but, if his own wife and daughter didn’t recognize him, how could he expect anyone else to? He had nowhere to go.

Maybe Keira was right – maybe he was a zombie. But zombies were hungry for human flesh, weren’t they? And – although he hadn’t eaten for weeks – he wasn’t hungry. If he were a zombie, he’d have ripped his family apart to satiate his hunger but all he’d wanted was a cuddle. No, zombies don’t want cuddles. Ergo, he couldn’t be a zombie. He wasn’t hungry and had no desire to eat people.

He’d have to move away, far away. To stay in his village would be too painful for him. Every day he’d run the risk of seeing Gillian or Keira, maybe both. And he wouldn’t be able to communicate with them – he’d probably scare the shit out of them if he tried. No, the best thing to do would be to start afresh, a long way away. That’s what he would do.

But first, I want to see my grave. The proper one. Not the one in the woods.

Gillian had allowed the doctors to turn off his life-support machine, so she must have thought he was dead – that would explain her horror when he turned up at their house unannounced. If people thought he was dead, then they must have buried him, properly, though, in a coffin, in the village cemetery.

It didn’t take him long to get to the graveyard. After his family’s reaction, he decided to keep out of people’s sight so a ten-minute walk turned into a twenty-minute walk, ducking and diving behind bins and fences sporadically so that he wouldn’t frighten anyone else. It wasn’t a large cemetery and it wasn’t hard to find the plot where he was supposed to have been buried.

He looked at the tombstone and read the epitaph to himself.

Arnold Leadbetter, loving husband and father. Gone but not forgotten.

He had to admit that he was a little disappointed at the inscription; it wasn’t very original. Very boring and matter of fact, actually.

Is that the sum of my life? I was born, I got married, I had a child, I loved my family, and then I died?

He felt saddened and disillusioned. He thought his life meant more than just that. It did to him, anyway.

It suddenly occurred to him that if he was above ground, visiting his own grave, then somebody else – a stranger – must have been buried in his place. He didn’t know why, but he felt violated. He pointed at the mound of earth.

Who are you and what are you doing in my grave?

Of course, there was no response. The usurper – an unidentified vagrant – was well and truly dead.

Arnold looked up at a nearby tree where a song thrush was singing loudly, trying to attract a mate. A butterfly – a Red Admiral – fluttered in front of his nose before flitting off in the opposite direction. The graveyard was busy with small woodland animals and insects. Arnold thought it ironic that a resting place for the dead was so full of life. He made a decision. He would let nature take its course. If the Universe wanted him dead, then who was he to argue? But, at least, he would be in his own grave this time.

Suddenly he felt a stabbing pain in his neck. He spun round and uttered the first words he had spoken in over five weeks.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

9

Arnold wasn’t sure what had shocked him most – hearing his own voice outside his head for the first time in weeks or the fact that there was a man standing in front of him, with brown viscous liquid dripping from a pair of previously gleaming white fangs.

The man stared at him, saying nothing for a good ten seconds before finally uttering his own response to what he was seeing.

“What the fuck?”

Arnold put his fingers to his neck.

“You bit me!”

The man shook his head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You bloody bit me. Hard.”

The man looked sheepish.

“I slipped. The ground’s pretty slippery here. Haven’t you noticed? It’s been snowing.”

Arnold felt violated.

“You don’t slip and accidentally bite someone in the neck, whether it’s been snowing or not. That doesn’t just happen. You meant to bite me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, yes I did. But I can assure you I wouldn’t have bitten you if I’d known what you were.”

“What do you mean, what I am.”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. What am I?”

The man couldn’t believe that Arnold had no idea what he was.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Why. What would I see?”

“A zombie, friend. A zombie.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not a zombie.”

“You bloody well are. You’ve got the greenish reddish skin tone, the smell of a zombie – you really need to get hold of some deodorant – and…”

“And?”

“You’ve got bits missing.”

Arnold didn’t want to believe his assailant, but being a zombie would explain a few things.

“Missing? Like what?”

“Put your finger in your eye.”

Arnold raised his right hand and put a finger to his right eye.

The stranger watched closely.

“Move your finger closer until it touches your eye.”

Arnold had never had a problem with touching his own eyes, so he did as he was told.

The man seemed satisfied.

“Now touch your left eye.”

Arnold didn’t see the point of the exercise but went to do it anyway.

“WAAH!”

Arnold’s finger went deep into his left eye socket. He swirled it around in the vacant space and then danced around as if he were jumping on hot coals.

“Where’s my eye? Where’s my eye?”

He looked around on the ground for the missing eyeball. The stranger shook his head.

“You’re wasting your time looking for it. It’s probably been eaten.”

“Eaten? What would have eaten my eye?”

“I don’t know. Insects, rats, bugs. Who can tell?”

Arnold had to concede that perhaps his attacker was right. Maybe he was one of the living dead.

“Am I really a zombie?”

“Afraid so.”

That would explain Gillian and Keira’s reactions. No wonder they were afraid. He would have been too, in their shoes.

“Christ. I must look terrible.”

The stranger had to agree.

“You’ve certainly seen better days, I’m sure.”

He held out his hand towards Arnold.

”The name’s Trevor. Trevor Higginbottom.”

Arnold reluctantly shook Trevor’s hand.

“I’m Arnold –“

“Arnold Leadbetter.”

Arnold was surprised that Trevor knew his name.

“Have we met before?”

“No.”

“Then how – ?”

“Your name’s on your headstone.”

Arnold looked back at the grave.

“Oh, yeah. I suppose it is.”

He returned to face Trevor.

“I can’t really say I’m pleased to meet you. I mean, you did bite me.”

Trevor sighed.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I was thirsty, you see.”

“So you bit me?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Like a vampire.”

“Exactly like a vampire.”

Trevor bared his fangs again.

“I am a vampire.”

Arnold sat down on his headstone.

“Are you serious? I’m a zombie and you’re a vampire? All we need is a werewolf and we’ve got the set.”

Trevor looked at the zombie.

“You know it’s bad luck to walk over a grave?”

Arnold gave him a sarcastic smile.

“You think? How could today get any worse? I scare the shit out of my wife and daughter, find out I’m a zombie, and now I’ve been bitten by a bloody vampire. It can’t get much worse than that, surely?”

Trevor said nothing.

Arnold continued staring at his gravestone.

After about a minute, Trevor could bear the suspense no more.

“Well? Are you going back in?”

“I’ve never been in there in the first place.”

Trevor was confused.

“But it is your grave though?”

“Yes. It is. But I wasn’t buried in it.”

“Where were you buried then?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

Arnold told Trevor his life – well, death story actually – how he’d woken up in hospital, been body-snatched by a pornographic movie director and used as a prop, been subsequently buried in the woods, dug his way out, and scared the living daylights out of his wife and daughter. Trevor was impressed, although that wasn’t the effect that Arnold was going for.

“So… What are you going to do, Arnold? You can’t stay here.”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders.

“Dunno. I can’t go home. That’s obvious.”

Trevor put his hand on Arnold’s shoulder. Arnold flinched.

“You gonna bite me again?”

“What? No, of course not. I was about to say that you should come home with me. It’s the least I can do after biting you.”

Arnold had nothing better to do, so he shuffled along behind Trevor as the pair walked towards a new estate on the outskirts of the village, taking cover each time a car or pedestrian came into view. Trevor didn’t look anything out of the ordinary, but Arnold looked like exactly what he was – they’d have to do something about his appearance before he could venture outside again. As they walked, Arnold had a question that was niggling at him.

“Trevor?”

“Yes, mate.”

“What time is it?”

Trevor looked at his wristwatch.

“Two fifteen in the afternoon.”

“Exactly. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Daylight. Shouldn’t you be dead or something? You know, burnt to a crisp in the sunlight?”

Trevor laughed.

“You’ve been watching too many movies.”

“You mean, you don’t have to hide away during the day?”

“What do you think? I’m here aren’t I?”

This didn’t make sense. It went against all the vampire stories he’d ever seen or read. Arnold had a list of vampire qualities queued up in his head.

“Does holy water burn you?”

“It’s tap water.”

“But it’s been blessed.”

“Doesn’t make any difference.”

Arnold checked that one off his list.

“Can you be burned by silver?”

“Nope.”

“Can you be destroyed by sunlight?”

That question had already been answered so Arnold skipped on to the next in his mental list.

“You do drink blood though.”

“When I need to, yes.”

“Fangs?”

Trevor opened his mouth to show a pair of now perfectly gleaming clean white fangs.

Arnold nodded.

“That’s a yes then. Do you flee from crucifixes? Garlic?”

“Nope. Like holy water, religious stuff does nothing against me.”

Arnold was running out of stereotypes to throw at Trevor.

“Ah… I know. Are you immortal?”

Trevor grinned.

“Pretty much, although a stake through the heart will kill me. As will cutting my head off. It’s something I try to avoid.”

Arnold had run out of clichés, but Trevor filled in the gaps.

“Do I sleep in a coffin? No. I like my own warm bed.”

Arnold processed the new information.

“Is that the lot?”

“Almost. I can’t transform into a bat, mist, or a wolf either. Especially not a wolf – that’s another type of creature altogether.”

Arnold grinned at his new friend.

“Not much of a vampire, really, are you?”

Trevor quickly countered.

“And you’re not much of a zombie, either.”

10

Arnold must have passed through the small housing estate hundreds of times on his way to work, but he’d never really paid it much attention. It looked like many similar estates across the country, a collection of three and four-bedroom detached and semi-detached houses clustered together to form a small and intimate community. He knew a few people who lived there but had never seen Trevor before.

It was quite an idyllic area, with neatly cropped lawns and shrubs, no litter anywhere on the streets, and an air of safety and security. Trevor crossed the road and Arnold followed him up the driveway of one of the houses. Arnold almost felt normal, but one look at his green-tinged skin soon reminded him that he wasn’t. Trevor took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock of a white UPVC door, which swung open to reveal a mustard coloured hallway carpet leading to the interior of the house. Trevor kicked off his shoes and Arnold was just about to do the same when Trevor stopped him.

“That might not be such a good idea – we don’t know the state of your feet yet. We’ll go to the kitchen first – it’s got a tiled floor. Just try to take as few steps as possible in case you’ve got any mud or dog shit on your boots.”

Arnold did as he was told and followed the vampire into the kitchen.

“Do you want anything to eat? Or drink? We’ve got leftovers from yesterday’s lunch in the fridge – roast chicken – and two jars of fruit juice.”

Arnold sat on a stool next to a breakfast bar.

“No thanks. I’m fine. I don’t even feel hungry. I thought zombies ate peoples’ brains, but I don’t even feel a little bit peckish.”

The faint humming of a vacuum cleaner in one of the upstairs bedrooms stopped and a voice called downstairs.

“Trevor? Is that you, love?”

“Yes, it’s me. I’ve brought a new friend home.”

The sound of footsteps trotting downstairs heralded the appearance of Tracey, Trevor’s wife. She bounded into the kitchen and held out her hand to shake Arnold’s hand.

“Sorry I wasn’t downstairs to meet you when you arrived. I was just finishing off the hoovering upstairs. I’m Tracey.”

Arnold was nervous about shaking anybody’s hand, bearing in mind the various states of decomposition that various parts of his body were obviously in. He just raised a hand and waved gingerly.

“Hi. I’m Arnold. Arnold Leadbetter.”

A quizzical look came over Tracey’s face.

“Arnold Leadbetter. Now, where do I know that name from?”

She wracked her brains for a few seconds and then it came back to her.

“That’s right. I remember now. You were at a barbecue at Tony and Judy’s last summer. From number twenty-three. They’re mutual friends.”

Trevor hadn’t recognized either Arnold’s face or name before but now, with his wife’s prompting, he too remembered.

“Of course, Arnold and – and – Gillian. Nice couple.”

Arnold was confused. Tracey was chatting to him as if he were a normal person, not a zombie. Surely she could see that he wasn’t exactly the same guy as she had met at the barbecue?

“Forgive me for asking, but don’t you notice anything strange about me?”

“Oh, you mean the greenish-reddish skin, the bone showing through your left hand, and the fact that you’ve only got one eye?”

Arnold nodded his head, a little nervous that any movement could lead to part of his body falling off. Tracey didn’t seem at all fazed by his appearance.

“Well, I’ve never met a zombie before – heard about them, of course, but always thought they were a myth. But people think that me and my Trevor are myths too, so I’m not too surprised to meet a real zombie. Admittedly, I didn’t expect to be having a chat with one in my own kitchen, but it takes all sorts.”

Arnold found the whole situation very surreal.

“You said me and my Trevor. Does that mean –“

Tracey chuckled.

“Yes, love. Trevor and I are both vampires.”

She went to the fridge and poured herself a small glass of chilled red wine.

“Trev and I met about a hundred and fourteen years ago when he turned me. We were dating – although, back in those days, they called it walking out – and Trevor got a bit carried away during a kiss and a cuddle and ended up biting my neck. Poor love was mortified. But I was alright with it to be honest – always been one for an adventure – and we’ve been together ever since.”

Arnold gestured towards the wineglass.

“So… if you’re a vampire, is that blood?”

Trevor laughed.

“My goodness, no. It’s a rather splendid Chilean Merlot. The experts say it should be served at around 60 degrees Fahrenheit but we prefer it chilled. No, we have to drink blood from a warm living human. It loses its restorative properties if it’s chilled.”

He paused for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re not thirsty, Arnold?”

“Positive, thanks.”

Trevor winked at Tracey.

“You will be.”

Tracey was never one to mince her words.

“Tell you what Arnold. You look a bit conspicuous in that get up you’re wearing. How about my Trevor finds you something more normal to wear? And, whilst we’re about it, we can check out the condition of your – um – condition.”

Arnold followed Tracey up the stairs to the bathroom while her husband went to the master bedroom to find something more suitable for the zombie to wear. Still shell-shocked at how helpful the couple was, he sat down on the toilet seat while Tracey unfastened the laces of his right boot. It took a little encouragement, but the boot was soon off. She looked at his foot.

“Not too bad, considering. A bit spongy, but it seems quite stable.”

She set to work untying the laces of his left boot. This one seemed to be more stubborn and determined to stay on his foot. She placed her own feet against the base of the toilet bowl to give her more purchase, gritting her teeth as she put extra effort into trying to remove the boot. Suddenly it flew free, and she fell over backwards with the boot triumphantly raised in her right hand.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The boot had come off, but so had Arnold’s left foot. The vampire and the zombie sat blinking at the results of Tracey’s efforts.

Trevor appeared at the bathroom door with a change of clothes for Arnold; a pair of trainers, a pair of denim jeans, a belt, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He thought the T-shirt design was quite appropriate, but – greeted by a dismembered foot – he knew it would take a lot more than an ironic T-shirt to cheer Arnold up. He picked up the boot and its contents.

“I think I may have to cut the foot out. I don’t want to damage it any more than it’s already been damaged so I’ll take it down to the garage where I’ve got some tools. I won’t be a minute.”

Arnold felt a little embarrassed as Tracey helped him to remove the rest of his clothes and was grateful for the bath towel she handed him to protect what modesty he might still possess. He might not be a live human being, but he was still a kind of human being nonetheless.

After quickly checking the rest of his body, she stood up.

“It looks like I’ve got some good news for you, young man.”

Arnold found it strange to be addressed as young man by a woman who looked at least fifteen years his junior, but then remembered her saying that she had met Trevor nearly one hundred and fifteen years ago – so she was actually considerably older than he was.

“Good news? What can be good news? I’m dead, I’m decaying, and my foot’s fallen off.”

She bent down on her haunches and supported his left ankle in her hand.

“The good news, Arnold, is that your body appears to have stopped decomposing. You won’t revert back to how you were when you were alive – properly alive – but you won’t get any worse either.”

Arnold supposed that was good news. If he was going to stay one of the undead, at least he wouldn’t rot any more than he already had.

Tracey helped him to get dressed as Trevor returned to the bathroom carrying the missing foot, a roll of gaffer tape, and an industrial staple gun. He nodded approvingly at the ‘new’ Arnold.

“Cool.”

He put the objects from the garage on the bathroom floor and studied Arnold’s ankle.

“I reckon I can put your foot back on. It won’t be perfect – you’ll probably walk with a bit of a limp – but that’s to be expected of a zombie anyway. Zombie 101 – zombies shuffle, stagger, and limp.”

Placing the foot against the stump of Arnold’s ankle as if he was connecting two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, he pressed the two together.

“Tracey, if you could wind the gaffer tape around where the foot and ankle meet – nice and tight – and then I’ll staple the two parts together.”

Tracey did as she was asked. She stood up to admire her handiwork.

“Not bad if I say so myself.”

Once satisfied that the ankle and foot were bound together properly, Trevor picked up the staple gun.

“I don’t think this is going to hurt, Arnold, but, if it does, I apologise in advance.”

He lined up the tool and fired the first staple. He looked at Arnold’s face.

“Did you feel that?”

“Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Good. I’ll carry on, then.”

Soon, Arnold’s ankle was wearing a bracelet of almost forty staples. He could probably have got away with using half that number but Trevor wanted to make the join as strong as possible. He stepped back from the zombie.

“Try and stand on it.”

Arnold tried to stand up but was nervous about the foot giving way, so Trevor and Tracey helped him to his feet. Surprisingly, the repair job seemed quite strong.

Tracey cleared a laundry basket from the room.

“Try walking around a little.”

Arnold moved around the bathroom as much as the limited space would allow. He smiled, the first time he had done so since Trevor had bitten him.

“Thank you. Both of you.”

11

Out of politeness, Arnold sat at the table as his hosts ate their evening meal. The food – sausages, mashed potato, and baked beans – had been one of his favourite dishes when he’d been alive, and looked absolutely delicious, but he didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry. He just felt envious that his hosts could eat it.

Trevor picked up a sausage on his fork.

“You used to work in IT, didn’t you, Arnold? I think you said that’s what you did at Tony and Judy’s barbecue.”

Arnold wished he were hungry.

“Yes. A software tester. I was paid to break computer programs.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was sometimes. But most of the time it was boring financial software.”

Tracey scooped some baked beans onto her upturned fork.

“Do you miss it? Your job, I mean.”

“I don’t think I’ve been away from it long enough to miss it yet. But, I won’t be going back to work there, I suppose.”

Tracey agreed.

“I think you can definitely say that you’re retired now. You’ll have to get used to your new lifestyle.”

Trevor cut in.

“Don’t you mean deathstyle?”

Arnold surprised himself by chuckling at Trevor’s wisecrack. This was his new deathstyle; there was no disputing that. He might as well accept it and move on.

Suddenly a strange sensation clawed at the back of his throat. He coughed a little to see if it would go away but it persisted. Trevor noticed his discomfort.

“Are you alright, mate?”

Arnold’s throat started to make involuntary swallowing motions. His throat began to visibly ripple as what could best be described as a mild seizure overtook his throat muscles. He managed to splutter a few words.

“What’s happening to me? I can’t normally feel things.”

Trevor and Tracey looked at each other anxiously. Tracey looked back at the zombie, feeling his discomfort.

“You’d better tell him, Trev.”

Arnold was starting to get worried now.

“Tell me what?”

Trevor took a deep breath.

“I didn’t mean to, but it looks like I turned you when I bit you at the cemetery.”

“What do you mean, you turned me?”

“I mean, I accidentally turned you into a vampire.”

The flexing of his throat muscles was starting to reduce its intensity.

“I’m a zombie, not a bloody vampire, and I’m only just starting to come to terms with that idea.”

“Well, now you’re a zombie and a vampire. The throat palpitations are a signal that you need blood.”

Arnold was not amused.

“For crying out loud. I can’t eat or drink normal stuff but now I need to drink blood? Thanks a bunch, Trevor.”

He stormed out of the dining room, limped upstairs, and locked himself in the bathroom.

Trevor looked anxiously at his wife.

“Do you think I should go up after him?”

Tracey shook her head.

“Give him a little alone time. He’s gone through a lot today. We’ll talk to him a bit later.”

A bit later turned out to be ninety minutes, during which time Arnold’s throat spasms had worsened. He shuffled back into the dining room where the two vampires were still waiting and sat down on the chair that he had vacated an hour and a half earlier.

“So how do I get blood? I don’t want to hurt anyone. That’s just not me.”

Tracey held his hand, ignoring the fact that it was discoloured and had half its skin missing.

“You won’t have to attack anyone.”

“Trevor attacked me.”

“But he didn’t mean to. Sometimes the thirst comes over us unexpectedly and forces us to act against our better instincts. He’s really sorry.”

She nudged her husband.

“Yes. I’m really sorry. It was completely out of character.”

Tracey continued.

“We have a supply of blood. We both need to feed tonight anyway, so we’ll take you with us. Don’t worry – nobody will get hurt.”

The trio waited until after sunset to leave the house, primarily because it would be easier for Arnold to avoid being seen. They weren’t going far, just to the next road, but Arnold didn’t know that. He felt quite nervous. It was one thing to be seen as a zombie by a couple of vampires, but to be seen by regular humans – well, that was an entirely different kettle of fish.

Arriving at 4 Alucard Avenue, Trevor was just about to knock on the house’s front door when Arnold stopped him.

“Are we not going to hunt for blood?”

Tracey grinned.

“Don’t be silly, love. This isn’t the dark ages. We have an understanding with our donors. It’s all very civilized.”

“Donors?”

“Yes, love. We have a legal agreement with some of our neighbours – a contract signed by both parties – which states that we will pay them a fair price for their blood.”

“How many donors are we talking about?”

Well, we don’t want to drain them or cause any ill effects, so we have about thirty on our sign-up list.”

Trevor was getting thirsty too, as witnessed by the ripple forming in his throat.

“Can I knock yet?”

Arnold held up a slightly decayed hand.

“Just one more question.”

“Go on.”

“What about me? I mean, you two are good looking twenty-somethings and they’re used to you. Me… I’m a decaying zombie.”

Trevor had everything planned out.

“Not decaying any more, Arnold. Anyway, I called ahead and explained your predicament. Adrienne has volunteered to be your first feed. Just don’t be distracted by her – how can I put this – her enthusiasm.”

Trevor rang the doorbell and the door opened almost as soon as he had taken his finger off the button. A beautiful young woman with long jet black hair, black eyeliner and black gloss on her lips stood before them. Her complexion was deliberately pallid, but with a hint of charcoal grey blusher. Wearing a short black dress with lace sleeves, she looked like Morticia Adams’s younger sister. She air-kissed Trevor and Tracey, hesitated for a moment, and then air-kissed Arnold. A half-full wine glass was wrapped between fingers whose long nails were garnished with sparkling black nail varnish.

“Hi, guys. Come on in.”

Trevor looked at the wine glass.

“I hope that’s not wine you’re drinking, Adrienne. You know we can’t use your blood if you’ve been drinking.”

The Goth girl waved her finger in faux-offended admonishment.

“Don’t be silly, Trev. I know the rules. I haven’t touched a drop for forty-eight hours.”

She gazed into Arnold’s remaining eye.

“So this is Arnold? He’s kinda cute – in a zombified way.”

Arnold failed to see how anybody could possibly describe him as cute. Zombies aren’t cute by definition. She moved her focus to his decomposed left hand.

“Kinky. I’m looking forward to hooking up with you, Arnold.”

She spun on her Dr Martens and walked elegantly back into the house, followed by the two vampires and the zombie.

A rather odd-looking middle-aged couple who looked more like twins than husband and wife sat on a velour sofa. They stood up to greet the new arrivals. Trevor made the introductions.

“Hilda, Harold, this is our new friend Arnold. He’s a new member of our community and is a little overwhelmed by the transition – transitions – that have happened to him.”

Harold and Hilda responded in unison.

“Hello, Arnold. Welcome to our support group.”

Arnold found their penchant for dressing and speaking identically far creepier than the fact that his new best friends were vampires.

Adrienne was impatient. She’d been looking forward to donating since she’d received Trevor’s phone call explaining the situation. Arnold, on the other hand, was nervous.

“How does this work then, Trevor? I don’t know if I can just bite Adrienne. It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

Trevor approached Hilda, who stretched her neck to allow easier access for Trevor’s fangs.

“It’s a lot more technical than just biting someone’s neck. Watch what I do, and then I’ll talk you through your first feed.”

Trevor rested his fangs on Hilda’s neck as if marking the exact spot where he was going to penetrate her skin. Suddenly he drew his head back and his head became a blur as he thrust it forward, penetrating Hilda’s skin at the exact spot where his fangs had previously rested. Arnold watched as Hilda’s eyes opened wide and 350ml of warm blood seeped out of the puncture wounds and passed into Trevor’s own circulatory system.

Arnold flinched. It looked like it should be painful – for Hilda – but she appeared none the worse for wear for the experience. Years of donating had left her rather blasé about the whole process.

Trevor pulled his teeth away from her neck and pointed to where he had bitten the woman’s neck.

“If you look closely, Arnold, you’ll see the puncture wounds disappearing and in a few seconds there’ll be no evidence of Hilda having donated.”

Arnold found the whole procedure macabrely fascinating.

“Doesn’t it hurt the prey?”

Trevor shook his head.

“We don’t call our donors prey, Arnold. It’s politically incorrect these days.”

He licked his lips.

“And no, it doesn’t hurt them. The technicalities are quite incredible. When I rested my fangs on Hilda’s neck – without actually biting it – I was marking the entry point. I reared my head back and then plunged my fangs into the exact spot that I’d marked – like a laser-guided missile, I suppose. My fangs then released an enzyme that both anaesthetizes and heals so that Hilda felt no pain and then the wounds self-healed almost immediately. It’s a real marvel of evolution.”

Adrienne was getting impatient.

“Come on, Arnold. My turn.”

Arnold was feeling nervous, but his rippling throat reminded him that he definitely needed to feed.

Adrienne pulled down the shoulders of her dress a little so that Arnold would have a clear target area.

He rested his fangs on where he thought he should bite and then pulled them away quickly. He turned to Trevor.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Trevor.”

Trevor took hold of Arnold’s head and placed the zombie’s fangs on the Goth’s neck, a little to the left of where Arnold had previously positioned them.

“Of course you can, Arnold. You have no choice. If you don’t, the thirst will get worse and you’ll attack someone indiscriminately.”

“Like you did when you attacked me?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry for that, mate. Sometimes an impulse takes over but it’s rare. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, it’s much better to do it like this, with willing donors.”

Adrienne was getting bored with all the talking. She took Arnold’s hands and cupped each of her breasts with them, over her dress. A memory of the porn actress who had touched him up fleetingly entered his mind. Arnold went to take them away, but Adrienne wouldn’t let him.

“Leave them there, Arnie. It helps.”

Arnold couldn’t see what benefit there was to him holding her breasts but, if that’s what she wanted, who was he to argue?.

Trevor was ready with the next instruction.

“Now, draw your head back and be ready for the unexpected.”

Arnold moved his head backwards and was shocked when it suddenly shot forward again of its own accord, his teeth puncturing Adrienne’s skin exactly how Trevor had said they would.

There was a strange dribbling sensation as the enzymes seeped out of his fangs into the Goth’s bloodstream but that was nothing compared to what Adrienne was feeling. She began to tremble and waves of hot tension and then cool calm washed over her. It was almost confusing – it felt so good that it almost hurt – and she wanted more but she wanted it to stop at the same time. Every muscle in her body tightened and her upper thighs began to quiver. She broke out in a light sweat and it felt as if a waterfall was being turned on inside her. She let out a moan of satisfaction and slumped to the floor as Arnold removed his fangs. A look of panic shot from his eyes, as he looked at her motionless body.

“Oh my God. Have I killed her?”

Tracey smiled at the zombie.

“No. Don’t worry. She’s just had a pretty intense orgasm, that’s all. She’ll be fine in a minute or so.”

Arnold was relieved.

“You could have warned me.”

Trevor laughed.

“And miss the look on your face?”

Adrienne sat up again, feeling a little groggy but satisfied.

“Cheers, Arnie. That was intense. You can come again – well, I can. I don’t know if zombie vampires can orgasm.”

That was a mystery that Arnold doubted he’d ever resolve.

As Tracey finished off taking Harold’s blood, Hilda entered the room with a plate of biscuits and six mugs of tea.

“When Harold and I used to give blood to the health service, they always made us drink a cup of tea and eat a few biscuits to get our strength back.”

Trevor and Tracey gratefully accepted the hot beverage but Arnold held his hand up.

“Sorry Hilda, but I don’t eat or drink.”

She looked shocked.

“What? Not even brains?”

“No. Not even brains.”

“Well, I never. You’re a strange zombie, aren’t you? I’ve never met a zombie that didn’t eat brains.”

Harold interjected.

“You’ve never met a zombie, Hilda.”

His wife had to acknowledge that her husband was right. The only so-called monsters she had met were the two vampires – and they were a lovely young couple.

Arnold watched as the others drank their tea.

“How often do we have to feed, Trevor?”

The vampire spoke through a mouthful of biscuit, inadvertently spitting a few crumbs onto the floor.

“About every two weeks.”

“And how come we all got the thirst at the same time?”

“That is a strange one, yes. It appears to be a phenomenon like when women are constantly in each other’s company. Sometimes their menstrual cycles coincide. When two or more vampires get together, their thirsts align with each other.”

Adrienne, now fully recovered, studied Arnold’s face.

“You know, Arnie, I reckon I can do something about your face.”

Arnold didn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can make up your face so that you look almost human again.”

“Almost human?”

“Well, almost. You’ll still look a little bit odd to people on the street, but nobody will take you for a zombie. The worst they’ll probably think is that you had an industrial accident.”

Arnold wasn’t sure that he liked the idea of being thought of as an industrial accident victim, but it had to be better than looking like a zombie. And it would be good to go outside again.

Adrienne was quite excited by the challenge.

“Well, Arnie? Are you up for it?”

“I suppose it couldn’t do any harm.”

Adrienne skipped over to the zombie and took his hand.

“Come on then. Let’s go upstairs and put your face on.”

Adrienne’s bedroom was a shrine to Goth subculture. The walls of the room were a rich purple colour but where Arnold’s daughter Keira would have had soft toys that she’d grown up with – Care Bears, ragdolls, and the like – Adrienne’s shelves were full of Goth ornaments such as skulls, staffs, candles, tombstones, and bones. Where Keira would have had posters of the latest boy band, Adrienne had posters of Robert Smith, lead singer of The Cure, and – of course – Siouxsie Sioux. She didn’t have a wardrobe, but a clothes rack held a number of different outfits hanging up, each protected by its own transparent plastic cover.

Arnold was impressed as he looked at the plethora of black velvets, lace, fishnets and leather, tightly laced corsets, and gloves. Adrienne certainly was passionate about her chosen lifestyle. He called over to the Goth, who had pulled a large make-up box from the bottom drawer of her dressing table.

“I hope you’ve got some colours that aren’t black.”

Adrienne laughed.

“Don’t worry. I do amateur dramatics and I double up as a make-up artist. I’m not going to turn you into a Goth Zombie. Although that’d be pretty cool.”

She pulled out a chair that matched the purple dressing table.

“Sit here, Arnie, and I’ll sort you out.”

She truly was a magician with a make-up brush, deftly mixing and applying tints of white, cream, pink, and shadow to the zombie’s face until he almost looked alive. She stood back from her client and looked in the dressing table mirror to get the full effect of the transformation.

“What do you think, Arnie? Will it do?”

Arnold was astounded. In less than half an hour she’d brought him back to life – metaphorically speaking. But there was one thing that let down the final result. Arnold’s smile turned to one tinged with sadness.

“What about my eye? It’s a dead giveaway that I’m a zombie.”

Adrienne rummaged in a dressing table drawer and resurfaced with a ping-pong ball. Arnold looked at her.

“You’re not seriously thinking of putting that in my eye socket, are you?”

Adrienne beamed at him.

“Not as it is, of course not. I’ll draw an eye on it first.”

Taking several small bottles of nail varnish of varying colours and shades from another drawer, she set to work customizing the table tennis ball. She leaned over and stared at Arnold’s remaining eye.

“Better make the colours match. We don’t want you to look odd.”

After a couple of minutes, it was ready. She hadn’t done a bad job at all and was quite the artist. Was there any limit to her talents?

Arnold was intrigued to see what he looked like with two eyes again, but he had to wait until the nail polish had dried.

Adrienne placed the ping-pong ball against the eye socket and gently applied enough pressure to force the ball into position without bursting it in the process. Truth be known, it was a little too large but that would probably help hold it in place.

“Take a look in the mirror, Arnie. What do you think?”

If he were to be honest, he’d have to say that the difference in size between the two eyes was noticeable, but Adrienne had taken so much trouble to help him he didn’t want to appear ungrateful.

“It’s good. It’ll take a bit of getting used to, of course, but I think it’ll do the trick for the moment. Thank you.”

Adrienne let out a squeal of delight that belied her Gothic appearance.

“Come on, Arnie. Let’s go downstairs and show the others.”

12

Arnold was enjoying his newfound freedom, even though it was limited. He started taking walks in the park and enjoying the fresh air. He took care to keep his distance from the other people in the park – just to be on the safe side – but at least he wasn’t trapped in the house by embarrassment about his appearance any longer. Adrienne had done a marvellous job. Trevor and Tracey were great hosts, but they needed some alone time together now and again, so he was glad that he could now give it to them. Of course, he could only go out if there was no hint of rain in the forecast – he didn’t want his make-up to run and create panic among the living – but the winter was quite mild that year and allowed him to leave the house more often than not.

Adrienne would visit every other day to touch up his make-up. He really enjoyed her company and it was good to have a normal human friend, but they could never be more than just friends – his heart still belonged to Gillian.

He found himself actually looking forward to his next thirst. Now that he knew that he wouldn’t hurt her, he wondered if it would be ok for Adrienne to donate exclusively to him. He decided to talk to Trevor about it.

“Trevor?”

“Yes, mate.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“You know how we need to satiate the thirst every two weeks?”

“Yep.”

“Does the donor have to be a different person each time or can it be the same person?”

“It should be a different person, really, but that’s for vampires – vampires that aren’t zombies too. You’re different, so I don’t know. Maybe it’s different for you.”

“It’s just that I was thinking…”

“You were thinking that perhaps Adrienne could be a regular donor for you? We can see you have the hots for her.”

If he could have, Arnold would have blushed.

“Yes, I do like her. I like her a lot.”

“It’s not normal procedure, but we can ask her, I suppose. But we don’t want to risk her life – these friends of ours are donors, not prey.”

As sure as the sun rises and sets, the next thirst arrived right on cue. This time, the trio went to Tom and Edna Clancy’s house, in Poplar Grove. Tom and Edna had recently retired from the local health service where they had met, fallen in love, and worked until retirement. They were also Trevor and Tracey’s currently longest-serving donors, having commenced donating in their late teens, over forty-five years earlier. Tom was a cardiologist and Edna was a senior theatre nurse, and their expertise as ex-medical professionals would be critical for this particular donation session.

Adrienne was up for the idea – she’d taken quite a shine to Arnold herself – but she understood that she’d be venturing into unchartered territory. That was where Tom and Edna came in. With their combined experience, they would hopefully be able to anticipate any health problems that might affect Adrienne and deal with them appropriately.

Obviously it would have been better for the feed to have taken place at a hospital, but that wasn’t an option, so the retirees had epinephrine injectors at the ready in case of an allergic reaction or a need to improve breathing, stimulate Adrienne’s heart, or raise her blood pressure if it dropped dangerously. A defibrillator was also on hand in case of heart failure. All possible contingencies were accounted for but, in a worst-case scenario, Trevor would call in the paramedics. It was decided that Trevor would feed first, followed by Arnold, and Tracey would only feed when she was sure that Adrienne was in no danger.

Trevor’s feed went without a hitch. Forty-five years of donorship brings with it a sense of security and Tom continued doing his crossword puzzle as if nothing unusual was happening. Once Trevor was satisfied, it was Arnold’s turn.

Adrienne knelt down on the floor and placed Arnold’s hands on her buttocks. Once again, Arnold found this a little strange but assumed that this somewhat intimate physical contact was just part of her ritual.

No longer a feeding virgin, he began to draw the blood from Adrienne’s neck whilst she, in turn, was rewarded with yet another strong orgasm. As before, the intensity caused her to faint, but Tom checked her vitals and found nothing untoward. In fact, when she came round, she looked even healthier than the first time she’d donated to Arnold.

The session over, Trevor, Tracey, and Arnold were almost ready to leave when Adrienne announced that she had a gift for the zombie.

“Arnie, I’ve only just met you but I know you’ve had to go through some severely crappy shit since you died. You deserve something nice to happen to you. So, I bought you a little present.”

Arnold was speechless. This was totally out of the blue.

The Goth took a small box out of her fake black leather Gucci clutch bag and handed it to Arnold.

“It’s not much, but it’s something you need.”

He carefully took the lid off the box, unsure of what was inside and not wishing to damage it. He looked inside.

“Wow!”

Inside was a prosthetic eye. Adrienne’s face lit up as she could see the joy on Arnold’s face.

Trevor was curious.

“What is it, mate?”

Arnold showed the contents of the box to the rest of the group.

“It’s a glass eye.”

Adrienne corrected him.

“It’s acrylic actually. It’s not the same colour as your right eye – it’s brown, and your real eye is blue, and it’s second hand – but it’s got to be better than a ping-pong ball.”

Arnold was overwhelmed.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Adrienne took it out of its box and held it up alongside Arnold’s ping-pong ball eye.

“Shall we put it in now?”

Arnold couldn’t wait.

“Anyone got a penknife?”

Tom took a Swiss Army knife from his desk door.

“Will this do?”

“Even better.”

Arnold dug the point of the corkscrew tool into the white celluloid ball and turned the knife handle, pulling it at the same time. Soon the makeshift eye was free and skewered on the corkscrew. Adrienne stepped forward and immediately popped the new eye into the zombie’s eye socket.

Arnold wanted to give her a thank-you kiss but didn’t yet have the confidence to do so, even though she had herself given him a little kiss at the first donation session. Luckily she kissed him instead.

“You do look almost human, Arnie.”

13

About a week later, Trevor, Tracey, and Arnold were in the living room half-watching TV when the programme was suddenly interrupted by breaking news.

We interrupt programming to advise everybody to stay indoors and close all your doors and windows. A number of domestic animals and household pets have been discovered torn apart—

A remote voice spoke into the reporter’s earpiece.

“You can’t say that. There might be kids watching.”

The presenter shook his head in irritation and then started over.

A number of animals have gone to Heaven. It looks like a larger animal, about the size of a big cat, may be responsible. Please keep pets and children indoors.

Tracey looked at her husband

“A big cat? Haven’t there been sightings of pumas recently? Perhaps one of them is in the area.”

Trevor googled Big Cats in the UK on his mobile phone.

“There’ve been seven reported sightings this year so far. But they’re in the West Country, Wales, and Scotland. I’d be surprised if they managed to travel this far without being seen and captured.”

Tracey went back to her sudoku puzzle and Trevor let his eyes close in the hope of snatching forty winks. Only Arnold felt compelled to continue watching the news report.

14

Things were going well for Arnold. Regular make-up adjustments and his new eye had improved his confidence. He was no longer afraid to go out in public, to places where there might be crowds. One Sunday, he even went down to the local shopping precinct for a stroll.

Arnold and Adrienne became kind of an item. She wasn’t a proper girlfriend – there were limits to what they could do together – but they were as close as two people could be without consummating their relationship. Passersby just thought they were an odd couple, she full-on Goth and he some kind of weird punk-looking guy.

The best day they shared was a picnic by the river. Of course, it wasn’t a regular picnic; how could a picnic between a Goth and a zombie be anything but abnormal? Adrienne made black pudding sandwiches and teacakes topped off with black icing. Even the jelly she brought along was black. Arnold sincerely thought it looked good enough to eat but, alas, he couldn’t join in the feast and could only enjoy the food by proxy, watching Adrienne eat.

The last four weeks had been positively wonderful. Maybe being a zombie vampire wasn’t so bad after all.

15

Ronnie Williams’s mother, Clarice, tucked him into bed that night just as she did every other night, as did hundreds of thousands of mothers of ten-year-old boys around the world.

Getting him to go to bed at a decent time was always a battle for her – Ronnie was quite a headstrong lad and always wanted an extra few minutes playing video games – but this particular night he’d been uncharacteristically pliant, hardly able to keep his eyes open. Clarice thanked her god for small mercies and requested that her son could feel sleepy a little earlier in future.

At around 2 am, Ronnie woke up with a start, and sat bolt upright in bed. He wasn’t prone to nightmares but that wasn’t the reason he awoke – he’d set the alarm on his phone to go off at that time so that he could meet up with his best friend, Jimmy Finnegan. Together, the two boys were going to have an adventure.

Ronnie and Jimmy had everything planned. They’d meet by the Great Oak tree in the middle of the woods at 02:15. Then they’d see if they could spot any rabbits. The boys didn’t want to hurt them; they just wanted to take photos. They were learning about nocturnal animals at school and found it hard to believe that some creatures slept during the day and were awake at night. Jimmy had a pet rabbit called Sandy and that rabbit was awake during the day. So they wanted proof that wild rabbits were awake at night.

Ronnie hurriedly got dressed and grabbed his small backpack. He’d already put a few things inside, including two Mars Bars (one for him and one for Jimmy) and a torch. It was a full moon, but he knew that sometimes clouds could cover the moon, shutting off its light, so they needed backup illumination just in case.

The challenge now was to get out of the house without waking his mum. He was reasonably confident that the doors wouldn’t squeak and give the game away, as he’d oiled the hinges with 3-In-One the day before. He carried his shoes in his right hand and went as far as the front door, tiptoeing in his stockinged feet.

So far, so good. He could hear his mother snoring upstairs. Just the front door stood between him and the great adventure.

He cautiously slid the bolts that provided extra overnight security, turned the door handle, and the door silently eased open, just enough for him to pass through. Holding his breath, he took a step outside. The first part of his mission was almost over. He inserted the spare key that his mother kept in a kitchen drawer into the lock and pulled the door closed, turning the key slightly as he did so, so as not to let the latch click and alert his mother that something was amiss. He’d be back within the hour so she’d never know that he’d gone out unless she checked the bolts whilst he was out or went into his room to check on him. She was a deep sleeper, so he didn’t imagine she’d wake up until morning.

Once the door was safely closed, he put on his sneakers, tied the laces in a double bow, and trotted off in the direction of the Great Oak tree.

The beam of light from his torch flitted to and fro between the trees as he jogged through the woods. He wasn’t frightened – he wasn’t afraid of the dark and everybody knew that ghosts and monsters weren’t real. They were just actors wearing costumes or images created by using C.G.I.

He arrived at the Great Oak and checked the time on his phone. It was 02:17 and he was only two minutes late. Jimmy hadn’t arrived yet. It was certainly an impressive tree and seemed to have thousands of branches and millions of leaves, but Ronnie knew that thousands and millions were very big numbers – numbers that he couldn’t possibly imagine – so the number of branches and leaves had to be fewer than that. He would love to climb the tree but even the lowest branch was too high for him to reach. He’d have to grow a bit before he could even contemplate such a climb.

He checked his phone again. 02:19. Jimmy was four minutes late now. One minute more and he’d be officially late (according to Clarice’s timekeeping rules).

Suddenly Ronnie felt intense pressure bearing down on his face like a grown-up was pushing down on it. But this force was far greater than any adult could exert. He tried to look at whatever was attacking him, but his vision was clouded by a red mist which, had he realised that it was his own blood, would have terrified him even more.

The boy was engulfed by panic, fear, and terror as whoever or whatever was attacking him sliced through tissue, meat, muscles, and tendons as a hot knife passes through butter. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do anything. He wanted to scream but all he could muster was a whimper.

Then all went dark and the pain went away.

The next day, Trevor and Tracey were snuggled up in bed watching the morning news on TV. The mood of the newscaster turned sombre as his teleprompter fed him its breakfast content.

Early this morning, the body of an unidentified boy was found by the Great Oak in Silvestre Woods. Police are withholding any more information until the parents have been informed but, as soon as more details are released, we’ll let you know, However, reputable sources say that the police do not suspect foul play.

Tracey felt an urge to hold her husband even tighter.

“I feel for the poor parents of that boy. Imagine waking up to a beautiful sunny and crisp winter’s day like today, to be told that your son – your child – has been killed. It’s just too horrible to think about.”

Trevor nodded and pulled his wife even closer.

16

Trevor called out to Tracey as he looked inside the refrigerator.

“I’m just popping out to buy some… some milk. We’re nearly out.”

Tracey was having a clear-out of her wardrobe, sorting her clothes into three piles – clothes that she would probably wear in the next two weeks, clothes she would probably wear in the next three months, and those clothes that she couldn’t even remember when was the last time she had worn them. She liked to have a purge every now and then as it was very easy for a woman like her, who liked to be dressed in the latest fashion, to suddenly find she had no space left in her wardrobe. Clothes in the third pile could be taken to one of the local charity shops the next day. She’d rather somebody else get some use out of them instead of letting them languish in the wardrobe for eternity.

Trevor had picked his moment perfectly. His wife wouldn’t want to abandon her regime just to go with him to buy a carton of milk.

He bought the milk first – after all, it was his excuse for leaving the house – and soon arrived at the Great Oak. It was still a working crime scene and was surrounded by yellow police tape, which Trevor found strange even though the TV newsman had said that there was no suspicion of foul play. The sources must have been wrong.

He wanted to take a look at the site himself, but there was no way he was going to get near the tree whilst police officers and forensics were processing the scene.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round to see one of his donors, Susan Winch, dressed in a disposable papery-plastic Tyvek suit. He knew that she was studying to be a forensics officer but hadn’t expected to see her there. Perhaps she was on work experience. She glanced over towards the tree.

“It’s a bloody mess over there, Trevor. Quite literally. The poor boy was torn limb from limb.”

Trevor was afraid of that.

“Do they have any idea what happened or who did it?”

Susan ushered him away from the tape that skirted the area.

“Best you don’t get too close. We don’t want to contaminate the scene.”

Trevor nodded.

“So, any ideas?”

Susan reduced her voice to a whisper.

“This is between you and me. Don’t breathe a word, ok?”

“Of course I won’t say anything.”

“Not even to Tracey.”

“Not even to Tracey.”

“It looks like it may have been an animal attack. We found animal tracks. They reckon a dog – although they also say that whatever killed the lad must have been a really big dog. More the size of a wolf, really.”

Trevor considered the possibilities for a moment.

“The only really big dog around here is Mrs Gladstone’s Irish Wolfhound, Paddy, and he’s arthritic. He’d struggle to even walk this far, let alone attack anyone.”

Susan couldn’t stay any longer; she’d be in trouble if anyone saw her chatting to Trevor at a crime scene, but she didn’t think anyone had noticed her absence. She’d only been gone a minute.

There was no point in Trevor hanging around, so he set off home. As he walked along the well-used woodland track, a small thin metallic object glinted in the sun. He bent down to see what it was, picked it up, and popped it into his pocket.

17

Arnold felt a little anxious. He was starting to move around the village now, even chatting occasionally with villagers who weren’t members of the vampires’ donor community but all the time being careful not to interact with anyone who had known him when he was alive. The bus he was sitting on was bound for the bright lights of the nearest city and he was quite literally leaving his comfort zone. But at least he wasn’t alone – Adrienne, his ‘kind of girlfriend’ was sitting next to him.

He wasn’t sure that Torchester really counted as the bright lights, but it did have a cinema, something that his village did not. He’d never heard of the film that they were going to see – an arthouse film (Adrienne’s choice) – but Arnold would have suffered in silence whilst watching the worst movie in the world if it meant that he could take a trip out of the village with Adrienne.

Luckily, Gillian and Keira lived on the other side of the village, so he was able to keep out of their way. Much as he wanted to see them, he knew that to do so would have been wrong on so many levels. They’d buried him – or at least someone they believed to be him – and they needed to be allowed to move on with their lives, without a deceased husband and father getting in the way. He felt something for Adrienne, of that he was sure, but he wasn’t sure how to define it. Was it love? He still loved his wife and didn’t know if it was possible to love two people at the same time. Was it lust? Adrienne was undeniably sexy but any physical intimacy was off the table – he was no longer equipped to satisfy a woman in the normal way –although she did seem to really enjoy their donation sessions. Perhaps she was his best friend. Yes, she was definitely his best friend.

The bus stop was right outside the Eros Cinema in the High Street. To be honest, it looked a little seedy but Adrienne assured him that the interior was far more inviting than the outside of the building. Arnold looked up at the tacky neon frontage and read the title of that day’s cinematic offering.

The lights had already dimmed when the couple slid into their seats in the cinema auditorium, just as they had planned. A few local advertisements played onscreen before they were replaced by the opening credits of the main – and only – feature; Saw You Last Wednesday was emblazoned briefly across the screen and then the title dissolved into the first scene.

Two hours later the pair was back on the bus, heading home. Arnold couldn’t stop smiling – he’d spent the whole movie holding Adrienne’s hand. Human touch, the touch of a human that actually liked him, was something that he’d thought he would have to sacrifice in his new life as a zombie. He was so glad to be proven wrong.

18

It was a beautiful crisp moonlit night and Adrienne didn’t fancy staying indoors. There was something magical about watching her breath swirl around on such winter nights. She’d made no plans to see Arnold that night, so she took a beach chair outside so she could do a little light reading in the open air. The full moon was almost strong enough to read by but she wasn’t sure if she’d be putting unnecessary stress on her eyes, so she turned on the porchlight. Now she could relax and read her book, Ian Gittins’s The Cure: A Perfect Dream in peace. The book was a gift from Arnold who had guessed that The Cure was her favourite band.

She was just a few pages into the book when she heard a rustling in the shrubs that bordered the property. Shrugging it off as probably a cat on the prowl she went back to her reading. A few pages later, she heard a guttural growl. Cats don’t growl. They hiss, yowl, and chatter when they see prey but they don’t growl. She felt like she was being watched and it was a most uncomfortable sensation. Picking up her chair she decided to go back inside the house.

Feeling safer, she looked out of the window to see if she could see whatever had scared her into going inside. At first, she saw nothing but then she spotted a pair of eyes reflected in the moonlight. Her heart beat a little faster and she ran upstairs to fetch her mobile phone from her room. She had Arnold’s number on speed dial so fumbling fingers weren’t a problem. The phone at the other end rang twice and then played a recorded message.

The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please try later.

Where was he? If Arnold wasn’t with her, he was usually at home. She tried again with the same result. She looked out of the window again. The eyes had disappeared. Perhaps the animal had got bored and gone somewhere else. But she still felt like she was being watched.

She tried calling Trevor. The calling tone rang three times and then she heard Trevor’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Adrienne. How are you?”

“A little bit scared to be honest. There’s an animal outside. I know it sounds silly but I think it’s watching me. I tried calling Arnie but he’s not answering.”

“You mean he’s not at home?”

“I don’t know but he’s not answering his phone. Aren’t you at home?”

Trevor’s worst fear was being confirmed.

“No. We’re in Torchester. Listen, Adrienne. Stay inside and lock all your doors and windows. All of them. We’re on our way.”

Trevor hung up, grabbed Tracey by the hand and ran back to their car, which was parked on a side street in Torchester. He turned the key in the ignition whilst fastening his safety belt. Slamming the car into gear, he wheel spun out of his parking space and accelerated down the road.

Tracey was confused.

“What’s going on, Trev. Where are we going?”

“Put your seatbelt on, please.”

Tracey did as her husband said.

“Where are we going? What’s going on, Trev?”

Trev threw the car around a right-hand bend.

“Tracey, when we left, was Arnold’s bedroom door locked?”

“What?”

“Was it locked?”

“Well it was, but I unlocked it.”

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why did you do that?”

Tracey couldn’t see what the fuss was about.

“Arnold’s a grown man, not a kid. Why would you want to lock him in? And with a padlock too.”

“Because he’s a werewolf.”

“You what?”

“I said he’s a fucking werewolf.”

The car bounced over a couple of speed humps that Trev didn’t slow down for. Tracey didn’t understand.

“He’s half-zombie half-vampire. He’s not half-werewolf too.”

“That’s exactly what he is.”

The car screamed through a red light attracting a crescendo of car horns.

Tracey wasn’t sure if she was angry or worried – she was probably a mixture of the two.

“How?”

Trev glanced over at his wife.

“Me.”

“How can it have been you? You’re not a werewolf.”

“No. But my mum was.”

Tracey couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“And you’ve decided to tell me this about your mother now?”

“I thought perhaps the line had died with my mother. I don’t turn at the full moon. But it looks like I may be a carrier. You know, I don’t suffer from the actual condition but I can pass it on.”

A sharp left, an equally sharp right, and the car was on the main road heading back to the village.

Back at her house, Adrienne checked that all the doors and windows were shut, closing the two that hadn’t been secured, and only then did she allow herself the luxury of breathing. She lay back on her bed in an attempt to get her breathing back to normal. Suddenly, a loud crash from the kitchen startled her. Somebody was in the house.

She almost called out but realised that would give up her location. Whoever was in her house wasn’t supposed to be there. Not even Arnold had a key. She took her phone and pressed the icon to call the emergency services.

The call was answered almost immediately.

“What service do you require, please?”

“Police.”

“We have your number logged. Can you give me your location please?”

“4, Alucard Drive, Nissington. My name’s Adrienne Brise.”

“And what’s the nature of the emergency?”

“There’s someone in my house. I live alone and I can hear him downstairs.”

“Ok. Stay where you are and try not to make any undue noise. A car is on its way to your address.”

Another crashing noise.

Adrienne gave a little shriek.

“I know it’s difficult, Adrienne, but try to stay calm. Police officers are on their way.”

“I think he’s coming up the stairs. I can hear footsteps. Except they’re not footsteps. It’s more like a padding sound.”

That was something Anne, the dispatcher, did not want to hear. She was aware of the recent killings and the fact that paw prints, not footprints had been found. Adrienne was panicking at the other end of the line.

“It’s on the landing. I think it’s some kind of animal. I can hear it sniffing.”

Anne felt helpless. She contacted the unit that was on its way to Nissington.

“Echo-two-four, what’s your ETA?”

“About three minutes.”

Anne silently prayed that Adrienne could hold out that long.

“Listen, Adrienne. The police will be there very soon. Don’t talk but leave your phone switched on and the call connected. OK? I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. We just don’t want to give the intruder any clues as to where you are. Can you do that for me?”

Adrienne nodded, forgetting that Anne couldn’t see her.

“Adrienne, can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

At the despatch centre, Anne’s stomach was doing somersaults. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes the dispatchers were eavesdroppers to real-time incidents. That was the worst part of the job – the feeling of helplessness that the dispatchers sometimes felt.

A loud thud brought the urgency of Adrienne’s situation to the fore.

“What was that noise, Adrienne? Are you ok?”

Adrienne whispered into the phone.

“It’s trying to get in. I think it’s taking a run up and throwing itself against the door.”

“The door is locked, I hope.”

“Yes. But it’s not very strong.”

Another loud thud interrupted the conversation.

“Adrienne, is there anything in the room that you can use as a weapon?”

Adrienne looked around the room. It was a bedroom and wasn’t the kind of place where you could be expected to find something with which to arm yourself.

“There’s a lava lamp.”

“Is there anything heavy? Like an ornament or something?”

“I collect paperweights. They’re pretty heavy. I’ve got about fifteen. If you could see me, you wouldn’t think I’m the kind of girl who’d collect paperweights.”

“Ok, Adrienne. Gather them together on the bed –“

“And the lava lamp?”

“Anything that can be used as a weapon, yes. If the intruder gets into your room, throw the paperweights at his forehead, between the eyes. Make every shot count.”

There was another loud crash as Adrienne’s bedroom door gave way to another assault and the wolf found himself face to face with his prey. It blinked its eyes, one blue and one brown as it snarled and drooled, sizing up its quarry.

Adrienne looked at his paw and saw a ring of industrial staples securing his gaffer tape wrapped foot to his leg.

She recognised the beast.

The wolf took a step forward.

Adrienne held up a paperweight, ready to throw it.

“Arnie? That is you, isn’t it? You know me. Adrienne. Your girlfriend. You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”

Arnold heard noises coming from the human but his brain could no longer translate the words into anything meaningful.

“I know you’re in there somewhere, Arnie. You don’t want to kill me. You don’t need to do this.”

Arnold cocked his head to one side as if he was listening to what the woman was saying. Then, without warning, he hurled himself at his best friend.

Anne’s eyes welled up with tears as she could only listen to what happened next. She heard the wolf’s razor-sharp teeth tear Adrienne’s cheek off. She heard the cracking of bones as the wolf dragged the screaming girl around the room. She heard the gurgle of Adrienne’s last breaths as blood poured from her throat where Arnold had sliced it open. She heard Adrienne’s body battered against the walls as Arnold took her whole head in his jaws, worrying it like a puppy might play with an old soft toy until her spinal cord snapped.

The police car skidded to a halt on her driveway as Arnold galloped off into the distance. Two officers leapt out of the vehicle and sprinted into the house. Immediately one of them sprinted out again and threw up over Adrienne’s prized black rose bush. Once his stomach was empty he joined his partner back at the bedroom.

“Sorry about that, Sid.”

Sid had seen it all before.

“Don’t worry, mate. You did the right thing, not contaminating the crime scene.”

PC Nick Grobbler was still embarrassed.

“Should we go in?”

“Nah. We’ll stay here until the SOCO boys and girls get here. There’s nothing we can do except keep the place secure. I mean, she’s dead. She’s not going anywhere. Other officers will look for the bastard who did this.”

Nick didn’t want to look at the scene anymore. It looked like a madman had gone crazy with a chainsaw in an abattoir. Blood and guts were strewn about everywhere and Adrienne was hardly recognisable as a human being. Sid took a plastic bag from his pocket and handed it to Nick.

“Just in case you want to barf again.”

Nick was grateful for the bag – he wasn’t convinced that he could keep down what was left in his stomach – and was relieved when he saw two figures in Tyvek suits coming up the stairs. The leading figure, a bespectacled man in his early sixties, nodded a greeting to the two police officers.

“Another animal killing, officers?”

“Too early to say, Dennis. I mean, it looks like it, yeah, but that’s for you to say, isn’t it?”

Nick cut in.

“We did see a big dog, like a wolf, running away from the house.”

Dennis slipped his hands into a pair of latex powder-free gloves, grateful that he no longer had to dust the gloves first before putting them on. Technology was a wonderful thing. He stepped over the threshold of the doorway.

“Come on, Miss Winch. We have work to do.”

Susan followed her mentor into the bedroom, taking care not to disturb anything. A third figure, a forensic photographer followed them. Dennis clasped his hands behind his back.

“So Miss Winch, tell me what you see.”

This was going to be a particularly difficult experience for the trainee. She knew whose house she was in. She’d known the victim. Adrienne was her friend.

“The room is approximately 5 metres by 4 metres, tastefully decorated in a Gothic style, with purple walls and –“

Dennis held a finger up.

“Just the relevant facts, Miss Winch.”

Susan looked down at the floor briefly.

“Sorry, sir.”

She tried again.

“The room is approximately 5 metres by 4 metres, which will be confirmed by a laser measuring tool.”

“Good. And the perimeter has already been assigned as the boundary of the property. Step two?”

“Establish security. The tape is already in place and police officers assigned to guard the perimeter.”

“Step three?”

“Step three is umm…”

“Determine the type of crime that has occurred.”

“Of course, sir. Homicide.”

Nick, who was still at the door, although looking anywhere but into the room, nudged his partner.

“You think?”

Susan continued with her checklist.

“Identify any threats to the evidence. Inside the house, none. In the garden, yes. The weather. It could rain or even snow. There’s a team processing the exterior as we speak.”

Adhering rigidly to procedure was probably the best thing for Susan right now. She reported her observations to her superior in a methodical and objective manner although inside she was in turmoil. To Dennis, the victim was a female Caucasian, in her mid-twenties, of average build. Her wounds consisted of numerous bite-marks to the head, neck, and torso, removal of the long intestine, and a severed spinal cord (which would be recorded as the cause of death). To Susan, the victim was a dear friend, a young woman who enjoyed life and knew how to have fun, a young woman who didn’t judge but accepted people for who they were, a young woman who didn’t deserve to have had her life cut short in such a horrible and obscene way.

Finishing up his evaluation, Dennis handed Adrienne’s mobile phone to the detective who had been assigned control of the case.

“She took a photo of her killer.”

Detective Sergeant Nigel Dunstable opened the picture gallery and saw a photo of an emaciated – no, partly decomposed – wolf with different coloured eyes and a ring of industrial staples around one of its legs.

19

Trevor and Tracey hadn’t been able to even get close to Adrienne’s house, but the flashing blue lights they saw in the distance told them all that they needed to know. They were too late.

Tracey slammed the door in Trevor’s face as she stormed into the house, forcing him to use his own keys to get into the building. She’d stonewalled him for the rest of the car journey and was in no mood to speak to him now. But she had to.

“You know what, Trevor? What I’m really pissed off about is that you kept this big secret from me. You don’t think I deserved to know the truth? You don’t think I deserved to know that my deceased mother-in-law was a werewolf? Imagine if we’d had kids – would they have been vampire-werewolf hybrids? They could’ve been.”

Trevor tried to say something, but his wife was in full rant mode.

“And you had this, this abomination living in our house. He could have ripped our throats out at any time.”

Trevor tried to defend himself.

“That’s not strictly true, Tracey, he’s only a danger at full moon.”

“Oh, so because he only transforms at full moon, that’s alright then is it?”

Trevor tried frantically to think of something that might diffuse the situation.

“No. Of course not. But it means he’s more manageable.”

“Manageable? Bloody manageable? That must make Adrienne feel much better, mustn’t it? Oh… wait. Adrienne’s dead isn’t she? Ripped to shreds by your bloody friend!”

“He’s your friend too.”

“You bit him. You brought him home. And YOU kept it secret that he wasn’t just a zombie-vampire hybrid.”

“To be fair. I wasn’t sure.”

Tracey needed to punch something. She wanted to punch Trevor but she wasn’t finished with him yet.

“When were you sure then? When local pets were mutilated? When that poor boy, Ronnie Whatsisname was killed? Or now that our friend Adrienne is dead.”

“I started to think it may be him when Ronnie Williams was killed, yes.”

Tracey was livid.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything then?”

“I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s been nothing but a perfect guest since he’s been here.”

“Benefit of the bloody doubt?”

“Look, Tracey. You know that werewolves can’t control their actions when they transform. They’re like rabid animals. They’re in another world, a world of confusion, where nothing makes sense and reality is suspended.”

“No, I don’t, Trevor. I’ve never dealt with werewolves before. My mum was normal. I didn’t even think they were a real thing until now. Not like you, whose bloody mother was one.”

She turned away from her husband.

“I don’t want anything to do with you right now. I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t even want to see your face. I need space.”

The couple had never fought like this before. Trevor tried to placate his wife.

“But—”

“I said. I don’t want to speak to you. I don’t care where you go, but I don’t want you in this house tonight.”

Trevor didn’t try to persuade her otherwise. She was right. If he had said something as soon as he suspected, Adrienne would probably still be alive. He closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

Tracey’s face was etched with tears of both anger and sorrow. She went into Arnold’s room and looked around. She’d expected it to have been in a mess, trashed during Arnold’s transformation into a wolf, but everything was neat and tidy, with his clothes neatly folded on the bed.

She was alone but spoke out loud.

“What kind of werewolf folds his clothes before going out on a killing spree?”

20

Trevor drove around aimlessly for a while, with no destination in mind. He wanted to go home and sort things out with his wife, but he didn’t see how they could get past this one. Not so soon, anyway.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he realised that he was near Silvestre Woods, where Ronnie Williams’s body had been found. Arnold would soon be turning back into a human – at least a humanlike creature – if he hadn’t already. Maybe he’d gone into the woods.

Trevor parked his car in the small gravel parking area and made his way through the trees in the direction of the Great Oak. The scene had long since been released back into the public domain and nothing visible remained that could betray the horror that had taken place – just an ambience of foreboding.

He stood and looked at the tree, silhouetted in the multi-hued sky of sunrise, and heard someone moving on the other side of the tree trunk. He rounded the tree and saw his friend, curled up in a ball, naked as the day he was born. Arnold had been trying to cry. He looked up at Trevor with despair in his eye.

“I think I’ve done something terrible. I don’t know what – it’s just a feeling – but it’s a feeling that’s very real.”

Trevor didn’t know what to say. Arnold had done something terrible – he’d killed two people – but how do you tell someone they’re a murderer when they have no recollection of killing anyone? Trevor took off his jacket and handed it to Arnold who put it on and stood up. Luckily Trevor was a good six inches taller than Arnold, so the jacket just about preserved his modesty.

“What have I done, Trev? I woke up in these woods, covered in blood. And it’s not my blood.”

Trevor was going to have to tell him. He had no choice. But it wouldn’t be easy.

“You’d better sit back down, mate. And take a couple of deep breaths – it’s not a pretty story.”

Arnold sat down again.

“I don’t breathe, Trev. You know that.”

Trevor needed to compose himself before delivering the bad news.

“Arnold. Have you blacked out before?”

“A couple of times, yes.”

“Did you notice anything in common about the blackouts? Like when they happened?”

“No. Well, yes. They do seem to be when there’s a lot of moonlight.”

“When there’s a full moon.”

“Maybe. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

Trevor felt only sorrow for his friend. He really had no idea what he was or what he had done.

“There’s no delicate way to say this, Arnold, so I’m just going to come straight out and say it. You’re a werewolf.”

Arnold looked at his friend in disbelief.

“What do you mean, I’m a werewolf? I’m a zombie-vampire, not a werewolf.”

“I’m not joking, Arnold. You really are a werewolf.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Arnold sunk his head in his hands.

“You mean that during these blackouts, I’m a werewolf?”

“Just the wolf part. Yes. A wolf with heightened strength and super senses.”

It was a lot for Arnold to take in. He stood up again.

“We’ve got to warn Adrienne. She could be in danger. She might not want anything more to do with me, but at least she’ll be safe.”

Trevor closed his eyes. This was going to be difficult to say.

“It’s too late.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s too late, Arnold. You killed her last night.”

“No. I’d know if I’d killed anyone.”

“You wouldn’t Arnold. Your mind loses all its humanity when you transform. You can’t speak, you can’t rationalize. You run on pure instinct.”

Arnold’s face creased up and he let out a howl of pain, ripping off Trevor’s jacket. He stood naked in front of Trevor and pointed at his torso.

“You mean this is Adrienne’s blood?”

Trevor nodded. He didn’t have any words that could help Arnold feel better.

Suddenly Arnold began clawing at the bloodstains on his body, wailing like a banshee. Bloodied scraps of flesh fell to the ground. Trevor couldn’t bear to stand by and do nothing whilst his friend was in such obvious torment. He picked up the fallen jacket, wrapped it around Arnold, and held him tight. Arnold’s shoulders shook uncontrollably. He drew away from his friend,

“Kill me, Trevor. Kill me now. I don’t want to live.”

Trevor understood his friend’s request.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Just do it. I want you to.”

“I mean it’s not that easy. I need special equipment.”

“Why? Can’t you just cut my head off or something?”

“It’s not that simple, I’m afraid.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my father killed a werewolf once.”

Arnold didn’t need to know that the werewolf that his friend’s father had killed was Trevor’s own mother. He was in enough trouble with Tracey already. Giving Arnold unnecessary information wouldn’t help anybody.

“But can’t you do it now?”

“It has to be when you’ve just turned back from the wolf state.”

“I’ve just turned back from being the wolf now, haven’t I? Why can’t you kill me now?”

“You’ve been back from the wolf too long already. We have to wait for the next full moon. We have no choice.”

There was no point in arguing. He’d have to trust that Trevor knew what he was doing.

“So what now?”

Trevor sighed.

“We need to try and persuade Tracey to let us back in the house.”

“Us?”

“She’s thrown me out. But, hopefully, if she’ll give me a chance to explain our plan, she’ll relent and let me back in the house – and let you stay until next full moon.”

“And then you’ll kill me.”

“And then I’ll kill you.”

21

Trevor shouldn’t have felt nervous walking up his own garden path but he’d never seen Tracey in such a bad mood. They’d had disagreements in the past, like all married couples, but nothing on this scale. This would probably be a ten on the Richter scale, topped only if he had cheated on her, though not telling your wife that your mother was a werewolf is pretty bad. He toyed with the idea of using his own key to open the front door but decided against it; she might see it as a dismissive gesture. He rang the doorbell instead.

The door didn’t open but he knew she’d looked through the spyhole. Her voice didn’t seem any calmer.

“What do you want? I told you I don’t want to see you – not yet anyway.”

“I want to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you. Come back in a couple of days and I may consider speaking to you again. No promises though.”

“I need to talk.”

“Why?”

“The situation’s changed.”

“How? Is it dead?”

“No. He’s not dead. It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? Cut its head off. Sorted. What’s not simple about that?”

“Let me in and I’ll explain.”

Tracey wasn’t going to fall for that one. She turned and leaned against the inside of the door.

“You can tell me from there. I can hear you perfectly well.”

Trevor knew he had no other choice.

“He can only be killed just after he’s turned back from being a wolf.”

“So you’re telling me you can’t kill it for another month?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Trevor knew his request was probably going to go down like a lead balloon, but he asked anyway.

“Can he stay with us? Until it’s time?”

“Us? There is no us at the moment, Trev. Go live in the woods with your friend.”

“But he’ll need to feed.”

“I don’t care. Do you think anyone’s going to let it feed after what it did to Adrienne.”

“How will they know? I’ve only just told you.”

“Do you seriously think I’m going to keep this to myself? Our friends have looked after us for decades and I’m not going to betray their trust by not warning them that there’s a werewolf in our midst. It could attack any one of them next.”

Trevor knew it would be difficult to get a donor for Arnold, but he had to try.

“If he doesn’t feed with us, he’ll hunt. He won’t be able to help himself. And you know what that means.”

Tracey knew very well what that would mean. Randomly selected innocents would be preyed upon. She didn’t want that on her conscience.

“Find someone who’s willing to donate blood to it and I’ll think about letting it in. Just for the month though. If you don’t kill it next full moon, you’ll both be out on your ears – with no coming back.”

Back in the car, Trevor brought Arnold up to speed. The zombie wasn’t very optimistic.

“Who’s going to want to donate for me after what I did to Adrienne? Nobody will. And I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Somebody will, I’m sure. I’ll explain to them what will happen if they don’t.”

“What will happen if nobody volunteers?”

“The craving for blood will become unbearable and you’ll go out looking for prey. It’s what we used to do in the old days. You won’t care about what happens to your victims – whether they turn or even die.”

Arnold’s good eye looked down.

“I really am a monster.”

There was no way that Trevor could disagree.

“I’m sorry, Arnold. I didn’t realise that I was a carrier of the werewolf gene. I’ve never even felt a hint of werewolfism about me.”

Trever didn’t know if the word werewolfism was a thing or not, but it seemed to portray what he wanted to say. Arnold felt like his world was collapsing.

“So you not only made me a vampire but a werewolf too. Thanks a bunch.”

Trevor knew that he was the cause of most of Arnold’s problems, but he wasn’t responsible for all of them.

“To be fair, Arnold. You were dead before I even met you.”

Arnold couldn’t argue with that.

“So what now?”

“Now we – I – try to sweet talk one of our donors into allowing you to feed when the time comes.”

22

Just as Trevor had expected, it wasn’t an easy task finding someone willing to let Arnold feed. Adrienne had been a well-loved member of the group and nobody was in the mood to forgive Arnold for killing her. That was fine by Arnold – he couldn’t forgive himself and didn’t expect forgiveness from anyone else, but to deny him the two feeds needed before the next full moon would put everybody in the village at risk.

Trevor’s first port of call was Tom and Edna’s house. He’d hoped that being medical professionals, they’d be able to see the bigger picture and help Arnold out, but they had always thought of Adrienne as the daughter they never had and couldn’t bear the thought of letting her killer feed on their blood.

Jared, the professional skateboarder, refused point-blank. He’d always fancied Adrienne but each time he’d asked her out she bounced him right back into the friend zone – he just wasn’t her type. And now he’d never be rejected by her again.

Miss Filchett, the librarian, had never been able to look Arnold in the face even before he had become a werewolf, so it seemed pretty pointless to ask her. But he did. And she said no.

Father Pickles, the Catholic Priest, said that Arnold was an abomination and he would not suckle the evil demon. Trevor wondered what that made him and Tracey then – the priest seemed to have no problem accepting their stipend every month.

Trevor was feeling less than confident when he knocked on the next door. The door opened quickly and Howard and Hilda stood side by side. They spoke in unison, as they often did.

“Where is he?”

Trevor knew who they were referring to, but pretended he didn’t.

“Where’s who?”

The couple answered.

“The werewolf.”

Trevor looked back to where his car was parked on the road.

“He’s in the car.”

Howard spoke on his own.

“We know why you’re here. The others phoned and told us.”

Trevor was relieved. It looked like he wouldn’t have to go through his spiel again. He was about to say something when Hilda spoke.

“We have one question.”

“What’s that.”

“You’re going to kill him when the time’s right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to bottle out?”

“No. Arnold wants to die. He doesn’t remember anything about what he did. And I’ll need everybody’s help to kill him too.”

Harold looked at Hilda. Hilda looked at Harold and spoke for the two of them.

“OK. We’ll do it. There are two feeds before the next full moon. Harold will do the first feed and I’ll do the second one.”

“Thank you so much, you two. You don’t know how much this means to Arnold and me.”

Hilda scowled.

“We’re not doing it for you. Or the zombie. We’re doing it for the poor men, women, or children that would be at risk if we didn’t.”

Trevor jumped back into his car where Arnold was anticipating yet another negative response. The vampire didn’t even give the zombie a chance to ask how it went before he told him what the couple had said.

“They said yes. They’ll do it. So now all we have to do is to convince Tracey to let you stay at our place until the next full moon.”

Finding donors was half the battle; now they just needed to get Tracey on board.

Trevor rang his own doorbell for the second time that day. The door opened and Tracey’s face still looked like thunder.

“Well?”

“Harold and Hilda have volunteered to be Arnold’s source.”

Tracey didn’t seem very interested.

“Good for them.”

“So, if it’s alright, can we come back?”

“If you do, I’m not feeding it.”

“Arnold doesn’t eat. You know that.”

“Well, I’m not doing anything to help it. It can stay in the room until the next full moon. Then I want it out.”

“With the help of the rest of the group, I’ll kill it next full moon.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How will you kill it? You said it’s not easy. I want to know that you’ve got everything planned.”

“It’s an old Norse ritual. The Vikings used it as a form of execution for their enemies and also found it was an effective way of killing werewolves. There were a lot more of them around in the old days. In fact, it’s the only way to kill a werewolf.”

Tracey thought for a moment.

“5 pm. I’ll be out. I don’t want to see it.”

23

Arnold’s first feed was taken in his room at Trevor and Tracey’s house. Howard arrived just after three in the afternoon and passed Tracey in the hallway. She wasn’t going to stay around whilst Arnold fed. She hadn’t even seen him since he’d been back at the house and that suited her just fine. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t exist. And in about three more weeks he would no longer exist; that would do for her.

Howard sat in the middle of the room, on a kitchen chair that Trevor had taken upstairs specifically for the feeding ritual. Looking straight ahead at the wall, he offered his neck up to the zombie who marked his target and plunged his fangs into the man’s neck. Howard didn’t say a word. He was doing what he considered his duty in order to protect the innocent. He had no interest in chit-chat.

Trevor stood on the far side of the room; he and Tracey – who were gradually becoming friends again – would feed in the evening, at Tom and Edna’s house. That way, Tracey could continue to avoid Arnold completely.

Once the feeding was completed, Harold bade Trevor goodbye and left without saying a word to Arnold. Trevor felt sorry for his zombie friend – he understood better than anyone that Arnold would never have hurt a hair on Adrienne’s head if he hadn’t been taken over by the werewolf psyche. He knew that Arnold had probably loved Adrienne but he also understood other people’s reactions. If he had been less informed about werewolf lore he would almost certainly have reacted the same way. But he’d watched his father’s tears mingle with his mother’s blood as her life was literally ripped out of her in the most grotesquely horrific way imaginable. His mother couldn’t bear to live with the guilt of what she had done to friends and neighbours and had begged her husband to kill her, much as Arnold had begged Trevor to kill him. The killing of the werewolf would be more an act of mercy than an act of attrition.

24

Three weeks later, the sun set, the moon rose, and nightfall drifted across the landscape. The only sound was the ticking over of car, pickup, and motorcycle engines as the donor group waited for darkness to set in.

Tracey knew what was going to happen that night but didn’t feel that she could take part in the killing. For her, it would have been an act of retribution, not mercy, and she didn’t know if she had the inner strength to cope with the aftermath. Trevor had enough helpers – twenty or so – and whether she was there or not wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. She’d spend the evening at a friend’s house, eating popcorn and watching movies on Netflix.

Jared and Trevor were sitting in the lead vehicle when Arnold’s bedroom window slid open. Arnold stood looking out of the window, as if he was trying to absorb the full moon into his body, before disappearing from view again. Something didn’t make sense to Jared.

“This may sound a stupid question, Trev, but why didn’t you just chain him up in his room, let him change, and then kill him when he changes back?”

The vampire looked at the skateboarder.

“Do you know how strong a werewolf is?”

“No.”

“A German Shepherd dog can easily maul a human to death. A regular wolf is about one and a half times the size of a German Shepherd. And a werewolf is about ten times as strong as a regular wolf. Add the killer instinct to that mix and you’ve got a terrifying killing machine.”

Jared glanced towards the cottage.

“But still—”

“Look, the truth is that Tracey wouldn’t let me. She said she’s just got the house how she likes it and she’s not going to risk it getting smashed up.”

Jared pointed at the window where he could see Arnold’s shadow apparently tidying up.

“Dude, what’s he doing?”

Trevor shook his head, knowing that what he was about to say would sound crazy.

“He’s taking off his clothes, folding them neatly, and putting them on the bed. He’s still human – well zombie – at the moment, although the werewolf in him is beginning to take him over. In a couple of minutes, any vestige of what he was will be gone.”

Sure enough, about two minutes later, the group’s communal jaw dropped as a large semi-decomposed wolf leapt out of the bedroom window and onto the neatly trimmed lawn.

Clutches were dropped, and engines roared as the vehicles raced off in pursuit of the fleeing beast, which zigzagged along the road, leaping over hedges and low fences, and cutting through gardens making it difficult for the cars to keep up with him. This is where the motorcycles came to the fore; they were far more agile than the cars and kept the animal in sight, relaying any changes in direction to the rest of the pursuers.

A message came through from one of the motorcyclists, as he drilled through a bed of early flowering daffodils.

“It looks like he’s heading towards The Green.”

Trevor knew who Arnold’s next target was.

“It’s almost as if he has a sliver of human memory that’s guiding him to targets. I don’t know what importance the Great Oak had in his life, but he went to Adrienne’s house and now he’s heading in the direction of The Green.”

Jared couldn’t see the significance.

“What’s at The Green?”

“That’s where he used to live. And that’s where his wife and daughter live.”

Only one word was needed to express the thought that was going through both men’s minds.

“Shit.”

Trevor issued an order.

“Try to head him off before he gets to The Green. He’s going after his wife and daughter.”

One of the motorcycles accelerated away before Trevor had even completed his sentence, edging closer and closer to the wolf. The wolf was fast but even he couldn’t outrun a dirt bike, especially when it was being driven by the county cross-country champion, Tyrone Billings. Weaving in and out of parked cars, changing the direction of the bike effortlessly, he began to gain on the animal.

But the wolf was not to be diverted. It couldn’t see who was chasing it but it knew that it was being pursued by something, so it suddenly veered to the left and sprinted towards a tall chain-link fence, maybe fifteen foot high. Tyrone, fueled by adrenaline and bravado, knew that he had the animal cornered – there was no way that the animal was going to get over that fence.

The wolf stared at the motorcyclist, the stare from its good eye piercing Tyrone’s crash helmet. The rest of the vehicles pulled up behind the motorcycle, and the occupants got out and ducked behind car doors for protection.

Nobody knew what to do. In the USA, the beast would probably have had half a dozen high powered rifles trained on it, but this was rural Britain and the only weapon available was a shotgun belonging to one of the local farmers, Bill Selby. It was loaded with rock salt and might be good for scaring the odd fox, badger, or feral dog away from chicken coops, but would have as much impact on a super-strong wolf as beating the animal with a feather duster.

Common sense suddenly took over Tyrone. The chase had been fun, but he certainly didn’t fancy a standoff with a giant wolf. He let his bike drop to the ground and backed away towards the safety of the cars.

Suddenly the wolf lunged towards him.

All thoughts of a slow and controlled retreat were thrown to the wind as he turned and ran towards the cars as if his life depended upon it.

When it reached the fallen bike, the wolf turned around and ran as fast as it could back to the fence. Not breaking step it threw itself into the air, latching on to the wire mesh at a height of around nine feet, hauling itself up to the top of the fence before allowing itself to drop down on the other side.

Tyrone was bundled inside one of the cars, car doors were slammed shut, and stone chips were thrown into the air as wheels spun on the loose gravel.

The posse arrived at The Green, a normally tranquil cul-de-sac containing twenty-six pleasant modern cottages, in time to see the wolf approaching number eleven. The animal prowled up and down the façade for a few seconds before hurling itself through the glass of the front room window and landing in the middle of the living room he’d shared with his wife for fifteen happy years.

Gillian was upstairs with Keira watching a movie on the girl’s TV. Arnold hadn’t been in favour of his daughter having her own television, believing that it would be too much of a distraction from her school homework, but Gillian had persuaded him to relent. The crash of breaking glass downstairs shocked the two out of their quiet evening’s entertainment and Gilliam leapt to her feet.

“What was that?”

She turned to her daughter.

“You stay here. Don’t come downstairs whatever happens.”

Keira nodded.

“Yes, mum.”

Tip-toeing downstairs, Gillian could hear the snarling of some kind of animal. Of course, she’d seen the reports of the animal killings but it didn’t enter her head that the perpetrator of these murders might be in her own front room. She looked through the bannister into the front room and saw what looked like a giant wolf sniffing around her furniture. What the hell was going on? It was as if she was in a child’s fairy story – except that this wolf was very, very real.

She tried to remain quiet but her heart was beating in her chest like a big bass drum. Her first instinct was to run back upstairs and barricade her daughter’s bedroom door but she didn’t want to give the animal any reason to go upstairs – protecting her daughter was the most important thing. She opened WhatsApp on her phone and sent a message.

Don’t come downstairs, WHATEVER YOU DO! Climb out of the window and jump to the tree outside. Then run away as fast as you can.

Gillian wished that her daughter would just do as she said, but Keira was twelve years old. There was no way she wasn’t going to question the order. She added another message.

There’s a big dog in the house. I’ll join you in a minute. Mummy’s going to be ok. Don’t worry.

Upstairs, Keira was torn as to what she should do. She wanted to be with her mum, perhaps help her mum, but she knew that if she didn’t do as she was told, her mum would kill her later on – figuratively speaking, of course.

Gillian stayed where she was, halfway up the stairs, until she saw her daughter through the frosted glass window of the door, running across the lawn. At least, she didn’t have to worry about Keira anymore.

She began to creep backwards up the stairs but suddenly the wolf’s ears pricked up. What had he heard? Was she breathing too loudly? Had she coughed? She was sure that she hadn’t made a noise. She moved up the stairs one more step and the wooden tread groaned under her weight. That’s what it had heard.

The wolf looked in her direction.

It knew she was there. What should she do? Make a run for her bedroom? Or Keira’s?

She turned and leapt up the steps, diving into her bedroom and slamming the door shut. She’d never been so grateful for Arnold’s insistence on having a lock on their door, as she turned the key.

But she was still too vulnerable.

She wondered if she should lock herself in the ensuite bathroom. The sound of the animal throwing itself at the bedroom door made the decision easy – the door wouldn’t hold up for much longer.

Just as she closed and bolted the bathroom door, she heard the splintering of wood and the bedroom door gave way.

Terrified, she listened to the creature pacing around the room, sniffing her bedclothes and furniture.

She needed to call for help. Where was her phone? She’d had it with her earlier. She’d used it to message Keira.

Suddenly she felt very lonely. Her phone was the only way she stood a chance of getting out of this alive. She needed to call the police. Without it, she would be dead meat.

She double-checked her pockets; it must have fallen out when she ran upstairs.

Now she knew she was going to die – there was no way to escape.

In the bedroom, the wolf was pacing from side to side, psyching itself up for an assault on the bathroom door.

Suddenly it realised that it was no longer alone. Trevor had managed to sneak unseen into the room along with Jared, Tyrone, and Father Pickles. Two more of the posse managed to squeeze in, but the room wasn’t designed to cater for six adult males and a werewolf so they stood near the doorway in case the wolf made a run for it. Each man was equipped with a couple of high tensile chains with padlocks, and was armed for bloody battle with the beast.

Trevor whispered to Father Pickles.

“I don’t know why you’re wearing your cassock, Father. Religious stuff can’t harm me, and I’m damned sure it won’t have an effect on a werewolf.”

Father Pickles grinned and reached under his robe.

“I didn’t think it would be a good idea for a priest to be seen on the streets with this.”

He pulled a strange object from underneath his garment. Jared’s eyes widened.

“Cool! What’s that, Father? A ray-gun?”

Father Pickles showed him the object.

“This, my son, is a captive bolt pistol.”

“A what?”

“It’s used to stun animals in abattoirs before slaughter.”

Trevor found the image of a Catholic Priest holding a slaughterhouse bolt pistol incongruous.

“What the Hell – sorry, Father – what on earth are you doing with that thing?”

Father Pickles laughed, but not too loudly.

“I wasn’t always a priest, Trevor. Before I joined the clergy, I worked in an abbatoir.”

In the bathroom, Gillian breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that she wasn’t alone anymore. Sure, she still might not make it out of the cottage alive, but the faint voices meant that someone was trying to help her.

The wolf had forgotten all about the woman trapped behind the bathroom door. It could see these other humans. They would be easier prey.

It moved forward slightly, snarling its threats. Saliva dripped from its jaws.

The posse moved back a step.

The animal shook its head and let out an ear-piercing howl.

Jared thought he was going to pee himself.

Father Pickles raised the bolt gun and pointed it at the wolf’s head.

Tyrone was getting excited.

“Shoot it, Father. Shoot the bastard.”

But the priest didn’t fire.

Jared couldn’t believe that the priest was just pointing the gun at the wolf.

“Why don’t you shoot it?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Jared. It doesn’t fire bullets. I have to get closer.”

“Why?”

“Because it fires a bolt into the brain, and the bolt then recoils back into the barrel. The bolt doesn’t leave the pistol.”

As if trying to force a demonstration of how the gun worked, the wolf lunged forward at the priest, growling and snapping. Tyrone struck the wolf’s head hard with one of his chains. The blow didn’t cause any pain, but the sight of the motorcyclist moving in the peripheral vision of its good eye distracted the beast momentarily and allowed the priest to place the muzzle of the gun against the animal’s temple. He squeezed the trigger and the bolt rocketed from the barrel, burst through the wolf’s skull, and returned into the gun.

The wolf paid no attention to what should have been a killer blow.

Suddenly, the animal was deluged by blow after blow from six high quality steel chains whipping at it.

For a few seconds, it stared right into Trevor’s eyes and the vampire found himself trying to see if there was a spark of a human soul inside the wolf – but all he saw was darkness.

Jared had rediscovered his courage, and he and Father Pickles took advantage of the lull in the animal’s concentration and trussed its rear legs together with industrial strength 26 inch zip ties.

Hobbled by the fastenings, the wolf thrashed around trying to free itself, but the ties each had a tensile strength of 200 pounds and not even the werewolf could break free.

The animal became more and more frustrated as it found its mobility severely limited. It spat at the group of men who now circled it.

Tyrone leapt on its back, and pulled on its ears. He didn’t really have any idea of what he was trying to achieve but it did force the wolf to raise its chin. Father Pickles brought all his pre-priesthood animal wrangling skills to bear and managed to slip a zip tie over its snout. With its jaws clamped shut, Trevor and Jared added two more ties to the makeshift muzzle.

Hind legs immobilized and teeth no longer a threat, it was a relatively simple task to bind the animal’s front legs too.

Jared, Tyrone, and the priest stood back to admire their handiwork but Trevor was more concerned about the woman in the bathroom.

“Stay in there for a moment, Mrs Leadbetter. My name’s Trevor. We’re in control of the situation.”

Gillian’s only concern was Keira.

“What about my daughter?”

Trevor shouted back, pulling tight on the chain that he had just wrapped around the wolf’s neck.

“Keira’s fine. She’s safe inside one of our cars.”

The wolf continued to thrash around, even though its arsenal had been neutralised. Another chain was wrapped around its body and it was carefully hauled down the stairs – not for fear of hurting the animal but for fear of it escaping – and the chains were hooked onto the tow bar of a pickup truck.

Still struggling to free itself, the wolf continued to snarl as it was dragged away from the house.

Trevor went back into the cottage and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Mrs Leadbetter? It’s safe to come out now.”

Gillian emerged and gave Trevor a huge hug. She had no idea who he was, but she knew that if it weren’t for him, she’d be dead. When she eventually let him go, she followed him downstairs.

“What was that thing? A dog? A wolf?”

She didn’t need to know that it was her husband.

“A wolf, we think. It must have escaped from a zoo or someone’s private collection. But we have it subdued now.”

Keira came running across the lawn and threw herself into her mother’s arms. Neither of them had ever been so grateful to see each other as they were now.

At the Great Oak, the posse watched the wolf intently, an assortment of makeshift weapons ready to strike if he looked like he was going to wriggle out of his chains. As the night passed, he seemed to get weaker, as the influence of his baser wolf nature receded and his human or, in Arnold’s case, his zombie-vampire side began to return.

They watched in awe as the wolf transformed, his muscles twisting and turning, reducing in mass, and his limbs kind of receding into themselves until he had returned to human proportions. His snout withdrew into his face and ten of his forty-two teeth simply disappeared. Soon, the chains binding him were useless as his bulk had reverted to that of a confused man. Arnold looked up at Trevor.

“Did I kill anyone?”

Trevor shook his head.

“No. But not for the want of trying, though.”

“Who did I attack?”

Trevor didn’t see any point in telling him the truth.

“A stranger. Just passing through. We stopped you though.”

The relief on Arnold’s face was visible. Then he looked sad.

“So now, it’s the next stage.”

Trevor wasn’t looking forward to it, but if his own father could do it for his mother, then he could do it for his friend.

“Yes, Arnold. The final stage.”

Arnold was resigned to his fate. In fact, he was looking forward to it – perhaps he might find some peace now.

The chains were removed and Arnold stood up. He walked a few paces forward and then sunk to his knees, not in despair but in acceptance.

Father Pickles handed Trevor a sharp carving knife and an axe. Trevor noticed a bloodstain on the priest’s sleeve.

“What’s that?”

The priest looked at his arm.

“This? Just a scratch. Arnold here nipped me when he was the wolf. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Trevor nodded and put a hand on Arnold’s shoulder.

“Do I need to tie your hands and legs to stop you from escaping or making any sudden movement?”

Arnold looked at his executioner.

“I’m not going anywhere, Trev. And whatever you do won’t hurt me anyway. So, no. Not unless you want to.”

Trevor didn’t want to. He wanted his friend to die with some semblance of dignity.

He took the knife, counted silently to three, and stabbed Arnold by his tailbone, drawing the blade up towards his friend’s rib cage. Arnold didn’t flinch or make a sound. Then he meticulously separated each rib from the backbone with an axe, leaving Arnold’s internal organs on full display.

Once Arnold’s ribs were cut away and spread out like giant fingers, Trevor pulled Arnold’s lungs through his back and spread them like a pair of grotesque wings.

Arnold looked surprisingly peaceful. He took hold of Trevor’s wrist.

“Will it be long now?”

Trevor clasped his free hand over his friends.

“Not long now, Arnold. Your life will just fade away. You’ll be at peace. At last.”

Arnold stood up, his lungs and intestines hanging from his body, like the melted clocks from Salvador Dali’s painting. He embraced his friend and Trevor watched a single tear fall from Arnold’s eye and drop to the ground.

Arnold’s strength had almost left him, but he managed to utter a few final words.

“Thank you for being such a good friend.”

Tracey was waiting on the driveway when Trevor arrived home. She knew how hard it had been for Trevor to perform the Blood Eagle on Arnold, but both of them knew that he had had no choice. She took her husband’s hand in hers.

“Are you OK?”

Trevor nodded.

“I will be.”

“And it went ok?”

“It went fine. Except—”

“Except what?”

Trevor took a deep breath.

“Except now I have to kill Father Pickles.”

#####

I hope you enjoyed reading WTF? If you could write a short review on Amazon or similar site that would mean a lot to me – reviews are especially important to indie authors. Thanks again!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Greg Krojac was born in 1957 and grew up in Maidenhead, Berkshire. He is the author of six published novels: the dystopian Recarn Chronicles trilogy (comprising of Revelation, Revolution, and Resolution), the post-apocalyptic love story Reality Sandwich, and the first two novels in the Sophont trilogy The Girl With Acrylic Eyes and Metalheads & Meatheads. His story Judd’s Errand is a Mad Max style novella and the first in a series. He has also published a short story Oppy about the fate of the Mars Opportunity Rover.

He currently lives just outside the city of Salvador da Bahia, Brazil, with his partner, Eliene, and their cat, Tabitha.

www.gregkrojac.com

OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE GIRL WITH ACRYLIC EYES

PART 1 of THE SOPHONT TRILOGY

Coppélia walks into a police station and claims she’s been raped. Her case is given to the New Met City Special Victims Unit, much as any other sexual crime would be. Coppélia walks into a police station and claims she’s been raped. Her case is given to the New Met City Special Victims Unit, much as any other sexual crime would be. However, Detective Inspector Vismay Rajan senses something odd about Coppélia, and calls in Detective Inspector Karen Chambers of the Sexdroid Unit for her opinion.

Coppélia is subsequently identified as an android, but she’s unlike any android that Karen has seen before – she appears to have emotions. A friendship forms between human and android and they embark upon a quest to discover Coppélia’s origins and purpose – both totally unprepared for what they discover.

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METALHEADS & MEATHEADS

PART 2 of THE SOPHONT TRILOGY

A sophont android, Sylas, who was constructed without the emotion inhibitor that is legally required to be installed into every sophont android, spearheads a Sophont Rights Movement with the aim of giving his fellow androids the autonomy that he himself enjoys. To this end, he recruits other androids to join his cause.

One of them, Paul, is given a specific task – to prevent the recovery of the very first sapient android who has been abandoned on a distant planet.

Like all sophont androids, Paul wishes no harm to any human being, but faces a dilemma when it appears that he may have no choice but to go against Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics if he is to successfully complete his mission.

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JUDD’S ERRAND

A MAD MAX STYLE NOVELLA

Judd, a self-employed courier, has always had a cross to bear. He’s a throwback, with the round eyes of his Terran human ancestors, and has suffered discrimination at the hands of the feline-eyed Duoterrans all his life.

His latest package is a personal errand. He must drive through the Corridor, the narrow passage through the desert where temperatures are at least bearable, to Paradise Cove and safely deliver the contents of a small graphene box.

The box is so precious to him that he is willing to protect it with his life, against man and beast, something that he is called upon to do at various times on his journey.

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REALITY SANDWICH

A POST-APOCALYPTIC ROMANCE

Jerome Cooper and the other five survivors of the apocalypse live like hermits in separate and sealed apartments – their only interaction with each other is through video-chatting via their intranet system. They’ve never seen another human in the flesh; all other humans perished in the apocalypse that they call The Event. This is the life they know. This is the life they’ve always known. This is how life will always be.

One day Jerome hears a noise in his kitchen. He’s terrified that giant cockroaches – the only creature that survives in the toxic wasteland outside – have somehow broken into his apartment. Against his better judgement, he somehow finds the courage to investigate.

What he sees should not – cannot – exist. But it’s there before his very eyes. His world will never be the same again.

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REVELATION

PART 1 of THE RECARN CHRONICLES TRILOGY

A 10-year-old boy enjoys playing with his model train set. He likes to watch the children’s TV programme ‘Crackerjack’. He loves jelly and ice cream. He takes a carving knife from a kitchen drawer.

A stranger tells a reincarnation researcher that he can prove that human reincarnation actually exists. Later, one man is dead with a bullet embedded in his temple and the other is walking back to the car-park.

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REVOLUTION

PART 2 of THE RECARN CHRONICLES TRILOGY

A young woman falls in love but she doesn’t know that her lover is the leader of the Illuminati.

Discovering the truth, she finds herself imprisoned r in a draconian government stasis centre, occasionally woken from her enforced hibernation to satisfy his baser urges. Her sister refuses to believe that she is lost forever and sets out to find and rescue her, even though it means neglecting her duty to One Life, the resistance movement that fighting the oppressive Illuminati regime.

An uneasy alliance is forged between One Life and a group of children loyal to the previous Illuminati leader.

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RESOLUTION

PART 3 of THE RECARN CHRONICLES TRILOGY

The Illuminati appears to have been defeated but a massacre at a children’s birthday party shows that the fight against the tyranny of the New World Order is far from over.

Conflict within One Life’s ranks leads to a disconcerting change of policy and a pogrom against the millions of innocent Recarns who were neither involved in nor supported the Illuminati regime, turning friend against friend and family members against each other.

Finally, a solution is found that will rid the world of its rogue Recarn problem forever, but it comes at a very high price –an unexpected side-effect that proves even more dangerous to the human race than the Illuminati ever were.

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OPPY (A SHORT STORY)

MARS OPPORTUNITY ROVER –100,000 YEARS ON

“My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” (The final message of Mars Opportunity Rover, June 10, 2018)

Mars Opportunity Rover was finally pronounced ‘dead’ by NASA on Wednesday, 13 February 2019 despite numerous attempts to revive it after contact was lost on June 10, 2018.

100,000 years has passed and teams of Terçaterran archaeological cosmologists, exodescendants of the original humans from Terra (Earth), are on Mars, searching for artefacts that will shed light on their own prehistoric history.

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Copyright

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Please note that this book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2019 Greg Krojac

All rights reserved

Language: UK English

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Greg Krojac
WTF?

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

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