Universe

THE CORPSE.

Julian knew he'd never know when she'd died as the refrigeration of the corpse would slow decomposition right down, but that wasn't the oddest thing about the corpse before him, no, the oddest thing was the way the body had been arranged after death.

                The body was naked, her breasts on display for everyone to see, to marvel over, to touch maybe and her legs had been cruelly tied with twine before her feet had been removed, post-mortem he reasoned due to the lack of blood over the visible and protruding bone of the ankle, it looked like some sort of cutter had been used as the flesh looked neat almost as though they'd been removed in one easy motion.

                Most, if not all of her organs had been violently removed rectally, pulled free from her rear leaving a wide open cavity and small pieces of flesh hung free around it. Her arms sat uselessly to her side, there were no signs of any real struggle, her killer had been obviously larger and better trained than she was and the attack would have been mercifully quick. He looked at her skin, it yellow under the light and couldn't contain the urge to press it, feeling the cold flesh resist his probing finger before he pulled back from it. 

                The most macabre piece of the attack was the removal of her head and flaps of skin hung free from her neck and covered the windpipe as it hung down over the void where he head would have been. Again, this mercifully looked post-mortem too as he reasoned it would have been hard to chop the neck so cleanly if she'd been alive and struggling.

                For all the death before him he found himself becoming hungry and he licked his lips before he cut the twine holding her ankles and was surprised that they didn't drop free.  Some level of rigger had set it and he pushed them apart before dripping olive oil over her chest. 

                "How long do I put it in the oven for, Michelle?"

                "Weigh it first." the voice shouted from the other room. "Twenty minutes a pound plus an extra one, Gas mark 180. I'll do the Roast potatoes later."

The last Hurrah.

Terry finished his tea and placed the cup carefully on the table beside him, there was something not quite right, something at the corner of his vision kept playing tricks with him. He looked over at his book shelves, so many books, so many adventures not completed. He was proud of his work, the books had obviously given him finances to write, but it was the joy of creating that had always made him happiest.

He turned his head to the left and looked at something that wasn’t there, he hadn’t seen it a few minutes earlier either, but he knew it was something small, something blue and red was moving round the sides of his room swearing as it knocked into things.

                “Hello!” he called. “Who’s there?” The silence that answered was filled with so many things holding their breath that he smirked to himself. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.” He chuckled, and could hear movement behind his chair, muffled voices followed by a slap sound and more cursing before the bookcase nearby shook slightly.

                He found it odd that he wasn’t afraid, he didn’t feel the need to call out, to worry, he actually found himself enjoying the experience immensely, the Nac Mac Feegles were no worry to him, he had scotch in the sideboard if anything went wrong but at the moment the sun shone through his window and he smiled.

                A book fell from his bookshelf, well more flew half way across the room and it impacted heavily against the wall before dropping spine down onto the floor.  “Careful now.” He chastised whatever had thrown it, “You don’t treat books like that.” He stood up and walked over to it, bending down carefully he stopped.

                “Oh it’s you.” he grinned. “Whatever are you doing in there?”

                “Ook!”

                “Really.”

                “Oook. Ooook!”

                “Okay. Calm down, there’s no rush, you’d best give me a hand then.” Terry reached down and grabbed the warm leathery hand that greeted him, pulling him inside and as the book shut, two blue figures wearing kilts ran hell for leather after him and dived inside. The world span and the first thing that hit him was the smell, it smelt of cabbage, of rot and filth, but then he opened his eyes and the stench seemed to vanish away. The cobbled streets were lined with people, all standing silently watching him, each one nodded, curtsied or in the case of Gaspode, stopped licking his balls long enough to look up and wag its tale.

                “Welcome to your City, Sir.” Captain Carrot saluted, Nobby Knobs stopped picking his nose and looked sheepishly at him before wiping his finger on his uniform and tried to salute.

                “This is all very unexpected.” Terry smiled as Carrot led him along the street. “Even the witches have come out.”

                “Everyone’s here for you, Sir. Even Blind Io came down, but he got confused and fell into the Ankh.”

                “Oh!”

                “At least he’s a god. You don’t need a miracle though to walk on the Ankh, Sir. You know that.” They walked on, the people silently falling in behind them after they passed by, and he stopped and turned to look at them. Each one was a friend, each one smiled and nodded respectfully as he surveyed them.

                “We need to get moving, Sir.” Carrot took him by the arm, “There will be time to see everyone later, but for now the Patrician awaits for you.”

                “Oh, Oh yes, Okay, we don’t want to keep him waiting I suppose.” Terry started to speed up, the Patrician was not someone to be kept waiting, and a few minutes later they arrived at the palace gates and they swung open, the guards standing proudly in a line leading up to the main doors.

                “I’ll hand over to the Commander from here, Sir. Can I just say what a pleasure it is seeing you in the flesh as it were, if you know what I mean.”

                “It’s an honour for me too, Captain, I can assure you.” Terry shook him by the hand, hiding the wince as he felt bones being crushed and he was pleased to see Commander Vimes walking over, the batter cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth.

                “The Patrician is waiting at the top of the stairs.” The commander smiled and they walked up silently.

                “Commander.” Terry stopped half way. “I’m in my dressing gown aren't I”

                “So you are, Sir. Very fetching it is too can I add. I do have your hat for you here, it thankfully does not say `Wizzard` on it, He took it from him and placed it reverently on his head and that seemed to be the end of that. The Patrician stood as they approached and walked over, shaking him by the hand he turned and gestured to the palace behind him.

                “Your house awaits you, Sire.” He could see the look of wonder on Terry’s face so continued, “I have been merely holding your seat until you arrived. You are here now, so my job is done. Your people await you.” Terry slowly turned and looked down the steps at all the faces below, so many faces, so many stories.

                In his room the book was picked up by a thin skeletal hand, the cheers of the crowd finally stopped as the book was closed and it was returned to its place on the bookshelf.

“WELL, THAT WAS A GOOD END.” THE VOICE OF DEATH BOOMED. “I WONDER IF HE LIKES CURRY.”

Change of Days, the first in a series of books based in the UK after a global disaster is available now on Amazon and Waterstones.

It's a gritty, realistic view of life up to, and after the event when we realised we're not the dominate force we thought we were.

Feedback requested.

THERE'S A MONSTER IN THE CELLAR. (POEM)

 “There’s a monster in the cellar.” Little Timmy said.

“Whenever I go down there, I know it wants me dead.”

“Shush now.” said his mother. “Don’t be daft you see.”

“There’s nothing in this house other than your dad, you and me”

But little Timmy watched and waited for his time,

He knew that one day soon that beast would cross that line.

“They’d fine me in a pile.” He said. “Just guts and blood and bone,

And then they’ll feel real sorry, for leaving me at home”.

“I’ll get that beast.” Smirked Timmy as he sat inside his room,

“I’ll make the damp dark cellar, into the beasties tomb”

So out he pulled some paper, and while sitting on his bed

did start to draw a master plan to make the monster dead.

So on one dull damp Sunday, little Timmy started on the trap,

Praying that the wee beastie would be taking a little nap.

He utilised the tools, he needed for the plan

And although he was afraid, he had to act the man.

Laying out the pins, at the top of cellar stairs,

Hoping to catch the monster as it came up, unawares.

Then with all the power tools that his father kept inside,

He set them in a pattern to ensure the creature died.

Felling rather smug he retired to his room.

Knowing that the beast would come hunting all too soon.

And he lay there on his bed, waiting for the wails

As the nasty beastie on the tools it did impale.

He needed not wait long, less than an hour of time did pass.

When from down below, a noise did come at last.

The screams and roars from downstairs made him cringe and feel quite sad.

For not the noise of beast did rise, but the wails of his dear dad.

No longer afraid of the beastie, he jump onto the floor,

listening to the anger that filter through his door.

Down the stairs he pelted, to see what he had done.

Facing his dear father as he stared back at his son.

“Why have you built this?” his mother did despair.

Forgetting about the dinner as she rushed to comb her hair.

“We must get him to the doctors”, she shouted on the run.

With images of the physician as she put her lipstick on.

Rushing to the car, a tea towel round his head.

Little Timmy feel real bad. He didn’t want his father dead.

Sitting very quietly as his mother drove along.

Knowing that his punishment would not be very long.

Once at the young doctors, he bandaged up his dad.

And he waited with his mother, feeling ashamed and very sad.

His plan was very simple, just to kill that dreadful beast

That lived deep in his cellar, waiting for a feast.

An hour of so did pass, until they drove back down their road

His mother looking angry, little Timmy she would scold.

But then she stopped so sudden that his dad did curse and Nash.

The fire brigade stood waiting, there house was turned to ash.

“Someone left the gas on” the fireman did declare.

“The explosion blew your roof off, thirty foot into the air.”

“We got her pretty quick, despite the dreary weather,

But why ever did you keep the bear inside your cellar”

Upon the fresh cut lawn lay the body of the beast.

Well some of what was left, its chest and arm at least.

Little Timmy felt quite proud of the vision he could see.

It’s soul may have gone to heaven, but its guts hung from the tree.

“I told you Mum, I told you” little Timmy did repeat

“That beast was down right nasty.” as his kicked around its feet

“If you hadn’t left the gas on, then my meat it would have picked”

“Eating up my body, and my bones it would have licked”

“I’m sorry” said his mother “that we didn’t really believe”

As she looked at all the bloodstains that had splattered the leaves.

“We really should have trusted you”, his father did declare

as a lump of meat fell, with a splat from out the air.

So now we have a new house, all sparkling and repaired.

They filled in the damp cellar, removing the creaky stairs.

I really should have mentioned that its brother lives here to

But I have a plan to get it; it’s hidden in the loo.

THE BURGER

No. 62 

THE BURGER.

By Ian Hawley

Rob put his tray on the table and sat down with a sigh. “I don’t like this seat. We can’t see outside.”

“It’s the cleanest table in here.” Farrah shrugged as she opened her burger and started to pick bits of gherkin out, dropping them onto the edge of the tray.

            “If you didn’t want Gherkin, you should have said.” Ian replied as he picked the piece up and put them on his. “I don’t know why you don’t like them to be honest. It’s just a pickle.”

            “It’s the same reason she doesn’t eat mushrooms, she thinks they’re slimy, like eating slugs.”

            “They are.” Farrah objected. “And I am sat right here you know.” She said as she continued to pick pieces of lettuce and onion from her food.

            “What did you get?” Rob asked, peering at the burger. “There’s a lot of cheese on that.”

            “It’s to disguise the flavour.” Ian smirked. “Processed cheese never changes.”

            “I had a dream about you guys last night.” Rob interrupted. “You ever get those dreams when you stuck in an old job you used to hate and you can’t figure out why you are still there?”

            “No.” Ian shook his head. “My dreams are usually about food.”

            “Explains a lot.” Farrah smiled as Ian threw a half cooked French Fry at her. “I don’t dream. Never have.”

            “Never!” Ian looked shocked, “You most probably do but don’t remember them then.”

            “No.” Farrah shook her head again. “Well, not for a...”

            “Excuse me. I was talking.” Rob interrupted, bringing the conversation back on his track. “It wasn’t open to general debate.” They both fell silent.

            “That’s better.” He grinned. “Anyway, I was stuck in my old job and I ended up killing my old boss.”

            “How?” Ian asked. “How did you kill them?”

            “Boredom?” Farrah suggested with a smirk.

            “No, I pushed him out of the window.” Rob chuckled. “Watched him fall to his doom from the fifth floor, what do you think that means?

            “Well, for me it means I’m not falling asleep near you.” Ian replied as he pushed more fries into his mouth.

            “Maybe you need a break” Farrah suggested. “Maybe you’re looking for something simpler out of life.”

            “You think?”

            “Don’t know really. I don’t dream, remember.”

            “If I was to kill my boss I’d poison there food.” Ian offered as he wiped ketchup from his chin. “Eat up Farrah.”

            “Na, I don’t want to finish this anyway. Even my drink is flat. I don’t know why we continue to come here.”

            “It’s because the front door is lockable and the windows haven’t been smashed in yet.” Ian replied. “And if you don’t like my cooking then you can do it next time.”

            There was banging on the doors downstairs and Rob pulled his bloodied machete from its sheath. “I told you I didn’t like not seeing outside.”

            “Come on then.” Farrah pushed the tray away from her. “There can’t be more than twenty zombies out there. That’s not really an issue.”

            “Yeah, I guess not. Same time next week?” Rob asked.

            “Sure.” Ian swung his baseball bat round as he warmed himself up. In the distance he could see more of the dead shuffling towards them. “Remember to limber up, a sprain could kill you.”

            “So could your cooking.” Farrah laughed as she led the way downstairs. “Last one to kill a zombie cooks next week.”