No Zombies Please We Are British by Alex Laybourne Page A

on the belt unyielding.
    Jack slammed the door again and the arm broke, the bones crunching from the impact. The skin tore like that of a piece of overripe fruit. The fingers were still locked, but with the head and now the body gone, Jack felt safe to act. Grabbing the severed limb in his hand, flinching at the cold touch of the flesh, he yanked and tore it loose. He threw it to the floor and gunned the gas once more just as the two remaining creatures stumbled to the back of the car.
    They stood in the background as Jack drove away. They did not give chase, but simply turned around and wandered away, each going their own separate direction.
    Jack tried to focus on the road, but his heart was racing. He was slick with sweat, and his vision kept blurring as wave after wave of nauseating stomach cramps washed over him.
    Jack turned his head to the side as a thick expulsion of green vomit surged from his gut. It shot from his throat like a hurled projectile, splattering the passenger-side window. The first burst missed the seat completely, but the second took care of it, making up for the first attempt by soaking the fabric with thick, sour-smelling disgorge.
    Ignoring the growing stench in the car, Jack focused on the road, and avoiding the ever-growing crowd of the undead who seemed increasingly interested in his minivan. His car of choice was admittedly a poor one.
    It was at least fourteen years old, and made more noise than an old Skoda trying to start on a cold morning. However, it was all he had, and as long as it kept him moving towards the city and Sarah, Jack did not care.
    The ride didn’t last long. While the shaking, rattling, but somehow still-rolling beast managed to draw the attention of the roaming undead, it also had the added bonus of warranting longing glances from the living.
    Not fifteen minutes after his journey began, Jack was forced to test the car’s brakes. He was travelling at around sixty, not caring much for the sad, red, electronic faces that were trying to guilt him into slowing his speed.
    The kid appeared from nowhere. He said kid, but in reality they were in their mid-teens, and closer to his age than he would want to admit. The girl, who had the look of one significantly older, and above the age of consent that she surely was, stood in the middle of the road. Her rather large, early developed breasts were sheathed by a red lace bra. Her lower half was dressed in a matching pair of red lace hipster briefs. Her ribs were coloured with bruises, and even in the dim light of morning and the glaring light of the car’s headlights, Jack could see the outline of the fist that had delivered many of the blows.
    “Stop,” she called, her hands raised above her head.
    His heart had leaped into his throat where it continued to pound like a son of a bitch.
    Jack opened the car door, his first instinct being to bring the girl inside the car and get to safety. The second instinct, the one that came too late, was to duck.
    The fist came from out of nowhere, or so it seemed. As large as a saucepan, it smacked against the side of Jack’s head and turned out his lights. By the time he hit the road, he was vaguely aware of where he was, but it was already too late.
    The girl screamed as the large man grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the car.
    “We can’t leave him,” she protested, but a savage backhand across her face shut her up. She fell into the car, and the hulking beast that was her keeper followed suit.
    “Hey,” Jack stammered. The left-hand side of his face was on fire, and the words he got out sounded more like the early babblings of a newborn than the occasionally eloquent wordings of an adult.
    The man gave no answer. He did, however, turn to look at Jack. His bald head played host to an angry face with thick, black eyebrows, which slanted inwards with the same level of aplomb as a cartoon villain. His forehead was enormous and his eyes deep set and black. His large jaw seemed to