Zombie Nerd and the Half Term Harrowing

By Jack Callaghan

The 'zombie apocalypse' is over and has been for some time. As the country tries to recover from the chaos, zombies and survivors live in as close to harmony as they're able, but old divisions continue to bubble beneath the surface. Ronnie Thanatos isn't a very good zombie. He suffers from the usual trappings that come with being a member of the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Punk Wasp Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9781916756106

Book preview

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‘Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so.’

—John Donne.

THE END?

The Zombie apocalypse was over and had been for some time. Zombification, it turned out, was permanent, but the ferocious, flesh-eating madness that came with it was not.

It varied between individuals, but within six months to a year the dreadful rage of undeath disappeared, leaving an enormous percentage of the population wandering about, trying to figure out what on Earth had happened and why they were no longer allowed to enter the towns and cities which they called home.

What remained of the government soon found itself under increasing pressure from envoys of the newly formed Zombie rights movement ‘C.O.R.P.S.E’ (Community of Reanimated Persons Seeking Equality) to take military action against those who called themselves ‘Survivors’ and were still going around attacking any Zombie that dared to approach their settlements.

Those in power, and this was a power over which they’d only just managed to maintain a tentative hold, were having none of it and did everything they could to make sure that Zombies and Survivors were forced to live in total segregation for what seemed like obvious reasons.

Still, there eventually came a point where it could no longer be ignored that members of the newly emerged Zombie population were, even in undeath, still British citizens, and they began to demand the same rights and privileges that they’d enjoyed in full-life.

This turned out to be a very tricky situation for the government, as there were a great many laws and acts that, by their very wording, specifically required that a citizen be alive in the legal, if not biological, sense of the term.

The Zombie-only zones of the country were terrible places; shut off from even the most basic of amenities, forcing those held within them to scratch out pitiful existences among burned out buildings and heaps of rubbish.

The Survivors weren’t having a much better time. Several years of out and out lawlessness, during which they’d turned upon each other just as quickly as they had the undead, had brought the country’s infrastructure to its knees. There was simply no way that two separate societies could function apart from one-another, though fed, watered and powered from the same sources.

One senior government minister spoke highly of instating new ‘Zombie-friendly’ laws to at least improve the lot of the poor Zombies, but many undead citizens were somewhat dubious about his claims, as it was later leaked that in the early and chaotic days of the outbreak, he had actually been a notorious Zombie hunter known as ‘The Bow Street Beheader’. He’d quickly found himself relegated to the backbench and, along with his ideas for reform, was seldom heard from again.

The entire population was, both literally and figuratively, split in two. Many Survivors, the turmoil of the outbreak still fresh in their minds, stood firmly on the anti-integration platform, whereas just as many joined with the Zombies and called out for equal treatment, stating that nowhere in the universal declaration of human rights does it say that a human must be ‘Fully Alive’ in order for said rights to apply; pointing specifically to rule 113 of the international humanitarian laws, which prohibits mistreatment of the deceased.

At this point, it was still unknown how the rest of the world was dealing with the problem, or even if they were having to at all. Word from overseas came infrequently, so the British government finally came to the decision that its people should lead by example and extend a hand of friendship to its newly technically deceased citizens.

‘New research reveals Zombie urges are a social construct!’ newspaper headlines soon declared. ‘Zombie civil rights leaders call for, Work, bread, and no bashes on the head.’

Not everyone was sure what to make of this, so they decided to find out for themselves. All over the country, great scores of Survivors simply approached the fences, walls and barricades separating them from their previous friends, co- workers and even family members, and plainly asked, See here. Now that you’ve got your head screwed on properly again. If we let you back over to this side, there’s not going to be any more of that rampaging hordes business, is there?

The replies turned out to be just as simple.

Of course not, old boy. I just want to make sure that no-one’s burned my house down.

The Zombie apartheid was then officially ended and, contrary to the opinions still held by some stubborn, anti-Zombie groups, the undead and the living began to co-exist in harmony. At least on the surface.

The cricket bats, machetes, brainers, and bommy-knockers had all been stashed away in wardrobes and tool sheds, along with the secret shame felt by some of those who had wielded them.

The Zombies had their various social gatherings and support groups, though none of them felt the need to assemble into anything that could be described as a ‘Horde’ or go on any sort of ‘Rampage.’

Even so, there remained out of sight, though never out of mind, the ever-burning sense of mistrust between the two sides. Though they tried their best, it was often difficult to white-wash over what had taken place in still relatively recent memory.

Morning there, George. Nice weather we’re having. Gosh, I’ve not seen you since back at the beginning, when you chased me up market street, screaming like a banshee.

"Well, you did land me a good lick with that spade of yours, Bill. So, how’s the wife?"

Despite all of this, both life and un-life went on.

CHAPTER 1

The problem Ronnie Thanatos had was that he wasn’t a very good Zombie. Zombies were supposed to be scary. All the other Zombie kids were scary. Well, at least they had their image down to a tee after sometimes years of rehearsal. Try as he might, Ronnie could never keep up with them, no matter how hard he practiced.

He’d spent hours, pacing up and down his room, attempting to perfect his lurching shuffle. After discovering that the bathroom was the best place in the house to produce an echo, he’d worked on his blood-curdling groan, while staring into the mirror trying to twist his face into a dreadful grimace. He didn’t like shuffling and lacked the posture for it. Also, even for a thirteen- year-old, he had a strangely high-pitched voice, which made his moan sound anything but ghoulish.

He did have everything else that came ‘Naturally’ with being a member of the undead. The hollow, sunken eyes, turned into seemingly bottomless chasms due to the almost half-inch- thick lenses of his glasses, the pallid skin, which often changed colour from a sickly grey to a mottled blue, depending on the weather; Zombie flesh being, like leaves on trees and novelty ties, very much a seasonal thing.

There were stitches at both of his elbows now where, due to various accidents, his arms had been pulled off and his mum had sewn them back on for him. He also had a few stitches through his lips, keeping the two sides of his mouth together. Without them, his cheeks had a habit of splitting open, which was a real hassle.

He sometimes tried to spike his hair into a frightful crown, like the other Zombie kids, though this never quite had the desired effect. His mum had often said that it made him look as though he had a black spider-plant on his head. Ronnie had never heard of anything as nightmare inducing as a spider-plant and was troubled at the thought of resembling one.

Like most of the undead kids his age, Ronnie couldn’t remember not being a Zombie. Maybe he’d been born one—if that was possible. He wasn’t sure. Both of his parents were Zombies, but they’d been around before the ‘Outbreak’, as the adults called it, so they must have once been fully alive. Ronnie could only ever remember being a Zombie, albeit a rather sucky one, and there was nothing he could do about it.

This was one of the first things they were taught at school. Survivors can become Zombies, but Zombies cannot become Survivors. In truth, none of them, Zombie or Survivor, fully understood such a complex idea, but the basics were set in stone, and this gave birth to the simple and universal peace treaty between Survivors and Zombies of, ‘No Fighting! No Biting!’ This had held firm ever since. Not a single Survivor had been infected since the Zombie and Survivor communities had been merged, and not a single Survivor had felt the need to harm a Zombie. At least not seriously.

Ronnie didn’t get on with either the Zombie or the Survivor kids. The Survivors saw him as just another Zombie, and his fellow undead students saw him as too much of a geek, due to him not being as Zombie-like as they were.

Ronnie, instead, kept himself to himself. During break times, he’d retreat to the school library and read books on all sorts of different subjects, while his fellow students took part in their usual break time games. These usually consisted of the Zombie kids chasing the Survivor kids around the sports field in a mock version of an undead take-over. Ronnie’s quiet studies would often be broken by shrill cries and the yelling of teachers, issuing commands such as, "Jamie, Robert, can you please stop pulling Oliver’s legs? Can’t you see you’re making him uncomfortable?"

Ronnie buried his head back in his book, lost in his readings about some pre-outbreak guy who was known for shaking spears. He had a lot of cool ideas, but it seemed that not a lot of spear shaking took place in any of his writing. Ronnie liked him but sometimes found him a bit difficult to understand. To the point that, if he were ever at a total loss over something, he’d think, ‘This is getting far too Spear Shaky’.

Hey, Ronnie, get your snozz out of that book. It’s home time. Last day before half term, and you’re in the bloody library! You’re hopeless!

Ronnie looked up to see the smiling face of his friend, Nate Baldwin, looking at him from around the library door. Not only was Nate a Survivor, he was Ronnie’s only real friend. They’d known each other for as long as they each could remember, and he’d been one of the only people who had stuck by Ronnie through thick and thin. Ronnie didn’t see Nate as a Survivor friend, but rather as a friend who just happened to be a Survivor. The whole Zombie-Survivor thing never came up between them. They were mates, and he guessed that was all that mattered.

Nate had a shock of golden-blonde hair and bright blue eyes, which were a total contrast to Ronnie’s dark brown, almost black hair and equally dark, sunken eyes. He was bright in every way that Ronnie was dull. Nate’s general attitude was just as much of a contrast. He always seemed to be excited, though he never took anything too seriously. His face was usually set into a smile, but his smile had several settings, ranging from a grin of sheer joy to a fiendish smirk of misrule.

Is it that time already? Ronnie asked, looking up from his book to the clock on the wall. I must have gotten carried away.

Come on, then, dude, said Nate, walking swiftly over to Ronnie and grabbing him by the forearm. Let’s get outta here before we end up locked in!

Ronnie set his book aside as Nate hauled him to his feet, deciding that the old Spear Shaker could wait until the following week. Leaving the library, they quickly found themselves amongst a throng of other kids headed towards the rear exit of the school, all of them just as eager as Nate to get out of there. The crush thinned out once they were on the other side of the door. Many of the kids darted off as soon as they could, not looking back for an instant, but just as many hung around outside in the yard, chatting enthusiastically and, no doubt, making plans for the glorious week of freedom that lay ahead.

Ronnie looked around and saw that, as usual, most of the groups were separated into Zombies and Survivors; at one side of the yard was a gang of four Zombie boys, decked out in butt-sagging black jeans, band T-shirts and jackets held together with safety pins, at the other side were three Survivor guys, their jeans tight and well fitting, their hands dug into the front pockets of hoodies that looked to be several sizes too big. These were the uniforms by which they let their status be known.

Ronnie looked down at his own jeans. Yes, they were pretty loose fitting, but they didn’t have any rips, patches, or one of those cool, knee- length wallet chains. Indeed, his hoodie was much too large for him, but his mum had told him that he’d grow into it. This also meant that the hood was far too big and loose, so it couldn’t be used as a mysterious, face shadowing cowl, like those worn by the Survivor kids. Instead, it would simply flop all the way over his face, so he couldn’t see where he was going. Mysterious, but not exactly practical.

"What are you gawking at?" one of the Survivors said upon spotting Ronnie.

Oh, err, nothing, Ronnie mumbled, his eyes quickly finding his shoes. Red baseball shoes with white laces; also not very fashionable. He looked around for Nate, who’d wandered off towards the gate, and jogged towards him. Nate was standing with two other Survivor guys, but they wrinkled their noses when they saw Ronnie approaching.

Anyway, one of them said, clearly cutting a sentence short. We’ll see you around, Nate. Got to get going.

Right. See ya, said Nate and turned to see what had driven them off.

There was Ronnie, his beaten-up satchel hanging from his shoulder, glasses askew and looking nervous, as always. Nate gave a high, ringing laugh, slung an arm around Ronnie’s back and led him through the gate.

The alleyway at the rear of the school went around a curve and into streets made up of terraced houses. Most of the residential areas of the town were like this, especially those which housed Zombie folks.

The town of Mickle Cyme had been known by a different name before the outbreak, though those who’d been around at that time never spoke of it. Instead, they’d decided to start over. A new town, with a newly integrated population and a new name to top it off. It being far from any major population centres, the town had remained more or less untouched by the chaos of the outbreak, making it a perfect place for civilisation to begin again. Once the electricity was back up and running, even though it was terribly unreliable, those who had decided to settle there really did start to feel as though things were getting back to normal.

True, they were forced to let go of a great many things which they’d enjoyed in the time before, but these eventually faded from memory. If they couldn’t remember them, most people concluded, then they couldn’t have been all that important.

Nobody drove cars anymore; after all, where would they want to go? Out into the badlands beyond the town, where all sorts of nastiness might still be going on? No, thank you. Besides, what little fuel arrived on the armoured backs of the bi-monthly, government supply lorries had to be carefully rationed amongst only the most vital of vehicles. Thus, the roads and streets had been cleared of all the redundant cars and vans, leaving a wonderful feeling of openness throughout the town.

Ronnie and Nate were making the most of this openness as they headed home. Much of their journey took them along wide, main roads, and they were accompanied by other groups of kids going the same way. There was only one part of the walk that they approached with caution; a creepy underpass that took them below a dual carriageway. The walls were covered in white paint, which hadn’t been renewed in years, so that it had turned a sickening yellow, adorned with years of overlapping graffiti and peeling off in patches where the rain had leaked through from the road above. It was around a hundred yards long and got pretty dark three quarters of the way through. This was the spookiest part, as not only was it difficult to see anything, but it also marked the point of no return. If anything was lurking down there, they’d have to simply bolt for the opposite side as quickly as they could.

A year or so before, they’d found it blocked by a pile of upturned and twisted shopping trollies, Nate getting quite a nasty cut across his leg from a snapped spoke when they’d tried to clamber through them. It had been cleared since then, and they used it every morning and evening. Still, they always made sure to take a moment to check for any potential perils before entering it.

It looks clear to me, said Nate.

They stepped into the tunnel and made their way forwards. When they were a few yards in, they began to quicken their pace until they were almost at a jog. When they were halfway through, they found themselves laughing, the sound echoing down the tunnel.

Suddenly, Ronnie heard a thud, followed by a cry from Nate.

Are you alright? he called back as he slid to a stop and spun on his heels, assuming that Nate must have fallen over. Though, as he turned, he saw three silhouettes, standing over Nate’s crumpled form. They’d been waiting the whole time, pressed against the walls so that they couldn’t be seen from the entrance.

Oi! Ronnie yelled, starting towards them.

You rotters! What did you do that for?

Look who it is, came a voice from one of the three. Old Specky-Stitches himself and his blood-bag friend. What a pleasant surprise.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Ronnie was able to get a better look at the three. Jamie and his right-hand man, Robbo. Ronnie couldn’t remember the third kid’s real name. He thought that it may be Tom or Josh, something with an O in it, but couldn’t be certain; he was known to everyone as Puke. Ronnie wasn’t sure of the origin of this strange moniker, but he must have been happy with it. In fact, even on the most formal of occasions, such as a teacher taking the register, he refused to answer to anything else.

Ronnie then saw that Jamie had his foot on Nate’s shoulder and was stopping him from getting up.

Get off him! he demanded, taking a step forward.

Oh, yeah? said Jamie. "Or else what? What are you gonna do? Why do you even hang out with this guy? What’s it to you if we bop open his bonce and eat his brain?"

At first, this frightened Ronnie enough to stop him in his tracks. Zombies didn’t really do things like that, did they?

You can’t do that, he said, an ever so slight tone of defiance in his voice. You know what happens if a Zombie hurts a Survivor. The Plague Doctors will come and get you.

The three all howled with laughter; Jamie throwing his head back, placing a fist on his hip, and still not budging his foot from Nate’s shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground, like a hunter gloating over his fallen prey.

You don’t believe that, do you? he said, still chuckling horribly. Man, how old are you, Thanatos? There’s no such thing as Plague Doctors!

The story of the Plague Doctors was a tale told to instil fear in Zombie kids from a young age, when even ‘No Fighting! No Biting!’ may be a bit too complex. It was simple; if you did anything untoward, then the Plague Doctors would come and get you. It seemed to cover a whole spectrum of behaviour, from the bashing open of heads to going to bed on time.

Ronnie had always seen it as being rather unfair. Survivor kids had Big Henry Winter, the Choc-egg Crocodile, and the Tooth Dragon. Zombie kids had the Plague Doctors. One side got promises, the other got threats.

After their laughter had died down, Jamie clicked his fingers at his two cronies.

Right, he said and pointed towards Ronnie. Grab him, lads.

The two made towards Ronnie, but Nate flung out his arms and grabbed Robbo by the ankle, causing him to fall into Puke and sending them both tumbling over.

You dirty little spooglet! Jamie snarled, finally removing his foot from Nate’s shoulder in order to bring it round and kick him in the ribs. Ronnie, plucking up what small courage he had, darted forward and shoved Jamie in the chest as hard as he could. It wasn’t enough to knock him over, but he was put far enough off balance to thwart his kick, giving Nate the chance to hop to his feet. As he did so, he grabbed Ronnie by the shirt.

Come on, leg it!

They both sped towards the exit of the tunnel, with Jamie cursing after them.

I’ll get you, you pair of crumbers! he growled. When there’s no-one around to see. I’ll get the both of you!

After escaping from the tunnel, they continued at a run for a little longer, just in case any of the trio had decided to give chase, not slowing down until they were satisfied there was no danger.

Wow, said Nate, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. What a way to start half term.

They were … Ronnie stammered. He wasn’t out of breath, as he, of course, didn’t need it, but the fright had knocked the voice from him, nonetheless. They were going to eat you!

No, they weren’t, said Nate with a chuckle.

They were! Ronnie insisted. You heard what they said. They were going to crack open your head and eat your brain!

They were just trying to scare us. Bunch of daft Gopniks, said Nate. "Besides, like you said, if they had tried, then the Plague Doctors would have come and got them."

"But what if there aren’t such things as Plague Doctors?"

As far as I know, there are, said Nate. Have you ever seen one?

No. Have you?

Err, well, no, Ronnie pondered. I mean, I’ve seen them in books.

Well, there you go, said Nate with a grin. "If they’re in books, then they must be real, and you know more about books than anyone."

It doesn’t really work like that, said Ronnie, with a twist of his lips.

Sure, it does, said Nate. Now, anyway, I’m gonna go down this way. He pointed at the left road of the junction they’d arrived at. Nate lived a few streets away from Ronnie, in a mostly Survivor neighbourhood. I’ll go home for dinner, then I’ll come round yours later.

Okay, Ronnie agreed, looking the opposite way towards his own home street.

Oh, and, Ronnie! Nate called after him as he walked away. Cheer up, will you! It’s not the end of the world, you know!

CHAPTER 2

Ronnie burst through the front door and slammed it behind him.

Hey, hey! What’s all that about? he heard his mum call from the kitchen. One of these days, you’re going to take that door right off of its hinges!

Leave me alone! Ronnie yelled back as he flung his satchel into the living room and marched up the stairs. He gave his bedroom door a similar treatment to the front door, earning another cry of, Ronnie, please! from downstairs. He threw himself onto his bed and wrapped one of the pillows in half around his head. There was no dinner on the cards for him that night. Zombies didn’t need to eat anywhere near as often as Survivors, so this gave him more time to brood.

Stupid, horrible sods, he snarled into the muffling fabric of the pillow. Rotten, stinking, Gopniks. Just like Nate said. He then hurled the pillow across his room, striking one of the many posters which adorned the walls.

Looking back at Ronnie from this poster were the leering faces of Ken Ghoul and his Unstoppable Horde, Britain’s premier Zombie Punk band. Those guys were real Zombies. The kind of Zombies Ronnie so longed to be. Not awful, bullying Zombies like Jamie, but still the real, undead deal. Ken and the Horde had caused a whole heap of controversy after being selected as the only all Zombie act to perform at the first, post-outbreak Royal Variety Performance. They’d deeply offended the Survivor members of the prestigious audience by appearing in grave tattered attire and performing a full blast rendition of their fiercely pro-Zombie single ‘Agony in the UK’. Their Highnesses were not amused and found it to be in very bad taste. However, the Zombies in attendance loved every moment, proclaiming it to have been, ‘A real hoot.’

Ken and the Horde had once played at a theatre not far from Mickle Cyme, and Ronnie had really wanted to go, but his parents wouldn’t let him, saying things like, ‘It’s just not what good Zombies do’, and, ‘their music gives off the wrong impression. You don’t really want to be like them, do you?’. Of course, his parents didn’t understand Ken and the Horde. No grownups did. His dad, for example, only ever listened to Sebaceous Pom, who played dreary folk songs on the accordion, which, as any sane person knows, is the most evil of all instruments.

Ronnie was distracted from his thoughts by a knock at his door. Before he could give a reply, the door opened, and his dad stepped in.

Tell Mum I’m sorry that I slammed and yelled, said Ronnie, not bothering to sit up.

I’ll leave that to you, his dad replied.

Even though he could be a bit of a bore, Ronnie had always looked up to his dad. He was calm and refined. Educated and well mannered. Ronnie did possess some of these qualities too, but he couldn’t pull them off like his dad could.

What I want to know, his dad continued, "is why were you slamming and yelling?"

Because everything’s rubbish! Ronnie blurted, flipping over onto his front.

Trouble at school?

It’s total pants! Ronnie said, unable to think of a better word. Everyone there hates me!

Now, that’s not true, said his dad, sitting down on the edge of the bed. What about Nate?

That’s different, said Ronnie. He’s a Survivor. I don’t have any Zombie friends.

And why is that important? his dad asked. A friend is a friend, no matter what kind of person they are.

Ronnie gave a frustrated groan.

You don’t get it, he said. "When you were at school, everyone was a Survivor. It’s not the same now."

His dad gave a quiet laugh.

Really? he said. How’s that?

I don’t fit in with anyone! Ronnie groaned, grabbing for another pillow to seek refuge in. "All the Survivor kids pick on me and call me ‘Dead-O’ and ‘Maggot Boy,’ and all the Zombie kids pick on me and call me a ‘Wuss-Bag’ and say I’m not a real Zombie, and then they all want to beat me up!"

And you honestly think it wasn’t like that when I was at school? asked his dad. "When I was young, there were cliques and groups. Yes, perhaps they weren’t as obvious as those of Zombies and Survivors, but they were still there. What you need to remember, Ronnie, is that everyone is both completely different and all the same, at the same time. Do you understand?"

No, Ronnie replied from the depths of the pillows.

His dad gave another laugh and patted the back of Ronnie’s leg.

Don’t worry, he said. Someday, you will. Trust me.

After his dad had left the room, Ronnie turned over onto his back.

"Both different and the same, he repeated to himself in a pouting mumble. What a load of rubbish."

His dad had a habit of pulling things like this on him from time to time. In fact, he could often get quite Spear Shaky. When he was younger, if Ronnie had asked, ‘How do birds fly?’, his dad would reply with something such as, ‘Well, if they didn’t, they’d fall out of the sky. Then, where would we be?’

*

A couple of hours later, Ronnie heard a knock at the front door. Expecting it to be Nate, he jumped up from his bed and opened his bedroom door just a crack.

Hello, Nate, he heard his mum say. Come on in.

Thank you, Mrs. Thanatos, Nate replied, closing the door. Is he around?

Mr. Grumpy Guts is upstairs, said his mum, and has been since he got in.

Still in a mood, is he? asked Nate.

He is. Has something happened?

Ronnie heard Nate suck his teeth.

Kind of, he said after a short pause. We had a bit of a run in with some Zombie kids in the underpass.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, Ronnie’s mum sighed. I’ve half a mind to report them to the Squire.

Hearing this caused Ronnie to blow a rasp against his lips. He knew what would come from reporting the misdoings of Zombie kids to the Squire. A Survivor himself, the Squire was a horrible man who was in the habit of throwing around the somewhat paradoxical catchphrase, ‘The only good Zombo is a dead Zombo’. He was also Puke’s uncle. A prime example of those whose families had been split between living and undead and were often known as ‘Cloven’ families.

How many times have I told you boys not to risk going through that underpass? Ronnie's mum continued. At least Ronnie has you to keep him out of trouble.

It’s okay, said Nate. I don’t mind being around to hold his hand.

Hey! Ronnie yelled down at them. We never hold hands!

Nate gave a laugh. Still alive? he called back. Hold on. I’m coming up. He then bounded up the stairs to Ronnie’s room and burst through the door, almost sending Ronnie flying.

Watch it! he cried, rolling out of the way.

Come on, bum face, Nate laughed. Why are you still in a mope?

I’m not in a mope, Ronnie frowned, and don’t call me bum face!

"You are in a mope, said Nate. I can see it in your eyes, and your face, which looks particularly like a bum."