My two favorite things: Midsomer Murders, and zombies. I thought, "Why not mix the two?" Just for fun, and a side project when I become bored with my other Jonesfic. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot!
They're everywhere. Some have their lips curled back (or what's left that hasn't decayed), revealing yellowed, rotting teeth, gnashing them in his general direction; they run at him like rabid animals. Others are so far into decomposition that their bodies, from the waist down, are completely rotted off (or gnawed off, he can't tell), entrails trailing behind them in the dirt while they claw their way to him with boney, bloodied fingers. Some just stand and hiss at him, preparing to charge. What could possibly make this anymore horrifying? He knows these...no, they can no longer be called people, for they're hardly even shadows of who they used to be.
Some of them are right on his heels, proving all those stupid horror films he'd seen wrong. They're not sluggish and ridiculously easy for the hero to kill, oh no. These...things...are as fast as able-bodied, full-out athletes, pushing him past limits even his police training had set for him. He's running so quickly, so rapidly, that he can't feel his heart ramming against his chest like an AK-47 (oh, what he'd give for one of those right now), or hear it rushing in his ears. His lungs are burning like the biggest bonfire, unable to supply him with oxygen fast enough. His legs, too, are oxygen-deprived, screaming for him to stop. His vision is becoming black and fuzzy around the edges, but he knows that to take a break, even if just for a few seconds, is signing his death warrant.
One of the creatures lunges at him, its bloodied hand catching the hem of his pant leg. He stumbles, running doubled over. Another one lunges, successfully forcing him down. His left shoulder blade connects with the pavement, tearing open his jacket and t-shirt and eating away at his skin. He rolls a few times, then uses the momentum to force himself back up and into a run. Someone darts out from behind a vehicle, apparently having been in hiding. Unfortunately, he isn't as fast as Benjamin Jones, born in Wales, raised in England. The creatures pull the same tactic on him as they did the policeman, ripping out his esophagus and then internal organs once he's down on the pavement, buying Ben some time.
He takes refuge in the fastest-looking vehicle he can find, frantically locking all the doors. He just lays out in the back seat, then, wheezing, bleeding-out onto the white, leather interior. The sounds in the world around him are terrible. That man, no older than twenty that had been tackled, is being ripped to nothing. He can hear bones snapping, ligaments and muscle being torn, blood and organs splattering on the pavement. The whole scene reminds him of lions destroying pray, and it's enough to make him roll over and throw up.
He climbs into the driver's seat when he's done, laying a lead foot on the gas pedal after hot wiring. He doesn't even bother trying to swerve when a few of the infected race out in front of him, cringing as they thud against the hood of the deep red Mustang. Survival. Strictly survival. He tells himself. Besides, they're not people anymore...and there's no cure as far as we know. I'm doing them a favor...I guess.
A shaky hand reaches to the radio, turning it on with a beep. After scanning a few channels, he finally finds one with just little enough static to understand. "Out numbered...Whole of England...Few...Refuge...Ep-...A-..." All goes to static. He turns it off, not even bothering to find a music channel to calm his nerves.
Just had to go to Liverpool this weekend. He thinks. How did this even start? Where did it start? When? Why? All he can do is drive, eyes peeled, nerves on edge, and hope that there's somewhere safe to rest...and that the people back home aren't infected...yet.
I know it's short. I wanted to give you a taste to see if you liked it or not. Yes, zombies and Midsomer. Like it? Please let me know! Your reviews are the wood to my fire!
