Alec Sillifant

DYDD OF THE LIVING DEAD

 

“The view from up here is amazing,” said Animal, leaning precariously over the tower’s wall.

“Oh yeah, stunning,” said Lemmy, looking over Animal’s shoulder, at the scene below. “That horde of rampaging, flesh eating zombies will make a great promotional postcard for Wrexham.”

“What do you reckon that building over there is?” said Animal pointing.

“Seriously? You’re talking town planning at a time like this?”

“I’m just interested,” said Animal.

Lemmy sighed. “Which one; the one that looks like a giant pair of skidders hanging on a radiator to dry?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

Lemmy shrugged his shoulders. “Swimming baths, perhaps?”

“Oh yeah, looks a bit like a wave or something,” said Animal, “and those chicks in bikinis, running around attacking people are a bit of a clue.”

“You amaze me, Animal,” said Lemmy, raising his arms in disbelief and pacing away from his mate. “Here we are, stuck on the top of a medieval church roof, surrounded by a legion of the undead, and you don’t seem bothered at all.”

“Don’t forget the ones banging at the tower door.”

“How could I,” said Lemmy, “listen to them? The only thing keeping them from getting to us is our helmets, jammed between the door and that pipe.” Groans and grunts came from behind the small wooden door, punctuated by the odd thud as a hand or head or other extremity hammered against the wood. “So what is it? What is the secret to your calm outlook when the whole town has gone mental?”

“Hey, I can see our bikes,” said Animal. “They look tiny fro-”

“What’s up? What’s the matter?” said Lemmy, running to join Animal at the wall. His face dropped as he witnessed the automotive violation going on, over 100 feet below his vantage point. “Oh no. No, no, no. I’ve only had it three weeks.” At street level, two dozen zombies had run into, and over, the brace of motorbikes parked in the church grounds, dragging them for several yards with the force of their passing. Light lenses and mirrors cracked then shattered; petrol tanks were dented and control levers twisted. From atop of St Giles’ tower, Lemmy howled like a wounded wolf. “Nooooooooo.”

Animal tutted. “Good job we’re insured, hey, mate?”

Lemmy stared at Animal’s smiling face for a few moments, with an incredulous look upon his own. “Hmm, not sure I ticked the box for zombie apocalypse and I can see some problems getting the admin sorted without having my face eaten off by the staff.”

Animal’s grin grew wider. “Can’t see this making any difference to the call centre service though, hey, mate?”

Lemmy threw his arms up and let them fall to slap against his leather clad thighs. “There you go again; Mr Bloody Jolly. Can’t you see what’s going on here? Don’t you understand how serious this mess is?”

“Of course I do, mate, but there’s not much we can do about it. Might as well enjoy the view. Hey, do you reckon it would be possible to run a zip wire from here to Debenhams?”

“Why not, Animal. I mean, we’ve already got an eager customer base; all we need now is several hundred foot of steel rope and we’re in business.” Lemmy finished his sentence with a stabbing ‘Ha!’

“No need to be like that, Lem, I was only saying.”

“Well, try saying something more constructive,” said Lemmy, pacing up and down the roof and flapping his arms like a startled pigeon. “Like coming up with a plan to get us out of here.”

Animal nodded his head and began to take stock of the situation by looking over the sides of the tower’s faces in turn. At each cardinal point he rubbed his chin before moving onto the next. After he completed his circumnavigation he walked to the small wooden door and banged his fist upon it. The groans and growls increased in volume in reply. He stuck his right index finger is his mouth to wet it and held it aloft, his face a picture of concentration. Lowering his hand he rubbed his stubble laden chin once more.

“And?” said Lemmy, his patience exhausted.

“We’re surrounded from all sides on ground level and the number of zombies is only going to increase the longer we wait. Our only exit from this tower is that door,” Animal pointed to it, “and that leads to a narrow staircase packed to the gills with more zombies than you can shake a stick at. To jump would be suicide and, as you pointed out, we haven’t got the gear to construct a zip wire.”

“So?”

“We’re screwed,” said Animal and smiled.

Lemmy clenched his fists and stomped around the roof, swearing for thirty seconds without repeating himself once. Spent of all anguish, he bent forward resting his hands on his knees.

“You okay, mate?” said Animal, patting Lemmy on the back.

“Fine,” said Lemmy, straightening up, “just getting used to my fate, walking the earth as a mindless freak, cursed for all time…or at least until I turn to dust.”

“It’s just like that painting over the arch in the church,” said Animal. “Looks like the artist was a prophet or something.”

“Painting? You mean the Doom Painting?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. All those corpses climbing out of their coffins, trying to get at that skinny, hippy looking dude.”

“That’s not quite the same, Animal, those people were being accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven; in fact this is almost the complete opposite.”

“Are you sure, Lem, because the guide didn’t get a chance to talk about it before that woman, who looked like she worked in a fast food chain, bit a chunk out of his neck? Maybe he would have told us about the curse of Wrexham?”

Lemmy walked over to the door. “Maybe we should ask him,” he said, “I’m pretty sure he was one of the buggers chasing us up the stairs. Do you reckon he might have gone off the idea of eating us by now; lost his appetite, hmmm?”

“There’s no need to be like that, I’m only trying to help.”

“Help. Trying to help. All you’re doing is being insufferably cheerful.”

“It’s better than being a miserable, negative sod.”

“And what have you got to be positive about?”

“Lots of things.”

“Like what, exactly?” spat Lemmy.

“Well, we’ve seen all seven wonders of North Wales this weekend and I’m standing on the roof of the very last one with my best mate in all the world,” said Animal. “And even if it’s the last thing I’ll probably get to do, because of the zombies and all that, it’s okay with me.” He gave the kind of heart breaking smile that a lost puppy would have been proud of.

“Oh,” said Lemmy, “if you put it like that...” There was an awkward, yet manly, pause. “Come ‘ere, you.” Lemmy took the two steps between him and Animal and hugged his friend. “Sorry for being such a dick, mate.”

Animal slapped Lemmy’s back. “No problem, mate, I’m used to it.”

“Tosser,” said Lemmy.

“Knob,” said Animal.

The two bikers separated and coughed to clear their choked throats. “So,” said Lemmy, “what are our options?”

Animal ran his hand through his long, greying hair and walked back to the edge of the tower. “We could climb down and make a break for our bikes.”

Lemmy joined his mate and studied the vertical stonemasonry, it did not look very accommodating for scaling. “Not sure. Bear Grylls might be up to the job but you and me in our bike boots with no ropes or safety net…I’m not so confident.”

“If Bear was here, he could eat his way through the zombies,” said Animal.

“Yeah, before climbing up a tree and pretending to get ready to sleep the night there until the camera gets turned off and he hits the nearest Travel Lodge.”

“Why are you always dissing Bear, mate? The dude’s a legend.”

“He’s just another bloody Etonian taking over TV; like that Henry Cole who must be the most miserable biker that ever drew breath.”

“I can think of another one,” muttered Animal.

“What?”

“Nothing. So you reckon we can’t make the climb then?”

“It’s a hell of a drop if we get it wrong,” said Lemmy, leaning over as far as he dared, which wasn’t that far. “And even if we do make it to the ground, we’ve then got to get to our bikes without getting attacked by the horde.”

“Okay,” said Animal, “you make a fair point. Another option is we unblock the door and fight our way down the stairs; they’re really narrow, so we’d only have to deal with one zombie at a time.”

“True but once we’d cleared the stairs we’d still have the problem of making a break for our bikes. Also, we have the additional problem of what we kill the zombies with; this is Wrexham, Clwyd, not Compton, California and, although we might be Bikers With Attitude, we are sorely lacking in AK47s.”

Animal unzipped one of the many pockets in his leather jacket and rummaged through for a moment before removing his hand proudly displaying a multi-blade penknife. “I’ve got this.”

“Excellent, “said Lemmy, clapping his hands together, “if a zombie has got a stone caught in their shoe, or needs a bottle of Chardonnay opening, we’re sorted.”

Animal opened the largest of the blades; it was two and half inches long. “The quickest and easiest way to the human brain is through the eye. One stab with this and bish-bash-bosh, dead zombie…a more dead zombie. I walk in the front killing zombies and you stay behind me shielded from any harm.”

“That’s very heroic of you but let me get this straight,” said Lemmy. “You want to attack the zombies with your boy scout’s machete, stabbing each of them in the eye perfectly every time, without fail?”

“It could work.”

“What if you miss? It only takes one bite from one of these mothers to turn you into one of them and then I’d have one more zombie to fight. An armed one…well, kinda armed.”

Animal lowered the unimpressive blade. “Yeah, I see what you mean, Lem, and I’d feel really bad eating you, zombie or not.”

“Glad to hear it, mate, and careful where you are if you ever say that out loud again. Any other options you can think of?”

“We sit tight and wait to be rescued.”

“I must admit, that has some appeal to it,” said Lemmy, “but there’s no guarantee that’ll happen. We don’t know how far this…thing has spread. It could be localised in Wrexham or it could be global. Maybe the army will come in and sort it out, send a helicopter to winch our asses off the tower, but if this is a Day of Judgement scenario…well, we’re screwed. Even if the door holds we will eventually die of starvation.”

“Or dehydration?” said Animal.

“We’re in North Wales, Animal, we’re more likely to drown than die of thirst.”

A pensive silence fell over the friends for a few moments before Animal spoke again. “There is a fourth way out.”

Lemmy look at his friend, who’s face had a ‘you know what I mean’ expression on it. “No,” said Lemmy. “You can’t mean…”

“Why not? It would be death on our terms,” said Animal, “meeting the Reaper face to face like men.”

“You think we should jump?”

“I’d hold your hand, if it would help?”

“No! I don’t want you to hold my hand,” said Lemmy. He began to pace a circuit of the tower.

“Think about it, Lem,” said Animal, turning his head to follow Lemmy’s circular perambulation, “it would be quick…and more dignified than being ripped apart. Or worse, getting bitten and becoming one of the zombies, roaming forever hungry and unable to die.”

“Unless someone shoves a penknife in your eye,” said Lemmy.

“It’s only an option, Lem.”

Lemmy strode purposely into Animal’s personal space. “Do you really think this is an option? We toss ourselves off?”

Animal smirked. “Well, I only offered to hold your hand but if that would make you feel braver…”

“What if we don’t die? What if we only cripple ourselves and still get eaten alive; or worse still get bitten, turn into zombies but can’t move?”

“Whoa, slow down, mate,” said Animal, gently pushing Lemmy back a pace, “you’re thinking way too much about this. If we go off head first, we’re bound to have a clean kill.”

“And how do you think we manage that?”

“It’s a well-known fact that wherever the head goes the body follows. All we need to do is get naked-”

“Get naked?!”

“The weight of our boots alone could affect the arc of our fall.”

“Can’t we just take our boots off then?”

“I suppose…”

Lemmy undid the zips on his boots and stepped out of them. In two strides he was on the top of the tower wall gripping one of the hexagonal turrets with his right hand, for balance. “Are we doing this or what?”

Animal removed his boots and joined Lemmy, his head scanning across the horizon. “I still think this is a stunning view.”

Lemmy’s eyes were fixed looking down. Down at the swarming sea of the undead and the hard, cold concrete below their scurrying feet. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Animal?”

“It’s an idea, mate.”

“And this is the best option?” said Lemmy, his throat dryer than nun’s dreams.

“It’s an option.”

“You’re not bloody helping, Animal!”

“Look, mate,” said Animal, “I’ve had a great time. I rode my bike all over North Wales, and today I even got to see the grave of the bloke who invented the lock in my front door. All the while spending time with my best mate. If I was given the choice of the day I’m going to die, this is the one I would pick.”

“You have picked it, you knob.”

Animal smiled. “I know you’re scared, mate, so am I,” he said, resting a hand on Lemmy’s shoulder, “but think of all the good times we’ve shared; all the laughs.” Animal chuckled. “Remember that time at the top of that waterfall?”

“Pistyll Rhaeadr.”

“Yeah, Pistol Rider, that was a laugh.”

“Not sure a Youtube video of you with your trousers round your ankles is a laughing matter; a police matter, maybe.”

“I had to cool down somehow, mate; it’s one hell of a sweaty climb to the top of that hill in leather kecs,” argued Animal. “Besides, I had bills on.”

“Yeah, your famous squirrel patterned ones with the ‘hands off my nuts’ warning. You’ll never live that down. Four hundred thousand hits, that’s had.”

“Ah, that’s no big deal.”

“It was only posted yesterday.”

“Really? Cool. I’ll miss the internet.” Animal took in a deep breath.

Lemmy could feel his body shaking. It was taking all of his resolve not to fall off the wall, let alone jump. The wind, whistling past his ears, seemed to be filled with ghostly voices urging him to jump one second and then pleading he should step back onto the safety of the tower roof the next. The impressive roll of the Berwyn Hills faded from view to be replaced by a vision of his laughing sons, all wrestling for the right to throw a playful punch into their father’s arm. They soon vanished, like so much steam, to be replaced by his wife, floating like an angel, her smile inching closer until her lips touched his forehead with a kiss and she whispered: ‘Come home safe to me…’ before she too ‘…and when are you going to finish decorating the spare room…’ was lost ‘…instead of pratting round with your mates on motorbikes.’ to the breeze.

For longer than Lemmy could remember he had assumed he would die on his bike; going out in a blaze of glory like a Viking on his long ship funeral pyre; pulling a wheelie up to the Pearly Gates and high-fiving St Peter as he blasted into Heaven doing ‘the ton’. Yet, here he was preparing to take his own life by turning himself into jam on the cold, damp pavement 136 feet below; nothing but a wet splat made from the fruit of the cowardice bush. “This is wrong,” he muttered.

“Okay,” said Animal, deaf to his friend’s quiet verbal doubt. “After three. One…two-”

Lemmy slapped his hand on Animal’s chest. “No! We are not going like this.” He stepped back onto the tower roof, bundling his mate with him.

“I really will hold your hand, if it’ll help, Lem?” said Animal

Lemmy grabbed Animal by his leather lapels. “We’re bikers and we’re going out like bikers. Grab your penknife, Animal, it’s time to take out some zombies.”

“You do know I’ve only got one knife, Lemmy; what are you going to use?”

“I’m going to use my rage, mate…my rage and my helmet.”

“Epic!” shouted Animal. “Er, should we put our boots back on first?”

Reshod, Lemmy and Animal stood at the door to the tower. “You ready?” said Lemmy.

Animal twisted his feeble blade through the air to demonstrate his deadly carving technique. “Locked and loaded, bro.” He nicked the tip of his own nose with the blade.

“Maybe we should both use our helmets.”

Animal put his penknife away. “Good idea.”

Both men got a firm grip on their helmets. With an affirming nod of their heads the bikers relieved the headgear of their barricade duties and opened the small door to reveal the zombie at the head of the queue, grinding its teeth with anticipation. Lemmy smacked it in the face with his skid lid and it fell backwards causing the tightly packed line of undead to begin to topple like dominoes. “Quick,” said Lemmy, “keep their momentum going.” He added a kick to the chest of the falling zombie, which hastened the descent of the stack of ex-humanity. The nightmarish forms tumbled and spilled down the narrow spiral staircase, with Lemmy and Animal close behind the receding tide. “We’re nearly at the bottom,” said Lemmy, “be ready to make a run for it.”

Animal nodded, his tension laden, laboured breath robbing him of his voice.

The cascade of bodies came to a standstill; Lemmy and Animal ran up the fallen pile and leapt into the main body of the church. The bikers stopped for a second and surveyed the scene, zombies that had been milling round aimlessly all turned their attention to the interlopers. “It’s do or die time, mate,” said Lemmy.

Animal grinned and gripped his helmet more tightly. “Well, let’s do then, Lem, let’s do big time.” With a battle cry he ran forward and struck the nearest zombie full in the face with his aptly named full face helmet, the fiend arched backwards and fell to the floor motionless. “Strike one!”

The two men swung their helmets back and forth, up and down; like drunken samurai cutting a swathe through unarmed peasants. “This is easy,” said Lemmy, laying low another zombie.

“I know,” said Animal, hefting his booted foot into an unprotected groin. “And kicking them in the goolies works just as well as smashing them in the head…didn’t know zombies swore so much though.”

“Don’t worry about that, let’s just get out of here.”

Lemmy and Animal battled on and, as their fury intensified, the zombies became reticent about attacking which, in turn, quickly turned into a rout of the army of the undead. “They’re scared of us, Lem.”

“Of course they are,” said Lemmy. “Who wouldn’t be scared of two pissed-off, badass bikers swinging their helmets?”

Lemmy and Animal rushed through the open doors into the grounds of St Giles’, preceded by a wave of zombies that were shouting warnings to their kin outside. Rotting faces turned to take in the commotion at the church’s doors, before they too joined the rush to escape the wrath of the leather clad heroes.

“This is our chance, Animal,” shouted Lemmy. “Get to our bikes.”

The men sprinted to their downed rides, the zombies parting before them like a broken zip on a pair of jeans. Dropping their helmets, Animal and Lemmy, lifted their bikes back onto their wheels and inserted keys.  Seconds later they had thrown their legs over their saddles, fired the machines into life and were riding through the open wrought iron gates that marked the boundary of St Giles’ grounds.

As they rode down the paved rode to safety, Animal spoke. “Erm, Lem, did I just hear someone shout, ‘Cut! Cut! Who the hell were those two dickheads in my scene’!?”

“Don’t say another word, Animal,” said Lemmy, chewing on his bottom lip.

“You don’t think that was a-”

“I’m tired of Wales, mate, I think we should give it a miss for a while” said Lemmy. “What do you reckon to spending next weekend in the Lake District; or the northern most tip of Scotland? Or maybe we should lay low for a while…”