Dead, Dead, Dead again…

The Driving Undead…


There was this zombie driving a car. No, that’s wrong, he was not quite zombie, just one of those hybrids. 

Anyways, he was driving his car across a bridge whilst listening to a talk radio programme. The river was wide and sure of itself many feet beneath him and the sun had not yet climbed into any sense of sky. 

Chimneys were belching and some distant hoot of some marine alert was trying its best to gain some attention. 

Anyways, this guy who is not quite a zombie, but is probably on his way to becoming one, is driving his car, listening to the two presenters on the radio, making sure that he is keeping his speed to a reasonable level, and watching some other jocks racing along the outside lane in order to zip back into his lane later (just as soon as a couple of inches appear in front to his own car).

So far, so good.

Everybody looks like a zombie. He was fitting in and that bugged him. He wasn’t born to become a zombie; he was a human being and a reasonably cute baby when he was little. These days, he was becoming like one of those other drivers, motoring across the bridge that spanned the giant effluent that some still called a river. In the distance the hooter thing sounded again just to get in before the end of the paragraph.

So this not quite yet zombie is driving his car along a road (because he’s left the bridge now) and there are fewer cars which means fewer zombies. This makes his trip easier. The zombie up ahead floors his accelerator and thinks that his car is fast. The guy who is not quite a zombie does the same in order to show that his older car is a great deal faster. The flash zombie gets the message and slows down.

This is how things go as they pass field after muddy flat field. There are more fields her than people, yet there are groups of them gathered at bus-stops (people not fields). They are school kids who have not yet turned and that is why they are waiting for buses to take them to school to make them better at being the walking unread.

He sits in his car and recognises faces as the flash zombie swings a left. Now the final leg will have to be taken alone. He drives along the empty roads and turns into a village. The village shows little sign of life and this is what he has become accustomed to over the last few months. He hangs a right and avoids overnight potholes. That is just what he doesn’t need, a ruined wheel and more expense. He is not the only thing that is in the process of change, so too is his bank account; it’s changing into thin air.

So this guy, who is not yet a zombie, pulls into the school car-park.

He’s a little late so understands why there are other cars there. Not too many though, so he parks up and gets ready to disembark. He checks his phone, but there have been no calls. Finally, he pulls himself out of the vehicle just as the guy who he’s disagreed with the day previously pulls into the same car park.

Our guy thinks that the other guy is some kind of recruiter for the zombies, so he wants to avoid having to make conversation. In his rush to get away, he stuffs his thermos flask into his ruck-sack and swings the ruck-sack onto his right shoulder. This morning, he must have a little more energy because his swing takes the bag past his shoulder and into the grey air before falling apologetically with a tell-tale crystalized thud.


Once inside the school, his worst fears become real. The flask has broken; it jingles all the way to his classroom. It is smashed. On the way, he bumps into the zombie recruiter and says hello. 


My Oh My What A Zombie-Filled Day!

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