A Matter of Brains

I

‘Due to their persistence, it is strongly recommended
that you avoid bartering with the undead.'

‘Braaaaaaaaaaaains…’ moaned David Smith.

jjjj‘Braaaaaaaaaaaaains…’ agreed his wife. But seeing as they had said little else for a few months now, this went largely ignored.

jjjjJeff Capell was a tad more eloquent, although only just. That particular morning his sleeping eyes were struck brazenly with the full force of the sun; an unpleasant combination of post-apocalypse Global Warming, and the fact he had fashioned his curtains into pyjama bottoms not too many mornings ago. Once again he had been forced to suffer the shortcomings of his alarm clock. During the Great Blackout, wind-up electronics had been all the rage; but there were some early afternoons that Jeff just couldn’t help looking at the five minute battery span with a tiny bit of looter’s-remorse.

jjjjHe yawned aptly and flicked on the radio after a reasonable amount of cranking. The chirpy voice of Doomsday Dan accompanied him as he set about his day to day.

jjjj‘And that my friends, is how not to drink dew from human skulls!’ laughed Dan, finishing off his anecdote. ‘Just remember, if it’s brown, put it down. If it’s white, you’ve got it right!’

jjjjThe radio accompanied Jeff to the roof as he began the chore of neutralising the acid-rain that had collected in a vast network of buckets. There weren’t too many alkalis lying around since the incident, but because Jeff had made a former fortune in dentistry, he had enough Colgate stockpiled to last until doomsday – and significantly afterwards too. For most survivors, rainwater would bring with it an undesirable case of the vomits; Jeff’s cuppas on the other hand were minty fresh! Which as any avid tea drinker will know is also fairly unpleasant.

jjjj‘And now for the Mayday report we have Fiona Mayes. Over to you, Fiona.’

jjjj‘Thanks Dan. It looks like we’re in for another grey day in Armageddon as the remnants of the Manchester Horde have started heading up the M6. Those of you thinking of fleeing to Lancaster might want to think again! In other news we have just heard that the Trafford Centre has been finally overrun.’

jjjj‘Oh!’ zinged Dan. ‘It’s about time too! Haven’t those guys ever seen Dawn of the Dead? Ouch!’

jjjjJeff sighed dreamily. He had spent many a night being mercilessly and rigorously accosted by Miss Mayes. It was true he had no idea what she looked like, but she sounded hot. And what does a petty thing like appearance have to do with true love?

jjjj‘You’re right there, Dan,’ laughed Fiona. ‘SOS calls in Grids three through eight have ceased updates and are presumed dead. Twelve through sixteen are still going strong. We got a call from someone named Carroll before in Grid Fourteen wishing her zombified daughter a happy birthday!’

jjjj‘Well a happy holocaust to her,’ chimed Dan. ‘I think I know the perfect gift too!’ he said, activating the ‘Braaaaaaaains’ sound-bite as he did. ‘Better get them quick though, I hear those at the Trafford Centre are going fast! Watch out!

jjjj‘You’re listening to Doomsday Dan live from Old Trafford. Next up we have It’s the End of the World as We Know It by R.E.M. as part of our “songs we thought you’d be tired of by now” week.’

jjjjJeff looked from the roof and down upon the street below. The music had attracted a crowd of the clingy, bitey sort. He didn’t mind this though, because he was content with capering along his rooftop and belting out lyrics as quickly as he could remember them. Below him, a mob of roaring fans moaned in approval, reaching up decaying arms in hopes they might get a touch of the star. But just as the chorus piped up, the radio cut out. This came as something of a disappointment to Jeff, who had become frenzied in an erratic air-guitar solo and found himself looking rather silly all of a sudden.

jjjjTo be fair it could be a lot worse. Jeff had secured this little slice of suburban heaven just before the first infections were reported – had the deal waited any longer he’d have probably been consumed in the infamous Piccadilly fiasco. As things were, life in the ‘burbs was pretty dull. Digging, fetching, mending. Fun on a bun.

jjjj‘Jeff!’ shrieked his ex-housemate’s girlfriend in her signature shrill (ex because those who like brains on the Venn diagram rarely overlap with rents paying denizens). ‘Are you going downstairs?’

jjjj‘Yes, Suzie,’ he sighed.

jjjj‘Make me some tea!’

jjjjJeff grumbled and span off a few words starting with B, running out after only one, which might seem like he was over-reacting; but now that everything was wind-up, tea was no longer as simple as flipping a switch. Oh well, he could probably use the exercise.

jjjjJeff passed the next three hours with a kettle in one hand and a radio in the other, letting the cheerful banter of Doomsday Dan chase away the suicides. He ground the winches like a professional rower, toning his already well conditioned arms into hilarious disproportion. Glancing through the barricades, he could just about see a muddy tract of footsteps winding around the pikes and the landmines.

jjjj‘Suzie!’ he yelled between strokes. ‘The Hanson kid got in the garden again!’

jjjj‘I’ve got him!’ she shouted back.

jjjjA moment passed in which Dan said: ‘So that’s where it legs went! Yowzah!’ Then a crack sounded above as Suzie’s air-rifle took care of business.

jjjj‘Got him!’ shouted Suzie. ‘How’s the tea?’

jjjj‘Should be ready in a couple more turns.’

jjjjAfter more revolutions than it takes to bore a hamster, Jeff was rewarded with the gratifying bubble of boiling water.

jjjj‘Finally,’ he sighed, turning to the fridge he’d secretly forgotten to wind for the last three nights in a row.

jjjjIgnoring the ominous assembly of alphabet magnets on the door, which spelt out HUGO for no reason whatsoever, Jeff tugged the fridge open and was greeted by an unsettling tepid. Perhaps worse was the putrid wall of smell that hit him in the face; or maybe the putrid wall of mould that was fawning over the cheese.

jjjj‘Oops,’ said Jeff, applying his mastery of understatement to the situation as though it was a touch up of the Mona Lisa.

jjjjHe took a whiff of the milk; a decision, it must be said, he would regret later. A pallet of malcontent drifted up his nostrils. The rotting flesh of zombies was one thing… but this stuff shifted like jelly! It would eventually have its own state of matter named after it! Little did Jeff or Suzie know… this constitution would become known as ‘adventure.’ And adventure is not for those with weak stomachs – which Jeff proved by vomiting in the sink and hurling the anomalous carton into the crowd outside.

jjjj‘We’re out of milk!’ he shouted.

jjjj‘In that case we’ll probably have to nip down to the shops!’




Hugo Charles contemplated momentarily. Considerations and observations were all part of the dance. Conversation was a dying art, after all; and he wasn’t prepared to face ill first impressions from his new found companions. The locale was the dinner table, metaphorically speaking that is, since dining upon wood was a thing of the somewhat less apocalyptic past. The company was a straggled bunch, wearing naught but rags; but to judge one for wearing rags in the days of reckoning would be very much akin to criticizing them for eating brains – so that reservation was tucked neatly beneath the private sectors of Hugo’s cerebral cortex.

jjjjLiving in such a helter skelter society, finding an appropriate table topic was proving to be a difficult task. Politics, a former favourite of our man Hugo, had very much evaporated under the pressure of a few hundred thermobaric missiles. There were remnants of government, but getting hold of the Telegraph just wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

jjjj‘So…’ ventured Hugo as ins were about to be tucked. ‘What is your opinion on the Redeker plan?’

jjjj‘Braaaaaaaaaaaaaains…’ moaned a zombie, feasting on the flesh of the living in a way that was to be expected of him.

jjjj‘Well I for one think the man is a loon,’ continued Hugo, elegantly drawing a steak-knife from his tailcoat and carving a generous portion of buttock. ‘Surely he must be a genius; but such lack of heart would leave any rational person thinking he had already joined the ranks of the undead.’

jjjj‘Braaaaaaaaaaaaaains…’

jjjj‘Mmm… yes. Quite right.’

jjjjHugo Charles frowned, his skin peeling unpleasantly as he did. This total lack of intelligent conversation almost made his former fortress a preferable existence. But it’s best not crying over spilt brains, as they say.

jjjj‘Well, if you don’t mind me, I’m going to take my leave. I hear there are survivors nearer the city centre. Might be worth a crack at their skulls if they don’t blast mine off first! Exciting stuff.’

jjjj‘Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains…’

jjjj‘Yes, well…’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘Goodbye for now.’




Jeff pondered his options carefully.

jjjjCricket Bat… Baseball Bat… Both were perfectly acceptable clichés in this day an age. Cricket… Baseball… England… America… Jeff was Scottish, so both weapons seemed equally inappropriate. Cricket… Baseball... Then he came up with a pun and reached out for England. It was just his misfortune that Suzie chose that precise moment to enter the room.

jjjj‘Hey Suzie!’ he said delightedly. ‘Check out what I’m going to use to win the ashes!’

jjjjHe was met with a blank stare.

jjjj‘You know… because it’s the apocalypse.’

jjjjHe was met with a baseball bat. He preferred the stare.

jjjj‘Do you have everything sorted out?’ Suzie said, hoiking a bulky backpack onto her shoulder.

jjjj‘I think so,’ replied Jeff, suiting up in a similar backpack, the sole exception being that it was devoid of anything that warrants the wearing of a backpack. ‘I don’t see why I have to carry the shopping though.’

jjjj‘Because if you get eaten then I don’t want to be stuck lugging a bag full of milk and chocolate digestives without any useful gear.’

jjjj‘Well that’s reassuring.’

jjjjThey went about the process of removing every lock and barricade from the backdoor, the front being all kinds of overrun, and eventually they were met by the light of day pouring into a room which had previously complained of a vitamin D deficiency.

jjjjThe remnants of the world stretched before them. It looked so much different now that the barriers were down; their safety nets rolled up neatly and replaced with an elaborate matrix of acid-covered spikes. The sun hung hot in the sky, burning intensely through a hole in lady O-Zone’s dress. Clouds of ash billowing above were all that prevented the Earth from scorching. All the world was dust; and the suburban grass rose an unthinkable two feet from the ground. These were truly the end of times.

jjjj‘Well,’ said Suzie cheerfully. ‘I’ll check that the coast is clear. Follow me if you don’t hear bone crunching agony within five minutes. Don’t forget to lock the door either.’

jjjjJeff nodded dutifully. Suzie hopped over a fence. A number of other, equally uninteresting events transpired, but they passed without mention; and soon it was time for Jeff to move forward.

jjjjA ruin of suburban Manchester stretched out before them – totally unrecognizable, especially to those who had not already seen it. The shops were three miles towards the city centre. It was going to be a long walk.

jjjj‘Did you remember to lock the doors?’ said Suzie.

jjjj‘I think so,’ replied Jeff, going through the motions in his mind. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.’

jjjjA loud crash sounded behind them, followed by a series of delighted moans. Jeff Capell watched as his house was consumed by a gaggle of undead mouths, leaving him stranded in a desolate broken world.

jjjj‘I hope they don’t get in the fridge,’ he mourned.

A small beardy man sat at the turntable of Old Trafford’s Radio Station, his finger trailing idly along the vinyl in a half arsed effort to power the device. His face possessed a distinct air of the downtrodden. A thin frown curled between his cheeks, humorously overshadowed by a stretch of facial-hair that reached above his ears, faltering only where genetics commanded he was to be bald. In fact the lips’ meagre sneer and his widely grinning beard seemed to be so poorly matched that many co-workers had assumed this was deliberate. It was not. In reality, Daniel Cooper was a very miserable man.

jjjjjHe was the last American in England - perhaps even the world, though this was in no way certain. And as a result, he had always felt a peculiar sense of purpose that comes with being the last of something, though he never had discovered what this purpose was. In the mean time, he had simply decided to continue the ways of his people – but not being entirely sure what these were, his only action so far was the native pronunciation of the word ‘a-loo-min-um,’ much to the chagrin of his Angle-employers.

jjjjj‘And that was Dust in the Wind by the Eagles, in another cheery look of things to come,’ he chirped behind the microphone.

jjjjjl‘So now it’s time to hear what’s been going on around Manchester! Anyone lucky enough to still have a working phone, call in. While we’re waiting, here’s something a little more upbeat: Bobby Pickett and the Cryptkickers with Monster Mash.’

jjjjjDan slumped exasperatedly in his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette, snapping his fingers for an intern to take the record. Smoke billowed about the tiny room like every interior scene from The Sweeny, soaking his mic in a rich aromatic stale – this was something else the producers were always on his balls about. What did it matter anyway? It was the fucking apocalypse! What prissy presenter could complain about the smell of smoke when outside looked like a burning snow-globe half the goddamn time!?

jjjjjHe mumbled something illegible and slurped a milkless coffee that had been specifically ordered white. Must be none left again. Damn interns. Suddenly a red light became illuminated on the dash.

jjjjj‘Helloooooo, caller! You’re through to Old Trafford Radio. Do you have a story for us?’

jjjjj‘Err… yes I do, Dan,’ mumbled a very member of the public voice.

jjjjj‘Alrighty then! And what’s your name?’

jjjjj‘Yeah, hello… Er, this is Robert Wells from Prestwich…’

jjjjjDan sighed off-air. God he hated the public.

jjjjj‘And how are you today, Robert?’

jjjjj‘Surviving,’ joked the caller.

jjjjj‘Way-oh!’ laughed Dan, as if he hadn’t heard it a thousand times already. ‘So what’s your story?’

jjjjj‘Well I was scavenging for ammo along the A62 when this guy runs up to me, bleeding from the arm. And he says to me, “Please, you gotta help!” So I nod, thinking he’s been bitten, and shoot him in the chest, yeah? …But then! As he’s bleeding out, he tells me he got the injury in a gunfight only minutes ago!’

jjjjj‘Yowzah!’ cried Dan, tagging another swig of bitter black. ‘I guess there’s a testament to not shooting first and asking questions later! Thank you Robert, you’ve been fantastic.’

jjjjj‘Thanks, Dan.’

jjjjj‘We’ll finish up the song and then it’s on to Fiona for the weather. This is Doomsday Dan and you’re listening to Old Trafford Radio – the number one station in our ten mile broadcast radius. Don’t touch that dial!’

jjjjjThe voice of Manchester City glanced up at his bosses through the glass for visual feedback. Their faces were stone. Dan offered them two choice fingers that weren’t considered offensive in America, and went back to his mug.




Not too far down the road, Jeff Capell was in the middle of rediscovering his hatred of walking. It was an experience which novelty wore out quickly. He had been sure adventure lay outside – especially since it was he who tossed it out the window – but all that stretched ahead of him seemed to be the occasional zombie and the same old suburban houses that varied only by price of area. Besides all that, Jeff’s legs were starting to hurt, and Rochdale Road was long. These were two things he was coming to dislike more and more.

jjjjjSuzie on the other hand was striding within her element. Never before has a human being posed such a reckoning force. She marched through the streets like the demon spawn of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls combined, popping undead skulls just to prove a point. At this stage she had a greater kill-count than Rambo 1: and to be honest, Jeff was not happy about this one bit.

jjjjj‘Could you… tone it down a little?’ he asked.

jjjjj‘Tone what down?’ Suzie replied as a zombie’s head was cleft in twain under the force of her bat.

jjjjj‘The general ass-kicking… I’m grateful and everything; but it almost feels like you’re overshadowing me.’

jjjjj‘Oh God, you’re right!’ she suddenly realised, looking down upon her weapon as though she had been blindsided by moral epiphany (she hadn’t). ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I assumed you had a leniency towards survival.’

jjjjj‘Well… I do…’

jjjjj‘Oh…’ stopped Suzie, confused. ‘Then would you like me to continue? Or should I give you the gun.’

jjjjjJeff fondly reminisced about his first victim: next-door’s cat. He would like to brag that it had been zombified, and was actually a tough shot, but this particular incident had occurred several years before the outbreak. Since then, the only thing he had wounded was his pride, and that had long since latched onto a more substantial host.

jjjjj‘Hmm… Perhaps you should lead on after all.’

jjjjj‘I thought so. Don’t worry. Not far now.’

jjjjjNot far now was right, because less than a sentence later, the tall walls of Tesco Extra came into view. It was a mish-mash of brick, mortar and twisted metal designed to deter the most persistent of urban climbers. Steel bars ran along the top, jagged teeth spiralling out from them like Hell-inspired vines. Broken glass was scattered at intervals, capable of shredding a person’s hands to nothing but blood and pain. Below, a teaming hoard of zombies clawed at the reinforced gate, which had been modified never to open again.

jjjjjFrom here, it appeared that a survivor’s extra-value points were made useless indefinitely; but as our anxious duo approached, they noticed the large blue billboard that had once touted the store’s motto, now vandalised with the message: ‘Entrance through roof of The Swan. Survivors welcome: Every little helps.’

jjjjj‘I guess that’s our way in,’ said Jeff, adjusting his empty bag.

jjjjjThe Swan lay almost directly across the street from Tesco. Luckily, this particular brand of zombies were the sort that don’t tend to get distracted from clamouring, so the two were quite easily able to sneak in through the front door of the pub.

jjjjjA refreshing wave of stale smoke and alcohol greeted them with open arms. It was the kind of personification that said: ‘Come on in and have a pint.’ The Swan possessed all the nick-knackery of the traditional boozer. Posters from the twenties gazed down at them from upon the wall; an anthropomorphic puffin once again served as the voice of Guinness, giving a surreal sense of Armageddon which they had not yet encountered. It was as though they were discovering a former world from a bleak and distant future. Jeff felt almost awestruck as he took this in – then poured himself a Stella and promptly forgot all about it.

jjjjjLucky for our two, the roof of this particular establishment had also served as a beer garden – so the task of probing lock after lock to gain entry was subverted. This came as a disappointment to our man, who had come to the reasonable conclusion that he was in fancy of another pint.

jjjjj‘You can grab some Carling from the shop!’ pleaded Suzie as she, in the tradition of many women, dragged her partner from the booze-pipes.

jjjjj‘But… but… Carling!?’ complained Jeff. But it was too late.

jjjjjA pulley system had been rigged between the two buildings, allowing a small platform to slide to and fro. In retrospect, the designer of this mechanism hadn’t really thought ahead. While the method of delivery was in no doubt zombie-proof, a complex arrangement leading directly to the top of a boozer was not the best idea in the world. Many shoppers had met their ends opting for ‘just one more.’

jjjjjJeff smirked as the platform sailed above the undead crowd. God bless the many hours of winching that gave him licence to soar. He flexed like a young Popeye, pumped full of enough spinach to get him disqualified from the Olympics. The ghouls below him looked as harmless as they were clamorous. Vs were confidently imparted. And when they speedily reached the other side, he was hailed with a triumphant entry along the lines of:

jjjjj‘Hello. Welcome to Tesco. How can I help you?’




Hugo Charles was in the middle of asking himself all manner important questions. They were the big kind: the ones that often start with a W. Who? Why? What? Where? When? And… how. Hugo wasn’t particularly fond of the how: not only did it abrasively flip alliteration the bird, it was also one of those dull matters that could usually be explained away with science; and as a philosopher and a zombie, Mr Charles was more concerned with the grander scale.

jjjjjThis line of questioning had led him to some very odd conclusions. At first he had assumed his ghoulish peers to be somewhat lacking in intellect; but they above anybody seemed to possess more answers than Hugo had questions. Although, many of these answers turned out to be ‘Brains’. Still, it was not a philosopher’s duty to pick at another man’s findings. And why would he? So far the zombies had been inarguably accurate.

jjjjjWhy are we here? Brains. What are we looking for? Brains. Where are we going? Why to find brains of course! Yet when posed the rather more academic question of his sudden confluence of language, most of the undead tended to impart a disappointingly brief response.

jjjjjSo it was that this zombie was on a mission beyond brains. And rightly so as well, because just like Jeff, he too felt he had a purpose above mere survival. Neither of them knew it yet, but they were both shambling towards a very important future.

jjjjjThe first task in Hugo’s mission, as he had so diligently dubbed it, was to acquire the assistance of a human. He didn’t know why he wanted this: all Hugo knew was that the zombies hadn’t done much for him so far. In a way, he supposed he was seeking out human knowledge - perhaps a scientist or a doctor. What he appeared to be looking for was a person with a big, possibly delicious brain.

jjjjj This was proving to be more difficult than originally planned.

jjjjj ‘Hello! You there!’ Hugo called to a member of the living, as his companions moaned for something of the cranial persuasion.

jjjjjHe managed to catch the attention of the lone survivor, but his hail did not produce the desired effect. Instead, Hugo found the ghoul to his left suddenly without a head. The decapitated zombie, unsure what to make of this, continued along its path until its stunted reactions were reintroduced; then, upon remembering standard procedure, slumped lifelessly to the floor.

jjjjj‘Oh dear,’ said Hugo, shambling with his peers towards a small house that the shooter had dipped into.

jjjjjSun glimmered in through the hall for what must have been the first time in years. Quivering beams of light illuminated a veil of shifting dust. The rooms told a sad story of evacuation. Family heirlooms lay abandoned for the survival of those that had abandoned them. Photos and paintings hung grey with age. And from the stairs drifted the lonely chords of Yesterday by The Beatles – their melancholy voices cranked up to a volume disproportionate of the gloomy mood.

jjjjjHugo witnessed this with a tear in his eye; which could not be good for his skin. The others flowed unnaturally up the stairs like lambs to the hilariously mismatched slaughter.

jjjjj ‘This is Doomsday Dan’s Distraction Hour! Only on Old Trafford Radio,’ a voice crackled. ‘Yesterday… love was such an easy game to play.’

jjjjj‘How delightfully cunning,’ admired Hugo, ignoring the stairs. ‘I think that’s the chap I need to see.’

jjjjjA bullet greeted the ghoul as he stepped into the living room – but as it hit him in the chest, this was of no concern to Hugo. He merely strode onward as the panicked human fumbled to reload his air-rifle. Indeed, if anything had doomed Great Britain in the zombie apocalypse, it was the lack of semi-automatic weapons; and like the British Isles, this person soon found a zombie on top of him.

jjjjj‘Look here, my man,’ Hugo explained to his wriggling captive, ‘I’m trying to find Doomsday Dan. Would you perhaps be able to point me in the direction of Old Trafford?’

jjjjjHe was met with only struggles.

jjjjj‘Don’t make me bite you…’

jjjjjJust at that moment, the horde flooded into the room.

jjjjj‘Oh bloody hell,’ muttered Hugo, releasing his prisoner to give him a chance at freedom.

jjjjjToo late it seems. Oddly enough, he went straight for the reload, and was swarmed in seconds as a result. Hugo sighed above pleas and screams.

jjjjj ‘Well… better not let him go to waste.’

Jeff Capell stood baffled before an endless wall of cans, the way people sometimes do when confronted by soup. He was stunned through sheer variety; selective neurons misfiring due to the unnatural abundance of canned goods. Although this common occurrence somehow escapes the attention of the everyday shopper, it has long been a priority for supermarkets. In this instance, their contingency plan came in the form of Sarah, one of those inexplicable worker drones that wander around for absolutely no reason until the need arises to locate cutlery.

jjjj‘Can I help you?’

jjjj‘Buh…’ replied Jeff.

jjjj‘Is there anything in particular you were looking for?’

jjjj ‘Soup.’

jjjj‘What about oxtail? Or tomato soup?’

jjjjNow that his options were whittled down to a number more approachable by the tin-selecting portion of his brain, Jeff managed to produce a coherent: ‘I think I’ll grab one of each,’ before scuttling off to the next section, never to remember what had transpired.

jjjjUnfortunately, his subsequent choice of isle happened to be that of fridges. It seems an unusual path to take, but there you go. As he approached the section, a sea of red-tops stared at him from their shelves. Jeff glowered at the cooling dairy, which did little in response. This irked Jeff, who continued to glower regardless. The assistant operating the cooling winch saw this, and in accordance with store policy intervened.

jjjj‘Is anything the matter?’

jjjj‘There’s no semi-skimmed…’

jjjj‘No,’ replied the winder-upper. ‘I’m afraid all we’ve got is skimmed.’

jjjjJeff stared angrily into a mixture of white and red, setting his hands upon his hips in a way that made his toned forearms bulge so that it looked like he was flexing in menace.

jjjj ‘Are you all right, sir?’ said the assistant, with a worrying amount of experience in this field.

jjjj ‘No… I’ll be fine,’ said Jeff, spinning dramatically on the floor and skidding away in a manner only befitting of supermarkets. The lack of milk in this story was really getting to him.

jjjj He met Suzie at the real-estate checkout (Tesco had really branched out since the competition was devoured) carrying naught but oxtail soup and a tin of tomato; theirs was a worthy trip to be sure.

jjjj ‘Where’s the milk?’ enquired Suzie.

jjjjJeff mumbled something illegible, following up with a full-body pout. Ever the wise one, his partner decided to ignore this.

jjjj‘So we’ve got two options: we can live in an old fish-warehouse down by the canal. Or stay with Doomsday Dan at Old Trafford.’

jjjj‘Really? Doomsday Dan?’ said Jeff, dropping his tantrum instantly, along with two tins that were simultaneously dashed along the floor. ‘I didn’t think they were hiring.’

jjjj‘Well they’re not on air. You’ll be replacing some interns who died horrifically,’ a clerk informed them.

jjjj ‘Sounds good to me.’

jjjj ‘Should I grab some milk before we head off then?’ said Suzie.

jjjj ‘Nah… they’ll probably already have some.’




Hugo Charles had been doing some thinking, and while this was not altogether unlike him, he had recently come to some very interesting conclusions. Through observing his colleagues for some time, studying the way they think and move; Hugo conjectured that slowly edging towards your enemy while they are in possession of firearms was not the best strategy in the book. Which, on the face of it, may sound preposterous; but after much deliberation, he had found it to be surprisingly accurate.

jjjjWith that neat bit of data tucked away, Hugo had been attempting a number of different approaches, ones that had often escaped the undead’s simple mind for the far more delicious concept of brains. Today marked the first zombie ambush in history. And we join Hugo at a very opportune time, for at this very moment his first victims came pacing through the mist.

jjjj ‘We love United! We do!’ a man chanted to the discomfort of his escorting female. ‘Ohhhh, United we love you! By the way, do you smell old milk?’

jjjj Hugo lingered behind a fence. Being new to the concept however, his adopted pose was that of a sprinter, giving the impression he was poising rather than lingering. But I can assure you this was not the case: for a zombie he had come very close.

jjjj In the middle of fine-tuning his stance, Hugo’s targets strolled into view. This being a good a signal as any, he took the opportunity to pounce at the closest person, tearing a hole in her throat that was somewhat larger than main characters are accustomed to receiving halfway through a narrative.

jjjj Without a neck, it wasn’t difficult for the ghoul to overcome his victim; and without stopping to gore, Hugo set upon his second target.

jjjjJeff Capell stumbled backwards like a tired archetype of an eighties B-movie. Hugo lurched forwards as the binary opposite, his tailcoat swaying in the breeze, his rotten teeth stained crimson in a manner very much out of favour with the former dentist.

jjjj ‘Noooo!’ cried Jeff, which was a reasonable reaction as any.

jjjj ‘Braaaaaaaaaaaains…’

jjjj Suddenly the zombie stopped in its tracks.

jjjj ‘I say… Is that a cricket bat?’

jjjj Jeff, who had forgotten all about winning the ashes and was attempting to ward of the undead with a pack of digestives, unhitched the sensible weapon of choice. As far as blunt, heavy objects go, most would consider cricket bats a step up from McVities – this was the root of his decision.

jjjj ‘Do you play?’ asked the ghoul.

jjjj The target desisted swiping the air and looked dumbfounded at Hugo; which it must be said, he found rather impolite.

jjjj ‘Cricket. Do you play?’

jjjj ‘Err… No. I’m Scottish.’

jjjj ‘Oh, alright then. Looks like I will have to consume your brains after all. Cheerio.’

jjjj Jeff responded by swinging and stumbling… also swearing. In fact, he did a few more unsavoury things beginning with S – one of them taking place at the rear end of his joggers.

jjjj‘How… why can you talk?’ muttered Jeff.

jjjjThe zombie stopped in his tracks again.

jjjj‘Oh delightful! You know you’re the first person to ask me that. I dare say I mightn’t be devouring your brains after all! But to tell you the truth, my delicious chum, I don’t have a hint of a clue as to why I can talk. I was rather hoping to find out.’

jjjj Jeff was stunned, but as this had not gone so well for him before, he decided to pose another question.

jjjj ‘And how will you do that?’

jjjj‘I was looking to find Doomsday Dan. Do you by any chance know where I could find him?’

jjjj‘He’s inside Old Trafford Stadium. That’s where I was heading.’

jjjj‘Marvellous! In that case, I do believe the next logical step would be our partnership.’

jjjj ‘You killed Suzie, and then proceeded to almost eat me… So please explain why I should join you.’

jjjj ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll eat your brains.’

jjjj ‘Fantastic then! But to be honest, I don’t see you being very welcome at Old Trafford. First off, you’re a zombie. No getting around that. Second of all, you’re covered in all kinds of foul smelling stuff. What makes you think they’ll let you in?’

jjjj ‘Well that my friend, is what this is for,’ explained Hugo, holding up a bloodstained mobile.




Doomsday Dan stroked his chin in the way bearded people often do whilst thinking; but in fact, the DJ was doing the exact opposite. He sat in the midst of one of those slow days you typically see when some lazy intern forgets to wind the clocks. There was no natural passage of light in the Old Trafford broadcasting room either – so countless hours may well have passed since Dan lit the first cigarette of the day.

jjjjA pile of burnt-out butts towered from an invisible ashtray. The background faintly resonated with the sound of Michael Jackson’s Thirller. Dan didn’t know whether his youthful audience would get the reference, but to hell if he cared. Everything was SSDD – and to one with a purpose that comes with being the last of something, this is an acronym to be loathed.

jjjj A red light became illuminated on the dashboard, in that irritating way that some of them do.

jjjj The grumpy host applied pressure to a button and said into the mic: ‘Hey there! This is Doomsday Dan, and do I bet you have a story for me!’

jjjj ‘Hey, this is Jeff Capell from Blackley.’

jjjj ‘Hi, Jeff, and what can I do for you?’

jjjj ‘Well Dan, I just thought I’d mention that I came across a zombie on the way back from the shops today.’

jjjj ‘Well we’ve all been there, my friend.’

jjjj ‘Ahh, but this zombie said it wasn’t going to eat my brains. So now we’re travelling together up to Old Trafford.’

jjjj‘Uh huh.’

jjjj‘Well… er, why don’t you speak to him?’

jjjj ‘Hello there,’ came a voice of the toffee variety. ‘I must say it is quite the pleasure to be on your show. I heard your Distraction Hour not too long ago and just thought “Jolly be! What a cunning trick.”’

jjjj ‘And you’re a zombie, my friend?’

jjjj ‘Why yes indeed, though I have decided to overlook my animal instincts for the noble pursuit of enlightenment. Hence why my companion’s first words were “Hello” rather than “Brains”,’ laughed the caller.

jjjj ‘Right well… Sorry to say it…’

jjjj ‘Hugo. Hugo Charles.’

jjjj ‘Charlie… but to me you sound like any old guy. You wouldn’t be pulling my leg now would you?’

jjjj ‘Do the voice…’ a muffled Jeff coaxed down the line. There was a bit of debate amongst the two, and then finally:

jjjj ‘Oh, very well… Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaains…’

jjjj Dan sat speechless, an adjective not favoured by his bosses. All around him, interns shuddered before joining him in statuesque surprise.

jjjj ‘So do you believe me now?’

jjjj ‘Woah…’ Dan gasped, expanding only slightly on his speechlessness.

jjjj ‘Fantastic then. See you in about an hour.’

jjjj The line went dead. All the station gazed at the presenter in awe, and he gazed right on back. It was a few seconds before one of them remembered their job and prompted Dan to sign off; but by this point, a lack of winding had temporarily put Old Trafford Radio off the air – for the first time in broadcasting history.




Suzie Morningham lay on the pavement in a way that was considered quite unusual of main characters in act three. She had a hole in her throat that doctors would describe as ‘larger than comfortable.’ And the final nail in the proverbial coffin was that her heart had settled on an unfavourable 0 beats per minute. By all accounts and definitions, Suzie Morningham was dead.

jjjj The next occurrence would therefore come as a shock to anyone who had not been following the plot beyond line one, and had also spent the eighties with their hands over their eyes and chainsaw-arms locked away in the shed. And for the rest of you who feel you might shrug at the next occurrence (because I’m sure many will have figured it out), prepare to loosen your bowels also.

jjjj ‘Braaaaaaaaaaains…’ is what you probably expected Suzie to say as she lifted herself from the street. Well you would be wrong, because her true utterance was far less acceptable at the metaphorical dinner table.

jjjj ‘Holy cat-cradling shit…’ said Suzie Morningham, much to the detriment of her table-manners. ‘I think I’ll go and eat some brains.’