A Matter of Brains

IV

‘Unstable at room temperature. May cause
unwanted side effects.'

V

‘You know for a story about zombies, there sure
has been a lack of them.'

jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj- Jeff Capell back stage


Populaces don’t have much of a reputation for getting organized – that’s why we have the police, and Facebook groups. In fact, it seems the only time that a city truly comes together is New Year, and even that amounts to little more than getting pissed and failing to achieve resolutions. So when Manchester collectively perched on the edge of their seats that afternoon, you know it had to be damn good show that kept them there. And a damn good show it was. Reviewers would hail it as a once in a lifetime event that came spontaneously to make radio history, and that such an occasion could never happen again – which is a shame really, because most people agreed it was somewhat lacking in the presentation department.

jjjj‘Arrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhh!’ cried Jeff, in a tone most listeners had come to associate with the pursuit of the undead.

jjjj ‘Where are you now?’

jjjj ‘Castle street.’

jjjj ‘Arrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhh!’ continued Jeff, in a manner that acutely described the mass and viscosity of the crowd.

jjjj ‘Where are you now?’

jjjj ‘Chester Road.’

jjjj That was it for the most part. But followers of Old Trafford Radio are a patient lot. They knew you couldn’t expect top end narration from two blokes running for their lives. All that mattered was that somewhere out there, a ghoul and a guy were being perused by a horde of zombies – and as far as pursuits go, this was turning out to be a cracker.

jjjj‘By the way, Jeff, might I ask why we’re still running? I could remind you that we walk faster than them.’

jjjj‘He’s got a point there, buddy,’ Dan said. ‘I bet our listeners would love something with more depth than a scream followed by the sound of running.’

jjjjThere was a scream, followed by the sound of running. This was it for the most part. But let none be in doubt that the followers of Old Trafford Radio are a patient lot.

jjjj Luckily, one member of the audience was in possession of a keen advantage. Like the others, his buttocks were firmly clasped upon the edge of a seat; but around those flashed the eccentric display of an underground control room. It was one of those high tech affairs you usually see surrounded by men in white coats. Buttons and dials stretched across the console like a toddler’s dream. Sophisticated computer do-dads do-dadded as they sometimes do. And making up a rather large portion of the bunker was a myriad of monitors, plugging live feed from every CCTV camera across the city.

jjjj Bang up jobs they were as well. Right out of seventies sci-fi. Synthapolycarbon one-way plexiglass (double glazed, of course). Fully adjustable 360 panoramic view with surround sound optional. Integrated directional microphone capable of detecting a skull crack from up to a kilometre away. Fusion modulated zoom function for the detection of crime on a sub-atomic level. And the icing on the cake, the veritable tour de force of closed-circuit technology, each unit had been custom modelled after everyday objects. There were plant pots, zebra crossings and even one or two cybernetic Hare Krishnas wandering the streets.

jjjj Big Brother was indeed watching. And while few literary critics argue that 1984 was little more than a fancy chair for the zombie apocalypse, the man sitting at it happened to be both Orwell’s namesake and aesthetic double – so I’ll leave you to decide.

jjjj Though George had a menagerie of monitors at his disposal, it was a particular few he favoured. To his left, a man with hilariously toned forearms ran in terror, while a mysteriously crusted zombie followed him with somewhat less enthusiasm. He could see why as well, for though the screen to their right was completely chock-a-bloc with clamouring undead, the position of the monitors was not necessarily representative of location. From the looks of things, it would take the ghouls another ten minutes to catch up with their targets; rendering the raw panic of our man Jeff an attribute less than heroic.

jjjj There was one other thing though, and a thing it most certainly was. George had missed Suzie’s previous speech, being rather taken with phone winding; but now that he gazed upon the zombies’ leader, he saw her for what she truly was.

jjjj ‘My God,’ he soliloquized. ‘It’s the demon spawn of Bear Grylls and Ray Mears combined!’

jjjj Suddenly the speakers on the wall echoed a tremulous message, reciting the fall of the city as though quoted directly from scripture. George proceeded to the atomic extremities of his chair, his buttocks clenched to biblical proportions. It was all very Revelations.

jjjj ‘We shall hammer upon their defences like rain, trample their walls beneath our feet and feast upon those inside with the hunger of a thousand cattle!’ she shouted.

jjjj ‘Braaaaaaaaaains!’ replied the rallying crowd. George couldn’t help feeling the zombie’s speech had gone above the heads of her audience, but as a writer he’d know all about that.

jjjj ‘Doomsday Dan is soon to join us… these coming are his last hours.’

jjjj The digital voyeur span on his chair, the way revolutionary authors do. Perhaps it was in his best moral interest to give them a heads up. For didn’t a great man once say, ‘On the whole, human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time’?

jjjj Then he realised if he did let Dan get eaten he could have his own radio show. Maybe even share it with the lovely Fiona Mayes, who sounded very attractive indeed.

jjjj George sighed. It just wasn’t in him. Somewhere down the road, a red light flashed upon a dash in that irritating way that some of them do.

jjjj ‘Hello caller,’ said a voice that was not Dan’s. ‘I’m afraid we’re not taking calls at the moment; but we’d be happy to hear what you have to say at another time. Thanks very much. *krsht…*’

jjjj ‘But…’ started George.

jjjj Oh well. Sod ‘em.




Jeff had found himself a new slant on life. He vertically paced the windows of Old Trafford with just a hint of trepidation. It wasn’t an angle he was particularly fond of marching, but he always made sure to make a note of it when he did. Behind him, his zombie pal had somehow discovered a way to shamble at ninety degrees. In Jeff’s humble opinion the mechanics did seem a bit squiffy, but then again he was a dentist, not an engineer.

jjjj Eventually they hoisted themselves through a third floor window into what appeared to be an airlock. Most people would assume the airlock scene to be a pretty standard affair – but oh no! Not by a long shot. There were very precise measurements to be taken into consideration. Was the airlock in space? Underwater? Or was it the outer breaches of some underground layer? This particular tank possessed the aesthetics of a Manchester United model – I’m sure you’re all familiar with the design. If not you could probably look it up on their website or something.

jjjj Jeff took a look around the metallic room, winking at a red devil on the wall because there didn’t seem much else to do.

jjjj ‘Stop!’ said a voice over the intercom. ‘To get through to the other side you must answer three questions. It’s all part of our special anti-zombie security measures. These ghouls are crafty you know… So you with the tailcoat! Answer the questions!’

jjjj Hugo looked nervous. Jeff looked on in encouragement. The voice was just a voice, and therefore was incapable of looking by any stretch of the imagination.

jjjj ‘Alright,’ said Hugo. ‘Fire away.’

jjjj ‘In a game of chess, what is better: “blanks” or brawn?’

jjjj ‘Brains…’ Hugo answered uneasily.

jjjj ‘If you were a zombie, what would you be looking for?’

jjjj ‘Brains,’ Hugo said again, more confident this time.

jjjj ‘What is your favourite food?’

jjjj ‘Don’t! ’

jjjj ‘Brains!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Oh rot…’

jjjj Hugo looked nervously around the airlock. Jeff sighed in a way only the doomed can. This seemed a real good opportunity for poisonous gas to start seeping from the walls. There was a bit of a silence. There was a bit of a noise, then a lot of noise. Then there was a bit more of a silence. The gate had opened.

jjjj ‘Ahh…’ jested the voice. ‘We knew you were coming. Good system though, ey?’

jjjj Hugo contemplated giving the voice a stern thump, then reconsidered, seeing as it was just a voice.

jjjj ‘Come on, I’ll show you to Dan.’ And show them to Dan he did – also it turns out the voice was more meat based than Hugo had originally thought, and therefore stern thumpings were applied.

jjjj At a desk, Jeff finally looked eye to eye with the man of the hour. He possessed a voice expectant of an American icon, like George Foreman, Abraham Lincoln, or possibly even Harrison Ford. But before Jeff sat a small beardy man whose facial hair largely overshadowed the smile between his cheeks. Still, it was no less than Doomsday Dan; and next to him, the far more describable Fiona Mayes – who he could have portrayed all night long… and in graphic detail. But to cut a long story short, she was as fine as surgical steel, and no less cold.

jjjj ‘Jesus Christ he’s for real!’ Fiona said. ‘And he stinks as badly as you do…’

jjjj ‘Told you,’ Dan replied smugly. ‘It’s great to finally meet you two.’

jjjj ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ said Hugo, offering the man his hand. Dan shook it, reviewed his palm, and wiped it on the ghoul’s already dripping tailcoat.

jjjj ‘No offence.’

jjjj ‘None taken, I assure you.’

jjjj ‘So if you’ll just take a seat we’ll get right on the air.’ They did just that. Dan fiddled with his collar in that way you don’t often see of radio presenters, and set about addressing the public.

jjjj ‘Hey there, this is Doomsday Dan coming to you live from Old Trafford. And boy do we have a treat for you! The ratings are higher than ever, our winches are winching at record speeds, and that’s all because everyone’s been waiting to meet our favourite ghoul: the zombie after another kind of brains. Here he is… it’s Hugo Charles!’ A fanfare roared from the inside of a button.

jjjj ‘Good to be here, Dan.’

jjjj ‘So Hugo, one thing we’ve all been wondering since you first said those magic words: why here of all places?’

jjjj ‘A fine question if I don’t say so myself,’ nodded the decomposing zombie. ‘It all began when I first started seeking the means to my intelligence. There seemed no way of discovering it by myself, so naturally I sought help. Seeing as the undead are not the most enlightened chaps on the planet, my search spread to the living, who are a hard bunch to talk to, let me tell you that much.

jjjj ‘For a while it seemed hopeless… then I heard your Distraction Hour. And with that in mind I realised that my best chance of communication would come in the form of a phone in. That’s all there is to it really.’

jjjj ‘Alright,’ nodded Dan. ‘Alright… Well I guess we all know what we have to do next. Let’s open the lines! Anybody out there know why my good friend Hugo’s mouth is now occupied by words instead of brains?’

jjjj They didn’t have to wait a second. The instant Dan had posed the question, a multitude of lights flared up on the dash in that useful way that some of them do. After that, it was a simple case of eeine, meanie, miney, mo.

jjjj ‘Hello, caller! You’re on the air!’

jjjj ‘Hi Dan. Er, I’m not sure about why he can talk and everything, but I was just wondering if Hugo could make the noise again.’

jjjj Dan looked to the zombie, whose head was rapidly and repeatedly following the course of a semicircle.

jjjj ‘Sorry, bud. Not taking any requests today. Next caller!’

jjjj He picked another button – a red one as it happens. Nobody ever pushes the green button. Not even the big green one in the Pentagon that launches all the world’s peace rallies at once. A shame really, because it probably would have worked.

jjjj ‘Hello, caller. You’re on the air.’

jjjj ‘Hello, Dan?’ said a voice that was remarkably similar to George Orwell’s.

jjjj ‘Yup?’

jjjj ‘Sod off.’

jjjj The line went dead. You’d think they would have fixed that with the rate it was happening. Probably something to do with the fission modulator.

jjjj ‘Hmm…’ said Dan off-air. ‘I wonder what all that was about.’

jjjj ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Jeff, happy to get a line in. ‘But did he sound remarkably similar George Orwell to you?’

jjjj It didn’t take them long to find what all that was about, because an intern formerly charged with winching the coffee now stood at the door.

jjjj ‘Err, sir?’ he said. ‘There’s a large horde of zombies congregating outside.’

jjjj ‘What? Are you sure they aren’t assembling?’

jjjj ‘No.’

jjjj ‘Massing?’ suggested Jeff.

jjjj ‘No, it’s definitely congregating. They have a central figure and everything.’

jjjj ‘Huh,’ nodded Dan. ‘I guess they were up to something after all.’

VI

‘What's this... six acts? Is such a thing allowed?'

‘Sod off.'