Jim Bramer, Minister of Special Circumstances, stood and gazed out of the grimy rain-slick window of The Houses of Parliament office that was his home. Casually he picked at the damp peeling paint on the window sill, and dropped the flakes onto the aging, stained carpet. The office was once opulent in the seat of government, now faded and ruined as the city around him. He looked out into the night, and the further he looked west, the more dread snatched at him. He could feel the rising panic in the city below, queues of shabby workers rushing down Abingdon Street towards Westminster Bridge and the Isle of Dogs. They moved together in the vain hope there was still a boat with a friendly Captain. In his office he could hear the murmurs and shouts of the crowd, people shoving and arguing, fear barely concealed as they hurried along. Bramer knew that all the boats were gone, and that Death was coming. He knew this because The Minister had phoned him and told him so. (more…)

Mummy and Daddy have stopped shouting at each other and now I am just bored again. My DS has run out of battery and Dad didn’t pack the charger for the car. He shouted “There are more important things than your bloody DS!” at me when I asked if it was in the boot. In fact this is the worst car journey I have ever been on. We have been stuck on the motorway for hours with nothing moving, and the girl in the car next to ours keeps making faces at me and sticking two fingers up at me. Spotty cow. (more…)

John hopped around in panic. He had scrambled down the alley in hope of escape and found the end blocked. Turning he saw a group of Zombies round the corner, see him, and start to advance with that guttural growl. Fear rose in John’s throat and frantically he tried to climb up the sheer wall but couldn’t find a handhold in the well pointed brickwork. (more…)

The heat of the morning sun forces me from my canvas home and out onto the flat gravel world. I drink greedily of my meagre water and wrench the two foam stops from my ears. The low monotone rumbles becoming distinctive moans from my dead neighbours below. My heart sinks.

I crunch across the gun shop roof towards the door, locked and wedged shut with my heavy pack. Sliding it out of the way I listen. Six days of scratching and shuffling becomes seven and I don’t know if I have the will to open the door. Slowly, I turn the key and hear excitement rise from below. Hesitantly, I open the door and the carpet of foetid stinking hands below grasp through the broken stair well to the bottom edge of the door, hunger increasing every day. I close the door quickly, lock it and wedge the pack back against it. One more day trapped in my new home, my new prison. (more…)

I used to be a metrosexual, one of those men who took too much pride in their appearance. I used moisturiser to prevent wrinkles, aftershave balm; I had back, crack and sacks, and a cupboard full of expensive treatments to stave of my fledgling wrinkles at the grand old age of twenty nine. I used to have a bathroom cabinet filled will colognes and aftershaves from all the top designers, and a regular appointment at the salon. That was before. (more…)

Please see Verse 1 of The Minister

The Minster: Verse 2

Against the gentle whump, whump, whump, of the helicopter blades, Paul Jollie listened to the last thirty seconds of the mp3 over and over again. He’d put the earpieces of his ipod underneath the bulky headphones to try and drown out the noise of the ancient Huey he was now sat in. He was studying the photographs of the living room of the old croft where the attack had happened. He tried to visualise the knock at the door, the surprise of the occupants, that final desperate struggle and what had happened after the tape stopped, after the bloody violence ended. He had listened to the MP3 over and over again, studying to every nuance of Joe Wyndhams voice as he described the Minister and that final line, the voice of the Minister himself; that drawn out Scottish brogue dripping with menace. No matter how many times he listened, he couldn’t gather any further information from it and yet every time he listened to the recording the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. (more…)

Really, it is only when one comes to write ones memoirs that one finds oneself in remembrance of things that previously were forgotten. Perhaps ‘forgotten’ is too strong a word. Perchance, I had chosen not to relive the memory of those terrible days. Perchance, subconsciously I had chosen to push them back into the rear of my mind, to cover them over with memories of happier times: Garden parties and long firelight discussions with good friends, fine port and cigars: British summers and the resonant crack of leather on willow in a good game of cricket with which I used to occupy my life. Now, as I sit here in my London townhouse, recounting tales of excitement and derring-do on which I have occasionally embarked, I find I must tell this tale to complete my story. Although my hands tire easily now and I occasionally forget the spelling of words as old age seeps through my body, my memoirs will not be complete without the retelling of this ghastly tale. So I give you, (with more than a little reluctance for fear you think I should be sent to Bedlam), ‘The Island of the Ungodly Dead’. (more…)

*click*

Officer Johnson: “Interview with Dan Hopper started ten forty five AM. Present, Officer Stuart Johnson and Officer Mike Reilly. So, Mr Hopper, why don’t you just start at the beginning and go from there.”

Dan Hopper:: “Look. I’ve already told the other officer what happened, 3 times now, why won’t you just fucking listen to what I’m saying?” (more…)

/tape starts

MB: “I’m in conversation with Joseph Wyndham, leader of the Eastnor tribe and one of the longest running siege survivors in the UK, I’m also here with his daughter, Isla,..”

Isla Wyndham: “hi”

MB:”We are in his farmhouse on the Isle of Mull off the West coast of Scotland. Joe holed up in a little known stately home..”

Joseph Wyndham: “It was a castle” (more…)