Russell, Jock making a break for the open door. He doesn’t try to stop the dog’s escape, unlike humans dogs weren’t being hunted by those flesh eating fuckers. They were playing it smart: roaming in packs. So far, they'd stayed away from humans. Dogs were smart.
“Come on, Kenny.”
The phone table was lying upended on the floor. As he walked down the hallway towards the living room, with every step he’s aware that he could be attacked at any moment. Be bitten, or worse: have his body opened up like a tin of Spam.
With music from The Exorcist playing in his head, slowly, he opens the living room door, braced for what he’ll find.
At first look, the room appeared to be unoccupied. The curtains were drawn and the coal fire was burning, the light reflecting off wall photos, a cuckoo clock, and the ornamental Samurai sword his father got as a gift that took pride of place in a frame above the mantelpiece.
Flickering light from the dying embers dappled the room, reminding him of the fun his family used to have whenever there were power cuts. They’d make toast and pancakes on the fire and entertain themselves with shadow puppets.
He was so caught up in the memory that he jumped when his father moved. He hadn’t seen him there, sitting in his favourite chair, wrapped in a tartan blanket.
“Dad, is it really you?”
He had to ask. The ability to speak and understand speech is one way of telling if someone has become infected, according to Kenny, the zombie expert. He’s currently standing in the hall, waiting to hear if it’s all clear to come in.
His father eyes him like he’s a complete imbecile. “Of course it's me. Who else would I be, Amitabh Bachchan?”
Mustafa relaxed at the mention of his dad’s favourite Bollywood star. Everything’s okay, after all, so he should just stay here with his family. See this through until the city goes back to some semblance of normality, instead of fucking Zombieland.
Scott and Emma would be okay by themselves. Heck, they might even be holed up in her sister’s house right now and not even have bothered going to the castle. Who could blame them if they’d found a good place to hole up in until things went back to normal?
He bent down and wrapped his dad in a bear hug, which feels weird because he can’t remember the last time he hugged his old man.
His father’s booming voice filled the room. “The power's been off for six hours. Those damn power companies take all our money and leave us to freeze. This would never happen in Pakistan.”
In spite of what he’d witnessed, that comment makes Mustafa grin. Quite a lot of things would never happen in Pakistan. Everything his dad doesn’t like about Scotland, in fact.
His dad continues. “Your mother has taken to her bedroom. You know how she is.” His eyes moved to Kenny’s form in the shadows. “And who is this you have with you, son?”
Kenny moved out of the shadows and came into view. The screwdriver is sticking out of his back pocket. “Hello, Mr. Akhtar. It’s Kenny.”
“Yes, Kenny. Nice to see you, boy.” There's genuine affection in his voice, which is surprising because he once referred to Kenny as a “four-eyed imbecile.” And that was on one of his more pleasant days. His dad has always thought his son should only hang out with “good Muslim boys.” Little did he know his Muslim friends were the ones rebelling. His former best pal, Assad was never out of lap dancing bars. Mustafa took his Muslim beliefs more seriously.
“Where’s Azra?” Mustafa asked his father.
A shadow of fear crossed over his father’s eyes. “Your sister attacked me, bit me, can you believe that?” He holds out his arm. It’s not bleeding, but deep teeth marks are clearly visible. “Now I have a splitting headache.”
“Headache,” Kenny asks, coming closer. “How bad?”
“Like my brain is dying, son.”
Mustafa feels as though that dead freak’s hand is clamping his balls again, squeezing
“Come on, Kenny.”
The phone table was lying upended on the floor. As he walked down the hallway towards the living room, with every step he’s aware that he could be attacked at any moment. Be bitten, or worse: have his body opened up like a tin of Spam.
With music from The Exorcist playing in his head, slowly, he opens the living room door, braced for what he’ll find.
At first look, the room appeared to be unoccupied. The curtains were drawn and the coal fire was burning, the light reflecting off wall photos, a cuckoo clock, and the ornamental Samurai sword his father got as a gift that took pride of place in a frame above the mantelpiece.
Flickering light from the dying embers dappled the room, reminding him of the fun his family used to have whenever there were power cuts. They’d make toast and pancakes on the fire and entertain themselves with shadow puppets.
He was so caught up in the memory that he jumped when his father moved. He hadn’t seen him there, sitting in his favourite chair, wrapped in a tartan blanket.
“Dad, is it really you?”
He had to ask. The ability to speak and understand speech is one way of telling if someone has become infected, according to Kenny, the zombie expert. He’s currently standing in the hall, waiting to hear if it’s all clear to come in.
His father eyes him like he’s a complete imbecile. “Of course it's me. Who else would I be, Amitabh Bachchan?”
Mustafa relaxed at the mention of his dad’s favourite Bollywood star. Everything’s okay, after all, so he should just stay here with his family. See this through until the city goes back to some semblance of normality, instead of fucking Zombieland.
Scott and Emma would be okay by themselves. Heck, they might even be holed up in her sister’s house right now and not even have bothered going to the castle. Who could blame them if they’d found a good place to hole up in until things went back to normal?
He bent down and wrapped his dad in a bear hug, which feels weird because he can’t remember the last time he hugged his old man.
His father’s booming voice filled the room. “The power's been off for six hours. Those damn power companies take all our money and leave us to freeze. This would never happen in Pakistan.”
In spite of what he’d witnessed, that comment makes Mustafa grin. Quite a lot of things would never happen in Pakistan. Everything his dad doesn’t like about Scotland, in fact.
His dad continues. “Your mother has taken to her bedroom. You know how she is.” His eyes moved to Kenny’s form in the shadows. “And who is this you have with you, son?”
Kenny moved out of the shadows and came into view. The screwdriver is sticking out of his back pocket. “Hello, Mr. Akhtar. It’s Kenny.”
“Yes, Kenny. Nice to see you, boy.” There's genuine affection in his voice, which is surprising because he once referred to Kenny as a “four-eyed imbecile.” And that was on one of his more pleasant days. His dad has always thought his son should only hang out with “good Muslim boys.” Little did he know his Muslim friends were the ones rebelling. His former best pal, Assad was never out of lap dancing bars. Mustafa took his Muslim beliefs more seriously.
“Where’s Azra?” Mustafa asked his father.
A shadow of fear crossed over his father’s eyes. “Your sister attacked me, bit me, can you believe that?” He holds out his arm. It’s not bleeding, but deep teeth marks are clearly visible. “Now I have a splitting headache.”
“Headache,” Kenny asks, coming closer. “How bad?”
“Like my brain is dying, son.”
Mustafa feels as though that dead freak’s hand is clamping his balls again, squeezing
Similar Books
