Read Online Breaking News: An Autozombiography by N. J. Hallard - Free Book Online
Authors: N. J. Hallard
Tags: Horror
Ads: Link
overly sarcastic at times.
‘ It stands for “Cabinet Office Briefing Room A”, actually.’ I sniffed.
‘ Why would their HQ be under the South Downs, then?’
Lou was pleased with her point. I kept quiet, a touch eggy. We powered on in their slipstream for a mile or two before losing them as they turned west onto the A27 and towards the Southwick Tunnel and Worthing. Al continued into Brighton, on a road that would take you to the end of the Palace Pier if you didn’t turn off. It was 5.30pm, and we had made pretty good time.
Breaking In
[day 0001]
Brighton was great. It was a place that had grown fairly organically, and as a result it made sense, at least to me. The benignly militant population had, on the whole, indignantly rejected the mindless progress that had ruined other towns yet their own brand of progress gave the city a sense of freedom that sometimes bordered on lunacy. It was so bright and breezy that a wag on the council marketing team had even plastered ‘Brighton Breezy’ over anything from buses to billboards. Old and new sat comfortably - almost respectfully - next to each other, nurturing tiny theatres, impossibly trendy bistros and renegade comedy clubs. Being as gay as sandals was optional. Naturally there were throwbacks from the 60’s and 70’s – sickly tower blocks and absurd concrete wastes – but the greedy madness had never been allowed to actually take over the place.
Withdean Park was large and open, and usually dotted with sun seekers on such a bright day – now it was packed with bodies. Some pushed; some queued towards a similar set of inflatable tents to the one we’d seen in Crawley. A line of ambulances fought with cars and pedestrians to get off the road and onto the grass. Al flicked on the local radio as the crowds spilled onto our side of the street and I watched for faces.
‘ We should get her some help,’ Lou said, dabbing at Susie’s forehead.
Al forged through the crowd, leading an impromptu line of half a dozen other opportunists. There were hardly any moving cars now; most were abandoned or contained people less bold or cheeky than Al, honking horns and gesticulating at each other. On the radio they were reading out those town halls that had made available lists of the known dead, and moved on to the longer list of places where the stricken could visit the makeshift treatment centres. I gazed over the park at the bouncy hospitals, and Al slowed as more people spilled onto the road.
In one motion, I saw a hundred people shoal outwards to make a circular gap in the thick throng. At the centre was a man in a shawl, with a crimson chin. Through the ever-increasing hole in the crowd I could see a boy lying at his feet, pawing at his own face with red hands. People were running and falling. A young man with ‘FCUK you!’ on his T-shirt turned to us and started hammering on the roof in sheer white-faced terror, setting Floyd off barking and making me jump. We powered through, and the lad thumped on the car behind us, and then the one after that. The road ahead was blocked by an upturned furniture van and its contents. Al knew where he was, so he simply swung a left onto a side street, and after several tight squeezes turned south onto the Seven Dials roundabout. He passed the GPS unit back to Lou.
‘ Save the batteries.’ He said.
‘ It’s alright; I’ve got a spare charger at home.’
Al said nothing, but I caught him checking his petrol gauge. We weaved through the obstacles littering the streets, slowing down and sounding the horn where humans outnumbered cars. There was more thumping on the bonnet. We passed a bus stop, seeing a man thrashing about with an umbrella, beating people away from him. A woman in a night-dress ran from her house screaming, with one handless arm raised in front of her. I saw a fight – or a beating – in an alleyway, and lots of foaming blood in the gravel. There were kids on bikes grinning on street corners and
‘ It stands for “Cabinet Office Briefing Room A”, actually.’ I sniffed.
‘ Why would their HQ be under the South Downs, then?’
Lou was pleased with her point. I kept quiet, a touch eggy. We powered on in their slipstream for a mile or two before losing them as they turned west onto the A27 and towards the Southwick Tunnel and Worthing. Al continued into Brighton, on a road that would take you to the end of the Palace Pier if you didn’t turn off. It was 5.30pm, and we had made pretty good time.
Breaking In
[day 0001]
Brighton was great. It was a place that had grown fairly organically, and as a result it made sense, at least to me. The benignly militant population had, on the whole, indignantly rejected the mindless progress that had ruined other towns yet their own brand of progress gave the city a sense of freedom that sometimes bordered on lunacy. It was so bright and breezy that a wag on the council marketing team had even plastered ‘Brighton Breezy’ over anything from buses to billboards. Old and new sat comfortably - almost respectfully - next to each other, nurturing tiny theatres, impossibly trendy bistros and renegade comedy clubs. Being as gay as sandals was optional. Naturally there were throwbacks from the 60’s and 70’s – sickly tower blocks and absurd concrete wastes – but the greedy madness had never been allowed to actually take over the place.
Withdean Park was large and open, and usually dotted with sun seekers on such a bright day – now it was packed with bodies. Some pushed; some queued towards a similar set of inflatable tents to the one we’d seen in Crawley. A line of ambulances fought with cars and pedestrians to get off the road and onto the grass. Al flicked on the local radio as the crowds spilled onto our side of the street and I watched for faces.
‘ We should get her some help,’ Lou said, dabbing at Susie’s forehead.
Al forged through the crowd, leading an impromptu line of half a dozen other opportunists. There were hardly any moving cars now; most were abandoned or contained people less bold or cheeky than Al, honking horns and gesticulating at each other. On the radio they were reading out those town halls that had made available lists of the known dead, and moved on to the longer list of places where the stricken could visit the makeshift treatment centres. I gazed over the park at the bouncy hospitals, and Al slowed as more people spilled onto the road.
In one motion, I saw a hundred people shoal outwards to make a circular gap in the thick throng. At the centre was a man in a shawl, with a crimson chin. Through the ever-increasing hole in the crowd I could see a boy lying at his feet, pawing at his own face with red hands. People were running and falling. A young man with ‘FCUK you!’ on his T-shirt turned to us and started hammering on the roof in sheer white-faced terror, setting Floyd off barking and making me jump. We powered through, and the lad thumped on the car behind us, and then the one after that. The road ahead was blocked by an upturned furniture van and its contents. Al knew where he was, so he simply swung a left onto a side street, and after several tight squeezes turned south onto the Seven Dials roundabout. He passed the GPS unit back to Lou.
‘ Save the batteries.’ He said.
‘ It’s alright; I’ve got a spare charger at home.’
Al said nothing, but I caught him checking his petrol gauge. We weaved through the obstacles littering the streets, slowing down and sounding the horn where humans outnumbered cars. There was more thumping on the bonnet. We passed a bus stop, seeing a man thrashing about with an umbrella, beating people away from him. A woman in a night-dress ran from her house screaming, with one handless arm raised in front of her. I saw a fight – or a beating – in an alleyway, and lots of foaming blood in the gravel. There were kids on bikes grinning on street corners and
Similar Books
