Read Online Breaking News: An Autozombiography by N. J. Hallard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: N. J. Hallard
Tags: Horror
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people weeping in the sun. Raging house fires burst glass onto the road in front of us; screams and sirens became muffled in the blistering heat.
Al’s shop sat in the centre of an old quarter of the city called the North Laines. Its small, quirky properties made them an obvious choice for independent traders; being in Brighton in the first place leant the outlets a style which would make you rich if you could bottle it; the fact that they were in the most fashionable part of Brighton’s trading district gave everything a further bohemian twist of exquisite nuttiness, which was so evident in the elaborate shop signs.
He knew a steep back road which took us down by the dark railway station with its closed shutters dotted with notices; then under a bridge, out behind a grim block of flats, and right to the top of Al’s street. The roof of the Komedia comedy club was ablaze, and the few shops without grilles had their shattered windows strewn across the pavement. There were less people about than in the tree-lined suburbs, but people seemed either bumbling and slow or frantic and violent, depending on whether they were at Death’s door or merely taking advantage of the situation. We double-parked, blocking the middle of the road; Al took his keys from the ignition, relieved to see his shop in one piece still.
‘ Wait here; I’ll blip the car behind me.’ He carefully selected the two shop keys before getting out. The heat poured into the car along with the sound of a dog barking - Floyd’s ears picked up and he cocked his head. I watched Al sprint between parked cars and up to the side door of his shop, key at the ready. He hopped inside; turned around to blip the car then shut the door behind him. He was inside. I couldn’t help noticing that we were outside.
Al sold clothes for young people – to my eyes just hooded tops, shirts and hats – and for a long time had been the sole distributor in Britain for a number of sought-after West Coast labels. He’d pretty much set up the business while still in LA, nurturing contacts with some of the independent designers and bringing the stock back to an enthusiastic UK ‘yoof’. Within a few years though, his trendsetting meant those same labels could be seen in most high street stores, and he had moved on with disdain. Al would raise two fingers to the big boys whenever he could, wearing his independence like a badge of honour. He had been an avid skater when he was younger, when it was underground and dangerous. Then the big corporations had moved in, with their patronising demographic targeting and sponsorship ruses. He couldn’t help but see the irony that these were the same people who would call the police if they saw people like him skateboarding in their office car parks. Something had been lost to the big boys, he had told me; something intangible but crucial. He gave up boarding soon after that.
‘ Is Dmitri coming? Are you going to see Uncle Dmitri?’ Lou was talking to Floyd in her puppy voice, and he was whimpering in sheer excitement at the prospect.
‘ Don’t wind him up Sweetpea; Al might be a while.’
‘ I hope not’, Susie stretched, peering through the window at the chaos, and pinching her temples. ‘This isn’t Crawley.’ She clearly hadn’t turned yet, but she looked really rough all the same.
‘ We’re outside Al’s shop in Brighton. Still got a headache?’ Lou asked loudly, fishing about in her bag. She pulled out a blister pack of pills. ‘Can you open that water baby?’
I gave it a go, but Susie had pulled a bottle from her own tiny handbag and popped a couple of the painkillers from the pack. A car drew up behind us and started honking; Lou waved him off, pointing to the shop and mouthing soundlessly. Floyd just barked at them. I looked ahead, getting twitchier by the minute. Peering through the patchy smoke of the comedy club inferno I could see single slumped figures standing dead still. On the pavement a large man and
Al’s shop sat in the centre of an old quarter of the city called the North Laines. Its small, quirky properties made them an obvious choice for independent traders; being in Brighton in the first place leant the outlets a style which would make you rich if you could bottle it; the fact that they were in the most fashionable part of Brighton’s trading district gave everything a further bohemian twist of exquisite nuttiness, which was so evident in the elaborate shop signs.
He knew a steep back road which took us down by the dark railway station with its closed shutters dotted with notices; then under a bridge, out behind a grim block of flats, and right to the top of Al’s street. The roof of the Komedia comedy club was ablaze, and the few shops without grilles had their shattered windows strewn across the pavement. There were less people about than in the tree-lined suburbs, but people seemed either bumbling and slow or frantic and violent, depending on whether they were at Death’s door or merely taking advantage of the situation. We double-parked, blocking the middle of the road; Al took his keys from the ignition, relieved to see his shop in one piece still.
‘ Wait here; I’ll blip the car behind me.’ He carefully selected the two shop keys before getting out. The heat poured into the car along with the sound of a dog barking - Floyd’s ears picked up and he cocked his head. I watched Al sprint between parked cars and up to the side door of his shop, key at the ready. He hopped inside; turned around to blip the car then shut the door behind him. He was inside. I couldn’t help noticing that we were outside.
Al sold clothes for young people – to my eyes just hooded tops, shirts and hats – and for a long time had been the sole distributor in Britain for a number of sought-after West Coast labels. He’d pretty much set up the business while still in LA, nurturing contacts with some of the independent designers and bringing the stock back to an enthusiastic UK ‘yoof’. Within a few years though, his trendsetting meant those same labels could be seen in most high street stores, and he had moved on with disdain. Al would raise two fingers to the big boys whenever he could, wearing his independence like a badge of honour. He had been an avid skater when he was younger, when it was underground and dangerous. Then the big corporations had moved in, with their patronising demographic targeting and sponsorship ruses. He couldn’t help but see the irony that these were the same people who would call the police if they saw people like him skateboarding in their office car parks. Something had been lost to the big boys, he had told me; something intangible but crucial. He gave up boarding soon after that.
‘ Is Dmitri coming? Are you going to see Uncle Dmitri?’ Lou was talking to Floyd in her puppy voice, and he was whimpering in sheer excitement at the prospect.
‘ Don’t wind him up Sweetpea; Al might be a while.’
‘ I hope not’, Susie stretched, peering through the window at the chaos, and pinching her temples. ‘This isn’t Crawley.’ She clearly hadn’t turned yet, but she looked really rough all the same.
‘ We’re outside Al’s shop in Brighton. Still got a headache?’ Lou asked loudly, fishing about in her bag. She pulled out a blister pack of pills. ‘Can you open that water baby?’
I gave it a go, but Susie had pulled a bottle from her own tiny handbag and popped a couple of the painkillers from the pack. A car drew up behind us and started honking; Lou waved him off, pointing to the shop and mouthing soundlessly. Floyd just barked at them. I looked ahead, getting twitchier by the minute. Peering through the patchy smoke of the comedy club inferno I could see single slumped figures standing dead still. On the pavement a large man and
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