Read Online Class Four: Those Who Survive by Duncan P. Bradshaw - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Duncan P. Bradshaw
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the proffered key and chain.
“Jim’s there, plus some other kids about his size,” Philip added.
Francis scratched his beard; morsels of cooked meat flicked through the air. “How far away is it? Would be good to have somewhere to call home after the past few months.”
Philip placed the chain round his neck and dropped the key down his t-shirt. “A couple of weeks walk, I reckon. Not much more than that. If you’ve got a map, I can show you the way? Point out a few places to stop at, if you need some respite.”
Francis pulled a chunk of meat from the stick with his teeth and rooted around his rucksack. He dropped the map onto the floor and opened it up, smoothing down the creases.
“Weird meeting you, Philip. Found your little survival guide earlier,” Francis quipped, searching the map for their current location.
Philip smiled. “That’s good. Crops up the damnedest of places I’ll tell ya. One of the pathfinders must’ve been round these parts. Glad it’s out there. Just hope it saves a few lives and brings people together. We’ll need everyone we can to take things back. Here ya go, Francisco.”
Francis battled with the map again as he sought to decrease it back to its pocket size form. “Thanks, slim. Gives us something to aim for. What do you reckon, Nate?”
The two men looked across to the sleeping child, whose eyelids flickered and limbs twitched. “Ha, guess we’re staying here for now. Let’s go secure the place, you big bastard,” Philip whispered.
Boots scuffed against the dusty concrete floor. Trails of viscous fluid led from the scene of the zombie cleansing to a collapsed pile of zombie Jenga. “So what are you looking for then, Philip?” Francis asked.
“A legend.”
Chapter Nine
EEEEEEEE
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“Paul, mate, when we get back, you have to get some WD40 on that wheel. It sounds like WALL-E trying to have sex with a cat flap,” Dean whinged. His breath misted in the early morning chill.
Paul looked across and smiled. “Actually thought it sounded more like you porking a cat flap.” He cast a glance behind him onto the half laden trailer attached to his mountain bike. “Slim pickings, mate. Think Galthorpe has been well and truly pillaged. We’ll have to let Andy know, see where we should hit up next,” he added, his hands pumped his burning thighs, trying to keep up the momentum.
Dean nodded in agreement and pointed. “Ahh, home, sweet home. Least you know when you see this road and the scary bastard forest that in around eleven minutes time we can finally have a cup of tea and a sit down.”
The two men turned up the concrete road, past a flaking, rusty sign proclaiming ‘Netzach’s Biscuits’. “Tell you what, Deano. You gotta wonder how many more waifs and strays The Gaffer is gonna take in. If we can’t find more than we did on this run, this’ll last, what, three days, at best?” Paul panted. The end in sight, he forced his calves to one last act of exertion.
Dean wiped a gloved woollen hand across his nose, leaving a trail of snot and mucus ingrained within the thick, grey weave, “And then how much further do we have to go? Galthorpe was what? Seventeen miles? It’s no bother getting there, but getting back with some of the supplies these bastards ask for is an absolute killer.”
“Just be grateful we don’t have a blacksmith and the sod wants a new anvil. Some Mark three-point-oh model, with a hit-o-meter and a dark matter glove. Wouldn’t put it past some of these little—” Paul managed to force out through sharp intakes of breath before a shout from Dean interrupted him.
“What the fuck? Paul, you see that? Over there, on the left, the edge of the forest, is that…”
Paul squinted and scanned the hemline of the forest. “I can’t see a…oh shit, let’s get a wriggle on, that
“Jim’s there, plus some other kids about his size,” Philip added.
Francis scratched his beard; morsels of cooked meat flicked through the air. “How far away is it? Would be good to have somewhere to call home after the past few months.”
Philip placed the chain round his neck and dropped the key down his t-shirt. “A couple of weeks walk, I reckon. Not much more than that. If you’ve got a map, I can show you the way? Point out a few places to stop at, if you need some respite.”
Francis pulled a chunk of meat from the stick with his teeth and rooted around his rucksack. He dropped the map onto the floor and opened it up, smoothing down the creases.
“Weird meeting you, Philip. Found your little survival guide earlier,” Francis quipped, searching the map for their current location.
Philip smiled. “That’s good. Crops up the damnedest of places I’ll tell ya. One of the pathfinders must’ve been round these parts. Glad it’s out there. Just hope it saves a few lives and brings people together. We’ll need everyone we can to take things back. Here ya go, Francisco.”
Francis battled with the map again as he sought to decrease it back to its pocket size form. “Thanks, slim. Gives us something to aim for. What do you reckon, Nate?”
The two men looked across to the sleeping child, whose eyelids flickered and limbs twitched. “Ha, guess we’re staying here for now. Let’s go secure the place, you big bastard,” Philip whispered.
Boots scuffed against the dusty concrete floor. Trails of viscous fluid led from the scene of the zombie cleansing to a collapsed pile of zombie Jenga. “So what are you looking for then, Philip?” Francis asked.
“A legend.”
Chapter Nine
EEEEEEEE
……………..
……………..
……………..
EEEEEEEE
……………..
……………..
……………..
EEEEEEEE
……………..
“Paul, mate, when we get back, you have to get some WD40 on that wheel. It sounds like WALL-E trying to have sex with a cat flap,” Dean whinged. His breath misted in the early morning chill.
Paul looked across and smiled. “Actually thought it sounded more like you porking a cat flap.” He cast a glance behind him onto the half laden trailer attached to his mountain bike. “Slim pickings, mate. Think Galthorpe has been well and truly pillaged. We’ll have to let Andy know, see where we should hit up next,” he added, his hands pumped his burning thighs, trying to keep up the momentum.
Dean nodded in agreement and pointed. “Ahh, home, sweet home. Least you know when you see this road and the scary bastard forest that in around eleven minutes time we can finally have a cup of tea and a sit down.”
The two men turned up the concrete road, past a flaking, rusty sign proclaiming ‘Netzach’s Biscuits’. “Tell you what, Deano. You gotta wonder how many more waifs and strays The Gaffer is gonna take in. If we can’t find more than we did on this run, this’ll last, what, three days, at best?” Paul panted. The end in sight, he forced his calves to one last act of exertion.
Dean wiped a gloved woollen hand across his nose, leaving a trail of snot and mucus ingrained within the thick, grey weave, “And then how much further do we have to go? Galthorpe was what? Seventeen miles? It’s no bother getting there, but getting back with some of the supplies these bastards ask for is an absolute killer.”
“Just be grateful we don’t have a blacksmith and the sod wants a new anvil. Some Mark three-point-oh model, with a hit-o-meter and a dark matter glove. Wouldn’t put it past some of these little—” Paul managed to force out through sharp intakes of breath before a shout from Dean interrupted him.
“What the fuck? Paul, you see that? Over there, on the left, the edge of the forest, is that…”
Paul squinted and scanned the hemline of the forest. “I can’t see a…oh shit, let’s get a wriggle on, that
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