Read Online Class Four: Those Who Survive by Duncan P. Bradshaw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Duncan P. Bradshaw
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don’t look good.” The two men picked up their pace.
EEEEEEEE
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EEEEEEEE
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Thomas ducked under the decomposing arms of one of his attackers. The lazy lunge had left ribs exposed. He took advantage with a solid blow to the solar plexus with a section of lead pipe. The zombie paid it no heed and looked down at breakfast with a black hanging tongue. Its bottom jaw had long since been ripped off; the ragged tear suggested a sudden and violent removal, rather than a precise and clean one.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered and rolled sideways, missing a clumsy arm sweep from another of his undead muggers. He climbed to his feet and looked at his assailants. No-bottom-jaw zombie had swivelled round to face him, his dry tongue smacked against his face like a rubbish swing ball.
Lunging zombie realised that his morning sweetmeats were going to be a bit more work than hoped for, and was turning around with all the speed of the Exxon Valdez navigating the Prince William Sound’s Bligh Reef.
For now, they concerned him the least. For reasons known only to Mother (un)Nature, the one that was causing him the most consternation was ‘Lofty’. At least that’s what the blood- and bile-encrusted enamel badge pinned to the very dead chest of a circus dwarf purported his professional name to have once been.
Thomas swayed and, for a moment, his head was filled with only one question.
What was his real name?
The lapse in concentration was nearly paid for in body parts. Lofty reached out a part hand, part claw and latched onto Thomas’ jeans, somewhere around the knee. He started to pull, and with his low centre of gravity, seemed to be winning.
Snapped back into reality, Thomas began to shake his leg like a dog suffering with a bad dose of arse-worm.
Clive?
The hold was firm. He pulled his arm back and brought the pipe down onto Lofty’s head.
The clown bowler hat, with its secret compartment of unsoiled and undiscovered tied multi-coloured hankies, absorbed the blow with ease. Lofty latched his other badly burned hand onto Thomas’ other leg.
Perhaps Daniel?
Thomas recoiled from the failed blow and pulled back to his favoured Nadal backhand.
Orville?
His next strike was full and true, catching Lofty just below the chin. There was a loud crack and splintered jaw-bone pierced his cheek in two places; fragments of tooth and dead tissue flew into the air.
Karl?
Lofty stumbled back and chewed the air. His face had the appearance of a fleshy surf wave. One side of his mouth worked as before, the other a mishmash of exposed bone and congealed blood. Still, though, he maintained his grip, determined if necessary to gum the meal instead. If it worked for guppy fish, it could work for him. The other two zombies were now nearly within reach of Thomas.
Thomas exhaled sharply and brought the pipe down onto Lofty’s shoulder. It broke the clavicle and made the associated arm judder upwards. The blow also caught his name badge which splintered and the ‘ty’ fell to the floor.
Got it, he looks like a right Clint .
Thomas dragged his free leg backwards and repeated the process on Lofty’s other arm. Freedom reigned, though he was still none the wiser about the clown dwarf’s true identity.
He regained his posture and prepared to fight the others, when from behind him, he heard a strange noise.
Is that Johnny Five trying to procreate with a cat flap?
EEEEEEEE
……………..
EEEEEEEE
……………..
Thomas looked over his shoulder and saw two men pedalling for their lives on mountain bikes with aluminium trailers being pulled behind them. One of the men had what looked like a wooden beam tucked under his arm. As he charged the No-bottom-jaw zombie, an expletive laden guttural yell bellowed above the sound of blood rushing around Thomas’ head.
Deano held the fence post firmly in the crook of his arm. He’d seen it on telly, days
EEEEEEEE
……………..
……………..
EEEEEEEE
……………..
……………..
Thomas ducked under the decomposing arms of one of his attackers. The lazy lunge had left ribs exposed. He took advantage with a solid blow to the solar plexus with a section of lead pipe. The zombie paid it no heed and looked down at breakfast with a black hanging tongue. Its bottom jaw had long since been ripped off; the ragged tear suggested a sudden and violent removal, rather than a precise and clean one.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered and rolled sideways, missing a clumsy arm sweep from another of his undead muggers. He climbed to his feet and looked at his assailants. No-bottom-jaw zombie had swivelled round to face him, his dry tongue smacked against his face like a rubbish swing ball.
Lunging zombie realised that his morning sweetmeats were going to be a bit more work than hoped for, and was turning around with all the speed of the Exxon Valdez navigating the Prince William Sound’s Bligh Reef.
For now, they concerned him the least. For reasons known only to Mother (un)Nature, the one that was causing him the most consternation was ‘Lofty’. At least that’s what the blood- and bile-encrusted enamel badge pinned to the very dead chest of a circus dwarf purported his professional name to have once been.
Thomas swayed and, for a moment, his head was filled with only one question.
What was his real name?
The lapse in concentration was nearly paid for in body parts. Lofty reached out a part hand, part claw and latched onto Thomas’ jeans, somewhere around the knee. He started to pull, and with his low centre of gravity, seemed to be winning.
Snapped back into reality, Thomas began to shake his leg like a dog suffering with a bad dose of arse-worm.
Clive?
The hold was firm. He pulled his arm back and brought the pipe down onto Lofty’s head.
The clown bowler hat, with its secret compartment of unsoiled and undiscovered tied multi-coloured hankies, absorbed the blow with ease. Lofty latched his other badly burned hand onto Thomas’ other leg.
Perhaps Daniel?
Thomas recoiled from the failed blow and pulled back to his favoured Nadal backhand.
Orville?
His next strike was full and true, catching Lofty just below the chin. There was a loud crack and splintered jaw-bone pierced his cheek in two places; fragments of tooth and dead tissue flew into the air.
Karl?
Lofty stumbled back and chewed the air. His face had the appearance of a fleshy surf wave. One side of his mouth worked as before, the other a mishmash of exposed bone and congealed blood. Still, though, he maintained his grip, determined if necessary to gum the meal instead. If it worked for guppy fish, it could work for him. The other two zombies were now nearly within reach of Thomas.
Thomas exhaled sharply and brought the pipe down onto Lofty’s shoulder. It broke the clavicle and made the associated arm judder upwards. The blow also caught his name badge which splintered and the ‘ty’ fell to the floor.
Got it, he looks like a right Clint .
Thomas dragged his free leg backwards and repeated the process on Lofty’s other arm. Freedom reigned, though he was still none the wiser about the clown dwarf’s true identity.
He regained his posture and prepared to fight the others, when from behind him, he heard a strange noise.
Is that Johnny Five trying to procreate with a cat flap?
EEEEEEEE
……………..
EEEEEEEE
……………..
Thomas looked over his shoulder and saw two men pedalling for their lives on mountain bikes with aluminium trailers being pulled behind them. One of the men had what looked like a wooden beam tucked under his arm. As he charged the No-bottom-jaw zombie, an expletive laden guttural yell bellowed above the sound of blood rushing around Thomas’ head.
Deano held the fence post firmly in the crook of his arm. He’d seen it on telly, days
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