Christmas Night Of The Living Dead Part 2

I slowly turned to the face the source of the wheezing that emanated from behind me. The dark bundle of rags heaved with deep breaths, the whole torso seeming to rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

"Can I help you?" I asked trying not to slur my words in the cold.

The bundle of rags continued to look at me, I could just about make out a shape like a head upon shoulders that was fixated in my direction. The was something unnerving about the way the only sound that appeared to exist within the station, and the surrounding area, was the wheezing sound of the ragged creature before me. No cars, no excited, drunken revellers or stray cats fighting. The air was dead.

"I don't think the train to London will run, the snows coming down pretty heavily now."

Up until the point where he reached out towards me I had felt no fear, no anxiety about what this thing in front of me may have been planning to do. As soon as its hand rested on my arm I suddenly felt my heart quicken. The hand in question was bordering between the shades of blue and purple, one that had obviously been devoid of bodily heat and the circulation of blood that provides the skin with its natural warm pigments. The nails were dirty, almost black with the remnants of soil underneath them, once I had decided that I was in the presence of a reanimated corpse it was pretty obvious that the soil had come from where it had dug itself out from wherever it had been laid.

The fingernails that I would have expected to be brittle gripped my arm, instead of breaking away they embedded themselves in my skin. Tearing through not only the fabric of my overcoat and shirtsleeve, but the flesh on my arm. I tried to scream out in pain, but a combination of extreme cold, sudden shock and immense pain prevented any sound from leaving my lips. A sudden surge of adrenaline lifted my other arms and I landed a punch somewhere in the general vicinity of where I suspected the creature's head to be. My knuckles landed on the cold, hard flesh of what would've been a nose, I felt the bones break. Still the grip intensified. I swung again, hoping to find the same spot, not entirely sure why I thought a creature who doesn't feel pain would let me go if I punched it in the face. My punch was lower and instead of the nose I landed my fist in its open mouth, just in time to feel its teeth bite down on my fist and it was the bones in my hand that cracked this time. Now, fully aware of what was happening, I screamed.

It didn't take long for me to notice that my hand was no longer a composite of bones, muscles and flesh.

My heart increasing in rate, my body exuding sweat in the coldest night of the year. Unable to move, unable to process anything that was happening, I was exactly where the creature wanted me and took its opportunity well, forcing me down onto the ground. Its teeth started to gnaw at the thin skin that surrounded my skull, warm blood flowing down my face, some mingling with tears, some with sweat. When the first crack of teeth on bone vibrated throughout my body I held a slight hope that the skull would prove too thick and it would move on to a more easily digestible target, such as a fox or cat. The second crack dispelled any hope I had as the teeth forced their way through the bone. The cold night air swirled around the exposed bone and invaded the inside of my skull as all the nerves surrounding the brain were exposed. As the creature worked more of the skull bone away I thought my last thoughts, a regret that I never told Stephanie that I loved her...

THE END

Christmas Night Of The Living Dead Part 1

I walked through the little side door that allowed access and egress from the platform to the open streets of Hollow Bay. The main thoroughfare; complete with ticket office, electric timetable and vending machine, had been closed for several hours, dark and empty. Hollow Bay's train station was exactly like the other stations that had been built on the South Eastern coastal line. Grey outer shells, wooden floors leading out onto tarmac platforms with black and white patterns on all the railings and stairs that cross under the tracks to and from London.

I pulled my coat tighter as a breeze suddenly brought the full -10 degrees wind chill swirling around me. They had forecast snow all week, yet it had waited until tonight to release its first flakes. There are times when I consider Mother Nature to be in possession of a cruel sense of humour, oh how I must have wronged her in a previous life. The flakes continued to increase in size and density until very soon, with exception of the metal rails, the track itself was covered in a shallow blanket of white. Looking up at the black and yellow departure board I started to wonder if the last train to London would even run at all.

I took a sharp intake of breath as I thought I saw movement of something large and black a little way down the line. The inrush of cold air, and several large snowflakes, settled in the back of my throat and I coughed, deep coughs that seemed to stretch several unused muscles in my chest, Eventually it subsided to be replaced by a shallow wheezing as my lungs adjusted to the cold. However, after several deep breaths I soon realised that the wheezing noise wasn't coming from my own lungs, but from someone in close proximity...

Gazing

Carl Jericho strummed his guitar, tuning up for an encore number. He’d already left the stage his T-Shirt stained in various places from the incredible amount of sweat that had escaped through his pores. The crowd were all shouting in unison for more, the entire club screaming ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ wanting the night to never end. When he’s led the band back onto the stage he’d already decided his next move. The cover version of Neil Young’s Rocking In The Free World which they had been practicing throughout the entire arena tour had never made it onto the set, never felt right, but tonight in the secret charity gig everything screamed perfection.

“We’ve been practicing this little number throughout the tour, but to play an absolute classic you need the right crowd. Tonight, in our hometown, I think we’ve found an audience good enough,” Jericho leant into the mike, “Manchester Academy, Are you ready?”

The crowd screamed out as one, Carl Jericho stood there basking in the glory of his idol status.

“Maybe, I was wrong. Manchester, Are you ready?” Jericho screamed into the microphone.

The crowd roared; screaming, shouting and pleading for more. Trying even louder with even more effort to appease their God who stood before them, asking them to pray to him and receive his gifts.

Alexandra was almost deafened by the drunken screams of the young girls surrounding her. She put a hand on her belly and tapped it gently half wondering if this was really the place to bring her unborn child. She thought of her Dad and how he’d probably say “Never too young to educate them” and start to regale her with a story of he and her mother used to play Led Zeppelin records to her while she slept in the womb. She was quite content that the avoidance of smoke and alcohol far outweighed the negative effects of treating her little one to Lithium Junkies performing some of their classics. She even treated herself to a little pregnant hormonal cry during an acoustic version of their mega hit ‘Don’t Look Like That’. Her heart skipped a beat when he looked directly at her and smiled. Carl Jericho, the sexiest man alive ever according to Cosmopolitan, looking directly at her in a sea of people.

“I think you deserve this, so I’m dedicating this to the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most amazing woman in this room. You know who you are,” Carl Jericho gushed, holding the entire room in his hand with his magnetism.

“Thank you,” Alexandra whispered back knowing she wouldn’t be heard over the screams of the audience.

As Jericho began to play the opening chords, Alexandra could see in him the man she first met at a friend’s engagement party. He was sitting in the corner of the room, a small glass of white wine sat neatly on a silver coaster, no sign of the extravagant egotistical rock star that was belting out a Neil Young classic like it was one of his own. She had sat down beside him and listened as he played Travis’ ‘Driftwood’ on an old acoustic guitar. It was just him and a guitar, yet the whole room seemed to stop and listen, like for those two minutes there was nothing sweeter in life than Carl Jericho’s grizzly vocals telling a story about a piece of flotsam. It was then that they’d got talking; found a common interest in the paintings of Edvard Munch, even more so to find that he had a genuine reproduction of Vampire hanging in his stairwell.

She looked at him on the stage, his long blonde hair a tangled mess, his chin full of overgrown stubble that hadn’t yet become thick enough to resemble the beard he favoured when being little known Spike Floyd. If only the press had seen him at the party, thick black rimmed glasses and a black suit, a million miles away from his alter-ego’s snakeskin pants and silver open fronted shirts. She looked around the room and wondered how many people actually knew that deep within this immaculate showman was an insecure depressive who could talk for hours about art and literature.

High above the spotlights changed from red, to green, to blue and gusts of dry ice flowed into the jumping crowd. Carl Jerricho began his guitar solo, in this persona everything was a challenge, he had seen Neil Young completely dismantle a guitar and play it just by waving the strings around, this was to be the best show he’d ever played. He knew that within 24 hours camera phones, digital camcorders and unofficial bootlegs would have filtered their way onto the internet. He also knew that a really good show would have the YouTube hit rate through the roof just in time for a Christmas greatest hits package to fall onto the shelves. With a final flourish he swung his guitar above his head and brought it down onto the stage, a hundred camera’s illuminating the moment with their flash as they sought to capture the moment when their hero reproduced the cover of The Clash’s London Calling.

Alexandra screamed at the top of her lungs as the pure emotion of watching Carl Jericho destroy his guitar and release all the pent up frustration inside him. She felt a twinge in her belly as she realised she was jumping a little too much and should probably sit down. She smiled broadly as Jerricho kicked his guitar from the stage and stomped around releasing more tension, more energy. He picked up the mike from the stand and bowed to the screaming adoration.

“Thank you, thank you,” he breathed heavily, struggling to get his words out, “I want to thank each and every one of you for making this gig, possibly the greatest in my living memory. You’ve come out and made a hell of a lot of money for our charity and we hope to see you again real soon. It only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the band, Tasha, JJ, myself Carl. Thanks for supporting us, you’re our heroes.”

Jericho slowed down and stood at the microphone stand, replacing the mike back into its holder. He reached behind him for one of his back up guitars. The room was a hum as they waited for a second encore song. Jericho looked out, holding his hand to his eyes in search of something or someone. Alexandra held her breath and felt her heart beating a little faster.

“Somewhere out there is the love of my life, she’s been instrumental in providing inspiration for new songs which we hope to get out to you sometime in the next year. She’s my sun, my star and the mother of my child,” Carl Jericho pointed out into the crowd to a small brunette sat at the bar holding a bottle of Bud. “Charlotte, I know you like the Foo Fighters so this is for you. I love you, baby.”

As Jerricho uttered the first line and admitted he had a confession to make Alexandra suddenly felt very, very sick.