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|Something a little bit different for Elfwood, I think. -Intended- to be infuriating, pointless, and generally very bad, but hopefully amusing too. Now, go and meet Lindsey, and enter her world, which is much like ours. Except it has zombies and stuff.||
It was a dark and stormy night, but this was fairly irrelevant, because the lights were on and Lindsey had turned up the volume of the television so loud that whilst she couldn’t hear the weather, she had to ignore old Mr. Firthdale, who was currently bashing his cat (she suspected) on the wall that separated their living rooms, and shouting hoarsely about the youth today and their mini-skirts, obnoxious hairstyles and five-hundred decibel, glorified gramophones.
However, the youth today was more interested in Zombie Wars; this being a wildly inaccurate and badly named low-budget programme that she had taped last night. She had a notepad on her lap and a stolen IKEA® pencil in one hand, with which she was scrawling down her comments about the show. The list so far was as follows, except slightly less legible:
Error 1: Heroine is all the wrong proportion and those clothes are way impractical.
Error 2: You can’t just burst into a pubic place and blast away with a bazooka without being arrested, even if you are fighting the living dead.
Error 3: Bazookas aren’t readily available anyway.
Error 4: Unless they were morons when they were alive, zombies aren’t morons when they’re dead.
At this point, a scrupulous reader might be wondering how Lindsey was qualified to review the programme in such a way. The plausible reason was that she was an overly fussy fantasy militant, the sort who would have lots of Dragon Rider of Doom sculptures on the mantelpiece and no friends; but the slightly gory corpse upon which she was resting her feet was pointing to other potential explanations. Well, to be more accurate, it was pointing at the kitchen door, or rather its arm was flopping vaguely in that direction, but we’re speaking metaphorically here.
Lindsey wasn’t a particularly sadistic person; she was simply very lazy. Therefore, she decided to tidy up only when she realised that soon, Mr. Firthdale would be calling the police to complain and when they arrived on her doorstep, there’d be more than loud stereo sound to make excuses about. Unfortunately, ex-zombies could be particularly difficult to dispose of when you live in a bungalow with limited garden space, and going out in the middle of the night to load your trunk with undead is more than a little shifty, but the denim-clad antiheroine managed it without incident (Mr. Firthdale had his curtains shut). She clambered into the driver’s seat after cleaning her hands of revenant-goo, the sort of process that more frequently happens with yoghurt, coleslaw, or snot, when you get it on your hands and aren’t quite sure what to do with it but don’t quite want to wipe it in your hair or on your trousers even though they’re temptingly absorbent.
As the zombie slayer drives to the local park to bury her victim (she thought the bark chips in the play area were easier to dig into than the soil of the cemetery; and anyway, the cemetery was another five miles away) it might be beneficial to the plot to explain why said victim was actually in her house in the first place. One would generally imagine that someone so well versed in the act of zombie disposal would also be pretty adept at keeping them out of the house, but in reality, she was more like those people who are fairly well versed in fox disposal but are still unable to prevent their chickens being eaten. In her defence, zombies have opposable thumbs (unless they’re particularly careless) and thus can wield lock-picks.
This particular ghoul had even engaged Lindsey in some friendly banter to begin with. With a few delays on account of the issue that its jaw kept becoming unhinged, it had clarified that the Guy Higher Up was starting to get somewhat annoyed by the fact that the slayer was bumping off his undead army, and would she stop it please, or face the consequences. Actually, the fact that there even was a Guy Higher Up performing acts of necromancy was alarming news to Lindsey; she had simply assumed that the nuclear power station had been dumping waste uranium. Still, she was startled for an admirably short period of time, and quickly proceeded to brain the messenger with a side-table, then put a bowl of baked beans in the microwave (this was unrelated).
Back in the park, after dusting herself down, the slayer took some time-out on the slide in the play area (it was shaped like a dinosaur) satisfied that the body wasn’t in immediate sight, and the weird smell was at least tolerable. A group of thugs in the distance guffawed stupidly amongst themselves, and Lindsey was amused to note that they sounded an awful lot like their jaws had been unhinged, much like her short-lived friend. She went bumpity-bumpity-bump down the slide (in order for it to be an accurate representation of a dinosaur, it was one of those wiggly, wavy ones; and it was pink) but as she wandered back around to the steps for another go, she was rather dismayed to feel a hand suddenly planted on her shoulder.
At least, she thought to herself, it’s---
However, this was as far as she got before her thoughts were very rudely interrupted by a voice; but after all, whoever was standing behind her would have had to be a complete fool to let her have more than a few seconds to think about what to do next. There was no point in an ambush if you were just going to stand there like a tin of milk.
“I take it you got my message earlier,” he commented, pressing down on Lindsey’s shoulder so that she couldn’t turn round. She even sunk into the woodchips a little.
“Most people use mobile phones,” she replied, obviously trying to delay the villain with small-talk, “or email. Not minions.”
“I don’t have your phone number, nor do I have your email address. Anyway, I don’t like the funny looks I get in Internet cafés.”
Fair enough, Lindsey thought.
“Plus, I’m just one of the subordinates. I’d have to get permission from the boss before I was allowed to go around using public facilities; I’m not allowed to fritter away his money,” he added amiably.
“So… you’re here to give me another message?” she queried.
The next response put a frown on Lindsey’s face. “No, no. You didn’t listen to the last one, you see,” he reasoned. “So I’m here to kill you. Sorry about that, but it’s my job.”
Bother, thought Lindsey, as she considered her options and promptly realised that she didn’t have any, and she had no cunning plans up her sleeve. Unless…
|Lindsey and Her Reluctance to Co-Exist with Zombies: Chapter 2|