My Horrible Orgy of Nightmares

You may not be too surprised to know that apocalypse movies, you know the ones where some virus or whatever accidently (or not, as is sometimes the case) is released into the atmosphere, turning the worlds population into walking corpses intent on mauling everything in sight to quench some rabid blood-lust?

Well, if you’re like me then you’ve seen, literally, hundreds of them, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, Zombie Apocalypse. Brain Sucking Freaks (I may have made that last one up, and maybe the one before, but you get what I mean.)

Anyway, I can guarantee, with some degree of certainty, that for those of you who have seen movies such as these (Evil Dead, that’s another good one) that whilst watching, you will, at some point, have said to yourself, or indeed turned to the person next to you, and said, ‘You know what, I’d be great in a zombie war.’

You’ve done it, haven’t you? Come on, admit it. You’ve sat there, popcorn in hand, watching an endless stream of milky eyed, blood-thirsty, walking cadavers marauding through a city or town just like yours, and screamed at the television/cinema screen (you’d have to scream internally in the cinema, of course, I learnt that, I still don’t know what happened at the end of Night of the Undead 5) until you are blue in the face that you could do a better job.

But, you know what, you’re all wrong. Wrong, wrong, shit I’m so fucking scared that I’ve just messed myself, wrong!

Picture the scene. You’re sitting at home, minding your own business, maybe you’re watching one of these movies, maybe you’re cooking a meal or playing with your kids, or even tossing one out, it really doesn’t matter, when you are disturbed by an insistent banging at the window. Slightly annoyed (as you would be if you happened to be the guy who was playing with himself) you head off to investigate, only to be confronted by the wide eyed stare and gnashing teeth of a hideous, brain dead abomination intent on chewing your face off just for the sheer fun of it.

Now this, as unlikely as this may sound, and I understand that it does sound a little far fetched, is exactly what happened to me seven weeks ago. And, I am also afraid to admit that, yes, I did shit myself.

That wasn’t the only thing that I did, oh no (if shitting myself wasn’t bad enough) I screamed like a girl and ran away, my hands in the air and hid under the bed.

It’s different when you are there, face to face with one these salivating freaks. I mean, I’d bragged in the past about this very moment and what I would do, bragged with a grin on my face and excitement in my voice to anyone who cared to listen (or anyone that didn’t, depending on how much I’d had to drink) that if there was anyone to have on your side during a zombie invasion then it would be me. That I’d weald that cricket bat without haste and like a pro and administer the severest of beatings to any rabid creature that came anywhere near me. You may have guessed that my confidence in this matter was without limits.

I remember now, however, cowering under the bed amongst the dirty magazines and used tissues, a trickle of excrement oozing from the leg of my jeans, feeling that I was nothing other than a useless failure. All the while, downstairs, the rattles, bangs and groans increased to a monumental level as hordes of the undead smashed their way in. Oh, if they could see me now. The last of the famous international pussweed’s!

I did manage to drag myself clear of my infested house, though (otherwise, well, I wouldn’t be writing this would I.) I’d shut and locked my bedroom door, giving me a little time to make my escape (after cleaning myself up and changing into less soiled underwear) through the window and down the guttering, before legging it across the back garden where the beasts had yet to infiltrate, and, after a brief standoff with the neighbours’ stupid fucking little dog, yapping to high heaven and doing its best to alert every slack jawed freak to my whereabouts, into the woodland that lay behind.

I don’t really know what I was thinking as I ran for my life, probably something along the lines of ‘oh my fucking god, shit, fuck, ball bag motherfucker, don’t let this be my last day on earth, especially not when I was within touching distance of getting inside Hayley Tyler’s knickers.’ Or something along those lines anyway, I mean, what are the chances.

So, there I was, two hours later, shacked up in an old barn in the middle of a field as far away as my legs could carry me. Dirty, sweating and, oddly, considering my predicament, as horny as fuck.

And that was how I stayed for god knows how long, just laying there, thinking. Thinking and listening. To the sound of car horns and screams in the distance. Knowing that my friends and what remained of my shitty family were amongst them, amongst the carnage of the end of the world. That she, Hayley, was out there, somewhere.

As night fell and the cacophony of noises grew I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in a long time, I cried. Long, bone shaking sobs. 

Outside, the light of the moon caught my eye through gaps in the rotten slats of the barn’s roof. It seemed brighter, its face clearer, and it was at that moment that I knew I had to do something, something that I thought would never have crossed my mind. I had to go back. Fuck, I knew that it would be a perilous journey, but I knew that I had to. I had to save her.

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