A Suburban Horror

Damn it! That’s the curfew claxon.

Bloody Mike!

I didn’t think it would take so long to get back and now there’s no time to put the bins out. It’s all very well thinking it will only take a minute, but you never know if one of the bolder ones might be hungry enough to brave the last rays of sunset. It’s just not worth the risk.

There’s a rotten egg in there too. That’ll stink the kitchen out tonight.

Still, at least dinner isn’t ruined. Ratatouille is very forgiving. Time was, I’d have had meat to fuss around with, but practically everyone is Vegetarian now—well, with livestock being decimated when the first Lurkers appeared, the price of meat is astronomical. That said, anyone out before the clear-up wagons sees plenty to put them off flesh for life. I know I don’t miss it. I’ve dropped a dress size in the last year alone. And that’s just one of the positives to come out of the situation.

Yes, I said it.

Positives.

Mike always blanches at the idea, but there’s no denying the facts:

Homelessness: no longer an issue;

Overpopulation: now in check;

Strain on the NHS: gone. Nobody calls for an ambulance after dark anymore.

TV is better these days, too. Though of course, nobody makes those films anymore.

It’s laughable, really, how wrong Hollywood got it. All those shambling, pathetic creatures, so easily dispatched. In reality, they’re fast. So much faster than you’d expect. Faster than before they were turned, even; no sensation of pain to slow the body down, you see. When poor Mr. Mason from 73 was turned, he chased down one of the boys from the athletic club no problem. And Mr. Mason was easily 19 stone and had been hideously asthmatic.

Fine motor skills! That’s another thing the movies missed. I tell you, when you see one of them turning a key and opening the door to a house as if they lived there... ugh! It makes your hair stand on end. And given some retain memories of their previous lives and make their way home—well, that’s why you should dispatch people the instant they show symptoms. There is absolutely no excuse for mass infection now. That family over the road? They should’ve doctored their daughter’s milk the second they saw the scratch. Mike pointed out she was only five, but that’s no excuse! And now they’re all gone and four more Lurkers are out in the world. Honestly, it isn’t difficult these days! Every chemist on the high street stocks a range of options now, in a variety of flavours—even chocolate for the kiddies. Choose your poison, if you will. Sorry, that was in bad taste. The pharmaceutical industry has made a killing, though, if you’ll pardon the pun. To be fair, so have a number of other businesses: home security companies, weapon makers, industrial cleaners... There are so many opportunities now for those willing to capitalise; Dead Men’s Shoes is no longer such a daunting prospect.

I’ve been telling Mike this for months, pushing him up the ladder. Left to his own devices, he’d have stayed wallowing in middle management and now look—bigger house, armoured car, his own office, his own secretary—well, with hindsight, that last one wasn’t such a smart move.

His bloody secretary! It’s such a cliche! How he expected me to face the neighbours when the news broke, I’ll never know. And I had such a romantic evening planned as well. The kids are spending the night with their friends (good families. I checked their security systems myself)—nice meal, fine wine. Well, I’m not letting that go to waste—and he comes home and tells me it’s over.

He tells me he's found someone else.

He tells me he’s in “love”.

He tells me she’s warm and kind and compassionate.

I told him not to be so bloody ridiculous.

So what if he’s dipped his nib in office ink? I can turn a blind eye, I said. Compassion is all well and good, I said, but it’s not going to keep you alive now is it? And he’d do better to sit down and eat his dinner.

But no.

He stands there, twiddling her key between his fingers.

Her key!

The key to her home!

They may as well have taken out an advert in The Times.

Well, I lost it. Broke my favourite knife. It was one of those ones you see on the TV, you know, cuts through tin cans and still chops your onion afterwards. It wasn’t cheap, I can tell you.

Anyway, I made sure to scratch him, just in case the police come sniffing, and then I loaded him in the car and dumped him outside her house—she wants him so much, she can have him! What’s that you say? Lurkers are attracted to the smell of fresh meat? Oh, shame. Bet she wishes she hadn’t been so careless with her key now. Still, I made sure she’d be able to find it in the morning. I left it in the lock…

...I’m annoyed about not getting the bins out, though.