Joe’s Return

What a day. Joe (little Noah’s dad) came back. Dead. He had run off-site after I executed Noah, gibbering and frothing as any father might. But this is no ordinary time to grieve, safety comes before emotions. His arm was torn to shreds. He’d expelled the sulphurous black slime. Half his jaw and neck were torn free, flapping bloodlessly in the English summer air. Why did he come back? Memory? Flesh? Revenge? I heard the screams of our fellow camp members, and the low baying howl of the hounds. I knew a zombie was in camp, but not that it was Joe.
Dawn thundered past me on horseback, we locked arms and she swept me onto the steed. Within seconds we were in view of the fresh Stinker. He was in mid-attack on a camp member, Zoe from Lancing, her head arched backwards as bright crimson froth flowed from ragged bite wounds.
She saw Dawn and I approach, and visibly slumped as she watched me draw my longbow. She knew she was first. A mercy shot, into the forehead. I’ve been practicing my quick-reloads but it wasn’t needed, and the horses are fast now. Dawn is a dab hand with Mike’s Thai panang machete. The Stinker’s head rolled through the long Downland grass, into the moat-like trench surrounding the encampment. We knew from his clothes.
The camp was on alert after Joe went AWOL but people get lazy in this summer heat. It’s idyllic up here, except when screaming rips the air. Now I have to get his head. We have a technique for going into the trench, but it’s messy and very smelly. He will be buried with his son.

About N.J. Hallard

N.J. Hallard was born in England in 1975. He lives with his wife and child on the West Sussex coast. He enjoys cooking and telling tall tales.
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