Sunday, 31 August 2014


No. 62 
By Ian Hawley

Rob put his tray on the table and sat down with a sigh. “I don’t like this seat. We can’t see outside.”
“It’s the cleanest table in here.” Farrah shrugged as she opened her burger and started to pick bits of gherkin out, dropping them onto the edge of the tray.
            “If you didn’t want Gherkin, you should have said.” Ian replied as he picked the piece up and put them on his. “I don’t know why you don’t like them to be honest. It’s just a pickle.”
            “It’s the same reason she doesn’t eat mushrooms, she thinks they’re slimy, like eating slugs.”
            “They are.” Farrah objected. “And I am sat right here you know.” She said as she continued to pick pieces of lettuce and onion from her food.
            “What did you get?” Rob asked, peering at the burger. “There’s a lot of cheese on that.”
            “It’s to disguise the flavour.” Ian smirked. “Processed cheese never changes.”
            “I had a dream about you guys last night.” Rob interrupted. “You ever get those dreams when you stuck in an old job you used to hate and you can’t figure out why you are still there?”
            “No.” Ian shook his head. “My dreams are usually about food.”
            “Explains a lot.” Farrah smiled as Ian threw a half cooked French Fry at her. “I don’t dream. Never have.”
            “Never!” Ian looked shocked, “You most probably do but don’t remember them then.”
            “No.” Farrah shook her head again. “Well, not for a...”
            “Excuse me. I was talking.” Rob interrupted, bringing the conversation back on his track. “It wasn’t open to general debate.” They both fell silent.
            “That’s better.” He grinned. “Anyway, I was stuck in my old job and I ended up killing my old boss.”
            “How?” Ian asked. “How did you kill them?”
            “Boredom?” Farrah suggested with a smirk.
            “No, I pushed him out of the window.” Rob chuckled. “Watched him fall to his doom from the fifth floor, what do you think that means?
            “Well, for me it means I’m not falling asleep near you.” Ian replied as he pushed more fries into his mouth.
            “Maybe you need a break” Farrah suggested. “Maybe you’re looking for something simpler out of life.”
            “You think?”
            “Don’t know really. I don’t dream, remember.”
            “If I was to kill my boss I’d poison there food.” Ian offered as he wiped ketchup from his chin. “Eat up Farrah.”
            “Na, I don’t want to finish this anyway. Even my drink is flat. I don’t know why we continue to come here.”
            “It’s because the front door is lockable and the windows haven’t been smashed in yet.” Ian replied. “And if you don’t like my cooking then you can do it next time.”
            There was banging on the doors downstairs and Rob pulled his bloodied machete from its sheath. “I told you I didn’t like not seeing outside.”
            “Come on then.” Farrah pushed the tray away from her. “There can’t be more than twenty zombies out there. That’s not really an issue.”
            “Yeah, I guess not. Same time next week?” Rob asked.
            “Sure.” Ian swung his baseball bat round as he warmed himself up. In the distance he could see more of the dead shuffling towards them. “Remember to limber up, a sprain could kill you.”
            “So could your cooking.” Farrah laughed as she led the way downstairs. “Last one to kill a zombie cooks next week.”

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