You awaken in a field, the stubble-like growth of new wheat tickling your rather shapely chin. You have little recollection of how you came to be here, just a dim memory of volunteering for an experiment after a spell in the military. The doctor in charge said you had "good blood" for it, whatever he meant by that. You suppose it could have been that you're of pretty good stock, and while a man doesn't like to boast of his lineage, the Whittington-Blythes have been a noble family for a jolly long time, and don't plan on that changing soon, twenty-first century or not.
And talking of descent, look, there's Father's old cane next to you on the earth. Most intriguing. While you still have your trusty green tweeds on, the only other objects on you are your old "Zippo" lighter and an embroidered kerchief, both presents from Mother. Of course, you always carry them with you, but it's a bit of a shock for a fellow to be suddenly deprived of keys, cigarettes, or wallet. You suppose that these are some of the few things yours by birthright, excepting the sizeable estate and humble title. The private boarding education at Eton, admission to one of Oxford's
most exclusive societies, and officer-level entry into the military you had to earn yourself. And now you're back with just the two dearest mementoes from darling Mother, and you suppose, the only thing of Father's you saw much of. Never really at home much, was Father, on account of the old boy having a lot of business in the colonies to attend to.
Your remeniscences are interrupted by a snarl from down the end of the field. Half a dozen figures stumble about, their clothes in tatters, giving off animalistic, tortured sounds of pain and hunger, much as you imagined the working classes as a boy. Good heavens, they must be - zombies!
Thankfully, the undead haven't noticed you yet. The field is bordered on two sides by a fenced-off road, which meets a larger road on the third, and on one side by a hedge, beyond which lie more fields. There are dwellings - mostly aspirational (the sad idiots) middle class, by the looks of things (none in the old style, of course) sprinkled about the place, at various points, generally a field or two away from yours. At a guess, you'd say this was a
relatively affluent rural suburb of London. The highest concentration of dwellings lies past the hedge and field beyond that, while the grandest open space can be found across the road on the side opposite. There are more zombies shambling along the larger of the two roads, like stinking and mindless pro - well, like proletarians.
My
god. What a bleak and desolate sight. And then there are the undead as well. How you hate the country.
What next?
This will be a story of survival after the world has been overrun by the undead. However, instead of making everything up, I'll actually keep track of the location via google maps. Also, the penalty for death shall be less harsh than usual. Oh, and it'll all be told from the perspective of a member of the English nobility.
Author
Topic: The Life and Times of Percival Whittington-Blythe in the Zombie Apocalypse [SG] (Read 1252 times)