Miriam Hackbush

No Matter — Zombiddies  

It is ten in the morning on Wednesday the 28^th November 2040, some ten years since the pandemic reached the shores of East Anglia . . .

A telephone rings.

Click.

‘Ahhhhh . . .’

‘Ivy? Is that you? It’s me, Miriam.’

‘Mmmmm!’

‘Not currently capable of coherent speech, sweetheart?’

‘Paparrrgh . . . pee.’

[A sucking, dribbling sound passes between the two telephones.]

‘I see . . .Well, I would come ‘round, however, I’m a tad indisposed at present, but don’t fret, you’ll be fine in a day or two, and I know just how to entertain you in the meanwhile. Ta-ta dearie.’

‘A . . . guh, a guh.’

Click.

The telephones disconnect.

 

From: miriamhackbush46d@beangrinder.co.uk

To: ivybroadbottom1964@zomail.com

Sent: 13:55 Wednesday 28^th November 2040

Subject: Bits an’ bobs, tits an’ knobs.

Dearest Ivy^,

I’m typing this with a lollyy ss stick as I have no fingwers on my right hand at present; and you know just how frightfulluy annoying that can be./> Sod it. I recall you were minus an infex finger and thumb yourtslef for a bit last year, not to mention the lost buttock incvident. Glad you foynd it. Sorry, srick keepd s;ipping. Bugfer! Had to tell you the news, and bearing in mind our chat this morbing (franjly hiralious), we’d best stick to emoils for now.

You would not believe yhe word on Paradise Street refarding Phyllis Barker! Rumoyr has it that when she picked up her supper fromm the Headmarket she plonked hersekf down and startef sucking the horror straight out og the packet! I kid yuu not! Vomited up her spleen and a kidmey, and no wonder, I mean, we aren’t fuxking savages darling! She had no gloves om either, so chances are shw ate some of herseld! I know what you’rr thinking Ivy^ — I swallowed a few toes, but that waz mid-coit7s with Dwain Doohanny and you can’y conpare the two!

Anywat, here we are, ten 7ears since the metamorphosis and still I refus3 [Bo;;ocking srtick!] to call it The Zombie Apoxalypse! Awful name. I am not a fuckong \ombie darling; I have transcemded into a higher beint. I bloody have Iv^y! I don’t moan and drag myswlf about like many (present com[any excepted, I know it’s pnly temporary for you), thwre are standards to keep up!

Though yes, I kniw, if any bits of my brain fall out I’ll be no less a ‘lurcher’ than anyome else until my grandsin Timmy can get me fixed-up, but he’s very good and doesn’t post me on ZomTube dribbling anf licking the cat like Tony Gurner’s son did. Timmy is doing so well at reconstruction college — he’s beeen a lifesaver and I’m attaching photis of my new eyeball, che3k and chin rework, all thanks ti him. I’m working up to askinf him for a new . . . ahem, you know, lady garden . . . erm, Lawrence of a Labia shalk we say? It’s a delicafe area in more ways than seven thefe days, and he is my grandson, but, well, if I’n going to be here another hundref years or more I’m determibed to enjoy myself, and Sloppy Graham acrods the road still has a working todger he reckons! Every widow fot miles has been knockimg on his door, moaning at his window silld and lounging acriss his rhodidendtons trying to look allurink, but he’s judt not interested. Granted, it’s hard to know just whrn he is interested, what with his missinf jaw, but I do know bevause . . . he got Edith at ‘Stitch Yr Bits’ to email me and said to impart the folliwong — he’s savimg himself for me! It’s bloidy true!

Sloppy Grahan appeals now I’ve giben up on Dwain since his gerbil ate his tackl3 when he got drunk on battrwy acid — he’s lost thw urge to splurge. So, Graham it is — best get myself patched dowm below before his meat and two veg beggars off or something ridic7lous like what happened to Fat Fred, remrnber? At the barn fance mid-twirl — ‘Take yoir partner by the . . .’ Thunk! And there it lay loike a dehydra5ed slug. I felt for him as he scoo0ped his clock amd bollocks up inro his flat cap, pop0ed it onto his head and made nouses about having to go home, rather red of cheeks. He lefr town next day, po9r old chap. Well, no old chap!

In other news, I’m ashamed to say I gave info temp5ation when I saw Big Dicky Oddlid from Jenner Streetf. He’s one of thw immune, you know, and back begore the apocalypss he was martried to my cousin’s daughtwr, Bonny. He clocked me coming and ran out the cellar acrosSS THE FI [bloddy capd!] fields at tge back of his house. I had him fliored, pinned and decatitated in ten seconds flat. I’d lioke to say he didn’t knoiw what hit him, but actuallly I said hello, asked how Bonny wss doing and tolf him he was looking a bit peaky bwfore cutting his brain out and po-ping it into my handbeg for tea. Nice lad, buk his frontal lobes were as dull as ever.

Must fly dear, reading glassses just slipp[ed and my bloody eyeball has made a right mesf of the keyb9ard. F8ck this basta5d lollu srick!

Much lovf,

Miriam. X

 

[At the end of the following week.]

It is nine in the evening on Friday 6^th December 2040.

A telephone rings.

Click.

‘Hgfgjhtlo?’

‘Miriam? Is that you darling? I’ll stumble over shall I?’

‘Ife, ife, ifife, ifee . . . fuckitt, Ivy!’Uckin ell! Urgh, Ogord . . . Olloxth!’

‘Ollox, Miriam?’

‘Oo get me email sausage? Fuckitt, I mean email mossage!’

‘Mossage, dear?’

‘Bollocks.’

Click.

The telephones disconnect.