When you think "the start of the apocalypse", you don't think of the local chip shop. You think hospitals, graveyards, untrustworthy shipping crates riddles with bullet holes and scratches. You think top secret medical experiments stolen by the military and let loose on an unsuspecting town.
You don't think of Aggie in her grease stained apron and wonky eye,scowling at you over the counter when you say for the fifth time that you don't want vinegar on your chips - just salt please. You don't think of looking down and seeing blood pouring from her sleeves as her body begins to rot away right before your eyes.
She's always claimed to be built for comfort, not speed but she vaults the counter better than any of the lanky athletes you'd seen on the news. She moves fast as she reaches out for you but you move just that little bit faster and her claw-like hand grabs someone else instead while you leg it.
Somebody screams behind you, probably Dennis. He'd been hanging about outside finishing the last of his ciggie and paying attention to exactly nothing else. If ever there was an easy target - it was him and judging by the screams I'd say, yeah it was him.
Aggie was only the beginning of it all. The poor bastards she'd clawed and bitten at got right back up and chased after her, snowballing their way into the Chavpocalypse that would rock the entire country harder than a drunk teen in a mosh pit.
All this and nobody would think to blame the ciggies that everyone on the estate and their mum seemed to smoke. No, they'd blame everything else they could possibly think of from video games to fast food to climate change and the weirder things in between.
As the upper classes sit about and debate causations, costs and the new zombie-based charities they want to set up, we all keep smoking away. We've got it all figured out while they bicker and squabble over funding that we'd likely never see a penny of.
For the first time in our lives, we'll be eating rich food.
You don't think of Aggie in her grease stained apron and wonky eye,scowling at you over the counter when you say for the fifth time that you don't want vinegar on your chips - just salt please. You don't think of looking down and seeing blood pouring from her sleeves as her body begins to rot away right before your eyes.
She's always claimed to be built for comfort, not speed but she vaults the counter better than any of the lanky athletes you'd seen on the news. She moves fast as she reaches out for you but you move just that little bit faster and her claw-like hand grabs someone else instead while you leg it.
Somebody screams behind you, probably Dennis. He'd been hanging about outside finishing the last of his ciggie and paying attention to exactly nothing else. If ever there was an easy target - it was him and judging by the screams I'd say, yeah it was him.
Aggie was only the beginning of it all. The poor bastards she'd clawed and bitten at got right back up and chased after her, snowballing their way into the Chavpocalypse that would rock the entire country harder than a drunk teen in a mosh pit.
All this and nobody would think to blame the ciggies that everyone on the estate and their mum seemed to smoke. No, they'd blame everything else they could possibly think of from video games to fast food to climate change and the weirder things in between.
As the upper classes sit about and debate causations, costs and the new zombie-based charities they want to set up, we all keep smoking away. We've got it all figured out while they bicker and squabble over funding that we'd likely never see a penny of.
For the first time in our lives, we'll be eating rich food.
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