Made it home
Am now barricaded in the Eyrie, having picked my way over the remains of the landlady, her spawn, and the repair crew.
Wow, sabotabby, I'm impressed.
No sign of Jake the Cat.
I am now eternally endebted to the Vaclav, Marcel, and Sam from the furniture refinishers under the Little Shop of Textbooks.
See, they hadn't heard. Didn't believe me, either, until the first shambling wreck tried to take a bite out of Sam. Vaclav and I hit it with some beautifully turned mahogany table legs until it fell apart. Did a job on the finish, but hey, Sam was unscathed.
So the guys had all sorts of useful things-table legs, crowbars, noxious chemicals, edged tools, metal bars.
I had my mechanically inept minion keep watch, and the other two minions and I set to work with Vaclav, Marcel, and Sam, dismantling furniture, barricading the premises, pooling our resources, and generally doing whatever we could to get as secure as possible. Our plan was to hold the ground floor for as long as we needed to in order for Sam and Marcel to make zombie bats for all of us, then to withdraw to the Little Shop of Textbooks.
Only I didn't reckon on Mrs. Publisher.
I've been saying for months that she needed to learn to listen when other people know more than she does. Did she listen?
Of course not. She had to go out to ask Tony down at the Cheese Boutique what had happened and to make sure we had enough food. She tried to walk there. I mean I'm usually really pissy about her driving the three blocks to or from work, but I think circumstances might warrant a bit of environmental irresponsibility, don't you?
So yeah. She went trundling across the street, and into the market. Came back, upset that someone had bit her. Like sarcasma says, why not just hang a big neon sign over your head saying "Eat at Joe's"? Wasn't long before she started to stiffen. She went for Vaclav. Sam did for her. Then the minions and I had to do for Vaclav.
Vaclav could whistle. You'd hear him in the mornings, whistling Chopin. It was how we knew he was stiffening-they can't whistle.
He was refinishing the table whose leg I used to kill him.
Sam, Marcel, the minions and I barricaded the ground floor. I let the guys do the heavy lifting, feminist principles be damned. We sweated, and licked our lips, and peered out into the sun drenched streets.
Still no leaf blowers. I suppose, under the circumstances, that was probably a good thing. Easier to hear other things.
We hid. Like small, frightened creatures in a forest of hungry predators, we hid. Behind doors of steel, bolted firm, we hid. Like small frightened creatures with Internet connections, behind big bolted doors of steel, we hid, and waited to hear what might happen. The authorities wouldn't use the word "zombie." The mayor did declare a state of emergency, but the feds didn't dispatch the army, this time. I guess it was needed elsewhere.
We got hungry. The Cheese Boutique sat there, across the street and three buildings down, taunting us with its promise of cheese, crackers, potables, biscuits and anything else they hadn't smashed, but we knew better than to try. Yes, we're smarter than Mrs. Pub., but the minions reported from upstairs that there were more of them in the street than there were of us in the shop. So we stayed put, dividing up the Oreos and people's lunches.
Every few minutes, another one would emerge from the jewellery factory.
Maybe we should have taken them on, one by one, as they came out. If we had, then we wouldn't have been facing sixty or more of them, and the setting sun, when the power went off in Swansea. Maybe against one or two at a time, we could have prevailed with our table legs zombie bats. Made it to the Cheese Boutique, aquired provisions and come back. I don't know.
Sam was worried about his kids. He drove off, in his truck, and took one of the minions with him-she's recently married, and her husband is (was?) a teacher. She wanted to know what had happened to him. Maybe I'll find out. They promised to send help. As Sam put the truck in gear, they drove over several of them.
Of course, then they noticed that there was fresh meat (or whatever they think we are) in that building. The banging on the doors started. They don't feel the pain, they don't notice when their arms break off. They just keep coming, relentlessly, mindlessly, like the ocean. Banging and banging and banging. They don't lose interest, either, apparently.
So we let them in.
Thing about a furniture refinisher's is that there are a lot of inflammable chemicals. You can do a lot with the gasolene from a delivery truck, Carbon TET solvent, and bronzing powder.
I don't know why they hadn't made it to the Lake yet. I did, on my bike, before the office went up. I don't know if Marcel made it-he set the fuses, after I found out which of the chemicals we could mix to make things go up. Turns out I can go faster than they can, on a bike, and that I can indeed ride well enough to dodge them.
And Sabo's okay, and the cats are too. So we're here, and it's quiet again, and there's power in this part of the city. And I'm home, with one person to watch my back while I've got hers. And the Gentleman is at PHF and okay. I can't really imagine a better place to be, with all this going down, though we did okay with the furniture refinishing shop.
I'm sorry about the office. I did save the files for our projects, but who knows if they'll ever be needed. I don't think I'll be going in to work tomorrow.
Gods I'm tired.
Wow, sabotabby, I'm impressed.
No sign of Jake the Cat.
I am now eternally endebted to the Vaclav, Marcel, and Sam from the furniture refinishers under the Little Shop of Textbooks.
See, they hadn't heard. Didn't believe me, either, until the first shambling wreck tried to take a bite out of Sam. Vaclav and I hit it with some beautifully turned mahogany table legs until it fell apart. Did a job on the finish, but hey, Sam was unscathed.
So the guys had all sorts of useful things-table legs, crowbars, noxious chemicals, edged tools, metal bars.
I had my mechanically inept minion keep watch, and the other two minions and I set to work with Vaclav, Marcel, and Sam, dismantling furniture, barricading the premises, pooling our resources, and generally doing whatever we could to get as secure as possible. Our plan was to hold the ground floor for as long as we needed to in order for Sam and Marcel to make zombie bats for all of us, then to withdraw to the Little Shop of Textbooks.
Only I didn't reckon on Mrs. Publisher.
I've been saying for months that she needed to learn to listen when other people know more than she does. Did she listen?
Of course not. She had to go out to ask Tony down at the Cheese Boutique what had happened and to make sure we had enough food. She tried to walk there. I mean I'm usually really pissy about her driving the three blocks to or from work, but I think circumstances might warrant a bit of environmental irresponsibility, don't you?
So yeah. She went trundling across the street, and into the market. Came back, upset that someone had bit her. Like sarcasma says, why not just hang a big neon sign over your head saying "Eat at Joe's"? Wasn't long before she started to stiffen. She went for Vaclav. Sam did for her. Then the minions and I had to do for Vaclav.
Vaclav could whistle. You'd hear him in the mornings, whistling Chopin. It was how we knew he was stiffening-they can't whistle.
He was refinishing the table whose leg I used to kill him.
Sam, Marcel, the minions and I barricaded the ground floor. I let the guys do the heavy lifting, feminist principles be damned. We sweated, and licked our lips, and peered out into the sun drenched streets.
Still no leaf blowers. I suppose, under the circumstances, that was probably a good thing. Easier to hear other things.
We hid. Like small, frightened creatures in a forest of hungry predators, we hid. Behind doors of steel, bolted firm, we hid. Like small frightened creatures with Internet connections, behind big bolted doors of steel, we hid, and waited to hear what might happen. The authorities wouldn't use the word "zombie." The mayor did declare a state of emergency, but the feds didn't dispatch the army, this time. I guess it was needed elsewhere.
We got hungry. The Cheese Boutique sat there, across the street and three buildings down, taunting us with its promise of cheese, crackers, potables, biscuits and anything else they hadn't smashed, but we knew better than to try. Yes, we're smarter than Mrs. Pub., but the minions reported from upstairs that there were more of them in the street than there were of us in the shop. So we stayed put, dividing up the Oreos and people's lunches.
Every few minutes, another one would emerge from the jewellery factory.
Maybe we should have taken them on, one by one, as they came out. If we had, then we wouldn't have been facing sixty or more of them, and the setting sun, when the power went off in Swansea. Maybe against one or two at a time, we could have prevailed with our table legs zombie bats. Made it to the Cheese Boutique, aquired provisions and come back. I don't know.
Sam was worried about his kids. He drove off, in his truck, and took one of the minions with him-she's recently married, and her husband is (was?) a teacher. She wanted to know what had happened to him. Maybe I'll find out. They promised to send help. As Sam put the truck in gear, they drove over several of them.
Of course, then they noticed that there was fresh meat (or whatever they think we are) in that building. The banging on the doors started. They don't feel the pain, they don't notice when their arms break off. They just keep coming, relentlessly, mindlessly, like the ocean. Banging and banging and banging. They don't lose interest, either, apparently.
So we let them in.
Thing about a furniture refinisher's is that there are a lot of inflammable chemicals. You can do a lot with the gasolene from a delivery truck, Carbon TET solvent, and bronzing powder.
I don't know why they hadn't made it to the Lake yet. I did, on my bike, before the office went up. I don't know if Marcel made it-he set the fuses, after I found out which of the chemicals we could mix to make things go up. Turns out I can go faster than they can, on a bike, and that I can indeed ride well enough to dodge them.
And Sabo's okay, and the cats are too. So we're here, and it's quiet again, and there's power in this part of the city. And I'm home, with one person to watch my back while I've got hers. And the Gentleman is at PHF and okay. I can't really imagine a better place to be, with all this going down, though we did okay with the furniture refinishing shop.
I'm sorry about the office. I did save the files for our projects, but who knows if they'll ever be needed. I don't think I'll be going in to work tomorrow.
Gods I'm tired.