Free Apocalypse Cow by Michael Logan

stuffed the damaged trousers into the washing machine, adding more clothes from the laundry pile on top.
    Finally, he retreated to his room and turned on the computer. He quickly found a story about the abattoir on the
Glasgow Tribune
website. It was a very different account from the previous day’s news report. The newspaper, quoting a ‘high-ranking government source’, was claiming al-Qaeda operatives had unleashed a bio-weapon that turned animals berserk, with the intention of disrupting Britain’s food chain.
    Geldof scanned other websites and discovered the tabloids had picked up on the story in sensationalist fashion. ‘Zombie Cows!’ screamed one. The headline gave him chills. For once the tabloids were right. The cows in the field had looked and behaved exactly like zombies – the more modern, speedy type rather than old-school shufflers. When he had devoured every single word in cyberspace, Geldof leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. Each article claimed the virus had been contained. Clearly it hadn’t.
    He considered going to his parents’ room and telling them the whole story, but he didn’t want to have to face his mother coming to the door naked and smell the pungent fruits of her lovemaking. Besides, she would never believe him. Instead he pulled on a fresh pair of hemp trousers, immediately prompting a bout of scratching, and descended to the living room. His fingers shook as he dialled 999 and asked for the police.
    A tinny female voice greeted him. Geldof paused, suddenly aware of the ridiculousness of what he was about to say.
    ‘I just got chased by a herd of zombie cows,’ he declared.
    The operator said nothing for a while. When she spoke her voice was frosty. ‘Do you know how serious it is to make prank calls? This is an emergency line. You could be stopping somebody in real need from getting through.’
    ‘This isn’t a prank,’ Geldof said. ‘I wish it was. Didn’t you read the papers?’
    ‘Yes, I read that nonsense. So did a lot of other people, apparently. This is the tenth call I’ve had this evening about it,’ the woman said, her voice rising in pitch. ‘I’ve had zombie cows, zombie sheep, zombie horses. I’ve had it with zombies.’
    Geldof tried to butt in and assure her he was quite serious. She cut him off. ‘I’m hanging up now. You can consider yourself lucky I’m not sending the police out to your house to give you a stern talking to.’
    The line went dead. Geldof stared at the receiver, and then trudged up to his room. His parents’ room had gone silent, so he threw himself down onto the duvet and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
    He dreamed he was perched on a high red stool in Burger King, facing an enormous triple-decker burger dripping with mayonnaise, tomato sauce and melted cheese. Fanny was there too, but she was outside the restaurant, her face pressed against the window. She began to pound on the glass as Geldof reached for the burger. He merely grinned.
    This was a recurring dream, and at this point in the proceedings he normally took a massive bite and chewed theatrically as Fanny slid down the glass, her mouth open in a silent scream. This time, just as he was about to grasp the burger and cram it into his mouth, it began to twist and writhe. He recoiled, the action causing him to over balance, and flew off the back of his stool. The burger appeared over the rim of the table, staring down at him with a pair of glowing red eyes.
    He got up and ran across the restaurant, skipping over the bodies of customers being savaged by their lunches, but when he reached the front door it was locked. His mother stood on the other side with the key in her hand. Now it was his turn to beat the glass. Fanny swallowed the key.
    ‘You reap what you sow, Geldof,’ she said, her smile sad.
    Geldof turned and did his own slow-motion slide down the glass, his back squeaking on the panes. Twenty burgers, each one teetering on four tiny hooved