Free Blog of the Dead (Book 2): Life by Lisa Richardson

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    Misfit began to thrash about less wildly. I stood watching him with my hands over my mouth, trying to hold back the sob that wanted to come.
    ‘Wha … what’s going on,’ said Misfit after a moment. His eyes darted about the room. ‘Where am I? What happened?’ He looked at Clay.
    ‘It’s OK, mate,’ said Clay. ‘I haven’t the foggiest what happened to you but I’m guessing you’ve been in an accident. You were out for the count for a bit there though.’
    Misfit looked up at me. ‘Sophie?’ He sounded vague, like I might possibly reply with, No , I’m Monica , silly . Then, more certainly he said, ‘Sophie.’
    ‘Misfit. Thank fuck,’ I said, letting my hand drop from my face. ‘I was really worried there.’ I bent down on my knees on the floor beside the sofa and put my left hand against his blood soaked cheek. ‘The car crashed. You went through the windscreen. How do you feel?’
    ‘Like I’ve just been through a fucking car windscreen,’ he said.
    ‘No slurred speech,’ said Clay. ‘Good good. Any double vision?’
    ‘No,’ said Misfit. ‘Where’d you come from?’
    ‘This is Clay,’ I said to Misfit as he eased himself up to a sitting position. ‘Sean had to carry you from the car and we were being trailed by a crowd of zombies. We weren’t doing too well, until Clay came out and helped us. We’re in his place.’ Misfit looked first at Sean, nodded his thanks and then turned to Clay, and nodded at him.
    ‘Ah, it was nothing,’ said Clay, standing and picking one of his pimped up gloves from the coffee table. Who couldn’t do damage with these babies?’
    ‘Whoa,’ said Misfit in admiration at the sight of the spiked glove.
    I sat on the sofa next to Misfit, whose head had been freshly cleaned and bandaged by Clay to prevent infection. Clay had offered to attend to Sean’s cut on his forehead, but he had refused, choosing to wipe the slowing flow of blood with the sleeve of his coat.
    Sean edged his way around the narrow living room, perusing the personal belongings of the original owners, while Clay, who had changed into a fresh t-shirt, clean jeans and trainers, perched eagerly on an armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Obviously bored of gilt framed photos of people he didn’t know, and porcelain cats, Sean wandered back over to us, bent down and lifted one of Clay’s gloves from the table. ‘Pretty cool,’ he said, studying the metal spike before placing the glove back down. ‘Boxer, eh?’
    ‘Ha, yeah, I wasn’t born with a handsome nose like this,’ said Clay, pointing to where his nose bent in the middle. ‘Been broken twice. My mum was always saying to me, “Clayton, I didn’t give birth to that lovely face for you to go and make a punch bag out of it!” Bless her. I was semi pro but Mum and my sisters hated me fighting.’ Clay’s face darkened and his smile dropped. ‘May they rest in pieces …’ He cast his eyes down to the ground at his feet, his body tensed and I guessed he’d have loved a punch bag right then.
    ‘ So, how long you been living here?’ I asked, trying to change the subject.
    Clay looked up at me, his smile back. ‘Ah, few months now,’ he said. ‘It’s not bad. I keep quiet and the hedge keeps me hidden from the street so I don’t get many zombies bothering me. And when they do, I give ‘em a bit of this.’ He leaned forwards and picked up one of the gloves before placing it down and leaning back into his seat with a proud grin. One of his feet bobbed up and down rapidly as though agitated but his face appeared calm. I’ve got the garage set up as a panic room with enough supplies to last a good month or so, if I do need to lay low.’
    ‘It’s just you here?’ I asked.
    ‘ Yeah. I like it that way, but you guys are welcome to crash tonight if it’ll help?’
    I looked at Misfit. ‘I’m OK,’ he said.
    ‘You sure, mate?’ asked Clay. ‘No headache or double vision?’
    ‘ I’m