Free Breaking News: An Autozombiography by N. J. Hallard Page B

I’m not going back into a town,’ he stated.
    ‘ Isn’t there the South Downs Way or something?’ I ventured.
    ‘ What, off-road it?’ Al asked, intrigued.
    ‘ I just want to get back home. I need a pee,’ Lou said.
    ‘ There’s a West Sussex map in there.’ Al pointed to the glove box at my knees.
    ‘ Remember we’ve got the GPS.’
    ‘ Thanks Sweetpea – I’ll have a look at the map first.’ I said, finding the right page. ‘Save the batteries and all that. I’m not oppressing you, am I?’ Lou smiled back weakly. The sun was beginning to sink, turning the Downs a fire-gold.
    ‘ Monarch’s Way.’ I said to myself, poring over the map.
    ‘ Where?’
    ‘ Monarch’s Way - look.’
    I jabbed my finger on a point where suburban streets met the Downs about a mile to our west. A footpath led away from the houses, over the Southwick Hill (over the tunnel, in fact), and onto the rolling chalkland beyond. The route would take us in an arc over the South Downs Way, past the ruins of an old castle where I used to drop acid, over the river Adur and towards Cissbury Ring two or three miles north of our house. Lou and I would often walk with Floyd up to the ancient hill fort, with its flint mines and steep earth ramparts - modern man’s contribution was a golf course at its base. We knew the bit from Cissbury Ring to our house well enough, but getting there by car from where we were was another matter altogether.
    ‘ What’s the road like?’ Al questioned.
    ‘ It is off-road, there’s no denying it, although this says that dotted lines are a “Path, bridleway, byway open to all traffic, road used as a public path”. Then it turns into “Other minor road”, see?’
    It was enough for Al. We pulled out of the lay-by and down into suburbia, looking for the edge of town and signs for a footpath, picking through the twisted wreckage of the day. It was uneasily calm there, a slight breeze pulling faint shouting and screaming to our ears along with the acrid smell of burning plastic and hair.
    ‘ What about Susie?’ Lou asked.
    ‘ Worthing will be quieter than Brighton.’ Al suggested.
    ‘ I think we should dump her here.’
    ‘ She’s my friend; how would you feel if someone was talking about me like that?’ Lou asked indignantly.
    ‘ Honestly? I’d want them to take your head off, to put you out of your misery,’ I was pleased to see Al was nodding agreement.
    ‘ Oh, thanks a lot. That’s charming,’ she said huffily. ‘Footpath!’ Lou had sharp eyes. A heavy stile marked the entrance - I don’t know what we’d been expecting, but it was so solid that we opted for destroying the rustic wooden fence next to it instead. After a few minute’s heaving and wobbling, even that was so well built we thought we’d have to go through the towns after all. Then we remembered the chain I’d salvaged, and after checking the coast was definitely clear I got out and looped it around two of the thick wooden posts whilst Al reversed the car so his tow bar was in position. When everything was in place I banged on the car’s roof. Al leaned out of his window.
    ‘ Don’t do that. I know she’s a bit battered chum, but love and respect for the motor and all that.’ He sat back in his seat and gunned the engine. After some slip, his tyres gripped and the car leapt away. The chain went taut and a four-foot length of fence whistled past my head before splintering onto the road. Al got out to survey the damage. After another two attempts a whole section of fence lay strewn across the road. One vertical post was still in the way, but I loosened it out of the ground like a tooth.
    ‘ Nice one,’ we both said simultaneously, and headed back to the car.
    As we approached Lou asked if the gap we’d made in the fence was wide enough.
    ‘ It’ll have to be,’ Al said.
    We nosed through and onto the field, fighting the resistance of the long grass underneath the car. Al scraped his paintwork against the stump