Free Class Four: Those Who Survive by Duncan P. Bradshaw Page A

pulled out a wallet from the many folds of the clown outfit. Flicking through pictures of cats and vintage cars, he pulled out a driving license. His face turned up like he had just smelt an open drain, “What? His name was Shirley ?” He gazed at the remains of the head, looked around, and then peered down the clown’s shirt before recoiling in disgust.
    “Fuck me, shrivelled up zombie tits, not good,” he gasped, sucking in lungfuls of cool, morning air. Through watery eyes he looked up at his two saviours, who were staring at him intently. “Cheers, lads, much appreciated,” Thomas said breathlessly. He gave them two thumbs up to highlight his gratitude.
    Paul offered Thomas a hand, and the three men exchanged manly grunts, pleasantries and first names. “What the hell are you doing out here then, Thomas? You could’ve just left those three chompers, you know? Didn’t have to try and be Bertie Big Bollocks and kill ‘em,” Paul demanded, rubbing his wrist.
    “Ah, in the excitement, I almost forgot. I couldn’t…I couldn’t leave him.” He pointed to a ditch a few feet behind the slops of the zombie remains and Dean’s overturned bike and trailer.
    Dean and Paul looked at each other quizzically before following Thomas’ pointed finger to a drainage ditch where they saw a crumpled figure. As they got closer, they could see that it was a man, and he had taken one hell of a pasting.
    Paul’s muscles grew taut. He turned to Thomas. “This your handiwork, Rocky? Looks like this bloke’s been half beaten to death. Look at him. I’ve seen more life at a Leonard Cohen gig.”
    Thomas raised his hands in defence,. “Hey, not me champ, you really think I’d kick the shit out of him, attract the living dead and then not leave him to them? Not likely, mate.”
    Dean went off to right his bike and trailer, and started the process of placing the spilled items back in its hold. Paul eyed Thomas cautiously, and then nodded. “I guess, you go off with Dean, he’ll get you inside. Pretty sure The Gaffer will want to hear your side of the story, mate.” Thomas shrugged and walked across to Dean to help with the repacking.
    Paul inched closer to the beaten man, and could see that his chest was rising and falling with some regularity. “Jesus, wondered if you were alive or a chomper. Come on, mate. Let’s get you out of there and inside. The doc can fix you up.” He looked him and up and down. “Well, maybe she can. Have to see if she’s filled her miracle quota already today. You look as fucked as my marriage.”
    He leant down and offered the man a blood-speckled hand which was weakly grabbed. “Hey pal, what’s your name?” Paul enquired, hauling the man up on shaky legs.
    The man mumbled something through fat lips. “Huh? What was that, mate? Didn’t catch it,” Paul asked, offering the man a shoulder.
    “…Bartholomew…my name is…Bartholomew.” The words fell through the small crevice of the man’s mouth. He hoiked up a wad of blood and spit which he gobbed on the ground. Paul cradled the man and walked him to his bike.
    “Hey, Dean, what is this place?” Thomas asked, surveying the building. He could make out a large sign looming over the forbidding exterior.
    Dean pushed his bike along; the wheel was buckled and it took some effort to keep it straight. “This, my friend, is, was , Netzach’s Biscuit factory, home now to survivors and sanctuary to all. Providing you can do stuff and don’t piss The Gaffer off.”
    Thomas made an involuntary, “Huh.” He peered closer at the sign. Next to the name of the company, he could make out a large cherubic figure made out of a stainless steel lattice frame. “Tell me, Deano. Why is there a man tied to that angel up there?”

 
    Chapter Ten
     
    The lock crunched and the door swung inwards. Andy looked inside the small ex-janitor’s cupboard. Thomas was sitting on the middle of a foldaway bed, supping on a bowl of soup. “The hospitality has