The Zombie Evolution

Introduction. 

One of my best friends, Phil, proposed to his beautiful girlfriend in 2015 with plan to wed her in July 2016. Whilst progressively making plans, one of Phil’s hardest choices was to pick himself a best man; a guy deemed worthy enough of the honour to stand by his side throughout the whole wedding, organise an outlandish stag do, say a few words during the toasts, and ultimately make sure he doesn’t pussy out of the big day.

Phil’s dilemma, although admittedly not exactly the worst one anyone could ever have, was that he had three great friends to choose from, one of whom being my lucky self.

After quickly dismissing the idea of his brother being the best man, or indeed simply having three best men (an option I tried to convince him of), Phil decided that the choice was far too hard to make. Consequently, he created a series of questions and tasks with a points scheme, the winner of which would be victoriously granted the privilege of being his best man.

Initially, I’ll admit that I thought this was a little pompous; I wanted to be chosen for what I had done in the past or wanted one of the other candidates to be chosen for the very same reason, not just because we won a comprised competition, a feeling of which I’m sure was reciprocated by the fellow contestants. However, after discussing my concerns with Phil, he proceeded to tell me that this was all just a bit of fun; an activity that would get us all taking part and enjoying some friendly competition, and something we’d all talk about for years to come. In light of that, I yielded and wholeheartedly agreed not only with the reasoning, but also to take part.

He was right too as this has been a frequent talking point and we’ve all very much so enjoyed the competition.

After the first five questions quite predictably came question number six. This part of the competition was to describe what you would do if, whilst visiting the men’s room in a pub during a drinking session with the groom-to-be and the other two contestants, you witnessed a man being attacked by zombies. 

This is what I came up with.  

1. 

It’s hard to remember the exact time; the sun hadn’t set yet and still crept through the windows, still negating the need for any unnatural lighting, but it was a hot and humid mid-July evening so could have been any time up to half ten I guess.

The alcoholic consumption and the persistent conversation were complimenting one another in their constant fluidity, and the evening thus far had consisted of just what was expected of it:  A drunken boy’s night at the pub. 

The occasion was simply a Friday, an event of which entailed five of us consuming vast amounts of alcohol around the confinements of our corner situated sticky, stained wooden table at the back of the Weatherspoon’s on Fleet road. The crew consisted of just the five of us; Jon, Phil, Derek, my brother Lance and me.

Jon worked from home nearby, as a website designer. He was currently crashing in a small, unequipped bedsit just off the high street so he rarely needed a second invitation to venture out for a drink. Being in such close quarters, myself only living at the other end of the high street, he and I would often meet for a beer or two in the week, usually to watch the football or play cards.

Jon was a very smart guy who worked hard and possessed an ecliptic array of widespread knowledge. Subsequently, he and I also frequently partook in a couple of the local pub quizzes, rarely winning mind you, but generally doing quite well and irrespectively enjoying the atmosphere. We often tried to outwit each other too, generally as part of a bet; His intellect was vast and impressive, but his brain let him down after a pint so I often took advantage of his stubbornness, once even taking a fiver off him when he was convinced that a Scorpion was not an arachnid. Easy money for me, thank you Jon. 

Derek had moved to London a few years back to pursue a career as a music composer, an aspiration of which he was near to succeeding but was yet to achieve. Although the three of us were all a pretty tight unit a while ago, Jon and I didn’t tend to see much of Derek anymore. I don’t know if it was because he had met a lovely young lady he was clearly besotted with, or just that he had adopted that ‘London’ mentality, where if it’s not in or from or about London, it’s probably not worth your time. It was an odd mentality, but London is fun if you’re all about the busy city life, and the people are a different breed, so although I didn’t particular condone this way of life I guess I understood it. Retrospectively we could have easily ventured into the city to make the effort and see him, but as much as he loved the city life I contrastingly loathed. On this occasion however, Derek had managed to make the journey down to see us quite purposefully as Phil was making a rare visit to the UK.

Phil mas a music technician and budding writer, and had been living in Brisbane, Australia for the past couple of years with his American girlfriend, Bri. The couple had recently been travelling Asia together which is where they had been introduced, they then moved on to Australia where he had proposed to her, fortunately met with her excitable acceptance of his hopeful request. The plan was to marry in New York later next year where she was from, but had taken the opportunity to fly back and visit us before the old ball and chain was permanently affixed.

Phil was normally a reserved boyfriend in any previous relationship I had seen him in; reluctant to put his guard down or settle for anyone that wanted to change him. Bri was different though; she was really good for him and as a result he seemed genuinely happy being with her which was absolute fantastic. To me it seemed like they didn’t just put up with each other’s quirks; they embraced them, engulfing the other ever more significantly as they continued to learn more and more about their better half. It was warming to see his happiness emulate, like he couldn’t physically contain it, nor did he attempt to. He was content that she just let him be who he wanted; she hadn’t tried to tame the beast, she had just saddled up and gone for the ride.  

My brother, Lance, was also an across the shores visitor having resided in New Zealand for the past seven or eight years now. He was over purely to visit friends and coincidentally after a similar Asian excursion, although not on the same path as Phil and Bri had taken. My brother was always good fun; he was loud, obnoxious, and loved a drink, every bit the perfect component for a pub night member. Lance didn’t know Derek, Phil or Jon very well at all, meeting them only briefly if at all in the past, but was confident enough (especially after he had sank a few drinks) to be the dominant source of the evening’s jokes and laughter. We all ragged on each other and had fun trying to wind one another up as boys have a tendency of doing. But, if there was a prize for being the best at it, the trophy would go straight to Lance.

Bri was the organiser of her and Phil, and had taken Phil’s trip to England as a good opportunity to travel to Manhattan where they planned to get married. They had picked a stunning roof top location in the heart of the city for the occasion, and although the internet did it’s best to convince her just how beautiful the location was, she needed little convincing to go and check it out for herself.

Kindly and conveniently, Bri had invited my beautiful girlfriend, Ashley, out to New York to help her, which had coincided with a work placement of hers as she was already going to be there for a few weeks. Ashley’s beauty was matched only by her intellect, being a quick tongued brain-box with a law degree who now worked in project management. She was one of those who made you feel less confident about your intellectual ability when in her presence, but managed to bring herself back down to Earth with a distinct lack in general knowledge, perhaps just a reflection of her complete lack of interest to absorb popular culture. She was a tiny bit older than me, yet had a young, beautiful face with a clear complexion. Her hair, now dyed black, was long and flowing, with a real ‘Duchess of Cambridge’ feel about it. She always smiled, even when she was mad, as the corners of her mouth were permanently curved upwards. Although she often wanted to have people perceive her as stern and didn’t look kindly upon those who didn’t take her seriously, the corners of her mouth along with the star ever-shining in the corner of her eyes always let her severity down,  meaning she was always warm, friendly and welcoming, or at least
appeared
to be. Ashley told it how it was; she didn’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat anything in order to protect anyone’s feelings, having no qualms or hesitation when it came to speaking her mind. This was a definitive trait she shared with Phil, which meant they sometimes bumped heads, but I believe it was the similarities in their personalities that caused some confrontation, not the differences.

Opinionated, smart, interesting, stubborn, and strong-minded; Ashley had all the personality traits that kept me on my toes, and most importantly kept my easily distracted mind interested. Plus she was also really, really, really fit, which helped a lot too. I adored her, and missed her terribly whilst she was away.

Phil wanted to talk wedding plans with us, but after pints one, two and three were deeply sunk, the chat moved onto to sports, travel, girls and distant memories of mayhem we had caused in our younger years. The laughs were booming, the decibel increased significantly with every sip of our chosen liquid concoctions, and the smiles became permanent expressions across every one of our faces for the early part of the evening. Jon and I grilled the other three for moving away, and they counteractively grilled us for staying where we were. It was contently warming that we could all remain friends and still enjoy one another’s company, even though we had all taken different paths, exploring different ways of life. We were all on our own journeys, but we all cared for one another and never forgot about our friendship, irrespective of what life had thrown at us.

“So Lance”

              Derek diverted the focus of conversation onto my brother.

“Why New Zealand?”

“Why not?”

              He responded, with an easy, predictable reply.

We chuckled.

“Well that’s fair; but why there and not somewhere else abroad? What was the appeal of New Zealand that has kept you there for so long?”

“Well I first went to Australia with my partner at the time”

              He retorted.

“Which unfortunately fell through”

Knowing the story behind this I placed an empathetic hand on his back. We clinked glasses, then swigged our beers to wash away the memory.

“So I either moped around like a bitch and came home with my tail between my legs, or saw what else Australia had to offer, much as Phil here”

A smile exchanged between the pair.

“But my Visa eventually expired as they have a tendency of doing, so I jumped over to NZ, loved it, made a life, and have been there ever since!”

The response seemed reasonable and acceptable enough for us all to cheers our glasses across the table, intoxicatingly spilling beer all over it in the process.

“So Derek, why London?”

              Lance Asked.

Derek took no time to ponder his response.

“It’s the forefront of modern expressionism, a place where an artist can find his feet and get one of them firmly in the door of a career in creativity.”

              Derek retorted.

“Right, so, you’re in the creative sector?”

Before he had an opportunity to respond, Phil interjected to produce one sentence to cut him down.

“He works in fucking Greggs!”

I think Derek took the joke as exactly that, laughing but showing a sign of distress that he hadn’t yet made it in the music industry. He was insanely talented though, more so than any of the rest of us in our respective industries, so we knew he would make it eventually, or we at least we certainly
hoped
he would.

He uttered a hint of a laugh, but immediately followed that by downing the half a pint he still had left in his glass.

“Does anyone else need another drink?”

Never being ones to turn down a fresh, cold one, we all held up our glasses to signify a polite request for replacement.  He hit the bar, so Jon, Lance and Phil utilised the time to head outside for a cigarette out the front. I, having followed suit and sunk my fifth pint of the evening, plus being a non-smoker who was getting a drink bought for him, decided it was the optimal time to hit the bathroom and open the flood gates. It may have been the beers that had dictated that decision, the latter being more likely than me just choosing to exploit the time, but irrespectively I semi-drunkenly stumbled my way upstairs to where the toilets were located.

On this toilet-visiting occasion, I felt I had earned myself a treat; when a man feels he has worked hard, he has paid his weekly dues, and he is a deserving individual for a treat that only he can award himself, he makes the decision on this particular bathroom venture, to have a sit down piss. And thus I took to the throne, checking Facebook on my phone as I relieved myself in the confinements of the toilet cubicle.

A status from Phil read; ‘He works in fucking Greggs!’, and I laughed.

As I finished and stood up, tidying myself away, an almighty slam echoed around the toilets, followed almost immediately by the most heart wrenchingly terrifying scream I have ever heard. It scared the fucking shit out of me, and my brain wouldn’t process what was happening fast enough for me to react. My heart began beating through my chest for fear of the intense unknown; what the fuck had just happened outside my cubicle door? Had someone fallen? If they had, I better get them some help, and from the sounds of it, get them help fast. I pulled up my jeans and cautiously swung open the cubicle door expecting to see some poor drunken fellow arse over tit on the piss soaked floor of the toilets. But what I saw I would never in a million years have expected; It was a man, sure. Was he drunk? We were in a pub on a Friday, so probably. But he wasn’t on the floor at all; he was pinned, pinned against the tiles of the wall between the sink and the hand dryer. Not only was he pinned, but was being bitten…..by what really looked to be two…..
zombies
.

Zombies!?

Zombies aren’t real! This isn’t a computer game! This isn’t a film! This must be a joke! This must be a gag; a hidden camera spoof. Yep, that’s it. I was going to pop up on YouTube tomorrow as one of those idiots who ran away screaming from people dressed as clowns who simulate bloody murders or dinosaurs who wait outside of lifts. Not me, I’m not going to be one of those guys, no way!

Just as I went to walk out and put my hands up to being ‘had’, the man caught my eye and emitted another piercing scream before three of the four assailant’s hands went through his stomach and turned him inside out.

This was no trick, and even if it was it was far too realistic for me not to react negatively and with severity. Their hands went through him like the skin over his stomach was wet paper, effortlessly clawing their way in and pulling back out whatever they could wrap their fingers around. His blood spilled out of him like water through a big hole in a bucket, splashing on the laminate tiles and saturating the floor. It was like that scene in The Shining and his stomach was the lift, yet this time the exiting fluid was accompanied by his intestines and other such entrails.