Meanwhile, in a French hotel…

Pierre pushed the furniture against the door of his hotel room.  He crossed to the window and tweaked the blinds with his fingers.  Smoke rose from the street below.  The double glazing muffled most of the noise but the dull roar of the marauding mob still penetrated.

We knew this would happen, he released the blind.  We knew one day there would be an resurgence.

He opened the mini-bar and snatched out a bottle without looking.  Anything would do.  He unscrewed the cap and tossed it aside.  Within seconds, the bottle was empty.  He reached for another.

Screams and pounding feet in the corridor.  A door slammed.  A gunshot.

Pierre was frozen to the spot.  The television was all snow – he hoped it was a local malfunction but he feared communications were down across the country.  Those bastards, those sick bastards.

A thud against the door.  Pierre jumped.  He approached with caution and peered through the fisheye.  No one.  His hand lingered at the handle.  What if someone was hurt?  What if someone needed his help?


He turned his back.  If I moved all the furniture, whoever it was would hear.  It would give them time to prepare an ambush as soon as I turned the lock…

An explosion in the street.  More gunfire, rapid and prolonged.  The army, perhaps!  Or a band of brave resistance fighters, trying to cull the crowd of mindless – what were they?  You couldn’t call them people any more.

The zombie apocalypse is upon us.  Pierre lowered himself onto the bed.  Perhaps I would be better off underneath it.  Perhaps that would buy me a few seconds after they get in.  Because they will get in.  He was sure it was only a matter of time.

Outside the streets were littered with the bodies of the fallen, but the seemingly inexhaustible supply of the braindead, hell-bent on destruction, kept coming, teeth bared, faces contorted with aggression.

Pierre rocked back and forth, whimpering.  The mini-bar would not see him through the night.

He closed his eyes but he could not shut out the terrifying sound of the creatures, which seemed to rise about the bangs and crashes of the efforts to stop their rampage.

Herewego, herewego, herewego…

En-ger-land!  En-ger-land!

mini bar

1 Comment

Filed under Short story

One response to “Meanwhile, in a French hotel…

  1. Spanish Jackie

    I did guess what was coming but it was still very funny. Surprised the French don’t ask for us to be thrown out of the EU.

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