Greg Krojac - WTF?

“I’m just popping out to buy some… some milk. We’re nearly out.”

Tracey was having a clear-out of her wardrobe, sorting her clothes into three piles – clothes that she would probably wear in the next two weeks, clothes she would probably wear in the next three months, and those clothes that she couldn’t even remember when was the last time she had worn them. She liked to have a purge every now and then as it was very easy for a woman like her, who liked to be dressed in the latest fashion, to suddenly find she had no space left in her wardrobe. Clothes in the third pile could be taken to one of the local charity shops the next day. She’d rather somebody else get some use out of them instead of letting them languish in the wardrobe for eternity.

Trevor had picked his moment perfectly. His wife wouldn’t want to abandon her regime just to go with him to buy a carton of milk.

He bought the milk first – after all, it was his excuse for leaving the house – and soon arrived at the Great Oak. It was still a working crime scene and was surrounded by yellow police tape, which Trevor found strange even though the TV newsman had said that there was no suspicion of foul play. The sources must have been wrong.

He wanted to take a look at the site himself, but there was no way he was going to get near the tree whilst police officers and forensics were processing the scene.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round to see one of his donors, Susan Winch, dressed in a disposable papery-plastic Tyvek suit. He knew that she was studying to be a forensics officer but hadn’t expected to see her there. Perhaps she was on work experience. She glanced over towards the tree.

“It’s a bloody mess over there, Trevor. Quite literally. The poor boy was torn limb from limb.”

Trevor was afraid of that.

“Do they have any idea what happened or who did it?”

Susan ushered him away from the tape that skirted the area.

“Best you don’t get too close. We don’t want to contaminate the scene.”

Trevor nodded.

“So, any ideas?”

Susan reduced her voice to a whisper.

“This is between you and me. Don’t breathe a word, ok?”

“Of course I won’t say anything.”

“Not even to Tracey.”

“Not even to Tracey.”

“It looks like it may have been an animal attack. We found animal tracks. They reckon a dog – although they also say that whatever killed the lad must have been a really big dog. More the size of a wolf, really.”

Trevor considered the possibilities for a moment.

“The only really big dog around here is Mrs Gladstone’s Irish Wolfhound, Paddy, and he’s arthritic. He’d struggle to even walk this far, let alone attack anyone.”

Susan couldn’t stay any longer; she’d be in trouble if anyone saw her chatting to Trevor at a crime scene, but she didn’t think anyone had noticed her absence. She’d only been gone a minute.

There was no point in Trevor hanging around, so he set off home. As he walked along the well-used woodland track, a small thin metallic object glinted in the sun. He bent down to see what it was, picked it up, and popped it into his pocket.

Arnold felt a little anxious. He was starting to move around the village now, even chatting occasionally with villagers who weren’t members of the vampires’ donor community but all the time being careful not to interact with anyone who had known him when he was alive. The bus he was sitting on was bound for the bright lights of the nearest city and he was quite literally leaving his comfort zone. But at least he wasn’t alone – Adrienne, his ‘kind of girlfriend’ was sitting next to him.

He wasn’t sure that Torchester really counted as the bright lights, but it did have a cinema, something that his village did not. He’d never heard of the film that they were going to see – an arthouse film (Adrienne’s choice) – but Arnold would have suffered in silence whilst watching the worst movie in the world if it meant that he could take a trip out of the village with Adrienne.

Luckily, Gillian and Keira lived on the other side of the village, so he was able to keep out of their way. Much as he wanted to see them, he knew that to do so would have been wrong on so many levels. They’d buried him – or at least someone they believed to be him – and they needed to be allowed to move on with their lives, without a deceased husband and father getting in the way. He felt something for Adrienne, of that he was sure, but he wasn’t sure how to define it. Was it love? He still loved his wife and didn’t know if it was possible to love two people at the same time. Was it lust? Adrienne was undeniably sexy but any physical intimacy was off the table – he was no longer equipped to satisfy a woman in the normal way –although she did seem to really enjoy their donation sessions. Perhaps she was his best friend. Yes, she was definitely his best friend.

The bus stop was right outside the Eros Cinema in the High Street. To be honest, it looked a little seedy but Adrienne assured him that the interior was far more inviting than the outside of the building. Arnold looked up at the tacky neon frontage and read the title of that day’s cinematic offering.

The lights had already dimmed when the couple slid into their seats in the cinema auditorium, just as they had planned. A few local advertisements played onscreen before they were replaced by the opening credits of the main – and only – feature; Saw You Last Wednesday was emblazoned briefly across the screen and then the title dissolved into the first scene.

Two hours later the pair was back on the bus, heading home. Arnold couldn’t stop smiling – he’d spent the whole movie holding Adrienne’s hand. Human touch, the touch of a human that actually liked him, was something that he’d thought he would have to sacrifice in his new life as a zombie. He was so glad to be proven wrong.

It was a beautiful crisp moonlit night and Adrienne didn’t fancy staying indoors. There was something magical about watching her breath swirl around on such winter nights. She’d made no plans to see Arnold that night, so she took a beach chair outside so she could do a little light reading in the open air. The full moon was almost strong enough to read by but she wasn’t sure if she’d be putting unnecessary stress on her eyes, so she turned on the porchlight. Now she could relax and read her book, Ian Gittins’s The Cure: A Perfect Dream in peace. The book was a gift from Arnold who had guessed that The Cure was her favourite band.

She was just a few pages into the book when she heard a rustling in the shrubs that bordered the property. Shrugging it off as probably a cat on the prowl she went back to her reading. A few pages later, she heard a guttural growl. Cats don’t growl. They hiss, yowl, and chatter when they see prey but they don’t growl. She felt like she was being watched and it was a most uncomfortable sensation. Picking up her chair she decided to go back inside the house.

Feeling safer, she looked out of the window to see if she could see whatever had scared her into going inside. At first, she saw nothing but then she spotted a pair of eyes reflected in the moonlight. Her heart beat a little faster and she ran upstairs to fetch her mobile phone from her room. She had Arnold’s number on speed dial so fumbling fingers weren’t a problem. The phone at the other end rang twice and then played a recorded message.

The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please try later.

Where was he? If Arnold wasn’t with her, he was usually at home. She tried again with the same result. She looked out of the window again. The eyes had disappeared. Perhaps the animal had got bored and gone somewhere else. But she still felt like she was being watched.