Jack Strange - Zomcats!

“That back-stabbing Yank bastard,” he said.

Meanwhile, in Birkby, Huddersfield, Floyd Rampant was browsing through the books on Trotter’s bookshelves. His eye fell on something familiar — a cookbook by none other than himself. It was one he’d written in his heyday: ‘Rampant in Italy.’

He pulled the book from its place amongst the rest of Trotter’s cookbooks and looked at the photo of himself on the cover, standing on a fishing vessel, grinning to camera, with a plate of seafood pasta on a table in front of him, and a coastal scene with a blue sky to his rear. He remembered something about the book and opened it at a particular page. Yes, he’d remembered correctly. There was a colour photograph of him and his wife together on that page. He had his arm around her waist, and it was obvious that they were in love. They’d never had children, and the fact that they only had each other had somehow, over the years, brought them closer together.

He’d been bereft when she’d contracted cancer and died, leaving him only with memories of her. It had been a hard blow which he’d taken years to get over. If he could have somehow brought her back as a zombie, he would have done, or he’d at least have tried it. But there was no prospect of that. His late wife had been cremated.

Rampant tore the photograph from the book, folded it up, and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket next to his heart. Then a thought occurred to him and he checked his watch. Next he looked in the mirror and adjusted his bow-tie which he wore around his bare neck, with the collar of his white shirt open to accommodate it. This unusual dress code was, or had been in days gone by, his gimmick as a celebrity chef.

He walked through to the lounge where he found Kat watching the TV with Fletcher.

“Right,” he said. “Time to get your clogs on, everybody. I’m looking forward to this.”

The motorcade entered the outskirts of Huddersfield. The President looked on in wonder at the tiny houses and the cobbled streets. The cars proceeded along Wakefield Road to the ring road then entered the town centre. Here, the President was amazed by the sight of bombed-out buildings which looked somehow familiar. He vaguely remembered seeing documentary footage of Berlin at the end of World War II. Yes, that’s what this scene reminded him of.

The townsfolk had, by this time, cleared the streets of rubble, so his motorcade was able to proceed via Viaduct Street and John William Street to St George’s Square.

A stage had been set up at one end of the square; and at the other end there was a marquee for the VIP’s to shelter in. The ordinary townsfolk were expected to make do with the open air.

Everything was in place for the clog-dancing zombie festival.

The CIA men climbed from their cars and assembled around the president’s car. The President slowly climbed out of his vehicle and took in the sight of the marquee, and behind it the once-glorious railway station which had been reduced to a heap of rubble.

The Mayor, who was wearing his tricorn hat, black velvet cloak, and ceremonial gold chain, rushed up to greet the president, closely followed by the burghers of the town, who were determined not to be left out. The CIA men immediately closed ranks to block their path.

“It’s all right, let them through,” said Doughnut, who knew how and when to be populist.

The two men shook hands warmly, with the burghers standing nearby, and cameras on scaffolding at various strategic points filmed the event.

“It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” said the mayor. “I ’ope you’ll like our town and the entertainment we’ve laid on for yer.”

“I’m sure I will. Clog-dancing zombies, isn’t it?”

“That’s right Mr. President, and they’re very good. But first we have some ’at else to show you. Stonker Edge.”

“What the hell is Stonker Edge? It sounds obscene.”

“It’s a geographical feature at the edge of the plateau overlooking our town. We want to take you up there so that you’ll see our town properly. If you look you’ll see it’s on your itinerary.”

“Tyler!”

“He’s right, Mr. President, that’s where we’re going next.”

“Then we’re coming back to the centre to sit in the marquee over there with the town’s Big Nobs and enjoy the zombie clog dancing festivities.”

“All right, I gotcha.”

Everyone got back in their cars. The Mayor climbed into his black mayoral Rolls-Royce, which was a 1950s model, and led the way. M. T. Dross was in the back of the Rolls-Royce with him.

The long line of cars proceeded along John William Street and up Westgate into Castlegate, then headed into Birkby and climbed the steep hill that led to the top of Stonker Edge.

They followed Stonker Lane past the golf club. There was nothing to be seen in any direction other than for a wall at either side of the road, and, in the far distance, the occasional cow in a field.

The mayor’s car pulled up, the Presidential motorcade pulled up behind it, the P.M.’s rather smaller motorcade pulled up behind that, and the vehicles carrying the world’s press and media reporters came to a halt at the rear.

M. T. Dross climbed out of the mayoral Rolls-Royce followed by the Mayor himself in all his finery.

The president’s armed guards left their cars and formed a protective cordon around the President, who then left his own car, wearing his trademark red baseball cap. Police on motorcycles straddled their stationary bikes and looked around in wonder at the desolate plateau that Dross had taken them to.

The President removed his baseball cap for a moment to scratch the top of his head. A chill gust of Yorkshire wind whipped up his comb-over in spite of the powerful glue that had been applied by his personal hairdresser that very morning to hold it in place. He quickly jammed his baseball hat back on again.

M. T. Dross was charged with leading the group to Stonker Edge to admire the view. He looked at his O.S. map.

“This way,” he said confidently, marching up the road to where he knew there would be an opening in the wall giving access to the footpath leading to Stonker Edge.

When he got there, he stopped. The wall looked as though it had once had an opening in it which had been blocked up with breeze-blocks cemented in place. Dross looked over the wall. There appeared to have once been a footpath on the other side of it, but the path had barbed-wire fences at intervals along its length which would prevent anyone from using it. Dross checked his map and turned it upside down. Then he turned it the right way up again.

“What are you doing, for God’s sake?” The Mayor asked. “We’ve got the President of America and the Prime Minister with us. We’re meant to be showcasing our town to the world. Nothing better be going wrong, Dross.”

Dross felt beads of perspiration forming on his forehead and on his body beneath his clothes. He couldn’t make sense of the map. He couldn’t relate what was on the map to what he saw in front of him. He raised his head and looked further along the road. About fifty yards ahead he saw an opening in the wall. There was a man in a red walking jacket standing next to the opening.

“We go this way,” Dross said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “The footpath to the edge is just up there.”

He set off walking, with a long line of people trailing behind him. He quickened his pace and left the mayor behind. He reached the opening in the wall and saw that there was a neat footpath leading from it across the field on the other side, just as he’d hoped. It was in a different place to the path marked on the map, but it seemed to lead in the right direction, towards Stonker Edge.