What would happen once the zombie apocalypse was over and people (and zombies) were forced to justify their actions?
That's the scenario I took and then ran with it for my short story Pick Your Brain. I'd describe it as horror with a dash of crime.
That's the scenario I took and then ran with it for my short story Pick Your Brain. I'd describe it as horror with a dash of crime.
Pick Your Brain
Pick Your Brain
by
Jenny Thomson
“Miss McBride, in all my years of representing clients whom
other less well attuned legal brains would turn down as unwinnable, I have
never come across one single case I could not win.” He pursed his lips. “Until
now that is. Do you honestly think citing a…”
He cleared his throat.
“And, I’m quoting your expert witness Professor Romero here.
"A virus that renders people incapable of rational thought and gives them
an uncontrollable compulsion to consume human flesh, especially human
brains," is going to assist your boyfriend in his defence after he was
caught by two police officers, standing over the lifeless body of his friend,
clutching a baseball bat soaked in the blood and chunks of brain matter from
the deceased who was later found to have died from multiple brain injuries
consistent with several blows to the head from a baseball bat?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s the truth.”
Charles Benson, who had so many letters after his name it
was like a game of Scrabble, eyed me like I was the last lunatic left in an
asylum. “Did one of my learned colleagues put you up to this?” His eyes swept
the room. “Are there hidden cameras? Is this some TV prank show?”
His reaction was hardly a new one. I’d encountered similar
reactions from other barristers who were convinced I was delusional. “No,” I
said, defiant, “this isn’t a prank. This is real.”
He raised his chin. The gesture reminded me of a haughty
child.
“Well, in that case Miss McBride, I can’t help you. It’s a
psychiatrist you need, not a man of law.”
Condescension seeped from his every word.
It was hard to hide my disappointment. I’d been sure he was
the one man who could help us and argue that Scott had acted in self-defence.
His friend, Archie was trying to eat him.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Benson.” And I was genuinely
sorry. If he couldn’t help Scott in this way he’d have to help him in another.
“I honestly thought someone of your calibre who’d
successfully argued that a man wasn’t guilty of murdering his wife because he
mistook her for a lion, would have a more open mind.” I paused to eye him with
disdain. “Perhaps you could speak to Scott and explain why you won’t help him.
He’s a teacher and a well-respected pillar of this community just like you.
It’ll only take a minute. He’s outside.”
Charles Benson’s face went pumice grey. “No, I’m sorry, I
don’t have the time. My next client will be here.”
I stood up and walked over to the door. “Well, in that case
our business is over, Mr Benson. But there’s one last thing you can help me
with.”
With a nod of the head, I opened the door. “I think you
should meet Scott anyway, so you’ll understand. You see, in the attack he was
bitten. More like a scrape caused by teeth sliding against his skin really. He
didn’t turn as quickly as they do in the movies or in The Walking Dead.”
I gave a wry smile. “Well, things are seldom as they are in
the movies.”
Scott shambled into the room, feral eyes glowing as he saw
his prey. His nails were ragged and torn and bloody from eating the two prison
guards on the way over and the secretary outside.
Charles Benson’s eyes were wide with terror. “You better
leave now, or I’m calling the police.”
His words were strangled.
As Scott pinned him to the desk and sunk decaying teeth into
his fat flesh, I couldn’t resist one last parting shot.
“Do you believe me now, Mr Benson?”
He was unable to answer. Scott had ripped out his throat –
the blood that spurted out of the arrogant lawyer’s veins reminded me of
raspberry sauce on an ice cream cone. Blood is never as red as you think, not
when you get used to it.
Scott devoured the lips, then the nose, followed by the
brain. The intestines he gorged on like cheesy string. Benson’s fingers he
wolfed down like hot dogs.
Once he was done, he licked the blood and flesh from his
teeth.
I wagged a finger at him. “Christ, Scott, we’re gonna run
out of lawyers soon.”
Scott drooled. “HUNGRY. BRAINS.”
My face softened. “Okay, but we need to tidy up this office and
go. We have more legal brains we need to pick.”
The End (or is it the beginning?)
Note - This story first appeared in the kick ass Pulp Metal
Magazine
Jenny Thomson is the author of Scottish zombie novel DeadBastards that's been described as "a cross between Trainspotting and Shaun
of the Dead."
