Zombie Juice

By Dustin Bowcott

An alchemist and a scientist duel it out for control of Zombie Juice, a powerful serum that can make those who are dead undead. One wants to control it for his own ends, and the other would rather see it destroyed. Stuck in the middle is Darwin, a cruel part of the experiment means he is now a zombie and will remain one forever unless the serum is completed.
However, the serum can only be finished by a scientist, and the only scientist who can do it would rather see it destroyed.

Then, there are the agents of THEM. Shadowy figures created by ancient scientists to ensure those who are dead stay dead. Can Darwin convince the scientist to help him, or is he doomed to be a zombie until he utterly rots away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storey Matters
• Release date: Mar 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005800291

Dustin Bowcott

Dustin Bowcott is a multi-talented, award-winning writer, known for novels, screenplays, audio dramas, video games, cartoons, and graphic novels.

Book preview

Zombie

Juice

D A Bowcott

copyright 2021 Dustin Bowcott

Forboden Cemetery

It was the coldest, snowiest, iciest Christmas Eve ever. While most kids were nice and warm at home, eating dinner, I was battling wind and snowflakes that whipped and stung my face as I pedalled hard on my thrown-together bike. I had proudly built the bike myself using parts that I'd found discarded here and there. It's shocking what people throw away sometimes. I once found a whole bike floating in the middle of the canal. It took me two hours to get it out, and only after I came up with the ingenious idea of attaching a wire coat-hanger to a broomstick with a whole roll of sticky tape. The coat-hanger eventually fell off, but I managed to hook the broomstick through the front wheel spokes and dragged the bike out. The chain was corroded, tyres flat, most of the spokes rusted or damaged, the seat was ripped, and the paintwork chipped, but I managed to restore and reuse much of it. I've always been good like that. I follow after my Dad.

The bike slipped and slid on the icy ground, threatening to throw me off, but I was a skilled rider. I could do stunts, like wheelies and rear-wheel hops. It would take more than a bit of slipping and sliding to stop me. I actually loved the challenge and drove only the most demanding route.

At the end of what was once a road, but now nothing more than a barren, icy wasteland, the imposing gates of Forboden Cemetery loomed amid the amber glow of decrepit streetlights. Everybody said it was haunted, but, duh, it's a cemetery, of course, it's haunted! Not that it bothered me, ghosts don't hurt people. If they did, there would be a lot of hurt people around. They'd be everywhere, the hospitals would be full. There would probably be special hospitals just for people injured by ghosts. Doctors would have to specialise in it, get a degree in paranormal injury.

Once at the gates, I skidded to a stop and dismounted, leaving the bike on the ground. No sooner had I left it than the snow began layering it, wanting to cover the bike as it had everything else. I knew that I would have to dig the bike out later. I removed one of my thick gloves to retrieve the heavy iron key that I always kept on an equally heavy chain around my neck. It was my own personal key, and Dad had warned how expensive they were to replace. You know how parents are – they always think they know best.

If you lose it, then you'll have to pay for a new one out of your own pocket money! Dad had warned. Yeah, right, with how much Dad paid, that would take forever. I'd have to finish paying him back once I'd left home and got a job.

The cold ate into my hand, turning my fingers a loud shade of purple as I tried to slide the key into the lock. But the key wouldn't go in. I snatched my hand into the folds of my armpit to warm it as I squinted into the keyhole. It was frozen; a lump of ice completely filled the inside. I braved the cold against my bare skin and tried to force the key in by bashing it against the hole. It was no good; the lock was frozen solid.

Feeling defeated, I held the gate with both hands and peered through the bars at the snow-covered gravestones within. I always went to see mom on Christmas Eve. She left us five years ago at the hands of an incurable disease. Not that I understood much about it. To me, she was there, shining, smiling, the light of all our lives, then she got sick and eventually left us on Christmas eve. I remembered robotically opening my presents the next day, and it all seeming so meaningless. My Dad hid down in his laboratory in our basement, throwing himself into his work. I had to figure out how to cope on my own. I suppose we all have to find our own way through; grief affects us all in different ways.

As these thoughts and more travelled through my mind, I completely forgot the rule about touching frozen metal! Too late, I tried to pull my hands away from the wrought iron bars. The hand with the glove still on was fine, but the other was stuck fast. It was my right hand too, and I could already feel it starting to burn. Funny how the cold burns, don't you think?

I cried out, more in anguish than pain, as it hadn't really started to hurt yet. However, that wouldn't last long, and I was frozen to a gate with the genuine possibility of freezing to death if I couldn't somehow find the courage to rip my hand free. I was just in the process of estimating how many layers of skin were to be sheared when I heard the distinct crunch, crunch, crunch of fresh snow beneath Wellington boots behind me.

Bizarre behaviour from a boy your age, remarked Mad Old Jethro. He always went by that name. Never just Jethro, but always Mad and Old along with it. Not that he was that old. Perhaps fifty, with a slight limp and a shaggy grey beard that stretched to his chest. He dressed like a tramp wearing old scruffy shoes and trousers with string to hold them up. He wasn't an actual tramp as he lived in a house. It was a big house on a hill all on its own with a bubble window in the loft, like a larger version of a pilot's window in a fighter jet. I assumed it was for aeroplane-spotting, but almost everyone else said he was looking for UFOs. Mad Ol' Jethro? He's looking for UFOs. Crazy he is, they would say. It was rare to walk by his house and not see him up there with some contraption or telescope.

I'm stuck, I said, weakly tugging at my hand.

Why ain't you at home like the rest of the greedy scamps? he asked.

Is that important? I shivered. I thought for sure that my hand would freeze and snap off on its own at any minute.

I asked ya, didn't I?

I'm visiting my mom, I told him. I've got her Christmas present.

As good a reason as any, Jethro said. And then, Course, you know the best way to do this is with urine?

What? I squealed and almost ripped my hand from the gate in horror. Only his chuckling prevented me. You're joking. I breathed with relief.

What? he asked, surprised. Oh, no. It's definitely going to take something like that. Wait here. Oh. That's right, you don't have any choice, do you? Jethro walked away, chuckling.

Where are you going? I shouted after him as his silhouette disappeared into the heavily falling snow.

I've found, Jethro shouted, his voice diminishing. That I can never do it when somebody is looking. I hoped and prayed that he was just joking, but my worst fears were confirmed when he reappeared clutching a clear, plastic bottle containing a yellow liquid. As he neared, I watched, transfixed in horror, as steam rose from the bottle.

Please don't tell me that that's... I cringed, unable to say the word urine out loud. Oh, God, I can smell it. I almost puked.

I'm afraid we really don't have any other choice, Jethro poured the contents of the bottle all over my hand. I have to admit, the warm feeling it provided was heavenly, but the smell was atrocious.

You need to do something about your diet. I squealed, washing my hand in the snow.

I'm a fruitarian, he said. I only eat fruit. Now get your glove back on quickly. Else it'll freeze again, and we'll need some more of this. Jethro held up the bottle and sloshed around the remaining urine. I don't think I've got any left in me.

Only fruit? I asked, quickly changing the subject while putting my glove back on and then shoving the hand underneath my armpit for extra insulation.

Fruit for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, he said, producing a blow torch in his other hand. Always be prepared. That's my motto. He ignited the blow torch and set to work on the lock, melting the ice within seconds. It was then that I noticed he wasn't wearing any gloves.

Don't you feel the cold? I asked.

I'm a scientist, he said. This is a simple thermal spray. It's all over my body. I could walk out naked if I felt like it.

I think it's better that you're dressed, I said with a chuckle while offering him the key to the gate.

If you ask me, people spend far too long worrying about inconsequential things, he said, refusing the key with a shake of the head and producing his own.

You have a key too? I asked, surprised.

Everyone in the village has a key. How else would we mourn the dead? Jethro slid the key into the lock and, with a look that said 'that's the way to do it', opened the gate. I helped him push as a mini-mountain of snow built up behind. Eventually, we opened the gate just far enough to squeeze through.

You coming? I asked.

You ask a lot of obvious questions, boy. Jethro squeezed through the gate, his nose stroking the wrought iron bar on the way.

Mom's tomb was covered entirely in snow but still stood apart from the others as, rather than being made of stone, it was made from four sheets of 12-inch thick titanium. It also had an electronic sliding door that could only be unlocked by retina scan. Dad had designed it to keep, in his words, undesirables out. Which was a good thing as I always liked to get mom a present for birthdays and Christmas. The last thing I would want is to arrive one Christmas, Mother's Day, or birthday to find she'd been grave-robbed. It happens more frequently than we realise - according to Google. For somebody dead, my mom owned a lot of nice stuff. This time, I'd saved hard for a lion carving that I had tucked inside my jacket. I just knew that she'd love it. She always did like animals.

I didn't know why Jethro was still hanging around, but, I reasoned, he did save my life or, at the very least, my hand.

I knew them both, you know? Jethro had that vacant look old people get when they're reminiscing.

Mom, Dad? I asked more for confirmation that he was talking about that because I already knew that Dad and Jethro were once friends.

Not sure who else I would be talking about. Come on then, Jethro said. Open her up.

Don't you have your own site to visit? I asked, not really wanting him to see inside. Dad had told me never to let anyone in. Ever. Under any circumstances.

I'm not a bad guy, young man.

No, I didn't mean...

No. I understand, Jethro said. I'll leave you alone with your mom. I shouldn't have intruded. He turned his back and strolled away. I watched him go for a while and then felt guilt pricking my conscience. After all, he had saved me from possibly freezing to death, and I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. He was all alone and was probably just enjoying my company, in as much as an adult can enjoy a child's company.

Wait, I called after him. He stopped. Turned. I suppose it wouldn't hurt, I said. He smiled and trudged back toward me as I punched in the security code. My retina was scanned, verified, and then the tomb door slid open. I turned to look at Jethro, who was clearly impressed.

Very bright man, your father,