The Start of the Zombie Apocalypse
London, 1599
Historians refer to it simply as “The Event of 1599.”
It appeared from nowhere, and for a brief moment in history, a few Londoners stood in awe and followed a tail of fire as it lit up autumn’s night sky. None of them knew its origin, and words like Armageddon were muttered with a good dose of trepidation and fear. Witnesses would later recall a blast of hot air directly underneath the tail, similar to a warm summer breeze, as it shot from East to West. The head of the fire-tail descended and — for a moment — appeared to be on a collision course with the Tower of London. Some onlookers waited with bated breath for the tower to be struck, while others fled into the perceived safety of their houses. It barely missed the town’s pride, but did lock on its final resting place: a tiny, unknown establishment named Quinn’s Tavern.
Moments before a space rock the size of an ox head smashed through his wooden tavern roof, Oweyn Quinn served drinks to a couple of regular visitors.
Just like the tavern, Oweyn was rough, uncompromising and unwashed, with little ambition to grow his business. Truth was he had no ambition other than to serve his own lust for cheap alcohol, with a preference towards Irish whiskey. Besides the drink, his only love was for his beautiful teen daughter Catin.
“Come on, Oweyn, pour us another one, will ’ya?” begged Old Man Miles, the Tavern’s most loyal customer. Long white hair dangled from underneath a leather hood covering the battle scars that trenched across his neck and cheeks. The scars were sad reminders of his brutal endeavors during the war with France. Old Man Miles would spend most of his drinking time reciting war stories to those sober enough to listen and would end every story by taking off his hood in remembrance of fallen comrades.
“Here,” said Oweyn, as he handed Old Man Miles a wooden cup of whiskey. Oweyn watched as he swallowed the liquid in one quick quaff before slamming the cup down on the bar counter.
The old man wiped his mouth and burped loudly in approval. “Give us another small sample,” he said. “And, by the way, where is that lovely daughter of yours?” An old smile and a couple of rotten teeth completed one ugly picture.
“You know Catin is in the kitchen. You also know you can’t enter. I keep her there, away from the likes of you,” replied Oweyn without encouraging further communication.
“When will you give me her hand in marriage?” scoffed Old Man Miles.
“When you are dead,” Oweyn said and chopped a meat cleaver into the counter next to the old man’s wrist.
“Then we must hurry up,” Old Man Miles wheezed, undeterred by the violent threat of the barkeep’s action.
Oweyn poured the next round without concern or conscience, after which Old Man Miles limped away. He was relieved to return to his own drink, his thoughts drifting to Catin, almost eighteen and eligible for marriage. Regardless of Oweyn’s many flaws, he did keep one promise — to his dying wife — that he will ensure that their daughter marry into the house of a good, caring man. The only problem was that the good, caring type was virtually nowhere to be found in East London.
His thoughts were interrupted by sudden, hysterical screams at the tavern door. All the patrons, five in total, stood up from their chairs and piled out into the street, which was usually pitch dark at this time of night. The screams grew louder as an orange fireball lit up the dark city, block-by-block.
“Father?” Oweyn heard Catin’s soft, concerned voice. Her long black hair hung loose around her innocent face.
He stood up and gazed deep into her eyes, her face pale. “Catin, get back in the kitchen,” he ordered. “Now!” He waited until she obliged.
“My good God! It’s the devil himself I tell ya!” Old Man Miles shouted.
A loud, rumbling whoosh sound passed from directly above as Oweyn made his way towards the window. The rumble grew louder and intensified by the second. Terror filled his nerves, and he sprinted towards the kitchen, but Oweyn only managed a few steps before the roof collapsed on top of him.
Oweyn Quinn could still hear the screams of the people as blackness engulfed him.
To Be Continued……
PW Pretorius is an Authorpreneur and storyteller. Visit him at http://pwpretorius.com
