Déjà Vu

by AngusEcrivain

You smile. Nickelback are playing on the radio. It's that song, Rockstar. Not your favourite by any stretch but you don't give a shit. Nickelback are the best band in the world and any chance you get to listen to those notes, riffs and sweet, dulcet tones is all good as far as you're concerned.

You crank the volume and put a light to a cigarette, drawing upon it a couple of times before you take a swig from the mug beside you.

The coffee's hot, sweet and milky. Just how you like it.

"My Grandma's sitting at home right now watching Jerry Springer," you mutter. There is no one there to hear you speak but you don't let a silly, insignificant thing like that stop you. "Fuck her though. Fuck her and fuck Jerry Springer."

You wake up some time later. From where you're sitting you can't see a clock and your phone is not within reach so you've no idea exactly how long you've been asleep. It's dark out though, you can see that through the window. Nickelback aren't playing on the radio anymore, either. In fact nothing's playing on the radio apart from static but even that cuts out a few seconds later.

You sit there in silence for a moment or two until it dawns upon you it actually is silent. Odd, really. You don't live in the middle of a city but you do live on a council estate in Maidstone. Noises should be prevalent: next door's TV and the brat of a kid on the other side yelling and stomping her feet because her mum's too busy giving head to whichever bloke she sees on Wednesdays to pay any attention to her, or sirens as the fuzz give chase to a group of kids who've been throwing eggs off the bridge over the dual carriageway or going around the estate letting the air out of car tyres because what else are they going to do?

After remaining stationary in the unnerving silence for a little longer you decide it's time to find out what's going on, or at least make some kind of effort to try to do so.

You light another cigarette, pocket the packet and get to your feet.

The lights are fucked. You play with the switch an unnecessary amount, despite the fact you know that if they were going to work they'd have done so the first time you flicked the switch to the correct position. It's what they do in movies though, probably because movie producers think everyone is stupid. Either that or they're stupid and think people won't notice their actors look like fucking retards.

What is it they say? you silently ponder. The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result, or some shit.

Heading to the back door you stop at the fridge and open it. Momentarily you forget it stands to reason that if the main lights are fucked the fridge light and all other electrical appliances and items are fucked, too, and it surprises you when the interior is not illuminated.

That fact dawns on you quickly enough though and you reach for the full cream milk.

A face stares out of the fridge at you. Long and sullen, almost anguished. You stumble backwards, spilling milk everywhere, and hit the back of your head upon the oven door.

Again you wake up some time later, only this time you do not do so of your own volition.

You realise you're wet, and not from milk.

Your head throbs like a bastard and it's a struggle to open your eyes but you do so regardless to see your best mate standing over you with a jug, one that you presume formerly housed the water that's all over you.

He's talking but you can't hear him. That bang to the head must have shaken something loose.

You point to your ears, shaking your head slowly but even as you do so your hearing begins to return to normal.

"...ing shit you not man she was comin' straight for me. I didn't have a choice, I just punched the bitch as hard as I could in the face over and over again. Didn't make any difference though so I grabbed the trowel she uses to pick up Fifi's shit in the garden and drive it as hard as I fucking could into her eye. Bitch went down then."

"Hang on, what?" you ask, staring up at your friend with what you hope is an incredibly questioning look plastered upon your face.

"You trowelled my fucking grandma?" You hope that's the only time in your life you ever have to ask that question. "What was she doing coming for you? She's supposed to be watching fucking Jerry Springer reruns."

"You didn't get the first bit of what I said then?" he asks. "You must've hit your head pretty hard, man."

"Pretty sure I did," you say.

"Yeah, well, for those who missed the first act we've got fucking zombies, man!" He looks at you, as if he expects you to respond. How do you respond to something like that though? You could always accuse your best friend of having been on a bad trip because let's be honest for a second, you know damn well it wouldn't be the first time that'd happened.

"Don't be a dick."

"I'm not, man," he replies. "Doesn't really matter whether you believe me or not."

"It does," you scoff as you struggle to your feet, using the sideboard to help you do so. "It does because you're wrong, okay? So shut up!"

"Fuck you, man," he says, shrugging. "I'll fucking show you."

Unsteadily you follow your friend outside. It's a cool night. The sky is clear except for a few wisps of cloud. You can see more stars than you've ever seen before and it takes you a moment to realise the reason is there are no lights, not from houses and not from the streetlights that normally illuminate the estate in their obnoxious orange glow.

"Power's out," you say, unnecessarily.

"Yeah," he replies. "That's what happens in the fucking zombie apocalypse. Well, that and zombies."

"Shut the fuck up about fucking zombies you f..."

And then you hear them, or you hear something. At first you can't believe it's actually zombies. They don't exist, or at least they shouldn't exist. You live in the real world, not some fucked up post-apocalyptic wasteland reminiscent of The Walking Dead.

The sound they make though. The rasping, almost gasping for breath, as if they're breathing through a hole in their chest.

It's the way they move that convinces you. A lurch, stagger, stumble and limp rolled into one, as if their bodies are resisting the signals being sent telling them to move.

"So those are fucking zombies," you say. You're calmer than you think you ought to be but oddly you realise how prepared you are. For years, film and TV have been preparing you for this very eventuality. And not just you, but everyone.

"Time to go?" your buddy asks.

"Aye," you reply. "Definitely time to go."

***

It's been five years since that fateful evening upon which you saw and slew your first zombie. It's also been five years since you last heard the greatest band in the world, Nickelback. You've not heard any music since then, other than that one occasion upon which you and your best friend took shelter in an old record store for the night and the only LP you'd been able to find semi-intact was Parliament's Mothership Connection which probably wouldn't have been so bad if more than one track on the album had been playable. As it is, you've not been able to get Give Up The Funk out of your head since.

Over those five years you have managed to build quite the reputation for yourself. Stories of your uncanny ability to take on enormous hordes of zombies single-handedly and survive have spread far and wide, so wherever you and your best friend are you're treated like royalty. You don't like it, of course. You just want to be treated the same as everyone else because after all, you're nothing more than a survivor. Then again, you have never had any say in the matter and on more than one occasion you've been forced to eat the best food a given community has, almost at gunpoint.

It doesn't matter how much you protest, you're simply unable to convince anyone that whilst it might be true you have fought and overcome countless hordes, you have not done so alone. Your best mate has fought at your side since the beginning and over the years you have made more friends, some of whom you would give your own life to protect.

It's on one of those occasions, whilst you're eating the freshest baked beans you've had in a long time, the can being less than four years beyond the best-before imprinted on the base, that you are told one of the more fanciful stories you've ever heard.

"There's a wizard, see," the bearded man says. The fact that he's bearded means little though, for even the most attractive of post-apocalyptic women have facial hair.

"A wizard?" you ask, unable to halt the grin as it spreads across your face. You roll your eyes and cast your gaze momentarily towards the sky. It's a dark night and the gathering clouds are making it darker. A breeze picks up, one that brings less pungent scents than normal. Rather than the smell of rotting flesh, stagnant water or sewage that occasionally seeps up through the ground this one smells fresh, like the morning following a storm.

"Yeah," the man replies. "A wizard."

You avert your gaze from the sky and redirect it towards the storyteller but the look upon his face tells you that this is no story. As far as the man is concerned, it's the truth.

"Tell me about this wizard," you say.

"Not much to tell really, other than the fact he's responsible for all of this shit. It's his fault there are zombies and that so many people are dead. Some kind of magic spell gone awry."

"Where can I find him?"

***

You and your friends stare up at the castle, shrouded as it is in mist. Only the building's highest points, the turrets and ramparts, are visible.

It looks like something out of a fairytale.

Only this is no fairytale. It's a waking nightmare.

Your clothes, a comfortable combination of denim and leather, are spattered with the blood of the countless undead who fell to your axe, one liberated from the fire cupboard of an abandoned primary school several years ago, over the course of your journey.

It has taken you and your friends several weeks to reach your destination and you're all so very, very tired. The end is in sight though. All you need to do is to kill the wizard and things will return to normal. You don't know whether that means the zombies will disappear leaving this fucked up world behind them or if it'll be as if the zombie apocalypse never happened. Either way, it will be an end.

"We go in together," you say, your friends listening intently, hanging onto your every word. "I don't know what to expect but it's my thinking that's the only way we can do this. You can bet your arse there's gonna' be a whole lotta' zombies to deal with but if any of us get a shot at the wizard, we take it and put an end to this bullshit."

Your friends nod and murmur in agreement.

You turn away, smiling sadly. Whilst it's true you want to save the world, to get rid of the zombie menace, a part of you doesn't want it to end. That part of you, as small a part as it may be, likes the world the way it is. It likes having to fight simply to survive, it likes the fact there are no rules and regulations other than those imposed by one's own moral compass.

That small part of you, a small part that if you're completely and totally honest with yourself has been growing steadily since the first time you laid your eyes upon a zombie, does not want things to change.

In no time at all you reach the castle. It looms menacingly over you and your friends. There is a chill to the air, though you realise that might have something to do with the fact there is a wide moat between you and the building itself.

The drawbridge is already lowered and alongside your group, you make your way tentatively across it as the thick mist swirls around you.

"I can't see shit," your best mate says.

And he's definitely not alone in that. You can't see a thing, either. It is not only your sight with which the mist is playing havoc for your best mate's voice is muffled, almost as if he is some distance away rather than standing right beside you.

"It'd be nice if we had some kinda' heavy artillery," you say, half-joking. "I mean, a tank would be pretty fucking ideal right now."

With your left hand you fumble in your pocket for a packet of cigarettes whilst your right hand grips the handle of the axe tightly. You're gagging for a smoke but you realise it's not the time or place for such a thing. It's definitely a comfort though, knowing the packet is there.

You're across the drawbridge and into the courtyard of the castle within moments. Surprisingly you've met no resistance at all.

Within the castle walls the mist is not a factor and as such you can quite clearly see the wizard, or at least a man wearing robes and a big pointy hat, standing alone in the middle of the courtyard.

You half-expect the word, 'Wizzard,' to be etched upon the hat in some form or other, and you chuckle at the thought.

"Something amuses you?" the wizard asks. There is nothing unusual about his voice. It simply sounds to you like a normal male voice. You think about that for a second and wonder why you might have expected different.

"Nope," you say, and hurl your axe towards him.

End over end it spins and it hits the mark.

The wizard falls to the ground, dead, and with the axe firmly embedded in his forehead.

"Is it just me, or did that feel a little too easy?" you ask, turning to your friends, only to find they are no longer there.

Nor, for that matter, are you.

***

You smile. Nickelback are playing on the radio. It's that song, Rockstar. Not your favourite by any stretch but you don't give a shit. Nickelback are the best band in the world and any chance you get to listen to those notes, riffs and sweet, dulcet tones is all good as far as you're concerned.

You crank the volume and put a light to a cigarette, drawing upon it a couple of times before you take a swig from the mug beside you.

The coffee's hot, sweet and milky. Just how you like it.

"My Grandma's sitting at home right now watching Jerry Springer," you mutter. There is no one there to hear you speak but you don't let a silly, insignificant thing like that stop you. "Fuck her though. Fuck her and fuck Jerry Springer."

It occurs to you that something feels very, very familiar. It could simply be déjà vu, of course, but if that's true then it's a seriously big case of it.

You wake up some time later. From where you're sitting you can't see a clock and your phone is not within reach so you've no idea exactly how long you've been asleep. It's dark out though, you can see that through the window. Nickelback aren't playing on the radio anymore, either. In fact nothing's playing on the radio apart from static but even that cuts out a few seconds later.

You sit there in silence for a moment or two until it dawns upon you it actually is silent and once again you feel as though you are going through the mother of all déjà vu experiences. You attempt to recall what happened next, or what ought to happen next, but you cannot do so.

After remaining stationary in the unnerving silence for a little longer you decide it's time to find out what's going on, or at least make some kind of effort to try to do so.

You light another cigarette, pocket the packet and get to your feet.

The lights are fucked. You play with the switch an unnecessary amount but then stop with your finger resting upon the switch.

What is it they say? you silently ponder. The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result, or some shit.

Heading to the back door you stop at the fridge and open it. Momentarily you forget it stands to reason that if the main lights are fucked the fridge light and all other electrical appliances and items are fucked, too, and it surprises you when the interior is not illuminated.

That fact dawns on you quickly enough though and you reach for the full cream milk.

You swig deeply from the bottle and when you're done, you replace it, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you peer into the fridge. Nothing appears to be out of place though for some reason you feel as though it ought to so you close the door and then quickly open it again.

Still, nothing.

With a shrug you release the door and allow it to close of its own volition. You watch it shut and then hear a fumbling at your back door.

"That'll be Gary," you say, and go to open the door. Upon doing so you quickly discover it is not Gary, your best mate. Instead it is what can only be described as a head. It's huge, floating in the air some five or six feet from your door with its eyes and mouth wide open and from its mouth several figures, undead in appearance, appear to be climbing backwards.

You know you should be scared but you're not for whilst the sight is entirely unfamiliar and wholly terrifying there is something almost comforting about it, as though it heralds a new beginning, the first day of the rest of your brand new life.

"I know where you are, you wizard bastard," you say, grinning as you fumble for the cigarette packet in your pocket. You light one and inhale deeply.

"I know where you are and I'm coming for you."