He knew all there was to know about fist-fighting, and it was this knowledge that he now intended to put to concussive effect on Havoc.
He advanced, bobbing and weaving to present a difficult target, his right fist cocked to deliver the knockout blow, his left feinting and probing for openings in Havoc’s defence.
The blow that felled Boulder Todd seemed to come from nowhere. It hit him plumb in the middle of the forehead and deposited him flat on his back several yards away. He was unconscious before he hit the deck; before, indeed, his massive feet had even left the ground.
It was Havoc’s trademark punch that had done for him, which he called his “Bull-hammer”, and fortunate indeed was the bull that could say it had crossed his path and not been knocked senseless by it at one time or another.
Having disposed of Todd, Havoc turned to confront Hawk, who was now advancing on him, neck-jutting and clacking his teeth like a pair of deadly castanets. Havoc tried out his Bull-Hammer, but this did no more than rock the chef’s head back for a moment. He looked around for a weapon, a kitchen knife, or even a spoon, anything to strike the chef with, but there was nothing within reach. Then his eyes fell on a knife rack a few yards away and he ran towards it. Before he’d gone more than two paces his foot landed in a pool of slippery matter that had been discharged from the open skull of Trapp Fodder the under-manager, who was still watching proceedings from above, albeit with oddly dull-looking eyes.
Havoc’s foot immediately skidded out from beneath him and he fell painfully to the floor. Hawk, sensing his opportunity, dived through the air, jaws agape, intending to land on Havoc and deliver a killer bite.
Havoc rolled to one side just in time, and Hawk’s teeth smashed harmlessly into the kitchen floor. Havoc delivered a karate chop to the back of hawk’s neck while the chef was face down, but it had no effect, and the chef raised his head, looked at Havoc and waved his finger in admonishment.
They both jumped to their feet and Hawk fastened his hands around Havoc’s neck. Havoc tried a knee to the balls, but it made no difference. The pressure on his throat increased. The chef brought his face closer to Havoc’s, mouth open, teeth bared. Havoc tried to push him away, but even his immense strength wasn’t sufficient to overcome that of the zombie chef. He knew that if he didn’t do something quickly — very quickly — his larynx would be crushed, and that would be the least of his problems.
He held onto the chef’s lapel with one hand, and with the other he made a two-fingered strike deep into both of Hawk’s eyes. Havoc had long, strong, fingers, which penetrated several inches into the chef’s eye sockets with a meaty squelch, plunging deep into the frontal lobes of his brain.
“Aaaargh!” Cried Hawk.
He let go of Havoc and staggered backwards, blobs of jelly and puss-like liquids oozing from the dark sockets that had only moments ago been the home for his eyes. Havoc felt a burning sensation on his fingers and immediately wiped them clean of the foul stuff that had soiled them. In the second or two it took him to wipe them clean, the chef rallied himself.
Maddened with pain, he roared and charged blindly forward.
Havoc stepped to one side like a matador and the chef crashed into a worktop with such force that he ended up bent double over the top of it. Havoc picked up a cleaver, and, as the chef got himself upright and turned around, Havoc sank the cleaver into his skull and let go of the handle.
With the cleaver stuck deep into his scalp, and his two eyeless orbits oozing fluids, the chef’s head now looked like nothing so much as a particularly horrifying Halloween mask.
He staggered around the kitchen flailing his arms, crashing into one item after another, sending pots and pans, and kitchen utensils, flying everywhere, then at length he fell to the floor, where he twitched feebly for a few minutes, before ceasing to move altogether. Above him, Fodder looked on with a doleful expression on what was left of his face, as if saddened by his master’s demise.
Havoc looked around the kitchen.
“This is a whole lotta mess to clear up,” he said to himself. “Well, I suppose I best get started.”
He moved the bodies to a back store-room and locked it, mopped and cleaned the floor, and removed all trace of his man-trap.
He’d gotten rid of the zombie chef, but he knew from what he’d seen that the kitchen staff had been somehow enslaved by the chef, and he feared they’d remain loyal to the zombie cause, and support the other zombies in their efforts to take over his beloved country. He wondered what he should do. Then the answer came to him. An evil smile played on his lips.
Later that day, the restaurant had to function without the benefit of its owner Hawk, or its under-manager Fodder, or Boulder Todd, who’d been a key member of staff. But function it did, as the workforce was well-trained.
By the early afternoon it was in full-swing, with the chefs rushing around making meals by the dozen. Then one of them made the mistake of switching on a hob that Havoc had tinkered with.
CHAPTER 7
KA-BOOM!
CHAPTER 8
The issues with humans supporting the zombie takeover were ended in an instant. At least, the problem of those supporters who worked at ‘Anything Goes’ was.
Unfortunately, there was a degree of collateral damage, as the restaurant was full of diners, who, until their meals had been interrupted by the explosion, had been enjoying themselves.
There were any number of shoppers who had their day ruined as well, because the rows of shops to either side of ‘Anything Goes’ were flattened by the blast.
Havoc was saddened by what he saw, as he watched from a beach bar; a safe distance from the effects of the explosion (although a small amount of debris from the blast rained on it for several seconds). But, being a soldier, he knew that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and he resolved to take the best possible care of the eggs in future, while still endeavouring to make the very finest of omelettes.
He got out of his chair in the shade and walked a couple of hundred yards along the South Beach seafront to the next restaurant which was called Sloppy Sam’s. Sam insisted on drizzling his specialty sauces over every dish he made, hence the name. Havoc ordered a plate of rib-eye steaks done rare, with Sam’s chilli pepper sauce drizzled over them, and a side dish of eggs over-easy with Sam’s special egg sauce.
Blowing up stuff and killing folk can make a man like me mighty hungry, he said to himself, as he guzzled down his meal with gusto. Every now and then he raised his head and looked around the restaurant, in the hope of seeing Sloppy Sam.
He was very much looking forward to terminating the zombie career of his next celebrity chef victim.
CHAPTER 9
A few days later President Doughnut was sitting at his desk scanning through the latest report from the C.I.A. When he’d digested the contents, or as much of them as he cared to take in, he got on the White House internal phone system.
“Tyler, get over here right now!” He barked.
Then he put the receiver forcibly back onto the cradle and stood up and paced around. He was wearing swimming shorts and a bathrobe in preparation for his dip later that morning.