King of Zombie Heath

Day 29 - Locked up by Colonel Sanders

It keeps getting better. Doc wasn't joking about the army. Woke up to the sound of funny northern accents, helicopters and tankmobiles, or whatever the army calls those things on skids. The Lancashires've arrived.

God knows what they're doing down here. Shouldn't they be manning Hadrian's Wall or something? We were doing fine on our own. The Colonel showed up this morning with Doc in tow like a little fat mascot in a surgical mask. I'm assuming it was a Colonel but, truth is, I couldn't tell a bunch of Colonels from a corn-on-the-cob. He might have been a Sergeant Major or a Field Marshall for all I know.

I was hoping Doc and I would do our weekly, but he wasn't interested. He did the rounds and took some more samples. Blood, as usual, urine and stools for a change. Had to poop in a pot. Smelt of tomato sauce and had the consistency of mashed spaghetti loops. He asked how we all were and said we'd have to manage for a while on our own. Manage on our own? I said, fine, just give me the keys for the dispensary so that I can auto-medicate myself when I start to feel funny. He nodded and asked if I'd been spending much time with Eddie. I said, duh, yes, cos there isn't much else to do in here lately, and I can hardly play pool by myself. He nodded again, said he couldn't give me the keys, cos that would be a like letting the lunatics run the asylum, ha ha ha. Good to see the fat fuck's still got a sense of humour. I said I didn't see why that was funny because, basically, that was what we were already doing. I reminded him that, in spite of the fact that we were doing just fine without him, and hadn't really suffered because of his scant care, our welfare was still legally his responsibility and, if he couldn't be bothered to take that responsibility seriously, he should at least give us the chance to do it ourselves. He got angry and said I wasn't a fool and knew exactly why he couldn't give me the keys to the dispensary. I said yes, that it must be something to do with the hypocritic oath he swore when he left med school. That got him really angry. His eyes bulged behind his jammies and his face got all red. I said I was sorry before he died of a coronary, that it just slipped out, that I was under a lot of stress and was sure he understood, blablabla, and that I'd missed him like crazy and needed a hug. I stood there with my arms out and my best lost-little-boy face and waited. That really threw him. He looked a little flustered for a moment, then gave me a hug. While he was patting me on the back like a faithful old Labrador, I lifted his Mount Blanc from his inside jacket pocket. Lightweight. Bails the moment things get tough. I wonder what the GMC will have to say about that when I write him up with his own pen? Unfortunately, I can't really do anything until I get access to the Internet.

So... the Colonel confined us to our ward and now we've got a bunch of squaddies in green cabbage kit, masks and soggy boots messing up our floors and pulling debiloide faces at us through the windows. The Union Jack tattooed gorilla that locked us in said "owdo" and asked why there "wuznt no wimmin round 'ere". I told him it was because we'd done 'em all in. He looked aghast. I think he really believed me. Then he asked if it was true that we were all "barmpots". I said no, as far as I was aware, the barmpots were all kept on the other side of the door. We just suffered from impulse control and antisocial personality disorders. He asked if that "like", meant we were, "like", eek eek eek (while pretending to stab someone in a shower with a large kitchen knife). I said no, we were in fact as normal as he and his buddies, except that we didn't come in boxes with crew cuts, facial scars and no genitals. He glared at me for a long time as his brain joined the dots. I swear his eyes actually glazed over as he thought about it. I could see the little cartoons reflected in his retinas as he watched a black and white slo-mo movie of his decision tree accompanied by occasional Lanky grunts. He suspected I'd made some kind of derogatory remark, but couldn't quite see it, and was deciding whether he should punch me in the face or not. I smiled at him while I waited for his neurones to cool down. He mumbled something about me p'raps not being so rude when he was all that stood between me and the Angel Dusters. Mad as a hatter. Shame Dick was unavailable. They'd've got on like a house on fire. Haven't seen him again, not since he locked us in. Some other little prick's on the door now pulling monkey faces (at least, I think he's pulling faces. I wouldn't be at all surprised if that was just how he looks) as I write this with my new pen.

Now only My Bad and Hulk are allowed in with chow and pills. They've taken, or been ordered, to use the masks again and don't appear to know any more than we do. Either that or they're not letting on.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining. The food's been good. Bangers 'n' mash for lunch and microwave lasagna for tea. No C-rations. Doc's full of shit.

I can hear a hum that wasn't there before. I thought I was going mad at first, until Dick said he could hear it to. It's the Army's generators, he says. He'd know. Poor thing's hysterical again (or was, until he started popping Thorzine like they were smarties) spouting off how The End of the World is Nigh and the usual paranoid rubbish.

Snow came again, bringing with it a wave of nostalgia. Another couple of feet. The drift's'll reach my window soon. Took me back to my childhood. It looks so soft and fluffy I feel like running outside and making a snowman. Then poking its eyes out and cutting its head off. Old habits die hard.