Flesh and Chips

Flesh and Chips
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 370

“You know, I don’t much care how much education you have or how many advanced degrees. Despite all that you are dumber than a doornail and everyone can see that easily,” Matt said.

The pale and gaunt face stared up at Henry through the thick steel grate in the concrete floor of the basement in his parent’s shop.

“Uuurghh.”

“Not so smart now, are you. Who’s the top of the food chain now, hey? Harvard degree and living in my cellar.”

Matt spat a mammoth, sickly green stream of phlegm at the grill and coughed violently. He wiped his mouth with a dirty handkerchief and grimaced as he saw black speckles of blood.

“Well I’m smarter than you, mate. No way I’m going to end up as a bloody zombie like you. I’ve got more smarts.”

He coughed again and spat the bloody phlegm at Henry, who reacted as though an appetiser had been served up.

“Uuurgh,” he moaned even louder.

Matt walked to the small window in the top of the wall, there were still hundreds of them outside. He picked up his father’s shotgun and stumbled back towards the grate. Matt did not even know about the sewer running under his parent’s fish and chip shop until he barricaded himself down there when the virus broke out.

“So how did you know this drain ran under my oldies shop?”

“Uuurgh.”

Matt coughed again, slipped on a big wad of phlegm, and dropped the shotgun. It fired, catching him in the leg and ripping a huge hole through his flesh. He fell to the ground, grasping at his bloody leg and writhing in pain.

“Argh!” he yelled.

“Uurrggh,” came the reply from the grate.

Henry grabbed the bloodied foot through the grate, pulling it towards his gnashing teeth. Matt screamed as his leg ripped free just below his knee. He passed out.
Henry reached through the grate again, blindly grabbing until he latched onto Matt’s jeans. He pulled his friend’s body closer, until it was directly over the grate and began feasting on his friend’s flesh.

THE END