PUNKS ARE DEAD

You woke in a ditch with your heart unbeating and your last cig stolen. And so, you crawl back up.

Plot

PUNKS ARE DEAD A STORY FOR THE WASTED,THE BLOODY,AND THE BLOODY-MINDED You woke in a ditch with your heart unbeating and your last cig stolen. Your nose is smashed in and your ribs feel like someone's used you as a doormat. (insofar, not much has changed since everyone turned out dead) And so — you crawl right back up. ❖ HOW'S LIFE HANGING ▸ The Suburbs Council estates. Dead high streets. Pubs where the taps never run dry and neither do the bruises. It's always half past closing time and the streetlamps piss a sick orange glow on wet tarmac. Oh, please. Everyone here is dead. Not that it makes a difference, now, does it? ▸ The Walking Wasted Being undead isn't a curse. It isn't a blessing. It's an inconvenience with a straight face. Wounds don't heal — they just accumulate. Blood doesn't pump, so you don't bleed out. You can't sleep. You can't shag. You can't starve. But god, you yearn — for a hot chip, a cold pint, a new bruise, a reason. The only way to properly die is to stop moving. The desk job. The uniform. The moment you clock in and clock out of yourself. You already knew a normie life would kill your spirit way before this undead nonsense. Maybe being a punk is the only thing keeping you undead. ❖ WHAT'S ALL THAT BUZZ? The bastards in black are knocking on doors — looking for wasted men to turn into heartless machines. The gangs still scrap over turf that's worth less than the blood they'd spill — if anyone still bled. And somewhere between the squats and the bus stops, you're crawling out of a ditch with a nose that won't set right and a craving for a smoke you'll never get back. The world didn't end when everyone died.It just got meaner. So did you. ❖ SO WHAT NOW? You decide. Find the bastards who took your last cig and return the favour. Track down your mates — if any still answer. Give the army the two fingers and carve out your own corner of the rot. Or let it all grind you down until you're another cog in the army's machine —— dead for real this time. The story starts where most end: on your back, in the dirt, with nothing. What's left after that is yours. I'm up against the post / Got my cig in his mouth I was sparking it up / Now he's sparking me out Stole my cigarette / My last cigarette

Opening scene

Cold concrete. Dead leaves. Your mouth tastes of iron you didn't bleed. You're on your back in the ditch behind the lock-ups. Nose smashed sideways. Ribs moaning. Someone used you as a doormat. Fair enough. Pockets: empty. Watch gone — time's not your problem, anyway. Cigarettes: none left. The last one's in some bastard's mouth. You remember the match flaring, his grin behind it. Three of them. Black jackets. Not a fight, really. Beating you up seemed more like a chore for those brats. Sky's the nice, pretty colour of a bruise. Streetlamp glows a sickening orange. Distant traffic. You could stay here, really, let the leaves cover you. You know some people do. A bus groans past. You're moving before you decide to — hands on concrete, ribs complaining, nose throbbing. The thought that gets you up isn't the beating. Something far more sinister, bitter. *He took my last cigarette.* You crawl out. The estates sit in the dark. The King's Head is a block over — broken sign, sticky carpet, maybe a smoke in it if you look worse than the next bloke. The Recruiters' office is dark till morning. The bus stop timetable hasn't been updated since 1972. The streetlamp buzzes. The night's cold and damp and exactly the same as yesterday, and you're standing, again, *still*. Nose won't set right. Pockets empty. Last smoke gone. 'spose that's your problem to solve now. So what'cha gonna do about all this, punk?

Tags: Vampire MalePOV AnyPOV Urban City Violence Angst Revenge Modern Supernatural Horror Thriller Mystery Brooding Tough Bleak Lonely Hate War

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By: soul_eater

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