Friday 12:50 - Barry


    As he rode his bicycle along the street, his middle age man bun bobbing at the back of his head, Barry Jenkins thought about ways of committing suicide. Maybe he could deliberately swerve and drive right in font of one of the lorries that occasionally thundered past? No, he decided, not that. That could cause an accident and he wouldn''t want to get anyone else hurt.


    If this was America, he could shoot himself. Or get himself shot. But this was England and he''d never even seen a gun, let alone held one. Slash his wrists? No way, just the idea made him wince, he knew he''d never be able to go through with it. Overdose of painkillers? Reliable but slow, painful and stupid. Hang himself? Hah! The rope would probably snap under his weight.


    It wasn''t that Barry actually wanted to die; he just didn''t particularly want to live. What was the point? He was useless and unwanted, someone else - anyone else - could make better use of the oxygen he was breathing.


    He wondered again what had brought him to this. Was it bad luck, bad choices or just a faulty personality? He wasn''t sure, but some combination of the three had led to him becoming a sad, overweight, middle-aged man with nothing to live for.


    Barry had never found it easy to make friends. His few relationships had ended badly, leaving him feeling even more isolated and unwanted than before. So he''d thrown himself into his work as a substitute. He was damn good at what he did. His job became his life, or at least the closest to a life that he had. Instead of going out for a drink with friends, he had been happy working late and eating pizza in the office with colleagues.


    But he no longer had any colleagues. The company that had practically been his home for the last ten years had gone bust a few months ago, leaving him jobless and adrift. With his routine broken and no office to go to every day, boredom and futility had swept over him.


    He''d tried to fight back, had kept sending out job applications. There had been numerous interviews but, like the one from which he was now returning, all had been unsuccessful. Nobody actually said the words, but it was obvious from their faces what was wrong: he was too old. They all wanted younger people with more ambition, more energy and slimmer waists.


    What a messed up world it was where having years of relevant experience actually counted against you.


    Zombies didn''t exist... so what was that he could see?


    Well, this nonsense had gone far enough. It was about time someone with a bit of maturity stepped in and sorted things out.


    Barry pulled in to the kerb and dismounted from his bicycle. He began walking towards the figure. The ''zombie'' seemed to embody the frustrations of the day, of his entire recent past.


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    The teenage boy walked right up to the shambler and raised his hand to give him a high five. As he did so, the man''s arm whipped up and he grabbed at the boy''s wrist. The man pulled on the boy''s wrist and his head was dragged forwards and thrust into the waiting jaws. The teeth bore down on his flesh.


    It had only taken a few seconds. Barry stood still and blinked, trying to process what he had seen. Was this part of the act? It had seemed so real. In fact... he tried to resist the conclusion but knew it was true. It had been real.


    It was impossible, but it was real.


    As Barry was thinking this, the second teenager called out "Karl!" and tried to pull her dead friend away from the zombie''s clutches. But it simply lashed out and grabbed her with its other arm. The girl struggled, trying unsuccessfully to break its grip. She kicked it with her heels and scratched its face, but it took no notice.


    A switch in Barry''s brain clicked – or maybe a circuit overloaded – and his eyes shone with excitement. He charged towards the zombie.


    It took him a few seconds to cover the distance. Just long enough for him to realise that he didn''t have a weapon. And also to realise that he didn''t care. Closing with the zombie, he simply punched it in the head.


    And again.


    He only stopped when he felt something give beneath his heel. The zombie twitched, and he thought it was finished. But then it began to rise again.


    Before it had a chance to get to its feet, Barry jumped. He only rose a few inches into the air, but it was enough. He brought his whole, considerable weight down on the zombie''s skull. This time there was a definite and very satisfying crunching sound.


    He stepped back and watched the body carefully, but there was no sign of movement. It was dead, or whatever the equivalent of dead was for a zombie.


    There was nothing he could do to help the creature''s victim. The poor boy would probably become a zombie too, but until he did Barry had no quarrel with him. So he just turned to go.


    One of the onlookers gave him a thumbs up and called out: "Well done, mate. You''re a real hero."


    A hero! Him!


    Yes, that was it. It all made sense now. Everything had been leading up to this moment.


    He was a hero, he just hadn''t realised it. His sad, dull life had been a secret identity he''d been living in as if it was a cocoon. Now his metamorphosis was complete and he was emerging as the hero that fate had always intended him to become. Barry Jenkins had just died, reborn to protect the people of Marrenforth from zombies, supervillains or other threats.


    Barry saluted the small crowd. "Thank you, citizens. Now hurry home to your loved ones and stay safe. Captain Marrenforth will defeat the zombie threat and make the streets safe once again."


    He turned and walked back to his bicycle. He hopped on to it and began cycling home.


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