Blackpool, despite its new cultural lease of life, was struggling vainly against a tide of unemployment, disease and chemical stimulants. Cameron had spliced his brain stem with that of his deceased idol Thatcher and had assumed more of her qualities as time progressed. Eventually his warped mind regarded Blackpool as his nemesis, his Liverpool and he consigned the town to rot, hoping that it would implode upon itself assisted by his infernal and heavily opposed fracking plans.
When the re-animation virus seeped out of the destabilised caves being used as labs into the water supply of the Mazzei Cafe and the first blood thirsty transformations began to appear, the government reaction was to isolate the Fylde coast immediately under cover of darkness, laying a barrier of explosives and military blockades to ensure the divide remained in tact from Fleetwood to Lytham, even leaving their own behind at the barracks in Weeton. In Cameron’s eyes, this was a win. Being given cause to destroy the town he hated so much in the name of protecting the nation was more than he could have asked for. But, in his ivory tower, Cameron had made the fatal mistake of underestimating the Sandgrownuns.
Years of defending their town, homes and businesses against the hoards of tourist drunkards hyped up on pills had Blackpudlians well prepared. As the oncoming wave of bleeding, stumbling zombies tripped out into the streets of the Town Centre, instead of running in terror, revelers made their way back into the bars, emerging with bottles of vodka, sambuca and tequila, rags shoved in the neck. Those too drunk to aim ran between the firing squad, lighting the make shift incendiaries as fast as they appeared. It was the fire that tore through much of the town, the Houndshill catching first and then the embers floating on the gentle breeze allowed the fire to spread outwards.
Buildings collapsed across the town center. Blood dripped down the unrecognisable signage outside Viva Showbar, a feathered headdress disguising the macabre remnant of a human skull adorning the entrance way. The Council Buildings were totally destroyed in the blaze, although due to the lack of enemy activity in that area, its burning always seemed suspicious.
Significantly, those who had mobilised and grouped together to develop strongholds had been those who had been fighting to save Blackpool's culture for so long. Cafe No 5, The Rock Factory, The Blue Room and a number of other buildings had been the first place these groups had ran to - and in some cases, skated to, common ground uniting them. These sites were advertised as safe havens by the large boarded pieces of art and photography placed to fortify windows, held firm by the mountains of books that had been rescued from the local libraries. Knitted flags were strung from high windows and guitars hung pointing towards concealed entrances. People regrouped and took refuge. Small communities that embraced the humanity in art developed strong bonds as they appreciated the juxtaposition with the in-humanitarian atrocities scraping at the front doors.
Art, language and music would be the glue that helped people survive the craziness in Blackpool. As well as the plan to take a few of the captured zombies currently imprisoned in Rev's, load them into one of the grounded planes in Blackpool airport and then air drop zombies into Westminster to take out key political figures. Revenge. That always keeps people together.
Thanks for reading,
L :-)
