Jonathan Heath

The Genius

Martin trundled the old Transit van through the township. There was a rattle above him as the boots of some poor decrepit corpses hung across the street, bounced along the roof of the cabin. He stuck his head out of the window and caught sight of the familiar crest of the Luddi People’s Republic. Martin tutted loudly, and shaking his head pontificated to no-one, “Well, that’s what you get…seceding from the web. What a bunch of cunts.” He spat a great globule of oily spittle out of the window, hacking afterwards, the remnants of the ant mother burrito still churning around his mouth since lunch, soaking into his beard. He wiped his face, rubbing his hand on the leather tactical waistcoat.