Morning of the commuting dead

On the day: 
30/05/2012


On the way:
The woman in the box: "We regret to announce..."

The platform populace: "Sigh."

The woman in the box (uncaring): "...that the next train will be non-stopping at this station..."

The platform populace: "Yeah, yeah."

The woman in the box (unperturbed): "...due to a zombie outbreak at Otford..."

The platform populace: "Hey, hey. Wait a minute..."

The woman in the box (unabated): "We ask that for your own safety..."

The platform populace: "No, wait. Due to a what the...!?"

The woman in the box (unrelenting): "...you stand behind the yellow line."

The stocky man in a charcoal suit and an almost pink tie steps back, habitually, rather than as a result of a carefully reasoned, rational decision based on a recognition that standing behind a grimy stripe of yellow paint on the platform will protect him against an attack by a trainload of slavering Kentish walking dead (or walking dead of Kent, depending on which side of the River Medway they were infected).

The train emerges from beneath the rust and gunmetal grey motley of the railway bridge to the south, and slows to standard non-stopping speed as it approaches the platform. But today its inhabitants are not the familiar study in indifference, gazing out vacantly, avoiding eye contact with the platform-bound plebs, or intent on their iPhones. They're up against the windows, skin sloughing off ravaged faces; staring eyeballs lolling out, no longer supported in their sockets; moans of wordless hunger escaping decaying mouths, slack-jawed that leave no mist on the glass; decomposing fists banging on the invisible barrier, uncomprehending, leaving gobbets of leprous flesh to slide down; crumbling bone protruding from open wounds. 

Maybe I'll take the bus.  


On the pod: 

Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine - The Killers 


On the front page: 

Cameron ex-aide Coulson held for perjury (Evening Standard)