God Damn Bloody Goblins

This is the second book that I'm writing. It's a comedy horror adventure. It's not high-brow, just fun. Please tear it apart or tell me what's good.

God Damn Bloody Goblins

George was dreading coming back to Cambridge for the new term. The last time he was here, he had made an epic drunken fool out of himself at the College Christmas dinner...ruining any chance he had with Carla. And boy did Cuthbert and his bloody friends like to rub it in George’s face. Harry's sniggering hadn't exactly been the comfort he was looking for either. And then there was the blasted youtube video..the naked youtube video.. #mylifeisover.

Miserable despite the glorious, unseasonably warm day, George ignores the blather of the taxi driver as it takes him to College. He passes a full military parade just outside King's..is the Duke in town? BANG! Screams everywhere. What had that stupid taxi driver hit? A cyclist? Crumbs. It was and all. Cripes. A girl as well. Staggering out the car, George watches the taxi driver rush over to help the poor girl out of the mangled bike. George slips..oh God, oh GOD it's going to be her blood isn’t it? But hang on... George stares at his fingers...why is it green?

Bewildered, George looks back at the taxi driver helping the girl back onto her feet. But it isn't a girl. It's a goblin. George had seen them in Lord of the Rings. And she's taking a bite of revenge right out of the taxi driver's neck.

Bloody hell. There are God damn bloody goblins in Cambridge!

An experiment at Cambridge's Addenbroke's Hospital has gone horribly wrong. Unbelievable as it may seem, goblins are real. They're hungry for human flesh. And they're spreading. Fast. Turning anyone that they bite into fellow green gnashers, it's up to George find a way out of this mess before the whole town is overwhelmed.

Thankfully George succeeds in doing this but, oh no, it isn't that simple now is it? Yes he may have rescued his friends, that girl, the professor and her blue-haired PhD student responsible, but that just isn't bloody enough is it? Not when the military tells you that they’re going to napalm the whole city until there are no more blasted goblins left. Even WW2 bombers didn't raze Cambridge to the ground. Of course, the Professor says that she knows it's only one Queen goblin, breeding away, whose mind controls them all. Getting rid of her and there's no need for napalm. But, true to the stiff upper lip, the military isn't taking any chances on this one. Someone has to try though, or it’s the end of Cambridge forever. George didn't just become the local and college hero (self-nominated) for nothing �" he should be able to dine out on this for life! Or, er, die horribly. Anything is possible.

1

George puffed out the sorry air from his lungs against the window. The condensation draped around his fingers as he drew a smiley, blurring through the slowing rush of the trees. The announcer called out that they were soon arriving in Cambridge. George's ear heard it but he didn't react. All he could do was stare at the simple face as hung there, mocking him. Much like everybody had at the end of last term.

Why had he done it? It had been well over a month since that fateful day, well that fateful damn blasted formal anyway. Oh sure, it seemed like a good idea at the time �" at least to any fresher coming to the end of their first term. And she'd been there too, cheering him on. With that kind of inspiration, George had felt it run between his legs, there wasn't really any other option. Well was there?

Besides beer-pong was such a fun game; they always had a few rounds in the JCR before heading out into town. For those whose first time it was playing drinking games, Beer-pong was a gentle beast to break your virginity with. Named after some ancient computer game, all you had to do on a mock (George had never, ever seen someone violate a real one) half of a table-tennis table, marked out with nothing more than a few cups and spillages, was bounce your ball, just the one bounce mind, into the cup and your opponent would have to down the beer within. So easy, so much fun, and it even got the girls interested and talking to them �" something George was very keen on given his woeful shyness with the opposite gender. Oh sure, he'd had a few kisses (and maybe more, but that was between him and the Big Man upstairs) and the like but they still made no bloody sense to him. His dad warned him they never would.

Beer pong. It couldn't go wrong, it just couldn't. But when you had friends like Harry Rumpole, anything could. Harry was brighter than George, studying medicine (George was doing Engineering), liked a laugh and was more of the stereotype hooray henry than George could believe. Obviously class didn't matter to George but, given where he was studying, you couldn't avoid it. That didn't stop George and Harry bonding over freshers' week with too many shots, too many blurred japes (a stupid word but it seemed to fit the Harry Potteresque world around him) and more money burned than George had ever dreamed on those first weeks partying at University.

Harry, however, was the nefarious type who liked to make things interesting. George had learnt (at least he thought he had, after the fire extinguisher assault mission on the MCR almost got him sent packing out of College for good) that Harry's interesting should be wrapped in a giant neon health warning sign that could beat you into the ground until you agreed never, ever, to go along with a Harry Rumpole plan to make things interesting. Oh George, he reminded himself, you did go along with it didn't you? No one else would have been that dumb but oh no, you just had to step up. Ok, yes after a few beers any one is open to a few more risqué ideas. But playing beer pong with Absinthe? Even the meat-head local drunks who staggered back from The Regal would sooner lick their best friend's scrotum than dabble in such flagrant idiocy. Nonetheless you thought it was a brilliant idea, didn't you numbnuts? George scolded himself once more. And you can't blame her, this was your decision.

Hmm. George always paused in his brain (and in physical motion if she was in sight) at the thought of her. Her being Carla Guld. Stunning. There simply no other word that George's mind could think of to describe Carla. Already fully, gorgeously formed (his awareness of such attributes having become heightened the last few years), the French lawyer-to-be had ensnared George's attention without so much as a whimper of internal debate from him. As if anyone would debate about or with Carla. A brunette with legs forged on some farmland-cum-polo field, George had to drag his jaw from the floor when she introduced herself to him on his first day.

And that voice! The way her lips curled soft yet thick, voluminous accents around the English words, striking them down with a confident steel and sharpness with her sour tongue just...well it reduced George into a shambolic embarrassment of evolutionary desire. If Harry hadn't broken the silence by 'accidentally' falling backwards into George, nearly forcing him to head-butt the Princess of France were it not for her deft and polite slide backwards out of harm’s way, George was certain he would have had to abandon Cambridge run back home, lamenting his ineptitude as a man, or even a human being, for ever more.

Carla had laughed as Harry made his typical brash apologies �" clearly revelling in catching his new friend's lust in action. It was that goading laugh, and similar smile of joy from Carla that had forced �" ok, encouraged �" George to throw his ball at the half pint of absinthe..and miss. After the boos and laughter had sunk away from the beer-pong arena, George felt the ice-cold shudder of certain facts fast creeping up his Dutch courage-laced spine. Harry was brilliant at beer-pong. Harry loves to beat you. Harry is going to sink his ball into the cup with all the skill of Olympic gold-medal winning diver. And he bloody did and all.

As a grinning Harry picked the ball-now-buoy out the cup, the crowd began their baying for blood, demanding George down the dreaded concoction. George, some sense of self-preservation somehow managing to fight its way to the fore of his mind, contemplated chickening out. Harry was waving the cup under his nose; the stench was horrendous, George was quite prepared to tell him where he could stick it, until George caught the eye of Carla behind Harry's head. She was loving this. Foolishly, George, in only a way every man of certain age (if not every age) convinces himself that every girl must and does fancy him somehow �" even if they don't know it yet �" came to the brilliant conclusion that now was the time to show how much a man he really was. Seizing the cup out of Harry's hand as if it were King Arthur's sword, to the cheer of the theatre, a thumbs up from a grinning Harry, and the clapping of Carla, George nodded a valiant salute and necked the whole green lava back in one go; a whole half-pint of the stuff.

What happened next George will never, ever (it's probably for the best really) remember. Although he woke up in his own vomit (very stupid) in his own bed, the scratches on his face had terrified him. Panicking when he phoned Harry, George was relieved to hear Harry's country laugh bellowing back at him in stitches. Well, relieved until Harry started to telling him what happened: passing out on the floor �" physical ouch; recovering and celebrating his liquid triumph by stripping down to his boxers and dancing to 'Let's Dance' by David Bowie on the Beer-pong table �" slight social ouch; declaring his undying, unyielding love for Carla, and asking her to marry him with a hula hoop crisp ring �" romantic suicide ouch. But to then run back into the dinner hall, where pretty much the rest of the College, fellows, and assorted guests, declare the whole thing an upper class, elitist pig-fest �" College and academic life massacre ouch. And, to top it off, seizing the Dean's chocolate torte from under his nose and launching it at the painting of Henry VIII �" thankfully his aim was so drunkenly bad it shanked off and caught a rugby player instead �" with a shrill wail of contempt �" University life is over ouch.

Back in the day, such antics might have gone down as a legend, each aspect dismissed as a Chinese whisper; but not in the social media bloody age, oh no. For that absolute snake Cuthbert, George knew the ginger b*****d had had his eye on Carla since freshers' week too, had filmed the whole bloody theatre: right from pong to pud-launching. And, being that special, charitable soul at Christmas, he'd uploaded it to Youtube and splashed it all over Facebook and Twitter. Absolute, permanent social pariah ouch. Although the unique views (like a masochistic voyeur, George couldn't help but check each day at home) had flattened out at just over a 100,000 �" 100,000!! - George knew it, no he, was going to be a running joke for the rest his time at Cambridge. He full-well knew all his supervisors and tutors had seen it. The snigger was clear in each pupil that shone its schaudenfraude at him. And the girls? George had contemplated donating his manhood to medicine �" at least they might get something out of it.

And that was all before his bloody sister had shown it to his parents. Thank you Lucy, I hope you rot in a hell covered in tiny jagged needles. George could still feel their deafening silence now. Sigh.

George rubbed out the fading smiley on the window with his hand, sinking back into the cheap seat. A final prayer that the seat might swallow him whole before he hit Cambridge went duly, as ever, unanswered as the train ground to a halt. Imagining the whole train, town, hell, even the bloody bikes were ready to laugh at him, George dragged his sombre frame and bags out from his wallowing tomb and followed the procession onto the platform.

Cor, it's a bit warm isn't it? George was surprised, even the sun was out for once; hmm, maybe today might not be as apocalyptic as he thought.

“Hey! That's naked rambler! I saw him online” called out ginger boy with an accusative point in George's direction as the crowd followed its cattle-like exit from the platform. The ginger's friends laughed as they saw the dread unravel on George's face. The social apocalypse is back on. Ruffling his hair and hiding under his elbow, George barged his way through the crowd before anyone else spotted him, forcing his own Roman road forward to the sanctuary of the taxi ranks. Grabbing the first door he could, George threw in his bags and jumped into the safety and seclusion it offered.

“Where too mate?” called back the white-haired cabbie.

“Green Street please” George replied, wincing at the cost he knew he was being mugged off on. But it was either that or dare the gauntlet walk into town where any one might see him. He knew he was going to have to face the taunts eventually, but every second of delay seemed like bliss.

“Right you are” replied the cabbie, jolting the car into motion as he fine-tuned the sports station coverage. At least that would save me any small prayed George as he hunkered down into the seat and his coat, warily looking out for any familiar faces.

“Scorcher isn't mate?” said the cabbie back to George as they rounded the traffic lights and onto the main street into town. George only offered a grunt in acknowledgement, hoping that his lack of oratory would stop the cabbie in his socialising small-talk tracks. It never did. “Haven't seen a day like this in years I tell you, not in January anyway” the cabbie continued, clearly used to conducting a monologue. George tried to zone out, keeping the nods going as he twisted inside, feeling the tension welling up inside him with each tyre turn towards Trinity.

Carla. It was the only thought that was stuck in his mind; her whole face on a giant tapestry laughing down at him. Harry had tried to convince him she hadn't seen anything too bad, but George didn't believe him. Like a coward �" or an arse �" he ignored her call the day after the formal from hell. And it wasn't like he had been on Facebook. George hadn't dared to look at it since he had fled on the first train he knew he wouldn't vomit on. In some ways George had convinced himself it was quite liberating to be without it. But now he knew, drawing ever closer to the town centre, all George had done was jam a frail cork in the yawning crack on his dam of dire dread. In truth, it was only Harry's goading last night that had prevented a breakdown. Usefully, Harry had compared George's situation to that of a broken condom: you're better off dealing with the consequences now than pray on the maybe-never went the Rumpole’s logic. That still didn't make it feel any better, chided George inside, glancing over at the happy faces entering Homerton, and then Downing as they came ever closer to George's social damnation. The jolt of the taxi as it suddenly stopped to a blare of horns almost sent George onto the floor.

“Watch where you flaming going you stupid damn student!” yelled the cabbie out of his window at the cyclist who clipped aimlessly in front of him. The cyclist replied with the solitary salute before riding off.

“Students I tell you, they just don't have a flaming clue mate” said the cabbie gruffly. “And they're supposed to so flaming smart? Couldn't piss without someone to hold it for them” the cabbie added with a snickering laugh, until he recognised that his fare wasn't the non-student he had apparently assumed. George let the awkward moment die in silence rather than reply. This should buy me some quiet George thought, taking the sole crumb of good news in his life for what it was. The cabbie sniffed as the traffic lights changed, the taxi bouncing merrily on the cobbles as it went.

With a sigh, George resumed his scouting out the window and back into his self-flagellation torment over Carla. Would she never speak to me again? The thought terrified him. As the taxi rolled around the back end of Market Square, George’s eyes were drawn to large group of soldiers marching proudly down the street in the blazing sun, medals gleaming on their full dress uniforms. Around them, TV crews and vans were busily and noisily following them around. Was the Duke and Duchess in town with their baby? George had only seen this sort of activity the last time they visited. He had cursed at how annoying it was to battle through the throng of tourists and well-wishers as he forced his way to Fitzbillies to get Carla and himself some Chelsea buns on a study break. George felt the cheap leather seat crumple under his clenched fist. Why did those moments have to end? George knew he was being a drip but he just couldn't help it, even studying beside the girl was enough for him. #soppydrippyloser.

Winding their way alongside Pembroke, they swung round the corner past Fitzbillies �" the taste of their Chelsea buns, and Carla's lips covered in their syrup flickering an ember of warmth in George's heart �" only to end up at the back-end of a jam outside King's.

“Blast! This could go on for ages” cursed the cabbie. And I bet you would love to keep the meter running if it does, George cursed silently. It had to be the royals or some big film-crew at King's. But on the main day students came back? Which dolt planned this? As the taxi slowly crept forward, George tried to see past the busying crowd of tourists and returning students, parents in tow with their luggage, but he couldn't make out anything. “Sorry mate, I thought this would be a short-cut round the flaming herd” called back the cabbie, before blaring his horn again at the car in front of him. It must have taken them at least ten minutes to draw level with the main entrance into King's. I could have had a half at The Eagle and jumped back in smirked George without humour.

“Come on, shift it!” cursed the cabbie, banging his horn again at what was a tiny green Renault in front. “Worse day to drive I tell you mate” the cabbie added scornfully. Not for your fares though. “Ah, it's clearing up” the cabbie added right before George was about to demand to get out. George could see the traffic disappear in front of him �" apart from the stationary Renault who seemed oblivious. “Move it you idiot!” The cabbie yelled, leaning out the window as he thunked the horn at the impassive Renault. Answering horns behind George's cabbie venting their own frustration. “Oh sod it” spat the cabbie irritably, swerving out from behind the Renault and charging forward with a screech of the tyres.

Bang! For the second time in less than twenty minutes George went flying forward against the dividing glass. But this was different. The actual sound of a genuine impact this time held its own horror in his ears. “Oh God!” cried out the cabbie against the yells and cries from bystanders. George heard the cabbie scramble out of the taxi as fast as he could. Bloody hell. George knew he would have at least a fat bruise on his head as he began pulled himself upright. What had the fool hit? It had to be student! A flash of Carla's face bleeding on the cobbles outside jolted George out of his impassive daze, forcing him out the car in fright at what might be greeting him. Instead of emerging ready for heroics, George immediately slipped over as stepped out of the taxi, losing the wind within him as he hit the stones below. Oh God! It had to be the victim's blood. George could feel the warmth in his left fingers as he grimaced on the floor. He didn't dare look as he pulled himself, groaning as he did, up onto his elbows.

Christ, it was a cyclist and all! George could just about see the mangled bike and body strewn on the floor past the on-rushing cabbie. With a horrified clench in his stomach George saw the flower entwined basket on the bike and the shoes, heels, beneath the shawl �" it was a girl. George was frozen; the rumbling gasps and calls of bystanders gathering around the scene of the crime escaping him. It �" she couldn't be Carla, it just couldn't. The darkness of his own selfish thoughts didn't matter to George at the moment.

“Miss! Miss! Christ, someone call an ambulance! Are you ok?” blurted the cabbie in fear as he rushed down beside the fallen girl. George's body, resuming some sort of practical authority, got the better of him, forcing his eyes to look at his fingers. What? Green? Was it paint? Oh thank God George thought, relieved it wasn't blood. But hang on, why was it warm?

George’s riddle was solved as the cabbie turned the fallen girl around from the floor. It was an answer that he never could have expected. There, instead of the bruised and bloodied face of a girl was a scowling, scaly green face whose burning, raging orange eyes glared at the cabbie. As the cabbie tried to pull back the apparent mask on the girl, something even more unexpected happened: the mask didn't give way. Instead, the pulling of green skin enraged the scowling green face, whose owner howled in pain. A dazzling array of sharp pointy teeth glared at the cabbie as a snarl like a fox's rang out. What kind of costume is that wondered George. It was superior to anything he had seen in any film before. George didn't need to wonder long as the pointy teeth sunk themselves down into the cabby's hand, biting half his hand off in the process. It wasn't a mask. The cabbie yelled out in horrific, dying pain until the creature took a second, silencing bite out of his neck.

That's when chaos threw off its burqa and bedlam began.

2

To the panicking cries of fear from the onlooking crowd, the creature sank another sickening bite into the cabby's now gurgling, bloodied neck. Holy crap. George fought back the urge to vomit as his heart pounded in his head. Instinctively, George shuffled back as fast as he could, feeling the cold metal of the taxi's open front door scratch against his back.

A large scream to his right drew George’s mortified attention. A plump old lady was waddling out of the Fudge Kitchen shop, trying to beat another gastly green thing off her back. “Arrgh! Get it off me! Help! Help!” She cried. George couldn't take his eyes off the creature's grinning face. Yanking hard on the plump lady's hair, it bit down hard on her neck like a vampire. The plump lady yelled out in pain, tumbling onto the ground with an almighty crash, the fudge box that had been her hands sent the sugary delights flying into the air like perverted confetti.

George couldn't move. He was petrified. As bedlam rang out all around him, he just stared at the Goblin on the back of the plump lady. George knew he should do something but nothing happened. He couldn't even wee himself he was that terrified. The thing, whatever it was, wiped its lips with its hands. Bloody hell, they have claws George noted, transfixed by the sleek, dark green daggers on each of its hairy fingers. The creature smacked its lips, sniffing the warm air with a frown. George noted the remnants of a St' John's scarf around its neck. What was going on? The creature plonked its bum down on the back of the fallen plump lady and shoved a finger in its ear, pulling out what looked like a block of chili fudge, now with added hairs on it. The creature looked puzzled by the sticky adornment to its finger, sniffing it before sticking it into its mouth. Ergh, that's horrible thought George. George watched as the fudge seemed to take hold of the creature’s mouth. Like a dog it began to chew aimlessly, trying to flick the stuck sweet out from the back of its teeth with a reedy blue tongue.

If George had seen this in a film he would have probably been laughing right now. Instead he was locked in a trance of terrified silence. That was until the deceased plump lady twitched on the floor. “Argh!” George yelped in not the manliest way ever uttered on the earth. The creature looked down at the plump lady twitching beneath it, still trying to excavate the fudge from its mouth. Good God she's alive realised George. I need to help her. The very idea, however, gripped George's spine in a suffocating grasp of fright. What was he supposed to do? Not in relief, the decision was made for him. The plump old lady's face pulled itself from the ground…and did not reveal the wrinkly scared face George expected. Instead, what was looking out into the world were a pair of angry orange eyes from hairy layer of green skin. The plump lady had turned into one of them! The now plump creature looked back at the creature on its back with a scowl, swinging its newly clawed hand at it with a snarl. The fudge-chewer evaded the blow with a screetch of annoyance, jumping off the plump one's back.

Oh. Bloody. Hell. George had seen plenty of zombie films; he bloody well knew what had just happened but he couldn't bring himself believe it. But they sure weren't zombies; they were green and scaly like lizards or dinosaurs. Is this a joke? Had he just wandered into some kind of film set and no one had said cut? George didn't have time to think any further: they had spotted him.

Seeing him, the Plump creature growled at George upside down as its scarfed compatriot hissed at George behind its grin. Argh, panicked George. Rolling over onto its belly, the plump lady pulled itself up onto its feet, looking slightly ridiculous in stretched country lady wear. It tore the too-small hat from its head, snarling as the clothes buckled under the hairy green bulk beneath. It was at least six foot tall unlike the more diminutive scarfed one, which scratched its bum, licking its lips as it stared at George hungrily. I’m for pud. George felt the sweat drench his whole body as he reached behind himself for the door handle. The plump greenskin roared, stamping its foot down hard on the lady’s hat it had cast down in front of it. Oh dear God, George thought beneath the din of his pounding heart. Yells and cries swirled freely in the air around him �" was that gunfire? Everything was fast turning into a singular noise of unrelenting chaos and fear. George was trapped in a snowglobe of horror with no way out.

The former plump lady tore off her already badly-stretched floral dress, a hairy green chest of raw power heaving breaths in as it bared its teeth at George. George didn't take his eyes away from the pair as his trembling hand shook against the door; his fingers agonisingly slowly searching for the handle. Damnit George, he cursed himself under the ravenous heat of his sweat. The St John’s scarfed greenskin twitched forward a few steps, carefully sizing George up with a violent glaze in its eyes. Yes! George had freed the door from the lock. The opening noise made the scarfed greenskin pause, scowling suspiciously at him. The large one, still with the lady's bra on, watched George with heavy, narrow frown. George didn't waste a millisecond more, swinging the door wide open past his aching shoulder. This enraged the greenskins, who roared and shrieked angrily, charging forward at him. George threw himself into the cab. He turned to slam the door shut. As George pounced on the handle the scarfed greenskin rapped its claws around the door with a snarl. Terrified, George wrestled over the door before swinging his legs around and booting the scarfed greenskin in the face. The door slammed shut as the scarfed greenskin fell back on the cobbles with a howl of annoyance. George didn't have second to celebrate as the plump greenskin slammed its hands on the closed door with rage, shaking the whole taxi as the blow painfully knocked George back against the gear-stick. George knew the already cracked glass on door and windscreen would not hold out for long against the strength of the giant creature. He was trapped.

Crash. The first pound on the windscreen bent the glass in towards George. George desperately forced himself into the back seat as another heavy blow forced the shattered windscreen into the taxi. George didn't know what to do. With another roar the giant greenskin tried to grab George, instead ripping off the head rest of the driver's seat. George frantically searched all around him for a weapon, anything, come on! But only the seatbelts stared back at him. George cried out in fright as the snarling scarfed greenskin crawled into the front seats. This was not supposed to be the way I would die George thought, certain his brief life was fast coming to an end. Bang! Another splintering blow delivered by the plump greenskin against the passenger window beside George's head made George cry out for help in vain. George only just ducked the clawing grasp of the scarfed greenskin as he flung himself against the door on the other side of the cab. George yelled as the window in front of him smashed open. The scarfed greenskin reached around the seat, trying to claw at his head. Almost instinctively, George snatched at the St' John's scarf and yanked it as hard as he could, smacking the greenskin's face against the head-rest. The creature howled in pain. George didn't wait for it to recover as he threw open the door beside him and ran, ran as fast as he had ever could away from the taxi, the giant greenskin's roar all-consuming in his ears.

3

George couldn't recognise where he was in all the blur. And the faces. All around him students and people were fighting, fleeing, crying or dying. The greenskins were everywhere. George glimpsed to his left as he ran and saw the King's courtyard swarming with people, all running from the oncoming green tide. In that split second George still managed to see a brave porter punch one creature in the face. But George was certain that the edge of glance had seen the poor man's arm had just disappeared into the sharp jaws of hairy Greenskin. The cobbles disappeared quickly beneath his feet in a blur. George's ears were deaf to the pleas and cries of help; the moans and cries of pain and snarls of the beasts George just tried to blot out.

As George reached the corner leading to Clare College, he was about to run towards it or through the side way King's chapel, hoping whatever sanctuary they might offer could save him. One look was all he needed to turn him away. They were feasting on the people. George watched a poor boy's head ripped clean from his body by a grinning, Clare scarfed creature. Another began squabbling with it, tearing off the boy's ears as it pulled at the savaged head. George felt his stomach tighten, appalled. A cold chill had broken throughout his body. He didn't know what to do. Where now? Startled with fright, George turned away from the corner of carnage to run the other way towards Trinity, only for a bike and it's rider to skid into a dead, jarring halt right in front of him. George hadn't realised but his hands had grabbed the bike's handlebars to stop it in its tracks.

“Oh God you've got to help me!” George cried out to the sagging driver. The black long hair flicked up to reveal not the warm, terrified face of a girl but the smiling orange eyes burning calmly on the hairy, grass-hue skin beneath. George yelped in fright. It probably saved his life as the horror of the surprise made him throw the bike to one side, sending the less than happy greenskin down onto floor. George was already running again before the greenskin could begin its shriek of displeasure.

George's legs and arms burned, sore from the crash and even sorer from sprint. But he kept running. Every fibre of his being demanded that he ran. Ran to survive. Ran to safety. It did not matter where he went as long as he was alive. And as long he kept running, there was a sliver of hope that he might escape this nightmare for another second. The dash past Trinity’s high walls towards Orgasm Bridge barely registered in his brain. George knew people were dying around him, the greenskins' cries and hoots cutting the human wails of terror and pain lethally short; but George couldn't think about them. George's basic instinct, dormant within his genes, had taken over: keep running boy, keep going or we're both dead it shouted at him. Orgasm bridge past beneath George's burning feet. The din of chaos emanating from Trinity Hall's library beside him spurred George forwards, swerving another cyclist who was fighting for control with a greenskin as an unwelcome stowaway on their back. The scream versus snarl argument behind George ended abruptly as the cyclist crashed and launched himself and his predator into the river with an almighty bang.

George's lungs were scalded with every breath he was pulling down his protesting neck. George knew his body was going to give in soon, basic instinct or not. He had to fight with every draining drop of blood to it force back round for one more go into the engine of his legs. Near-delirious with pain, George felt his legs give way over some leaves, tumbling him down onto the floor to end up sliding against a bin; actually vomiting warm droplets of exhaustion and fear as he went. If a greenskin wanted to kill him now, this was it.

But it wasn't yet. George heaved gulps of air down his arid throat, coughing and spluttering against the bin. Looking up with dazed eyes, George saw that he was just by the traffic-light crossing before the University Library. Somehow he had made it to Queen's Road. Although the cacophony of greenskin carnage torments and victims surrounded him, they were at least out of harm's way for now. Glancing back, George could see the library was on fire. Frozen, he watched someone, probably human, throw themselves into the river out of the main window. 'Oh my God' were the only words that his brain offered back to him. A twinge in his hand pulled George's eyes away from the leap of faith. George saw the scratches and cuts that had dried on his hands. Bloody hell, he was lucky to be alive. The cool, damp mud by the bin seemed to offer a small margin of comfort from the heat of terror, and his mind took it. George's body, however, hadn't stopped trembling. In-between the slowing breaths, George tried to stop force his shaking agony-strewn arms and legs to be still, but they utterly refused. Had that really just happened? Had the end of the world struck? And what the hell were those, those things!? George heard the oncoming sound of a racing car. Instead of diving out, he scrambled his body tight against the bin; hiding all that could. The bike and the cab had scarred him. Even the call of a bird leaving its tree above made his heart jump. George looked up at the bright sky as the noise of the car raced by and disappeared into the distance. It was so bright; anyone flying over on this perfect day would be oblivious to the onslaught below. Didn't that happen in 28 days later? Crikey. This is just like that zombie film. I am in a zombie film. George couldn't believe what his own mind, although armed with confirmatory evidence, was saying to him. And he felt so tired. Drained.

Crack. George woke with a fright. Had he feinted? How long for? It was still gorgeously bright around him. It could only have been moments. You stupid body: you could have killed me. George didn't have time to curse himself again; the solid crunch of another step froze George within the bracken of his thoughts. George's heart pounded as he held his breath. Human or greenskin he didn't want to know. George just wanted it, whoever, whatever, to go away. Crack. Crack. The steps were slow and heavy but definitely moving on the other side of the bin. Above the background noise still coming out from town, there was feint sound of heavy breathing. Crack. George looked around for a weapon but could see nothing. Crack. Closer still. A mad idea dropped into George's mind. Crack. Sigh. They were getting near now. Sweating, George didn't see another choice and slowly folded his arm into the bin. Grimacing in disgust as he felt through sticky objects and other soft, gooey things, his hand moved carefully, trying not to make a sound, until he grabbed onto something substantial. Crack. George looked at his prize: a beer bottle! Right now, it could have a been rocket launcher. Crack. Ok, that was definitely coming out of the shrub behind him. Never a religious man, George crossed himself and looked up at the sky before looking round the corner of the bin.

It was a man. George had only snatched a glance but he felt sure it wasn't a greenskin. But then the doubt crept in. Why was he struggling to walk? He must have been bitten. George swore under his breath and tightened his grip around the bottleneck. Slipping his head around for another glance, George focused on the man's face. The man had definitely been attacked; that was certain. The man, dressed in a black suit and bloodied blue shirt kept falling down but then rising. If this were a zombie attack, George would have understood. Was he in shock? George looked at the man's face carefully but could see no green skin or orange eyes. Moaning, the man turned to look right at George. Balls! He's seen me! George clung tightly to the back of bin once more. The man moaned a call out towards him. George grimaced, tightening his hand on the bottle, almost breaking his only defence. Crack. The man called out once more but louder this time. But there were words!

“Help!” cried the man with a gurgle. He was alive! Panic gave way to hope as George darted around the corner to help. The man staggered towards George but tripped in the grass and fell down heavily. George dropped the bottle as he reached the fallen man, turning him over with a hefty heave. The man's suit stank of dried blood and sweat. The smell of fear and impending death overwhelmed George's nose. But George did not pull away. The man had been bitten, his clothing savaged by the greenskins' claws. The man coughed in George's arms, barely conscious. George looked at the bite marks, two neat holes on the man's neck, just like the scarfed greenskin had delivered to the plump lady. The fear or realisation gave way to burning puzzlement. The man had been bitten yet he hadn't changed? George pulled open the man's shirt, but there were no wounds or injuries beyond light bruises. But the man's skin! It was ashen white. And it felt cold as George wiped away a smear of blood. The man must have escaped an assault �" somehow. But how?

George tried to shake the ashen man awake; however, the only response he received was a drowsy moan. “Hey! Hey! I'm here. What happened? What's your name?” George frantically demanded, even slapping the man as a last resort. But it was no use, the ashen man was out of it.

Crack.

George snapped his head around to the noise that had come from were the man had staggered. It was further away. George suddenly became aware of how exposed he was. Crack. Scrambling onto his feet as quickly as he could, George grabbed the ashen man by his arms and lugged him towards the bin. Heaving and cursing, George propped the man against the bin as the cracks and rustles became more frequent. And closer. George knew he could make out snarling. Hunching down beside the bin he looked back to the see the bottle, his solitary weapon, well out of reach. Damn! As the snarls became louder, George looked all around him for an escape but there was none: he would be far too exposed now if he ran. And what about the ashen man? I can't just leave him here. “Hey! Hey! I need your help!” George hissed at the man desperately, shaking him. The man remained mute. The cracks had become clear steps by now, the snarls and screeches of some incomprehensible proto-language babbled in the trees. George's heart was resuming its canter again. He looked around for any support in vain. This bin was not going to cover them both and George knew it. As the greenskins' voices became louder, George did the only thing he could think of: he ducked down behind the body of the man and hid.

Crunch.

There must be at least two were on the path now. And they had stopped. George held his breath, his nose under the man's soggy armpit, and prayed; prayed with all he had that the ashen man would not wake up. The greenskins seemed to be arguing amongst themselves. George did not move a muscle, nor a hair on his body as he willed that they would just see a dead and very unappetising man beside a bin. Every second felt like a century as George tried to control the urge to run away. The instinctual, primal urge coursing through his body demanded that he flee. Crunch. Their voices had stopped and one of them was walking towards them! George froze, his whole body drenched in fear. Each ground-chewing step closer felt like a death sentence. The greenskin stopped beside the man. George heard the low pant of its breath. It said nothing as it sniffed. The other on the path snarled irritably. This seemed to disgruntle the more curious greenskin. George felt the man's body wobble as the greenskin prodded him. By a miracle the man did not fall over. If he had, George would have been like an upturned turtle ripe for devouring. The path greenskin screetch again, this time more urgently and angrily. It was clearly annoyed at the time wasted on this diversion. But the one beside George remained. Every moment was the worst torture George had ever felt. Oddly, it wasn't Carla who passed through his mind but a flash of home. Crunch. For a terminal second, George though the greenskin was stepping around the man �" but the steps were going the other way! George listened to the glorious sound of the curious greenskin's departure as it returned to the main path, snarling in a squabble with its comrade. Would they leave? Please leave, my bladder can't take this. The helplessness and powerlessness George felt, huddled behind the ashen man and bin as his flimsy refuge, kept swirling around George's mind. If they come back I'm dead, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Crunch, snarl and screech. Crunch.

Yes! The bloody things were moving away! George rolled his eyes in relief as the greenskins' steps, seemingly satisfied, if one more annoyed with their barren find, began to fade along with their still arguing, rasping voices. George couldn't help it, he found himself laughing. “Hey! We survived”, George whispered happily to the ashen man above. “Hey! They've gone!”. George pulled himself up beside the man's shoulder and pulled the ashen man's head round to face him. But the man's head and body fell down loosely in George's lap. The ashen man was dead. The life in his eyes had departed along with any last breath from his still chest. George couldn't help himself as the tears fell from his face onto the man's, turning bloodstains into free-moving streams.

George was alone.

George felt completely drained. The goblin assault and apparent 'End of Days' was maddening to even consider. George stood away from the man's corpse, watching its blood dribble around the base of the bin. Where now? It wouldn't be long before another goblin, or a pack of them, would be on him. George looked back at the old town over King's. There was a fire raging through the main stately building that dominated the river. To the other side, George could see plumes of smoke snaking through the trees from St John's. Cripes. The whole town was being reduced to ruin. A good chunk of himself was horrified at the thought of all those ancient buildings..and all those people. Another human scream broke his languid procrastination. We need to go demanded his body. George scurried across the road. Robinson College was at the end, just past the University library. There was always a bike or two unlocked there that could offer a quicker means of escape. If he made it out to Ely, just past the rugby pitches, he would be safe. George knew he had not basis for that conclusion. In fact, a viewing alien might be inclined to place a wager on George becoming a goblin before he reached Ely, fully expecting a strong return. But that didn't matter. It was a plan. And right now, it was that he had. Bike theft it is.

George made it just across the road before his plan fell apart. Scrambling to halt his building up speed, George could hear the slightly unwelcome sound of creatures gossiping ahead. Thery were ocming towards him. And one creature sounded like it speaking while chewing. George didn't want to know what organ it had managed to get stuck in its teeth. A picture of a goblin using intestines for dental floss happily appeared in his mind. If that was his body's way of telling him 'divert. Now', well George didn't a reminder.

Ducking down, George scampered towards the path's railings ahead. The cool leaves tickled his skin as George made his way away from crossing. Clare College's back accommodation would still get him to Robinson. Dingus, George cursed himself. They probably have bikes too! Why didn't he think of going there before? George looked back every once in a while to spot the goblins. There. He froze in mid-step as the goblins, whiny and screechy voices gabbling away in their horrid tongue, bundled over the crossing. The five of them would have made short work of him and George knew it. George kept his eyes on them until they were on the path to Orgasm Bridge, waiting for their voices to become a safe distance away before he dared lift a foot. Breathe, George told himself. Taking slower steps to avoid any blunders, George passed abandoned cars until he was within sight of the Clare bridge crossing. A babbling debate from the bridge-side of the road beyond the gates, close to the gardens, slowed George down. He knew he couldn't stop though. George was fully exposed on the pavement. Praying that debate would last longer than most lectures, George crept forward, firmly keeping his vision on the as-yet unoccupied bridge gateway. Regrettably, George noticed the slumped over bloodied body of a Porter in the gate's guardbox window. There was a hole in her head where a brain should be. I thought zombies ate brains?

George leaned forward as the College gates gave way to morph into the foreboding, neo-imperial entrance way. How George wished the imposing gates and walls of the Colleges could have performed their medieval defensive function. Trying to discern any nearby scream or gargle was hard, but he was quite sure that there nothing at least a metre or two in front of him that might kill him. Great. George pulled himself closer to the railings as he came closer, glancing once again at the bridge side. There was still only the Porter's corpse accompanying him. Carefully pulling a few bush branches down George scoured Clare's entrance way for any goblins. There was nothing apart from that hideous modern art sculpture George had loathed from the moment he saw it. But something wasn't quite right with it. Ah. That would be it. In curdling revision, it appeared the goblins had taken the opportunity to decorate the sculpture with a few human heads as if it were a Christmas tree. One girl's, locked in terror, looked back at George with her bloodied, fearful mouth screaming in pain. The sight made the sweat of fear return to him. Beyond the gateway up to the college was pure open ground. No cover. No bins. Nothing. Well, there might be dismembered corpse or two. Still, there was little to do but plunge himself into the Russian roulette that awaited.. With a final look at the still empty bridge, George readied himself for the sprint of his and stepp-

A loud thunk and howl from the bridge forced George to abandon his dash for freedom. Trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible against the railings, George held onto the peeling-paint on the bars, eyes locked on the bridge. A heavy scraping sound could be heard among the excited snaps of numerous goblins. It wasn't long before a large goblin, with a Clare tie around its neck and comically too small College cloak dangling from back came into view past the guardhouse. In one strong arm it was dragging the statue of Confucius, which had guarded the gardens of Clare, by the head along the path. Behind the goblin two smaller ones kept hopping on and off the statue, hitting the larger one with slaps and apparent curses. The larger one paused every now and then to roar at the two vipers, swatting at them with its free hand. George watched as the procession came towards him on the road, the statue clunking painfully onto the tarmac from the grass. One of the smaller goblins, no bigger than what must have been a fiver-year old, jumped on Confucius' neck to bite the large goblin's arm. That was all the ancient statue could take. With a crack, confucius' body fell away from his head onto the road. The large one almost fell over at the loss of weight. It looked down at the head and fallen body behind it. Enraged, it bellowed at the two smaller goblins, who, panicked, ran back towards the bridge. The larger one threw Confucius' head at them, shattering the guardbox into pieces. The large goblin roared as it chased the other two back across the bridge.

George breathed a sigh of relief. He might have been able to take on the two smaller ones but that thing was an ogre. Argh! The pain in his back was sharp as the bars dug into his back. George thrashed about but the grip behind him horribly strong. The rasping voice told him all he needed to know. George wriggled and pulled in a tug-of-war over his own innards with the gobling behind him. It grunted and hissed at him, snapping its teeth at George's neck as they fought. Gambling, George swung his left leg up behind him. Losing his footing in the process, George fell down on the floor. But he wasn't worried about that. His foot had connected with the goblin's nether region, sending his assailant face down on the floor with him. Now, George's body screamed at him. Barely thinking, George scrambled back onto his feet and, holding onto the railings, kicked the goblin’s moaning head into the ground with all his might. Its howls were muffled in the dirt. In a horrible daze of rage, George kicked and kicked until he was exhausted. Panting as he lent on the railings, George knew that the goblin had become silent many a blow ago. George, ever one to run rather than fight, hadn't even crushed a snail under his foot. And now he had just delivered a gangland killing to a goblin. Goerge didn't have time to worry about it, his survival demanded that he look all around him, seeing if any other would-be greenskin killer had heard them.

Nothing.

George didn't know whether that was a good thing or not. The goblins weren't wholly stupid. Were a pack just waiting to jump on him as soon as he made for Clare? Bloody things. Wiping splattered green blood from his face, George took one large breathe and ran into the black hole of uncertainty before him.

The gates disappeared with a blur. George didn't take his focus away from Porters' lodge ahead, wishing with all he was worth that no-one had heard him. Something did. From an upper window to his right a voice cried out. “Help me! Hey, help me!” shouted a boy down to him. George, against his worse nature, stopped in his tracks at the base of the main steps. He looked up at the desperate face. The brown-haired boy couldn't have been more than a second year. “Please save me! They don- no, NO!” The desperate boy wailed, turning his own focus back on the horrors of the room. George couldn't help but watch as the boy disappeared into the room, screaming and crying until the sickening sound a bite silenced him, splattering the window in his blood. George grimaced, appalled. George look back up at the window and there was a new face, a harsh green face looking out at the town behind him. The harsh face looked down at him and smiled. Stupid, stupid idiot George berated himself. He should not have stopped. George ran up the bloodied stairs towards the Porters' lodge as the window greenskin snarled a long, winding hoot at him. Was that there hunting sound? George didn't care. Almost tripping on the final step, George dragged himself against the Porters' lodge wall. It wouldn't be long before greenskins began to look for him.

Balls. George couldn't see a single bike around him aside from the mangled, one-wheeled blue one that had been abandoned by its owner in a hurry. There were two choices. Clare's central round library had two paths around it that led to the main University library and Plan A's Robinson College bikeshed beyond. A horrible silence around the College, one that would not last for long told George all he needed to know about the likelihood of human help. And that greenskin had spotted him. Left or Right? George flipped a coin in his head and pictured Elizabeth. Left it is. Before he tore round the path, George slipped into the porters' lodge, hoping that some of weapon could be found.

He wished he hadn't. The smell was horrible. A porter appeared to have stabbed his attacking goblin through the heart with the sharpened tip of a croquet mallet. It didn't seem to have stopped the goblin removing the right-hand side of his face. But he had killed the goblin. Covering his nose, George pushed at the goblin's corpse, trying to roll it over. Ah! George bit the cry from his mouth as he fell over, slipping on the dead couple's mess. A worse sound did, however, appear. The goblin had gone over but, in some final vengeance, it had snapped the croquet mallet off with it. Think George, think George, George once again said to himself. How he had survived two minutes with this level of ineptitude he didn't know.

At least all was not lost. Carefully, George pulled the porter's cold fingers away from the mallet head. There was enough left of the shaft to at least render it a make shift mallet. George took a test swing against the goblin's body. The mallet held together through the sticky squidge of a blow. It was better than nothing right now, George concluded. Wiping the mallet on the back of the goblin, George crept to the porters' lodge door. It was quiet in the quad around the library. Too quiet. George felt like he was stuck in the 'suspense' scene of a horror film. That bit when the unaware star gets their neck ripped off by something grizzly. Great. Clenching his hand around the mallet, George darted along the left path, flicking his eyes around to spot any goblins. Not that it would do him any good: his vision was blurry from fear.

It was there.

George jarred his jog to a halt, and heard the other's steps abruptly stop too. He couldn't see it but he was sure it was the window goblin on the other side of the Clare library. Terror gripped at his hear. Focus, George ordered himself. He took one step forward on the path and heard an answering one adjacent to him. Then nothing. George's looked up at the library's windows but it was coldly silent. He took another crunching step. So did the apparent goblin. Oh bloody hell. It was playing with him. Just like Boris their family cat did to wayward insects.

George took a step backwards. Another crunch replied. Two forward. The goblin did the same. This is ridiculous, thought George. He began walking backwards. The goblin mimicked him perfectly. Growing annoyed, George stopped and turned, beginning to walk away from the goblin. It matched every stride. Then the goblin upped the pace. Now George was following it, trying to maintain his distance from it. The goblin moved quicker. So did George. It began to job. So did he. Without realising, George had performed three full laps around the library now. In George's mind, he flashed back to the Olympics and the cyclists who went round the velodrome. Pursuit was the name of that event. And the pace had become quicker. Annoyance gave way to the return of familiar fear as George realised that the creature was gaining on him. But in fright, he didn't think to dive away or turn to face the his foe. The memory of the window boy's death was at the fore of his mind. All George could think of right now was run. But the goblin was gaining on him. George was almost at full pelt now. And yet it was still gaining on him. He could now hear its raps over thick, heavy breathes as it bore down on its prey. Faster still they went. The horrible pain returned to burn George's legs as he pushed and pushed to escape. But still it gained. Closer and closer. George could hear the slobbering mouth behind him. The clank of its claws digging into the ground. The power of its legs. George was shaking and sweating now, forcing himself to go quick still. Yet it was getting ever closer behind him.

And then nothing. It took a few heavy strides for George to hear nothing and stop himself. Gasping for breathe, George clutched onto the mallet as he searched all around. Silence. George felt horribly exposed. He was right back where he started, only metres away from the main gate. Ahead, the Main Library loomed over him. George tried to listen: to cut through the light wind feeling its way through the leaves; the distant sound of muffled chaos from the town; even the sound of his upturned internal bodily fluids demanding that he never run again. But he could not see or hear it. There was no way it had fled. George thought back to Boris with his insects. A cat stops playing when its ready to pounce. However it was useless. There was nothing, not even a snort to track the blasted thing on. And George knew that it knew this too.

A few seconds passed where George thought that the goblin might pounce, readying his mallet behind his head. Nothing. The horrible feeling of the goblin toying with him burned away any scant courage that George had. What should he do? He couldn't head back to the porter's lodge. It was too easy to get cut down. The only option was the gate and relative safety of the open University car park. At least there he could run. The bloody thing has probably worked that out too, dawned a terrible thought in George's mind. Thanks for that. But he had no choice. Clutching onto the mallet over his head, George crept towards the gate. Feeling for the gate behind him as he kept his eyes on the College library. It was here somewhere. His free hand finally found the cold metal bars in his hand. Not daring to look away, he fumbled for the bolt, levering it up with a groan. Still nothing. He pushed the door back with long, sad whine. Nothing. George's heart was racing. Where the hell was it? George spied around the whole quad, the libray..everything. He was certain that as soon as he stepped one foot over the threshold, he would be done for. Nothingness taunted him back. George held out for as long as he could, but there was little else to do aside from put his through. With a silent prayer he placed one leg through. And nothing happened? George's arm ached from holding the mallet aloft yet he did not lower it. He stood there for what felt like forever. But nothing happened. Had it got bored?

That's when the dribbling gloop of goblin drool drapped itself on his right shoulder.

George looked up to see the horrible, grinning face of the goblin above him. George was paralysed in terror as it howled a wretched cry at him, raising its claws high into the air in celebration of victory. Or it would have been victory if George's instinct had rather more gumption than he did. Completely unaware of what he was doing, George swung the mallet as fast and hard as he could at the goblins left foot. The whole thing exploded with a gush of green blood and chilling pain from the goblin. The goblin fell from its perch in agony to the floor. George had no sympathy as it writhed in pain. George thought of only the boy as he cried out and landed blow after blow on the goblin until it was a silent rag of broken bones.

Wiping the blood from his eyes, George wanted to cry. But then a long hoot went up into air from behind him. Pivoting and backing away from the corpse, George heard Clare's library door crash open. And they were there. Snarling and sniffing, a pack of goblins carefully came towards him. And then another more shrill hoot, this time from his right towards the Alison Richards building, rang out. Behind the cars out came shadows and shapes. Goblins clambered over cars, all staring at him as they approached. Backing away towards the main library a dark, powerful roar rang out to his left. George's head turned to see a giant goblin bend the University Library entrance gates out of its way as if it were made from cheese strings. Goblins, chattering and growling poured forward around the large one. All horrendous and hungry eyes were on George.

S**t.

“Hey!Hey!If you want to live, get in here now! We won't hold it open forever!” shouted a voice behind him from the University. George couldn't see a face but they were calling out from a window just above the main entrance. George looked at the semi-circle of death fast approaching him.

“You have 5 seconds! Run inside you idiot! Before we bolt the door!” shouted the voice at him. Its tone clearly implied that George's survival was optional. It sure damn well wasn't to him. Not sparing another moment George ran up the library steps as cries of rage and horror rang out after him from all around. George slammed himself into swivelling doors. As it began to spin George could see faces, human faces! They were shouting at him to hurry up. But in the second it took for George to push the door almost around so that he could get out, two goblins had launched themselves against the other side. George heaved with all his might but he felt the ground scraping beneath his feet. His survival was slipping away from him. The rasps of the goblins stirred whatever remaining strength that he had. But although it was enough to halt the door, it wasn't enough to move it forward. Yet he was not alone. Two men within the library had rushed to force the door around in his favour. As they heaved someone else shined a laser pointer in the eyes of the doorway goblins. Blinded they tumbled over one another, and suddenly George was flung forwards into the library.

Pulling his aching body up to look round at the rotating door. George watched as two book trolleys upended their contents into door. Books may not have held. Yet the book trolleys had been loaded with goblin corpses instead. Four others rushed forward to squeeze the mess of bodies into the doorway. That was one way to bolt a door. It wasn't disgusting to George. The goblin sandwich was the first bit of good news he had had all night. And there was a second: he was not alone.

Reviews

[Bright Ocean Star]

Adrian, I don't have time to read the whole thing, but you have an amazing voice. I love to read your stories...and the Goblin story is a very long one. Try pulling it into pieces and submitting just a short piece of it as sort of a chapter per submission. That would be easier on the likes of me, who doesn't have a whole lot of time to read through all my friends' work. But i do love it! 100/100. Great writing,my friend!