DAVID OWAIN HUGHES

Odd Owen and his Mobile Fortress

 

 

“Halloween,” he moaned, parting his blinds and looking out into the street. The afternoon sky had turned from warm and cloudless into a brooding, bruised evening, reminding him of damaged fruit. The autumn trees, which looked skeletal with their gnarled and empty branches, seemed to loom over the street. They cast deep, menacing shadows, like the image of a masked killer hanging over a town on a forbidding movie poster.

            At neighbouring houses, the glow from tea lights inside gutted pumpkins with creepy faces and evil eyes threw shades of colour across the street from behind the windows and porches on which they sat. The butchered fruit was a tell-tale sign for children that the occupants of the home wanted them to call. That tasty treats waited.

            Crisp, orange-yellow leaves blew against his window, startling him. Owen removed his fingers from the blinds and pulled back. “Soon enough, there’ll be little blighters out there – monsters of all ages and sizes! Well, they won’t be welcome here, not this year.” He crossed his arms.

            Not that the children would call on Owen, or Odd Owen, as they liked to chant when they saw him walking in the street. Even before his wife had left, taking their children with her, the whole neighbourhood had found him weird.

            “You want to stay away from that one, children,” he’d overheard one of the teachers at the elementary school say. “He keeps bizarre science experiments locked in his basement!”

            “What type of experiments, miss?” an overexcited girl had asked.

            “Creepy, ghoulish ones,” a boy had answered, making scary noises and sticking his stiff, crooked fingers in her face, causing her to shriek and hide behind her teacher’s legs.

            Owen had tutted, shook his head and moved on without saying a word.

            The science aspect was true, as it was his forty-hours-a-week day job, but on the weekend and in his spare time, he was a have-a-go inventor. He was a creator of the weird and wonderful, but not of things that would eat little children or hack up the neighbour’s cat, even though he was perceived that way.

            In a nutshell, he’d been cast as the village idiot. Nobody got him, not even his own family.

 

The constant banging, thumping, drilling, screwing, welding, sawing and crazy ideas, as well as toasters that set fire to his wife’s prized curtains, were only a part of the final straw that broke the camel’s back. When the children asked for pets, he made them: robot cats, dogs, hamsters and a parrot. The hamsters ate the children’s homework, the dogs attacked the postman, the cats defecated grease-covered nuts and bolts and the parrot had a nasty habit of spitting blue sparks of electricity, frying everything and anything in its path, including his wife’s expensive shoes and handbags.  

Putting down the robotic abominations hadn’t been enough.  

“You’re not Thomas fucking Edison!” his wife, Cynthia, had screamed. “Stick to the day job, you dippy, daydreaming bastard.”

“But one day I may invent something the world can use,” he’d argued back. “I have to keep trying.”

“Owen, you have a job – concentrate on that. You’ve already been warned by your boss that you’re slacking!”

           

He’d tried to focus on it, God only knows how hard, but his mind was a constant twirling, swirling mass of ideas that needed to be put into action. His weekends became swallowed, his family and date nights lost, as he started a new project.

“What the hell have you done to your car, Owen?” Her face turned red, the veins in her neck protruding.

“It’s a prototype,” he’d answered in a blasé way. “Wait until the Hollywood stars and ageing rock ‘n’ rollers get a load of my Mobile Fortress. They’ll be queuing up to throw their money at it.”

“When you smile like that, you look like a mad scientist. It’s scary, and I can’t take this shit any longer – it’s your barmy ways or me and the kids.”

He hadn’t heard her. He was too busy staring out the window, his eyes glazed over as he looked lovingly at his Ford Fiesta. It was still the same car underneath, but with a lot of modifications. All the glass and Perspex encasing the lights had been replaced with bullet-proof glass and enveloped in mesh wiring, the body reinforced, the tyres covered with sheets of metal, the passenger seat removed, the rear ones lowered and turned into a sleeping/bunking area. Blind curtains had been installed over the windows, the doors welded shut (except for the driver’s), the petrol tank fitted with a metal lattice to stop it from being tampered with or pried open, a bull-bar complete with winch attached to the front and a bubble with a hatch built into the roof.

Also, a few additions had been made on the inside: ports to plug in his phone and laptop had been fitted (which ran off the car’s upgraded battery, allowing for longer use), and a kettle, toaster and mini DVD player/TV had been put in.

“She’s not quite there yet, but soon…” he’d responded, his words trailing off as he slipped further into his trance-like state.

“Ugh!” Cynthia screamed, picking up a few plates and smashing them on the floor. “You’ll amount to nothing, mark my words.”

“I’m off outside to work on her.” Completely blanking her outburst, he walked away and trudged through the tiny particles of annihilated china. 

“You act as though these stupid inventions are going to save the human race!”
 

The following day, Cynthia left him whilst he’d been in his boss’ office, getting the sack for taking time off during a busy period.

            “But I’m close to unveiling a revolutionary—”

            “Enough, Owen!” his boss snapped, slamming his fists against his desk. “I’m sick of hearing about your crackpot schemes and dreams. Well, now you’ll have enough time to work on your Lego-built ventures. Get out.”

            It pretty much went through one ear and out the other. Owen wasn’t concerned or upset, not even when he returned home to a note from his wife.

By the time you read this, it read, the kids and I will be long gone. Don’t try to find us. PS.  I took half our savings. Bye!

            He let the note flutter to the floor as he walked out to his garage to work on his Mobile Fortress.

            “You were only holding me back.” His words were undecipherable grumbles. “Much like my job was.”

 

Two weeks later his power, gas and water were cut off – a notice of eviction was placed through his letterbox. Owen didn’t care one iota; he was through playing by the rules.

            “I’m going to jump in my baby and live off the grid!”

A few days before they turned up to evict him, Owen sold everything he could and drained his bank accounts. The only possessions he kept were blankets, pillows, a scant amount of books, CDs and DVDs, some kitchen utensils and clothes. After transferring everything into his Mobile Fortress, he pulled off the drive and parked in the street’s hammerhead.

 

He put his fingers back to the blinds and parted them. The street was still devoid of children. Looking over his shoulder, he saw it was just past seven by the clock mounted on the dashboard.

            “A little early yet, I guess.” He gazed out his window and spotted his old neighbour, Mr. Summers, who he’d never seen eye-to-eye with, especially after he’d fixed the man’s mower, which had then malfunctioned and blown his shed up.

            Their eyes met, neither man looking away.

            “We all know you’re fucking Cindy Stomers down in number thirty-three, Vik,” Owen whispered, fogging the glass in front of him. Then he saw Ms. Dudley leave her house to take her dog for a walk. “And we know you poisoned your husband, bitch.”

            Out of the shadows jogged Mr. Griffin.

            “Another one with a secret. And you lot think I’m odd? Mr. Griffin, the man who’s been sucking off the tranny queen at the end of the street behind his husband’s back. Tut-tut.” 

            When his kettle came to a boil, he let the blinds go and turned to more pressing matters. On the front seat of his Mobile Fortress was his mug and open tool box; the panel under the dashboard on the passenger’s side was pulled open.

            “Now, let’s get that wiring sorted once and for all.” He lifted the kettle and poured the water over his tea bag. As it brewed, he took a screwdriver from his kit and set to work on trying to fix the electronics which were playing havoc with his laptop.

            Maybe it’s the connector I put on the computer’s adaptor? he mused, his face lost amongst a tangle of wires and fuses.

 

Ten minutes later, frustrated and sweating, Owen gave up. He threw his tool back into the metal box, grabbed his mug, disposed of the teabag and drank. As he did so, he looked about with a smile on his face. Most of the interior’s furnishings had been bought online, such as the cushions lining the sides of the bunk area – it reminded him of a layout found in a caravan’s bedroom or lounge. The blinds, although cheap, kept the inside dark; if it weren’t for the light fixtures he’d attached to either side of the roof, which gave off a cheery glow, he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

            Over the days he lived in his Mobile Fortress, Owen had developed additional touches: shelves, hidey-holes for keepsakes and new carpet.

            When the weather comes, I’ll give her a spray job and replace a couple of the panels, he thought, blowing on his already cold tea. I should try and—  

            Hard thumps to the back window broke his chain of thought. His forehead furrowed, his eyes narrowed. Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, Owen held his breath and remained still. His ears pricked.

            Thump, thump, thump… Three more welts. This time it came from his left.

            Sounds like something striking the bod—

            The door handle rattled; the Fort shook gently on its chassis.

            His heart rate increased. Sweat broke across his brow.  

            Don’t be absurd, he thought. It’s safe in here.

            He raised a hand and slowly reached for the blinds on the rear right passenger window. Before he could part them, however, he heard a chorus of children’s voices.

            “Poke your head out, freak!” one yelled.

            “Odd Owen, Odd Owen, Odd Owen!” bellowed a second.

            “My dad says you best move this heap of shit, or he’s going to do it for you!” blasted a third.

            “You’re not welcome here any longer, douchebag!” a fourth joined in.

            Owen parted his blinds, yelled, and fell back against the console, knocking the radio on.

            “Happy Halloween!” screamed a rock DJ. “Time for a bit of Alice Cooper on this, the most frightful night of the year, kids. Aaaaooooowww!” he howled like a wolf.

            Pressed against the glass had been a masked face depicting Frankenstein’s monster; a ghostly one had floated behind it.

            Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Owen moved to the rear of his vehicle and looked out the back window. Two children: one wearing a Gene Simmons Kiss mask, the other sporting werewolf fur.

            “Little bastards! Get out of here, or I’m calling the—”  

            Rotten eggs thundered and exploded against the window. “I’ve told you once, you’re not welcome here. We’re going to make your life a living misery until you piss off!” Gene Simmons told Owen.

            “I’ll do as I please,” Owen argued, eyeing the children. Judging by their size, he guessed they were teenagers. Banging from the front of his car detracted his attention, but he didn’t move from where he was. “You won’t get—” He saw that Simmons and Werewolf were holding crowbars.

            They mean to harm me?!

            “Going to kick your fucking teeth in!” Werewolf said, showing off his mind-reading skills.

            The Fortress rocked as it was hammered and shunted.

            Over the shoulders of Simmons and Werewolf, Owen saw some of his ex-neighbours standing on their doorsteps; a few of them pointed and laughed.

            Now that they were out of eggs, the flour came next, followed by toilet paper rolls.

            The sound of metal on metal assaulted his ears; someone was trying to jimmy the driver’s door.

            “Stop that!” Owen let go of the blinds and snatched up the wrench from inside his toolbox. His eyes fell on the keys in the ignition.

            Start her up – that’ll scare the little fuckers off, he thought.

            “Can you get a hand under there?” he heard one of the youths ask. “You can? Great. Stab his fucking tyres. This prick’s getting it tonight.”

            “Best of luck, shitheads,” Owen whispered, getting into the driver’s seat and buckling up. Even though the tyres were covered by metal sheets, enough of a gap had been left so the vehicle could manoeuvre over speed bumps in the road. However, Owen had invested in durable rubber to fit to his wheels, which couldn’t be easily punctured or ripped apart.

              Lifting the blind on the driver’s side window and securing it into place, Owen looked in the wing mirror. The wind had picked up and the sky had darkened further, but the shadows cast by the various lights helped him see what was going on.

            In the whirlwind’s eye of leaves and debris, Owen spotted little trick ‘r treaters in their droves; most were being escorted by larger figures, who he guessed were older siblings or parents. Some of his ex-neighbours were screaming in mock, blood-curdling terror.

            A brief smiled danced across his face before his wing mirror was smashed off – bits of wires poked from the plastic stump. 

            His mouth formed a perfect O. “You fuck—” 

            “Davey, help!” a youth screamed from behind.

            Owen’s gaze lifted to the rear-view mirror. Through a crack in the blinds, he saw a bigger child, more like a man, dressed as a zombie and attacking Simmons. More followed, until the four boys and the Mobile Fortress were enveloped.

            “What. The. Hell?!” Owen said. His grip on the steering wheel became so ferocious, his knuckles turned white.

            The groans and moans coming from around him were almost deafening.

            He thought it was some kind of Halloween prank, until Simmons’ blood suddenly squirted up the back window, followed by Werewolf’s.

            “Argh!” Their screams became shrieks.  

            Eyeballs were savagely ripped from sockets, tongues were wrenched from yanked-open mouths, and guts were pulled out in great big bleeding batches. 

            Owen started to whimper, and it took all his will not to piss his pants. His hand fumbled for the keys in the ignition, but a gathering of putrefied flesh pounding at his window caused him to jump out of his seat and into the back.

            He wanted to lower the blind but was too scared to move. Gobs of decomposed skin clung to the glass from where it had pulled free from their fists and arms as they hammered away; the echoes thundered in his ears.

            “What’s going on?” His voice was barely audible over the drone of the dead. He brought his knees up to his chin and rocked back and forth.

            “We interrupt this programme due to an important break in the news…” a broadcaster came over the radio, cutting off the rock DJ and his ‘noise’. “…reports of roving gangs of thugs and looters within the city and surrounding areas are flooding in. Police have no idea how or why this is happening, but are taking every measure possible to bring these spontaneous attacks under control, as local hospitals fill up. It’s also been reported that the fire service has been stretched to its limits due to a number of blazes cutting destructive paths through the city. People are advised to stay indoors and not to open up for anyone, be it friend, family or neighbour…”

            Over the sound of the radio, un-dead and their slurpy-sucky eating sounds, Owen picked up on a woman screaming for help. Forcefully, he moved from his frozen spot and peeped out the back.

            A gasp caught in his throat when he saw a dozen or more rotting faces mashed against the glass – maggots rolled off their disintegrating heads. Beasties of all shapes, sizes and descriptions wormed out of their mouths and tumbled free from empty eye sockets.

            Owen’s gaze fell on one set of ravaged cheeks – through the cavity he could see the zombie’s tongue was nothing more than a worn-down stump, its teeth bent, broken and brown. When it opened its mouth to snarl, a fat rat could be seen nesting inside, its equally plump tail dangling out of the zombie’s wasted chops.

            Hot, burning spew raced up his throat, forcing him to clamp a hand over his gob and swallow the lava-like liquid. Tears stung his eyes. He shook his head to ease the feeling of nausea, but out it came when he saw a female zombie rip through Simmons’ jeans and tear the dead teen’s bollocks off and ram them into her mouth.

             Owen watched on, convulsing and draining his guts of liquid, as the balls popped like grapes in the seemingly robust jaw, spitting yellow-red fluids; it reminded him of a certain sweet bursting apart. 

            And then, for the first time, he noticed the dead’s stench seeping through the open vents, encircling him and adding to his sickness.

            When he finally had control over his flip-flopping guts, Owen peered over the shoulders of the crowd and saw the ‘tranny queen’ running in his direction.

            “Owen!” she screamed. In one hand she held a dustbin lid; in the other, the handle of a broom. He watched as she fought, ducked, dipped, weaved, dived and rolled her way through the zombies until she was close enough for him to see her erect nipples poking through her top. Her jogging gear, complete with yoga trousers of psychedelic colours and sweat band, was plastered in dripping gore.

Even though the people in the street had all given him black looks and the cold shoulder, she, Samantha, had been the only one to give him the time of day. In an odd way, he’d felt a connection with her. Just like Owen, she was an odd-one-out – a weird shaped block that didn’t fit the standard slots.

            A bit like the boy at the end of the street who can’t stop wanking and shitting his trousers, he thought.

            “Owen, please!” Samantha cried. “Help!”

            “I could be the hero, this time…” His eyes fell on the wrench he’d dropped.  “I can see the headlines now – ‘Bonkers Bell Wannabe Bags Trans and Saves Planet Earth’.” His hand enclosed around the tool with gusto. “I’m a-coming, you glorious he-she!”

            Screaming like a banshee, Owen got to his feet, opened the turret and popped his body through it. “Come on! This side’s pretty clear,” he yelled over the groans and indicated the passenger’s side.

            “Argh-uch!”  a zombie screeched as it scrambled up onto the roof and lunged at Owen.

            He saw the attack coming in his peripheral vision. Turning, he swung the wrench like a golf club and smashed the monster’s jaw clean off its hinges. He then swept it back the other way and caved the cadaver’s skull in, killing it outright – blood, brain and bone matter spewed, flew and spun into the autumn night.

            But he didn’t stop there, as more of them scrambled up the Fortress.

            “Eat it, bastards.” He clubbed skull after skull – blood washed up his face and arms, and gelled his hair.

            Samantha got closer to the vehicle and smashed in the faces of the dead with her dustbin lid, which was fast becoming crumpled. 

            “Give me your hand,” he called down to her.

            When she thrust her arm out into the air, he grabbed it and hoisted her up and out of danger. After they dropped inside, he quickly closed and sealed the hatch and turned to her. Samantha’s hair was a windswept mess, partly covering her thin lips and flushed cheeks. She was breathing hard; his attention was drawn to her flat stomach and strong thighs.

            A bulge developed in her crotch as she thanked him. “I guess you’re my white knight, Owen,” she panted, a giggle escaping her. “What happened here?”

            “Why I’m living in a converted…?” he trailed off, realising she meant the horror around them. Heat burned his cheeks.

            She smiled. “You can tell me that story later. Unlike the rest of the pricks around here, I don’t tend to listen to the street’s gossip.” She winked.

            He had the urge to go to her; to sweep her up in his arms and take her. To claim his prize. 

            The jackpot has been struck. Keerrching! No, I must be a gentleman about this. What would a real hero do?  

           “Get us the fuck out of here, that’s what,” he said, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

            The Fortress kicked to life, the enhanced engine growling like a half-starved lion. He put the Ford into first gear and used the bull-bar to ram his way through the gathered pack of zombies at the front. He heard heads, limbs and guts squish, crunch and obliterate under his mighty wheels.

            “What?” she asked.

            With all the cheese he could muster after hitting play on the CD player, Owen answered, “Nothing, sugar. You just sit tight whilst Batman here gets us out of this shit and to safety.”

            Then the hatch popped open and a zombie fell inside.

            “Fuck!” Owen got out of his seat, resealed the hatch and was about to deal with the zombie when he was stopped in his tracks by Samantha’s actions. She whipped her trousers down and her ‘cock’ sprang to action. She grabbed it and rammed the black, twelve-inch strap-on through the eyeball of the naked male un-dead that was level with her privates.

            Owen couldn’t help but snatch a glance at her shaved pussy before she ripped her trousers back up.

            “I—I thought—”

            “I was a man, Owen? Everybody does. It’s how Griffin wanted it – he didn’t want people knowing he loved the fanny, and not the cock. It was a smokescreen,” she said, smiling. “Now, get us the fuck out of here.”

 

After dealing with the body, Owen drove down the street with Roy Orbison blasting from his speakers. Decomposed bodies fragmented into clouds of red mist as he smashed through the dead at great speed, stopping for nothing.

            He had a race, planet and prime minister to save.

            Not to mention my next smokin’ hot wife, he thought, eyeing the luscious Samantha in the rear-view mirror. A smirk slipped across his face as he fixed his gaze on the road again. See, Cynthia – I will amount to something!