The Muslim Zombies

The Muslim Zombies

Dave Franklin

Published by Baby Ice Dog Press, 2020.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE MUSLIM ZOMBIES

First edition. January 22, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 Dave Franklin.

ISBN: 978-1393480440

Written by Dave Franklin.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

The Muslim Zombies

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About the Author

Once upon a time a medieval pope had a brainwave and decided the best way to serve God was to make sure shitloads of people got killed.

Doubtless a bit bored of writing canon law, firing off excommunications and polishing his pointy hat in his celibate bedroom, Pope Urban II got together as many of Western Europe’s bigwigs as possible and announced it was time to take back the Holy Land from those uppity Turks.

Stop killing each other in your endless quarrels about this and that, he told them during the greatest rabblerousing speech in history, and bloody well start killing some people who deserve it. For Christ sake, don’t you realise the eastern Christian churches are being overrun by Muslims?

O what a disgrace if such a despised and base race, who worshippeth demons, shalt conquer us... he said, pausing to sadly shake his head. Let those who hast been robbers now become knights. Let those who hast fought against their brothers now fight against the barbarians. Unite, my brothers, unite. Christ commandeth you!

The gathered masses thought about it for a good thirty seconds, happy to ignore all that other stuff about Jesus supposedly being more into peace and brotherhood than bopping people over the head, before deciding a jolly jaunt abroad with God’s approval was just the ticket.

And so they began to spontaneously cry: It is the will of God!

Well, Urban thought amid the cheers as he considered a new career as a stand-up comedian, this is going somewhat better than expected.

The jokes kept coming. Each crusader’s sins would be wiped clean the moment they took up arms while those who found themselves on the pointy end of a Turk’s sword got to instantly loll around on a cloud with Jesus – a get out of jail free card even extended to any fired-up wannabes who snuffed it during the journey over there.

However, Urban reassured his fist-pumping audience, hardly any good, God-fearing men would die because reclaiming the Holy City of Christ was going to be no more tricky than taking candy from a brain-damaged Muslim toddler. A few pike thrusts and a lopped head or two (with time off to ravish a bit of native crumpet) and it’d all be over. After all, the crusaders were Christians and therefore had God on their side whereas those slimy Muzzies only had algebra, kebabs and body odour.

Now a party pooper might have suggested that if Jesus’ dad really were omnipresent and omnipotent, then why had he allowed those beastly foreigners to wrest control of the Holy Land in the first place? And why did he always need human help to sort out such Earthly lapses when it came to the correct order of things?

But, of course, there weren’t any party poopers at the Council of Claremont in 1095 and by the end of that fateful day in central France an army was being formed. Peasants, monks, knights – even such undesirables as the gentler sex who perhaps thought they could kick arse better than any monk – were barely able to sit still as the crosses were sewn onto their clothes.

Glory awaited.

Rape, plunder, torture and mass slaughter all duly followed, carried out with an enthusiasm and dedication that only the religiously-inspired can truly conjure up.

And the Muslims?

The poor lambs had no idea what hit ’em. All their hard work lionising Allah’s mighty name by wiping out those wrong-headed bible-thumpers over the preceding decades appeared to have counted for naught. Nicea fell in 1097, Antioch a year later, and then the big one, Jerusalem, just before the dawn of the twelfth century.

God must have been chuffed, perhaps tempted to transform the great palls of black smoke hanging over the sacked cities into a giant celestial thumbs up.

As for Urban, the late-blooming comic who’d set everything in motion, he was able to reflect on a job well done, especially as he didn’t even have to go to the bother of getting up close and personal with any of those dreadful bacon-dodging types. No doubt much gleeful pointy hat polishing followed before he peacefully passed away a mere two weeks after the fall of Jerusalem.

AND THIS DELIGHTFUL point in the wonderfully beneficial and nuanced history of Christendom is where our little story of zombie shenanigans begins. Jerusalem was now Muslim-free – apart from those waiting to be sold as slaves or rotting in gibbets – and such news was being wildly celebrated up and down medieval England.

Perhaps one of the biggest celebrations was being held in Bexley Castle where Roger Fenwick, the Earl of Tasmonshire, was putting on the party to end all parties. Already well-known for his extravagant (and some would whisper gruesome) shindigs, he’d warmed up his assembled guests with a vigorous afternoon display of jousting.

Then everyone had moved indoors to the Great Hall and been entertained by a reasonably amusing jester before enjoying a sumptuous feast that included swans, pottage, pike and nuts. A troupe of tumbling acrobats had rounded things off, although their energetic little spectacle had prematurely ended after one badly misjudged a spinning jump and landed with spine-damaging consequences on his head.

Oh, how they laughed.

And as Lord Fenwick had come to appreciate, good comedy always contained an element of cruelty.

But where to find those precious laughs? How to indulge his growing appetite for theatre? For running a castle was a tiring, all-consuming business that could border on drudgery what with its endless inventories, archery contests and floggings.

However, Lord Fenwick did his best to keep a gay, open heart, especially since a nomadic band of actors had dropped by six months ago to set up their pageant wagon outside the gates of his half-built church. And although their mystery play hadn’t even tried to be funny, he’d still enjoyed the way the men in their long dark robes had moved about the imaginatively dressed stage projecting their voices while interweaving biblical verses with the occasional song.

After all, what was life without a little artistic enrichment?

But the thing was, Lord Fenwick liked to think he could do better. Court jesters, bible-spouting actors and even bleeding, disorientated acrobats that had to be helped from the room were nothing special.

For his money they all lacked spice, a certain je ne sais quoi.

And as he sat at the High Table taking in his guests’ flushed faces and increasingly boorish behaviour – a couple of hats had already been knocked off – he knew they were ready for the evening’s pièce de rèsistance.

O yea, he thought while gazing at the empty oak chair by the fireplace, I shall give thee a show, my friends. People wilt talk about this bash for many a year to come.

A curious fluttering seized his stomach as another insight came to him. Good comedy may well contain a streak of cruelty, but it also needed timing.

He banged the table with his tankard, causing the ale to leap up and splatter a parchment with an indecipherable script lying next to his half-eaten side of pork. The minstrels in the gallery opposite immediately downed instruments while the boisterous guests broke off their animated conversations to turn his way. He took a deep breath and got a little unsteadily to his feet.

He belched and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand while staring at their expectant faces. He picked out the castle’s jailor, a broad-shouldered brute of a man, standing by the arched entrance to the Great Hall.

Bringeth the prisoner.

THE GREAT HALL’S DOOR was kicked open. A thin, bloodied man in rags with manacled wrists and a long, shaggy beard was dragged in by two soldiers in full armour. The guests gasped as he was forced to his knees in front of the dais with the guards on either side.

Yea, thy eyes deceive thee not, Lord Fenwick said, nodding and holding up his palms. He took a moment to appreciate the captive’s obvious distress and the way he could not stop staring at the food-laden tables. His name is Mohammed and tis a Seljuk Turk, one of those filthy villains who didst invade the Holy Land and helpeth inflict such terrible losses on our brave pilgrims.

The guests began booing. An apple was thrown, missing its intended target and bouncing off a soldier’s helmet with a dull clang.

Study his dark features! the lord continued as the guard looked around in annoyance, allowing Mohammed the chance to scamper after the rolling apple. By my troth, what a foul creature!

"Kill him! they bellowed as Mohammed was viciously hauled back by the scruff of his neck. Hang the bastard!"

Lord Fenwick merely sat down again. Tis better, he thought. Now they art in fine fettle. He allowed the hatred to reach a crescendo while playing with his purse on its silk string and occasionally glancing up to drink in their twisted faces. One of his bulldogs, Bruno, raised his head and began to howl along while Cobalt – the more delicate of the two – got up and slinked into the middle of the floor with her tail between her legs.

My friends... Prithee... They quietened, but he still had to shout to be heard. "Verily, I may be thy liege, a man who hast great power over thee, but think not of me as a remote and uncaring ruler. Ne’r think I am divorced from thy personal misfortunes! Many of thou hast suffered loss and I feel thy pain. I weep, I tell thee, I weep over thy sons and brothers cut down in their prime in the Holy Land."

Much  nodding, lip-pursing and hand-shaking followed. A few arms were thrown around shoulders while the delightful Lady Westbury – dressed in a long emerald gown and most fetching heart-shaped headdress – even managed to pull out a white handkerchief and dab at the corners of her bewitching eyes.

Lord, thou hast also suffered a most grievous loss, called out a man in deep shadow at the end of the hall.

Lord Fenwick almost said Didst I? Then he remembered Frederick, his headstrong young cousin, whom he’d urged beforehand not to leave on such a painfully obvious suicide mission. The ninny had ended up getting decapitated during the siege of Antioch. However, Lord Fenwick had managed to cope with his grief over the familial loss by tupping the lad’s most comely widow twice a week before having her arrested and executed for witchcraft after she threatened to make the indiscretion public.

Ah, yea, young Frederick. He glumly shook his head. A most tragic loss.

He lowered his eyes as they collectively shared a moment of reflection and mourning. Then he watched Lady Westbury put away her handkerchief. So petite and fair-skinned. A most delightful shovelboard companion. Mayhap after the show I canst tup her, too... He took a breath and glanced to his right to indicate a middle-aged man in a felt cap with a greying beard.

But my loss is naught next to Sir Gavin Turner, such a brave and honourable knight. Who canst not be moved by his plight? A proud man who gave four sons – he held up the corresponding fingers – "four sons in the rightful struggle to regain Jerusalem."

The guests turned as one and began applauding, prompting Sir Gavin to stand and offer a small, slightly uncomfortable bow. Lord Fenwick smiled, choosing not to add that the knight still had one son left, although it was difficult to know how much consolation that teenage idiot provided as he mostly spent his time running through the village squawking like a crow on fire while dressed in his mother’s skirts.

Lord Fenwick turned back to Mohammed. The prisoner remained on all fours, his nose continually twitching at the mouth-watering array of aromas drifting from the food on the tables. His eyes spoke of ravenous hunger.

"And perchance this wretched creature – whom I hast arranged at great expense to be shipped hither from Jerusalem to face thy justice – even killed one of thy loved ones. Who knoweth?"

The guests booed and hissed with renewed vigour. More food was hurled with varying degrees of accuracy. An onion struck Mohammed’s rump before a wayward orange skidded along the High Table and knocked over a silver candlestick. Cobalt, meanwhile, barked twice and ran in a circle, having no idea what to do with the mustard-smeared herring that had landed just in front of her. She tentatively sniffed at the fish before giving a yelping snarl and snapping at something imaginary.

Lord Fenwick looked for the Turk’s interpreter, John Drake, and beckoned him from where he was standing by the screens passage below the minstrels’ gallery.

Now we wilt get some answers from this Saracen with the help of our most learned scholar, John Drake. He is familiar with their accursed tongue.

The guests roared approval as John Drake hesitantly made his way toward the front of the dais and stood in his sheepskin coat a little way from the guards.

"Saracen! The lord flung an arm toward the prisoner with a dramatic flourish. His outstretched index finger trembled with fury. Thou vexeth me greatly and thou wilt pay for thy grave sins!"

Mohammed muttered beneath his breath, shook his shaggy head and stared back with undisguised hostility.

Tell this animal, the lord said to John, to lower his eyes.

John interpreted the command to no avail. The lord gave a slow smile. He liked it when they showed a bit of fight. Babbling and begging for mercy from the onset was so run of the mill. Much better for their terror at the situation’s hopelessness to build, to save all that wailing and gnashing of teeth for the climax. He told John to interpret at the end of every sentence he spoke.

Saracen, dost thou deny Jesus Christ?

John asked the question, nodding as Mohammed struggled to reply in an even voice.

My liege, he sayeth he hast naught but love and reverence for Isa.

Who?

Tis what the Saracens nameth Jesus.

"They know not Our Lord’s name! Tis Jesus, fool! Jesus. He sat back down. But dost he deny the crucifixion, the resurrection, that Jesus is the Son of God?"

Mohammed garbled a rapid reply as the soldiers watched him with outright disdain.

Sire, he sayeth again he hast naught but love and respect for –

Yea, yea, the lord said, flapping a hand. But dost he accept Jesus Christ is the Son of God?

My lord, he believeth Jesus was a prophet, a great and mighty prophet who helped spread the word of God, and who now liveth eternally in heaven, but he sayeth... John swallowed. ...He sayeth Allah is not human, canst ne’r be thought of as human, and therefore didst not have a human son.

A great roar of outrage flared.

"Blasphemy!" they cried as Cobalt let out a troubled howl, bumped into the empty oak chair by the fireplace and took a very wet dump. She moved away, glancing back a little guiltily at the watery pool of shit.

"Filthy Turk! Lady Westbury screeched, apparently fully recovered from her bout of sorrow. Kill the blasphemer!"

The lord linked his hands and tried to look solemn. Things were going splendidly, although he realised the lighting could have been better. The great fire roaring in the hearth was providing a good deal of light, as were the many burning torches fixed to the walls, but there were still many shadows, of which the Saracen was half-concealed in one. Nothing could beat daylight and perhaps he should have staged things in the late afternoon when the sinking sun provided such splendid illumination through the bay window that ran along most of the western wall.

Well, he was still learning his craft. There was always next time.

He picked up his tankard of ale and finished it off with a few gulps. He indicated for a serving girl to refill it. She immediately trotted forward with jug in hand as he admired the way she moved and the thickness of her raven locks. How old was she? Twelve? Thirteen at most and already a most comely maiden. Buxom, even. How had he missed her before tonight? As of yet, he had given no thought to his post-show relaxation, but her virginal charms would no doubt provide the most soothing of balms.

And what be thy name, my gentle child?

Elspeth, my Lord.

He nodded as she finished filling his tankard and curtseyed. He watched her swaying hips as she retreated, took another gulp and banged the table with a fist.

Thou heardest Mohammed with thy own ears. He denieth Christ!

"Burn the unbeliever!"

"Break him on the wheel!"

Not to be outdone, Lady Westbury shrieked: "Flay him alive!"

The lord sat back and twiddled his thumbs, happy to let the fury rain down. One of his squires tried to clamber over a table to get at the Turk only to be shoved back by a soldier. For a while Lord Fenwick studied his family’s coat of arms hanging over the fireplace’s elaborate overmantel before glancing at the parchment lying alongside his side of pork. He ran his fingertips over its strange scrawled symbols. Then he slyly smiled, picked it up and made his way into the room.

The prisoner watched his every move as the soldiers grew visibly nervous at his approach, one of whom half-stooped to grip Mohammed’s shoulder. Lord Fenwick stood before the Turk and thrust the parchment at him.

Dost thou know this?

Mohammed’s eyes widened and he rapidly spoke. John began to interpret but the lord cut him off as he held up the scrap of parchment for everyone to see.

"This, my friends, is part of their holy book. Or should I sayeth their book of lies. Twas composed by Satan and tis practised by devils."

They nodded as one.

My dog, Cobalt, as thou can see, is a little vexed by all this... tomfoolery... and hast communicated her distress over by the fireplace. He pointed at the semi-liquid pile of faeces as a handful of guests tittered. Pray tell, what shalt I wipe her arse on?

The guests looked at one another, obviously confused. He waited. No one proffered a guess, forcing him to mutter a curse and hold up the fragment of the Koran.

The parchment! someone finally shouted. Use that!

Lord Fenwick nodded. Nothing like a little audience participation. He turned and called Cobalt, but she didn’t want to come. She stayed near the fire, trembling. He patted his thigh and tried a gentler tone. Cobalt eventually complied with tail between her legs. He grabbed the dog and positioned her just in front of the kneeling Turk. Then he slowly stooped and wiped her behind with the parchment to a great cry of appreciation.

The effect was instantaneous as the Turk furiously shouted and lunged. The soldiers struggled with the spirited attempt to break free, eventually restoring control with a punch to the face and a kick in the ribs. He slowly curled into a ball as Cobalt and her newly cleaned arse bolted into the private rooms behind the dais to prolonged peals of laughter.

Thou see...? he told the Saracen. Even a cur dost like not contact with thy filthy book! Even a dog canst tell tis wrong! He tossed the shit-smeared parchment back on the table, knowing the ultimatum he was about to deliver might very well backfire. Repent, reject thy foul, so-called religion, accept Jesus Christ as thy saviour, and I wilt spare thy life.

The Saracen repeatedly shook his head as John interpreted. By now the guests were almost foaming at the mouth, apoplectic with rage as they banged the tables and walls and pelted Mohammed with anything they could lay their hands on.

Repent! they bellowed. Repent, devil!

Splendid, the lord thought, things couldn’t possibly be going any better. It was almost like working from a script. Of course, no one actually wanted the Turk to repent as such a move would deflate, if not ruin, the evening’s entertainment, although if push came to shove he’d most probably be able to find a way round such an inconvenience.

The lord let things simmer for another minute or so before wandering back to the High Table and taking his seat again. Buoyed by the high drama, he finally held up a hand and tried to appear morose.

I gaveth him a chance, he said as Mohammed groaned. "Thou all heardst me. And yet he still sayeth nay. What canst I do?"

The inevitable cries to execute him in the most brutal fashion all duly followed.

The lord turned to John Drake. "I want thee to interpret my next words with great