A horror story, set in Amsterdam, based on my visits...
Posted: Mon 24th Sep 2012 07:18 pm
The following is a horror story I wrote 3 years ago. It's roughly based on my visits so I thought I'd include it here in the travelogues and share it with other visitors. The story is set in and around the Red Light District and visitors to the city will recognise the streets John walks. It’ll probably get you in the mood for another visit. If you’re like me you’ll get dragged back time and time again... Let me know what you think. (Note: It's the first story I wrote, also the italics haven't come through...)
Nothing Else Matters
I was sat in the bar of the Greenhouse Effect Hotel drinking a large glass of Amstel beer. I asked for a pint, but they don’t call them pints here do they? The bartender poured the amber liquid into the glass.
It was seven-thirty, a beautiful sunny June evening. The small bar was half full. I’d just come from a busy little Chinese restaurant on Zeedijk. I had a delicious supper of sweet and sour pork, boiled rice and spring rolls. My names John Sturdy, I was a tourist in the city of Amsterdam.
This was my second day. I arrived yesterday on a fifty minute flight into Schipol Airport. I couldn’t believe how easy the journey had been. Schipol was massive compared to the northern UK airport I’d flown out of. Once I was through passport control and collected my luggage I bought a train ticket on the main concourse, went down a set of escalators to the train platforms under the airport and boarded a yellow double-decker train for a twenty minute journey to Amsterdam Centraal Station.
I’d never been to Amsterdam before so I spent my first evening finding my bearings. I stayed close to Leidseplein Square, where my hotel was situated. I had an evening meal at a steakhouse and a few drinks around the busy square full of tourists. Both the meal and the following drinks were very expensive. If my money was to last the planned month I would have to conserve my money.
I’d woken around noon, to the sounds of the hotel cleaner vacuuming the room next door.
I spent the afternoon wandering around the picturesque canals, taking in the beautiful early summer scenery. If I’d had a pretty woman on my arm the Prinsengracht canal would easily have equalled Paris for romance. I did some window shopping, browsed the floating flower market on the Singel, and bought a postcard to send back to my folks in England. The rest of the afternoon was spent nursing a pint outside a canal side bar whilst reading an English red top newspaper I found in a newsagent opposite the flower market. The headline was about corrupt politicians: when would they ever learn? Another Premier League footballer having an affair: did anyone care? And a swine flu/avian flu type virus originating from a former Soviet Union country: Get ready for the media fuelled mass hysteria.
I sat admiring the fascinating Amsterdam architecture. The tall, thin brick fronted buildings with their oriental-like skyline. The stairs in my hotel were as steep as ladders. There was no room for lifts. Some of the buildings tilted to one side, some seeming to prop up the ones next door, whilst others almost teetered over the canals out front.
Now I found myself sat here at the bar in the Greenhouse Effect Hotel, on Warmoesstraat, situated in the Old Centre, supposedly the oldest street in the city. This area of Amsterdam had been recommended to me by a couple of English lads I’d briefly met sat outside the bar earlier in the afternoon. I was only a couple of streets over from the notorious Red Light District. I’d mentioned how expensive it was to drink out, five euro’s a pint. They told me it was nearer 3 euro’s in and around the Red Light District. I’d had a lager in a bar on the Nieuwmarkt, like Leidseplein, it was another popular square lined with bars and restaurants, dominated by the castle-like De Wagg, reportedly the location for the cities many executions in the distant past. Again the square was expensive. I followed the road around a sort of mini-Chinatown. Roast duck hung in many of the restaurant windows and standing out was the newish-looking Chinese Fo Guang Shan He Hua Buddist Temple. After my sweet and sour pork across the narrow street at Nam Kee, I passed more Chinese restaurants, bars, a gift shop - its window full of bongs - and small hotels clearly aimed at the backpacker. Here I found a quaint hotel. I stepped up from the cobbled street, out of the bright sunshine, into the dark interior of the Greenhouse Effect and found a place at the bar.
Sitting on a stool and waiting for a young woman in her early twenties to finish pouring I absorbed the clientele. There was a young couple sat at a pair of stools away to my right, both drinking at the bar. To my left, at the front, were two tables. One in the window was unoccupied. The other, a larger table, was taken by four young black men. They were in hysterics, all drinking lager and smoking large joints. On the wall was a cigarette machine, even though tobacco smoking was banned in public places. Behind me was what seemed to be a door leading to the rooms above, next to that were the toilets, to my right, beyond the bar another group of maybe four tables at the back of the room. About half of these were taken by youngish kids barely out of their teens. A sign proclaimed the rear tables were reserved for hotel guests only.
I got my Amstel and paid the three euro’s. It was obvious that if you wanted a trendy, expensive looking, smoke free bar it would cost you. But I was in Amsterdam so I decided to sample the coffee shop experience, even if I had no intention of smoking the weed.
I don’t know if it was the pungent smoke filling the small room or the alcohol but I was beginning to relax. This is what I’d come away for.
A long term relationship had come to a messy end, so I decided to take a month off work and do some travelling. Sitting here I managed to relax for the first time since the arguments began. Saving for a break had been easy enough. I had been forced to move back home with my parents, not easy in itself, but I’d been able to save quickly. So now I had a large amount of money and no real pressure to preserve it. Once the money was gone I’d buy a ticket and fly back home to continue on with my life.
A man of about twenty-five sat down next to me at the bar and ordered an Amstel. The young couple had since moved on to pastures new. I wasn’t used to idle chatter with strangers. I was a bit of a loner, happy to spend time on my own. I found it difficult having a conversation with someone I didn’t know. Hence, he started talking to me first. He introduced himself as Alan and told me he was visiting Amsterdam for a weekend of relaxation with two friends, both sat in a sports bar watching cricket on Sky Sports. If it’d be another time of year it would’ve been football, and he’d have been sat with them. But he hated cricket.
‘So what brings you to Amsterdam?’ He asked.
‘I just needed a break.’ I told him. I was happy for it to go no further. Pleasantries would do. But as I swigged down the last of my lager he held up his hand, called the bartender over, and ordered me another drink.
‘How long are you here for?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. He didn’t need to know that I’d just come out of a long term relationship and the flat I shared with my ex was owned by friends of her parents. Therefore I’d been chucked out. So I moved back home, enabling me with cheap rent at my parents to quickly save up for the month away. ‘I’m spending the month travelling. This is my first stop, I only arrived yesterday.’
‘Is this your first time in ‘Dam?’ He asked.
‘Yeah,’ I answered.
‘It’s an awesome place. This is my fourth visit. I love it. It’s like being on a different planet. Have you had a walk around the Red Light District yet?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s a real eye opener.’ Alan fished in his pocket and pulled out a small baggie of marijuana. ‘And the weeds as good as they say. Do you smoke?’
‘Not since I was at college.’
He searched in his other pocket and came out with a packet of cigarettes, rolling papers and a cigarette lighter. He took out a cigarette and put the pack away. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked as he crumbled the skunk bud from the baggie onto the rolling paper.
‘I typeset books for a book publisher.’ He looked perplexed. ‘I layout the text within a book,’ I simplified.
He finished rolling the joint by putting in a cardboard filter I remembered from my college days as being called a ‘roach’.
Alan put the joint in his mouth and lit up. The smell of the joint was very strong and immediately brought back memories of partying at college. Watching Cheech & Chong films; listening to Black Flag and Bad Religion; and passing out having drunk too much beer.
He handed over the joint which I hesitantly accepted. I hadn’t planned on smoking any pot. I thought my smoking days were far behind me. I took a drag and instantly coughed back the smoke. I wasn’t used to it. I had a drink of beer before taking a couple more puffs. I felt my eyelids relax. My head began to feel lighter. I was stoned for the first time in nearly fifteen years.
The effects of the drug must have been visible on my face.
‘It’s good!’ he exclaimed.
I handed back the joint, he had a toke then motioned the bartender over and asked to use the house bong behind the counter.
He pulled us each a bong, had a second, I declined, then ordered another round of drinks, which I insisted on paying for. He’d bought the last round. After I had the bong I thought of the swine flu-type virus which I’d read about in the paper. What if a Ruskie had come over to Amsterdam this week carrying the virus and he’d smoked the bong here, or infected someone else who had smoked the bong? What’s the chance? What the hell. If it was airborne, which it most likely was, you could catch it from being in the same room, and so far I hadn’t noticed anyone with a bad cold.
Surprisingly I enjoyed Alan’s company but the effects of the bong made it difficult to have any conversation. He got up from his stool and told me he’d only be a couple of minutes. Then he left. Going out for a cigarette?
I sat and gazed around the bar, the black men still occupied the large table, now their eyes were red and glazy. I accidently made eye contact and quickly looked away, paranoid. I felt more stoned than I’d ever been in my life. I took in the details of the place: the different types of alcohol behind the bar; mannerisms of the people and the looks on their faces; the pot openly on display. I shook my head: There really was nowhere like it on the planet.
Alan came back in with a small brown paper bag which he placed on the bar. He climbed onto his stool and took a swig of his lager, then opened the bag and took out two pieces of cake.
‘Chocolate space cake,’ he said. ‘They also had banana, but everyone loves chocolate.’
Oh no! I thought.
My month away had quickly turned into a drug induced haze thanks to Alan.
I shook my head. Hesitantly I ate the cake, which tasted surprisingly good. We had another round of Amstel, while waiting nervously for the cakes effects to kick in. Alan assured me it’d take about forty-five minutes. He told me about his job. He worked for Royal Mail. He hated the company, but loved the job, apart from the dogs. He hated dogs. He’d been bitten numerous times. He lived and worked in Leeds. I was from a small town on the edge of the North York Moors and travelled to work in York, only thirty minutes away from Leeds. It was a small world.
Suddenly I felt my body sag, all the muscles seemed to turn to liquid, quickly followed by my brain. I felt like I was melting into the stool. My eyes felt like they were thin slits, Chinese eyes.
I hated to think what I looked like.
No sooner had the effects kicked in when Alan declared that it was time for him to go and find his friends. Cricket should be about over. He said I was welcome to join them.
In my current state I didn’t feel like I could go anywhere, let alone meet anyone.
We said our goodbyes and Alan left. Just like that!
I was feeling rather paranoid sat alone at the bar. I felt as though everyone’s eyes were upon me and they all knew I was annihilated. Truth be-known, no one was probably watching and everyone else was stoned anyway. I decided I’d had enough to drink. The alcohol wouldn’t be helping, after the amount of cannabis I’d smoked it’d probably be making things worse.
Darkness was closing in. It was starting to get dark outside. It was time to depart and stumble back to my hotel room to sleep off the effects of the evening.
I thanked the bartender, trying to look normal which I certainly didn’t feel, and climbed down from the stool. My legs felt weak and I had difficulty walking to the door. I stumbled once or twice but managed to get there without having to hold on to anyone for support.
Outside, the fresh air felt wonderful compared to the smoky atmosphere of the bar. I’d forgotten what it was like in a pub before smoking was banned.
The street outside was far busier than before. Here people mainly walked. You did see vehicles delivering to the businesses along with mopeds and bicycles - or oma fiets as the Dutch call them - whizzing past. I couldn’t believe the amount of bikes I’d seen since arriving yesterday. At this time of day the traffic was solely pedestrian. I joined the bustle wandering the street. Young couples strolled hand in hand, along with lots of men, some on their own, or in groups, obviously drinking and smoking, like Alan and his friends. Some in a bad state staggering like zombies. Did I look like that?
I turned left down a short brightly-lit street, the strong smell of skunk was in abundance, wafting out of the open coffee shop windows reminding me of an elicit perfume. I stopped to gaze in the window of a sex shop. I remembered such a shop in York. There the windows were blacked out. Here everything was proudly displayed. At the back of the window a mannequin was dressed in full gimp outfit. There was also a large array of handcuffs; a dildo the shape and size of a baby’s arm; other dildo’s including a giant double-ender; butt-plugs; DVD’s; and an assortment of dressing up outfits.
If I was sober I might have gone in for a look, but in my current condition there was no chance of that. I stumbled down the street which connected Warmoesstraat with the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, passing more coffee shops, a mini supermarket, a restaurant and a strip club. At the end of the short street I walked passed a busy terraced bar which looked a lot like an English pub.
All types of denizens sat enjoying a drink and taking in the people passing to and from the Red Light District. It reminded me of the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars. A table came free next to the railings at the side of the canal. I decided to sit down under the umbrella. A waitress approached wearing jeans, a dark blue polo shirt and a bum band around her waist. I ordered a black coffee.
I sat in my drug induced daze watching the people pass by. Like outside the Greenhouse Effect there were many types: smokers and drinkers; tourists; and men journeying into the Red Light area. One man heading over the bridge must have weighed 18 stone. He was dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Accompanying him was a smaller man in his mid-twenties, sporting combat trousers and a Slayer t-shirt. If the larger man was looking for a woman then I hated to imagine him on top, or to be more precise, her underneath.
Another man, alone this time, rat-faced, wearing a stained beige raincoat hurried past. He looked like a dirty flasher. I wouldn’t want to follow him into a prostitute’s lair.
Two young men sat at the table next to me. One also drank coffee, the other a glass of Amstel. The coffee drinker hid a joint by his side and occasionally smoked it before passing it discretely to his friend.
More couples strolled past along with groups of stoners, and looking out-of-place were a group of OAPs on an evening excursion into the Red Light District.
I finished my coffee, set off over the bridge - its side filled with bicycles chained to the railings - and walked between a sex club and Febo’s. The lads who recommended the Red Light area for cheap drinks warned me not to go to Febo’s for cheap food. As I looked in the window I was immediately put off by the ready-made food waiting in vending machines.
Here the street was even busier. People bumped into me as they passed in both directions. I put my hand into my pocket to protect my wallet from potential pick-pockets. Then I was on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal canal in the heart of the Red Light District. All I could see were gaudy neon signs amidst a scarlet glow. I started down the canal side. I could hear music from the many bars. The night was warm.
The same crowds as before: single men; couples and small groups; even a larger group of Japanese tourists led by a tour guide. The tourists had their obligatory cameras strung around their necks, but none were clicking off pictures as signs proclaimed photographing was prohibited within the Red Light District. I’d heard stories of cameras being thrown into the canals.
The place was surreal.
I walked passed illuminated scarlet-framed doorways occupied by bored-looking scantily-dressed girls, some wearing negligee, others in nothing more than a bra and panties. There was something for everyone. All tastes to be catered for from young to old, attractive to darn right haggard. As I passed one window I made eye contact with the young woman seated behind the window. She was dressed in black negligee, slim with long legs and a distinct eastern European face. She beckoned me by tapping the glass and enticing me with a flick of her finger, but I shook my head feeling embarrassed and walked on.
Between the famous windows were more sex shops and basements selling DVDs, but it was the fluorescent scarlet doorways that caught my attention as I wandered the cobbles. One woman had that Swedish look about her. How did someone that good-looking have to stoop to this? In another life she could have been a swimwear model, but somehow she’d stumbled into a life of selling her body for money. She wore very little: white panties below a flat stomach, matching push-up bra and thigh length stockings covering long slim legs. She had a sweet smile and eyed me almost innocently, thrusting her boobs outwards.
After I walked passed I was almost drawn back for another look, she really was a looker, but a bicycle whooshed passed me ringing its bell as it fought with the pedestrians.
I continued on passing the flamboyant Casa Rosso Sex Club proclaiming live sex shows, I was offered entry for thirty euro. I shook my head again and continued on to the end of the Red Light District, my head still mashed from the effects of the space cake. I almost wobbled down the street, but nobody seemed to notice. My paranoia started to wear off. I was in Amsterdam after all and it was perfectly legal to walk down the street stoned off your face.
I walked over a small bridge and down a scarlet glowing alley, back to the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, and the foreboding Oude Kerk church, so out-of-place in such an area of debauchery. It was like a monument - or sanctuary - in the centre of all the sleaziness, neighboured by all the red-lit action. What did the priests think when walking to the church?
I walked around Oudekerksplein, circling the church, passed more scarlet windows and a coffee shop – there was a big dreadlocked man sat outside smoking a joint – when I spotted a neon sign advertising Sexyland. Maybe I’ll check it out before going back to my hotel.
As I walked towards the mouth of an alley I heard shouts from behind me. I turned but couldn’t make out what the commotion signalled. Maybe a client was roughing up a prostitute, robbing her, or refusing to pay?
I followed a group of men down the narrow alley, red fluorescent lights glowing over the doorways and arrived at Sexyland. I stepped up into the building.
The paranoid effects of the cannabis kicked in again. I tried to avoid eye contact with the man behind the counter. The collection of DVDs was very impressive. There was viewing booths where you could watch the DVDs as well as scheduled live shows. I went into a small booth, not much bigger than a toilet cubicle. I shut the door, locking it behind me. A swivel stool was positioned in front of a shuttered window. To the right of the stool, on the wall, was a small money slot to insert coins, below that a roll of toilet paper on a holder, accompanying it all a strong smell of disinfectant.
I sat on the stool and put some coins from my wallet into the slot. The shuttered window opened to reveal a woman kneeling with her back to a man on a round stage. Both were naked. The man was mainly obstructed behind the woman, but you could tell from their position that he wasn’t inside her. The woman’s back was arched, face to the ceiling. The man fondled her breasts.
She had a good handful.
They were a nice size, rounded and not too big. Her head was tilted back, blond hair brushed her shoulders. Her body was slim with a firm-looking stomach. When her dark nipples became visible they stood erect.
She slowly moved her body to his touch.
I found myself become excited.
I put in more money.
The man moved his hands away and the woman lowered on to her elbows, thrusting her bum into the air. The man’s huge glistening penis came into view, erect, shaking, as he moved behind the woman. He took hold of her hips and entered her, slowly thrusting at first. Streams of sweat coated her forehead.
I wonder how many times they’ve done it today.
I unzipped my jeans, took out my penis and began to stroke it in rhythm to the thrusts, watching the shake of the woman’s pale breasts.
A knock at the door made me jump.
‘This one’s taken,’ I shouted.
I turned back to the couple copulating. My strokes became faster as a studied the smooth curves of the woman’s body, her erect nipples aching to be sucked.
There was another bang at the door. Louder this time, more unrefined.
I turned to the door. ‘I won’t be long. The money’s nearly used up!’
Turning back I found myself going limp.
Sod it. Irritated now, I tucked myself away, and zipped up.
The performance was still going on, my money not yet used up, but I left them behind. I unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer.
There was nobody behind the counter.
A scuffle caught my attention, on the floor to my left, away from the door. Someone was laid on their back, a man on top. There were DVDs scattered on the floor, as though knocked from the stands during a fight. I didn’t recognise the man on top but the other was the one from behind the counter when I came in.
The man on top must have heard me. He knelt back and looked over his shoulder, right at me. I was looking at crazed eyes. A rictus grin. Mouth smeared in blood, frantically chewing on something. The man laid on the floor had blood around his neck and soaking the shoulder area of his white t-shirt. I suddenly began to panic. I had a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The attacker got to his feet so I turned away and ran out of the building, into total chaos. The alley was full of people gripped by mass hysteria.
I ran with the flow of people, out of the alley, back towards the Oude Kirk. Once in the open some people ran left, around Oudekirksplein, toward Warmoesstraat. Others ran to the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal and away from the Red Light District. Screams could be heard in all directions. The Rasta who sat outside the coffee shop before was now slumped in a puddle of his own blood. His head was at an odd angle, neck broken.
I heard a car door slam shut across the canal. It was a black Ford Fiesta. The driver started it up, as someone else tried to get in the passenger side. The door must have been locked because the person frantically pulled at the door handle, before violently bang on the window with the sides of both fists. The car pulled away but crashed into more people running the opposite way down the street. As it picked up speed someone went over the bonnet, hitting the windscreen, falling away. The car bumped over another, leaving the person laid out on the cobbles. The one who went over the bonnet must have shattered the windscreen because the car veered off the road and crashed through the railings and into the canal, quickly sinking.
I got to the canal side, with the crazed attacker behind me. I was scared-shitless. The street to my left, squeezed between the church and the canal seemed the quietest so I ran for it.
What the hell was happening?
I looked back. The thing was still after me. I can only refer to it as a thing because of its blood-smeared mouth and the crazy, psychotic look in its eyes. Where was I going to go? The hotel was a fair trek away so that was out of the question.
The Greenhouse Effect would be as good place as any.
As I ran I could hear the footfalls of my pursuer close behind me. A speeding car came out of nowhere, heading down the narrow street. I had to dive out of the way or it would have hit me. As I dived the driver swerved and hit a green lamppost leaving it tilted precariously to one side. The driver wasn’t as lucky. He obviously wasn’t wearing a seatbelt because he shot head first out of the windscreen, and lay on the street, slowly coming too. His eyes looked at me through a bloody face, then moving to the zombie which had been chasing me. I now thought of the things as zombies. The zombie lost all interest in me and collapsed onto the driver like someone who hadn’t been fed in a week.
I got up, looked down at my ripped jeans, and ran on.
I passed a boarded up building under renovation, empty scarlet windows, and a Bulldog coffee shop with Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ coming from within. Without any warning a woman flew out of a building, screaming hysterically, and bumped into me. The impact knocked me sideways but I managed to right myself. Two or three more zombies came out of the building after the woman. I couldn’t stop or these new zombies might come after me.
I ran over the cobbles, I could feel my heart beating in my chest, at least one of the zombies was after me. A prone figure lay in the street. Just as I took off to jump it the figure reanimated. Arm coming up, torso starting to rise. I had to re-adjust my jump, but when I landed I felt my ankle go from under me, sending me crashing to the ground, scraping my knees and hands, leaving both my palms bloody. Before I knew it the pursuing zombie crashed into me like a rugby player stopping a match winning try. The wind was knocked from me and the side of my head slammed against the cobbles. I felt teeth sink into my upper arm. They sank in deep and I could feel the jaw moving vigorously, trying to chew off part of my arm. I punched the thing repeatedly in the face three or four times but it wouldn’t let go. So I jabbed two fingers into its red bloodshot eyes. It unclenched its teeth for a second giving me time to pull free. I drove my elbow into its temple enabling me to get away from its gnashing teeth. I scrambled to my feet and kicked it in the head. Then I kicked it again, and again. The other zombies had gone after the woman. I was alone with this thing. It lay flat on the floor so I stamped on its head repeatedly, until blood and brains leaked from its eyes, nose and mouth.
The number of people on the street had diminished. I could hear people over the canal but there was nobody in front of me. I continued away from Sexyland at a brisk walk, trying to decide what to do. A scarlet-framed doorway opened as I passed and I stood face to face with another man, his face covered with blood from a large gash over his right eye. The blood had soaked his checked cowboy shirt, but I could see from the look in his eyes that he hadn’t changed into one of these things. Before I could speak he took off running towards Sexyland, leaving me standing speechless. I let him go.
I passed the terraced bar I’d sat at less than an hour before, chairs and tables overturned in the street. Earlier I’d come from the hotel on my left then over the bridge to Febo’s on my right.
Ahead of me the street was quiet and dark. Trees shaded the street from the lampposts. The northern end of the canal came to a dead end, but the street led through. I cautiously walked past the bridge and a corner shop on my left. Down in the canal, opposite the entrance to the Hotel Vijaya, was a small boat probably used by a local to navigate the canals. It was covered by a plastic blue sheet and tied to a mooring. I looked around. There was nobody in sight so I climbed down to the boat. I untied some of the sheet, still no sign of anyone, so I climbed in, pulling the sheet back into place behind me.
I lay on the floor of the small boat, my head and feet touching either end. I was unable to see out but I heard the occasional clatter of running feet. There was a women’s scream from the other side of the canal. Shock seemed to take over. I could do nothing but lay on my back. I didn’t want to look out and see zombies coming for me. I just wanted to hide away until the nightmare ended.
What had caused this to happen? I thought of the virus story in the paper. Could that really be it? What caused the zombies to turn? I felt the wetness on my arm caused by the zombie’s bite. Would I turn into a zombie myself or did they have to kill me before I turned like the reanimated zombie in the street, or was it airborne. Would we all turn in time?
Now I’d stopped running I felt exhausted. I briefly slept, snapping awake at the sounds of running feet on the cobbled street above me. More screams and a loud splash as someone fell into the canal, or jumped in trying to escape the madness.
I fell asleep again and woke to the sound of more terrified screams.
Later still I awoke to sunlight penetrating the plastic sheeting. There was only silence. No people, no cars and no bikes. Not even the sound of birds. I rolled over, my body ached, and lifted open the sheeting to peer out. The street was empty but a scene of destruction like a post-apocalyptic horror film played out in front of me. This wasn’t the romantic Amsterdam I’d witnessed yesterday whilst strolling down the Prinsengracht canal.
I slowly climbed out of the boat onto the embankment and before I knew it someone - a woman - came running past me. We looked at each other. She hesitated as though deciding whether to push past me and climb down onto the boat, then chose against it and ran off. I heard heavier footfalls and a zombie came along. It looked at me. Its mouth and chest were bloody, glassy eyes almost sunken into the pale face. Then it looked back at its prey and carried on in pursuit.
It wasn’t all a bad dream. At the sight of the thing I felt the terror from last night return, then as it departed, I felt a calmness flood over me. I started walking up the street. I felt weak, and hungry.
I heard shouting from the other side of the canal and looked over. Someone was waving from an opened window on the second floor of a sports bar. He was shouting my name. On a second glance I could see it was Alan. He was calling me over. I jogged over the bridge, now quiet and deserted. I turned left down a small cobbled road to the bar, above was a youth hostel. Alan had come down to the side door, probably the entrance to the hostel.
‘Fuck me Johnny. How are you?’ He asked. ‘Come on up. We barricaded ourselves in a room last night, but no zombies have been in the building.’
We went up the steep stairs, a great place to defend. I couldn’t believe I was actually here talking to Alan. I found myself in a hotel-type corridor with guest-rooms leading off on both sides.
‘I saw you climb out of that small boat across the canal.’ He opened the third door along on our right, into the room he’d been shouting from before. It was how you’d imagine a youth hostel room to look. Two metal framed bunk beds and a white ceramic sink. Magnolia walls, brown carpet. One of the bunks had been pushed up against the door. Alan and another man pushed it back.
I was introduced to Alan’s two friends. Benny had helped Alan move the bunk bed. He sat back down on the bed and resumed rolling a joint. Rich stood with his back to the room’s only window smoking another joint.
I didn’t want to smoke. I felt warm. I know its June, but it was only early morning. I could feel perspiration beading on my forehead and my shirt sticking to my back, but most of all I was hungry, hungry for warm, bloody flesh.
***
John, the man Alan drank with last night at the Greenhouse Effect Hotel, let out a loud desperate moan. Alan noticed he was sweating profusely and his face seemed to have come out in red blotches. John didn’t look well.
John stepped forward and grabbed hold of Rich, who was stepping across the room to hand his joint to Alan. As the man grabbed Rich’s sleeve the joint fell to the floor. John bit into Rich’s cheek, tearing flesh away with his clenched teeth. Rich let out a cry, putting his hand to his torn face, looking at the blood on his hand. He quickly backed away from the newcomer, out of arms reach, back towards the window. All three men looked at John. The red blotches on his face now looked more like sores. His eyes seemed to have sunken into his face. Sweat ran down from his temples.
For a brief moment time stood still.
John continued after his victim.
Rich let out a loud shriek, realising the extent of what had just happened. Before Alan could move Rich rushed forward and took a dive head first through the open window.
Alan knew why he’d done it. During the night they’d discussed what they’d do if they were bitten. They all wanted their friends to kill them, if they could, before they turned. None of them wanted to join the hordes of the living dead.
John faced the window with his back to Alan, giving Alan an idea. He charged forward thrusting both hands into John’s back. Putting all his weight into it he pushed John towards the window. John’s thighs hit the windowsill and he toppled over the edge, arms flailing frantically. The two remaining men looked out through the broken window, down into the street below. John the zombie lay twisted. He must have landed head first. Blood and brains covered the cobbled street. Rich hadn’t been so lucky. He lay on his stomach, back broken, flapping his arms like a beetle stuck on its back trying to right itself.
His head craned around, eyes pleading to his friends for mercy.
‘Give me a hand with this,’ said Alan. He dragged a bedside cabinet over to the window. Benny helped him hoist it up. They aimed for Rich’s head and dropped it out. The cabinet broke on impact, putting their friend out of his misery.
Alan looked up from the bodies and brought his gaze upon the small boat moored to the other side of the canal. The very same boat John had climbed from earlier.
‘See that boat over there,’ he said to Benny. ‘That’s our way out of this fuck hole.’
‘But everywhere might be like this,’ said Benny in a state of shock.
‘We can’t stay here. The city will be full of them. A boat’s the safest way out.’
‘We’ll have to stock up,’ Benny was starting to think straight. ‘Wherever we go weed will be in short supply.’
Alan picked up Rich’s rucksack and emptied the contents onto the worn carpet.
‘Come on then, let’s stocks up.’
-THE END-
Nothing Else Matters
I was sat in the bar of the Greenhouse Effect Hotel drinking a large glass of Amstel beer. I asked for a pint, but they don’t call them pints here do they? The bartender poured the amber liquid into the glass.
It was seven-thirty, a beautiful sunny June evening. The small bar was half full. I’d just come from a busy little Chinese restaurant on Zeedijk. I had a delicious supper of sweet and sour pork, boiled rice and spring rolls. My names John Sturdy, I was a tourist in the city of Amsterdam.
This was my second day. I arrived yesterday on a fifty minute flight into Schipol Airport. I couldn’t believe how easy the journey had been. Schipol was massive compared to the northern UK airport I’d flown out of. Once I was through passport control and collected my luggage I bought a train ticket on the main concourse, went down a set of escalators to the train platforms under the airport and boarded a yellow double-decker train for a twenty minute journey to Amsterdam Centraal Station.
I’d never been to Amsterdam before so I spent my first evening finding my bearings. I stayed close to Leidseplein Square, where my hotel was situated. I had an evening meal at a steakhouse and a few drinks around the busy square full of tourists. Both the meal and the following drinks were very expensive. If my money was to last the planned month I would have to conserve my money.
I’d woken around noon, to the sounds of the hotel cleaner vacuuming the room next door.
I spent the afternoon wandering around the picturesque canals, taking in the beautiful early summer scenery. If I’d had a pretty woman on my arm the Prinsengracht canal would easily have equalled Paris for romance. I did some window shopping, browsed the floating flower market on the Singel, and bought a postcard to send back to my folks in England. The rest of the afternoon was spent nursing a pint outside a canal side bar whilst reading an English red top newspaper I found in a newsagent opposite the flower market. The headline was about corrupt politicians: when would they ever learn? Another Premier League footballer having an affair: did anyone care? And a swine flu/avian flu type virus originating from a former Soviet Union country: Get ready for the media fuelled mass hysteria.
I sat admiring the fascinating Amsterdam architecture. The tall, thin brick fronted buildings with their oriental-like skyline. The stairs in my hotel were as steep as ladders. There was no room for lifts. Some of the buildings tilted to one side, some seeming to prop up the ones next door, whilst others almost teetered over the canals out front.
Now I found myself sat here at the bar in the Greenhouse Effect Hotel, on Warmoesstraat, situated in the Old Centre, supposedly the oldest street in the city. This area of Amsterdam had been recommended to me by a couple of English lads I’d briefly met sat outside the bar earlier in the afternoon. I was only a couple of streets over from the notorious Red Light District. I’d mentioned how expensive it was to drink out, five euro’s a pint. They told me it was nearer 3 euro’s in and around the Red Light District. I’d had a lager in a bar on the Nieuwmarkt, like Leidseplein, it was another popular square lined with bars and restaurants, dominated by the castle-like De Wagg, reportedly the location for the cities many executions in the distant past. Again the square was expensive. I followed the road around a sort of mini-Chinatown. Roast duck hung in many of the restaurant windows and standing out was the newish-looking Chinese Fo Guang Shan He Hua Buddist Temple. After my sweet and sour pork across the narrow street at Nam Kee, I passed more Chinese restaurants, bars, a gift shop - its window full of bongs - and small hotels clearly aimed at the backpacker. Here I found a quaint hotel. I stepped up from the cobbled street, out of the bright sunshine, into the dark interior of the Greenhouse Effect and found a place at the bar.
Sitting on a stool and waiting for a young woman in her early twenties to finish pouring I absorbed the clientele. There was a young couple sat at a pair of stools away to my right, both drinking at the bar. To my left, at the front, were two tables. One in the window was unoccupied. The other, a larger table, was taken by four young black men. They were in hysterics, all drinking lager and smoking large joints. On the wall was a cigarette machine, even though tobacco smoking was banned in public places. Behind me was what seemed to be a door leading to the rooms above, next to that were the toilets, to my right, beyond the bar another group of maybe four tables at the back of the room. About half of these were taken by youngish kids barely out of their teens. A sign proclaimed the rear tables were reserved for hotel guests only.
I got my Amstel and paid the three euro’s. It was obvious that if you wanted a trendy, expensive looking, smoke free bar it would cost you. But I was in Amsterdam so I decided to sample the coffee shop experience, even if I had no intention of smoking the weed.
I don’t know if it was the pungent smoke filling the small room or the alcohol but I was beginning to relax. This is what I’d come away for.
A long term relationship had come to a messy end, so I decided to take a month off work and do some travelling. Sitting here I managed to relax for the first time since the arguments began. Saving for a break had been easy enough. I had been forced to move back home with my parents, not easy in itself, but I’d been able to save quickly. So now I had a large amount of money and no real pressure to preserve it. Once the money was gone I’d buy a ticket and fly back home to continue on with my life.
A man of about twenty-five sat down next to me at the bar and ordered an Amstel. The young couple had since moved on to pastures new. I wasn’t used to idle chatter with strangers. I was a bit of a loner, happy to spend time on my own. I found it difficult having a conversation with someone I didn’t know. Hence, he started talking to me first. He introduced himself as Alan and told me he was visiting Amsterdam for a weekend of relaxation with two friends, both sat in a sports bar watching cricket on Sky Sports. If it’d be another time of year it would’ve been football, and he’d have been sat with them. But he hated cricket.
‘So what brings you to Amsterdam?’ He asked.
‘I just needed a break.’ I told him. I was happy for it to go no further. Pleasantries would do. But as I swigged down the last of my lager he held up his hand, called the bartender over, and ordered me another drink.
‘How long are you here for?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. He didn’t need to know that I’d just come out of a long term relationship and the flat I shared with my ex was owned by friends of her parents. Therefore I’d been chucked out. So I moved back home, enabling me with cheap rent at my parents to quickly save up for the month away. ‘I’m spending the month travelling. This is my first stop, I only arrived yesterday.’
‘Is this your first time in ‘Dam?’ He asked.
‘Yeah,’ I answered.
‘It’s an awesome place. This is my fourth visit. I love it. It’s like being on a different planet. Have you had a walk around the Red Light District yet?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s a real eye opener.’ Alan fished in his pocket and pulled out a small baggie of marijuana. ‘And the weeds as good as they say. Do you smoke?’
‘Not since I was at college.’
He searched in his other pocket and came out with a packet of cigarettes, rolling papers and a cigarette lighter. He took out a cigarette and put the pack away. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked as he crumbled the skunk bud from the baggie onto the rolling paper.
‘I typeset books for a book publisher.’ He looked perplexed. ‘I layout the text within a book,’ I simplified.
He finished rolling the joint by putting in a cardboard filter I remembered from my college days as being called a ‘roach’.
Alan put the joint in his mouth and lit up. The smell of the joint was very strong and immediately brought back memories of partying at college. Watching Cheech & Chong films; listening to Black Flag and Bad Religion; and passing out having drunk too much beer.
He handed over the joint which I hesitantly accepted. I hadn’t planned on smoking any pot. I thought my smoking days were far behind me. I took a drag and instantly coughed back the smoke. I wasn’t used to it. I had a drink of beer before taking a couple more puffs. I felt my eyelids relax. My head began to feel lighter. I was stoned for the first time in nearly fifteen years.
The effects of the drug must have been visible on my face.
‘It’s good!’ he exclaimed.
I handed back the joint, he had a toke then motioned the bartender over and asked to use the house bong behind the counter.
He pulled us each a bong, had a second, I declined, then ordered another round of drinks, which I insisted on paying for. He’d bought the last round. After I had the bong I thought of the swine flu-type virus which I’d read about in the paper. What if a Ruskie had come over to Amsterdam this week carrying the virus and he’d smoked the bong here, or infected someone else who had smoked the bong? What’s the chance? What the hell. If it was airborne, which it most likely was, you could catch it from being in the same room, and so far I hadn’t noticed anyone with a bad cold.
Surprisingly I enjoyed Alan’s company but the effects of the bong made it difficult to have any conversation. He got up from his stool and told me he’d only be a couple of minutes. Then he left. Going out for a cigarette?
I sat and gazed around the bar, the black men still occupied the large table, now their eyes were red and glazy. I accidently made eye contact and quickly looked away, paranoid. I felt more stoned than I’d ever been in my life. I took in the details of the place: the different types of alcohol behind the bar; mannerisms of the people and the looks on their faces; the pot openly on display. I shook my head: There really was nowhere like it on the planet.
Alan came back in with a small brown paper bag which he placed on the bar. He climbed onto his stool and took a swig of his lager, then opened the bag and took out two pieces of cake.
‘Chocolate space cake,’ he said. ‘They also had banana, but everyone loves chocolate.’
Oh no! I thought.
My month away had quickly turned into a drug induced haze thanks to Alan.
I shook my head. Hesitantly I ate the cake, which tasted surprisingly good. We had another round of Amstel, while waiting nervously for the cakes effects to kick in. Alan assured me it’d take about forty-five minutes. He told me about his job. He worked for Royal Mail. He hated the company, but loved the job, apart from the dogs. He hated dogs. He’d been bitten numerous times. He lived and worked in Leeds. I was from a small town on the edge of the North York Moors and travelled to work in York, only thirty minutes away from Leeds. It was a small world.
Suddenly I felt my body sag, all the muscles seemed to turn to liquid, quickly followed by my brain. I felt like I was melting into the stool. My eyes felt like they were thin slits, Chinese eyes.
I hated to think what I looked like.
No sooner had the effects kicked in when Alan declared that it was time for him to go and find his friends. Cricket should be about over. He said I was welcome to join them.
In my current state I didn’t feel like I could go anywhere, let alone meet anyone.
We said our goodbyes and Alan left. Just like that!
I was feeling rather paranoid sat alone at the bar. I felt as though everyone’s eyes were upon me and they all knew I was annihilated. Truth be-known, no one was probably watching and everyone else was stoned anyway. I decided I’d had enough to drink. The alcohol wouldn’t be helping, after the amount of cannabis I’d smoked it’d probably be making things worse.
Darkness was closing in. It was starting to get dark outside. It was time to depart and stumble back to my hotel room to sleep off the effects of the evening.
I thanked the bartender, trying to look normal which I certainly didn’t feel, and climbed down from the stool. My legs felt weak and I had difficulty walking to the door. I stumbled once or twice but managed to get there without having to hold on to anyone for support.
Outside, the fresh air felt wonderful compared to the smoky atmosphere of the bar. I’d forgotten what it was like in a pub before smoking was banned.
The street outside was far busier than before. Here people mainly walked. You did see vehicles delivering to the businesses along with mopeds and bicycles - or oma fiets as the Dutch call them - whizzing past. I couldn’t believe the amount of bikes I’d seen since arriving yesterday. At this time of day the traffic was solely pedestrian. I joined the bustle wandering the street. Young couples strolled hand in hand, along with lots of men, some on their own, or in groups, obviously drinking and smoking, like Alan and his friends. Some in a bad state staggering like zombies. Did I look like that?
I turned left down a short brightly-lit street, the strong smell of skunk was in abundance, wafting out of the open coffee shop windows reminding me of an elicit perfume. I stopped to gaze in the window of a sex shop. I remembered such a shop in York. There the windows were blacked out. Here everything was proudly displayed. At the back of the window a mannequin was dressed in full gimp outfit. There was also a large array of handcuffs; a dildo the shape and size of a baby’s arm; other dildo’s including a giant double-ender; butt-plugs; DVD’s; and an assortment of dressing up outfits.
If I was sober I might have gone in for a look, but in my current condition there was no chance of that. I stumbled down the street which connected Warmoesstraat with the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, passing more coffee shops, a mini supermarket, a restaurant and a strip club. At the end of the short street I walked passed a busy terraced bar which looked a lot like an English pub.
All types of denizens sat enjoying a drink and taking in the people passing to and from the Red Light District. It reminded me of the Mos Eisley cantina from Star Wars. A table came free next to the railings at the side of the canal. I decided to sit down under the umbrella. A waitress approached wearing jeans, a dark blue polo shirt and a bum band around her waist. I ordered a black coffee.
I sat in my drug induced daze watching the people pass by. Like outside the Greenhouse Effect there were many types: smokers and drinkers; tourists; and men journeying into the Red Light area. One man heading over the bridge must have weighed 18 stone. He was dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Accompanying him was a smaller man in his mid-twenties, sporting combat trousers and a Slayer t-shirt. If the larger man was looking for a woman then I hated to imagine him on top, or to be more precise, her underneath.
Another man, alone this time, rat-faced, wearing a stained beige raincoat hurried past. He looked like a dirty flasher. I wouldn’t want to follow him into a prostitute’s lair.
Two young men sat at the table next to me. One also drank coffee, the other a glass of Amstel. The coffee drinker hid a joint by his side and occasionally smoked it before passing it discretely to his friend.
More couples strolled past along with groups of stoners, and looking out-of-place were a group of OAPs on an evening excursion into the Red Light District.
I finished my coffee, set off over the bridge - its side filled with bicycles chained to the railings - and walked between a sex club and Febo’s. The lads who recommended the Red Light area for cheap drinks warned me not to go to Febo’s for cheap food. As I looked in the window I was immediately put off by the ready-made food waiting in vending machines.
Here the street was even busier. People bumped into me as they passed in both directions. I put my hand into my pocket to protect my wallet from potential pick-pockets. Then I was on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal canal in the heart of the Red Light District. All I could see were gaudy neon signs amidst a scarlet glow. I started down the canal side. I could hear music from the many bars. The night was warm.
The same crowds as before: single men; couples and small groups; even a larger group of Japanese tourists led by a tour guide. The tourists had their obligatory cameras strung around their necks, but none were clicking off pictures as signs proclaimed photographing was prohibited within the Red Light District. I’d heard stories of cameras being thrown into the canals.
The place was surreal.
I walked passed illuminated scarlet-framed doorways occupied by bored-looking scantily-dressed girls, some wearing negligee, others in nothing more than a bra and panties. There was something for everyone. All tastes to be catered for from young to old, attractive to darn right haggard. As I passed one window I made eye contact with the young woman seated behind the window. She was dressed in black negligee, slim with long legs and a distinct eastern European face. She beckoned me by tapping the glass and enticing me with a flick of her finger, but I shook my head feeling embarrassed and walked on.
Between the famous windows were more sex shops and basements selling DVDs, but it was the fluorescent scarlet doorways that caught my attention as I wandered the cobbles. One woman had that Swedish look about her. How did someone that good-looking have to stoop to this? In another life she could have been a swimwear model, but somehow she’d stumbled into a life of selling her body for money. She wore very little: white panties below a flat stomach, matching push-up bra and thigh length stockings covering long slim legs. She had a sweet smile and eyed me almost innocently, thrusting her boobs outwards.
After I walked passed I was almost drawn back for another look, she really was a looker, but a bicycle whooshed passed me ringing its bell as it fought with the pedestrians.
I continued on passing the flamboyant Casa Rosso Sex Club proclaiming live sex shows, I was offered entry for thirty euro. I shook my head again and continued on to the end of the Red Light District, my head still mashed from the effects of the space cake. I almost wobbled down the street, but nobody seemed to notice. My paranoia started to wear off. I was in Amsterdam after all and it was perfectly legal to walk down the street stoned off your face.
I walked over a small bridge and down a scarlet glowing alley, back to the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, and the foreboding Oude Kerk church, so out-of-place in such an area of debauchery. It was like a monument - or sanctuary - in the centre of all the sleaziness, neighboured by all the red-lit action. What did the priests think when walking to the church?
I walked around Oudekerksplein, circling the church, passed more scarlet windows and a coffee shop – there was a big dreadlocked man sat outside smoking a joint – when I spotted a neon sign advertising Sexyland. Maybe I’ll check it out before going back to my hotel.
As I walked towards the mouth of an alley I heard shouts from behind me. I turned but couldn’t make out what the commotion signalled. Maybe a client was roughing up a prostitute, robbing her, or refusing to pay?
I followed a group of men down the narrow alley, red fluorescent lights glowing over the doorways and arrived at Sexyland. I stepped up into the building.
The paranoid effects of the cannabis kicked in again. I tried to avoid eye contact with the man behind the counter. The collection of DVDs was very impressive. There was viewing booths where you could watch the DVDs as well as scheduled live shows. I went into a small booth, not much bigger than a toilet cubicle. I shut the door, locking it behind me. A swivel stool was positioned in front of a shuttered window. To the right of the stool, on the wall, was a small money slot to insert coins, below that a roll of toilet paper on a holder, accompanying it all a strong smell of disinfectant.
I sat on the stool and put some coins from my wallet into the slot. The shuttered window opened to reveal a woman kneeling with her back to a man on a round stage. Both were naked. The man was mainly obstructed behind the woman, but you could tell from their position that he wasn’t inside her. The woman’s back was arched, face to the ceiling. The man fondled her breasts.
She had a good handful.
They were a nice size, rounded and not too big. Her head was tilted back, blond hair brushed her shoulders. Her body was slim with a firm-looking stomach. When her dark nipples became visible they stood erect.
She slowly moved her body to his touch.
I found myself become excited.
I put in more money.
The man moved his hands away and the woman lowered on to her elbows, thrusting her bum into the air. The man’s huge glistening penis came into view, erect, shaking, as he moved behind the woman. He took hold of her hips and entered her, slowly thrusting at first. Streams of sweat coated her forehead.
I wonder how many times they’ve done it today.
I unzipped my jeans, took out my penis and began to stroke it in rhythm to the thrusts, watching the shake of the woman’s pale breasts.
A knock at the door made me jump.
‘This one’s taken,’ I shouted.
I turned back to the couple copulating. My strokes became faster as a studied the smooth curves of the woman’s body, her erect nipples aching to be sucked.
There was another bang at the door. Louder this time, more unrefined.
I turned to the door. ‘I won’t be long. The money’s nearly used up!’
Turning back I found myself going limp.
Sod it. Irritated now, I tucked myself away, and zipped up.
The performance was still going on, my money not yet used up, but I left them behind. I unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer.
There was nobody behind the counter.
A scuffle caught my attention, on the floor to my left, away from the door. Someone was laid on their back, a man on top. There were DVDs scattered on the floor, as though knocked from the stands during a fight. I didn’t recognise the man on top but the other was the one from behind the counter when I came in.
The man on top must have heard me. He knelt back and looked over his shoulder, right at me. I was looking at crazed eyes. A rictus grin. Mouth smeared in blood, frantically chewing on something. The man laid on the floor had blood around his neck and soaking the shoulder area of his white t-shirt. I suddenly began to panic. I had a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The attacker got to his feet so I turned away and ran out of the building, into total chaos. The alley was full of people gripped by mass hysteria.
I ran with the flow of people, out of the alley, back towards the Oude Kirk. Once in the open some people ran left, around Oudekirksplein, toward Warmoesstraat. Others ran to the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal and away from the Red Light District. Screams could be heard in all directions. The Rasta who sat outside the coffee shop before was now slumped in a puddle of his own blood. His head was at an odd angle, neck broken.
I heard a car door slam shut across the canal. It was a black Ford Fiesta. The driver started it up, as someone else tried to get in the passenger side. The door must have been locked because the person frantically pulled at the door handle, before violently bang on the window with the sides of both fists. The car pulled away but crashed into more people running the opposite way down the street. As it picked up speed someone went over the bonnet, hitting the windscreen, falling away. The car bumped over another, leaving the person laid out on the cobbles. The one who went over the bonnet must have shattered the windscreen because the car veered off the road and crashed through the railings and into the canal, quickly sinking.
I got to the canal side, with the crazed attacker behind me. I was scared-shitless. The street to my left, squeezed between the church and the canal seemed the quietest so I ran for it.
What the hell was happening?
I looked back. The thing was still after me. I can only refer to it as a thing because of its blood-smeared mouth and the crazy, psychotic look in its eyes. Where was I going to go? The hotel was a fair trek away so that was out of the question.
The Greenhouse Effect would be as good place as any.
As I ran I could hear the footfalls of my pursuer close behind me. A speeding car came out of nowhere, heading down the narrow street. I had to dive out of the way or it would have hit me. As I dived the driver swerved and hit a green lamppost leaving it tilted precariously to one side. The driver wasn’t as lucky. He obviously wasn’t wearing a seatbelt because he shot head first out of the windscreen, and lay on the street, slowly coming too. His eyes looked at me through a bloody face, then moving to the zombie which had been chasing me. I now thought of the things as zombies. The zombie lost all interest in me and collapsed onto the driver like someone who hadn’t been fed in a week.
I got up, looked down at my ripped jeans, and ran on.
I passed a boarded up building under renovation, empty scarlet windows, and a Bulldog coffee shop with Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ coming from within. Without any warning a woman flew out of a building, screaming hysterically, and bumped into me. The impact knocked me sideways but I managed to right myself. Two or three more zombies came out of the building after the woman. I couldn’t stop or these new zombies might come after me.
I ran over the cobbles, I could feel my heart beating in my chest, at least one of the zombies was after me. A prone figure lay in the street. Just as I took off to jump it the figure reanimated. Arm coming up, torso starting to rise. I had to re-adjust my jump, but when I landed I felt my ankle go from under me, sending me crashing to the ground, scraping my knees and hands, leaving both my palms bloody. Before I knew it the pursuing zombie crashed into me like a rugby player stopping a match winning try. The wind was knocked from me and the side of my head slammed against the cobbles. I felt teeth sink into my upper arm. They sank in deep and I could feel the jaw moving vigorously, trying to chew off part of my arm. I punched the thing repeatedly in the face three or four times but it wouldn’t let go. So I jabbed two fingers into its red bloodshot eyes. It unclenched its teeth for a second giving me time to pull free. I drove my elbow into its temple enabling me to get away from its gnashing teeth. I scrambled to my feet and kicked it in the head. Then I kicked it again, and again. The other zombies had gone after the woman. I was alone with this thing. It lay flat on the floor so I stamped on its head repeatedly, until blood and brains leaked from its eyes, nose and mouth.
The number of people on the street had diminished. I could hear people over the canal but there was nobody in front of me. I continued away from Sexyland at a brisk walk, trying to decide what to do. A scarlet-framed doorway opened as I passed and I stood face to face with another man, his face covered with blood from a large gash over his right eye. The blood had soaked his checked cowboy shirt, but I could see from the look in his eyes that he hadn’t changed into one of these things. Before I could speak he took off running towards Sexyland, leaving me standing speechless. I let him go.
I passed the terraced bar I’d sat at less than an hour before, chairs and tables overturned in the street. Earlier I’d come from the hotel on my left then over the bridge to Febo’s on my right.
Ahead of me the street was quiet and dark. Trees shaded the street from the lampposts. The northern end of the canal came to a dead end, but the street led through. I cautiously walked past the bridge and a corner shop on my left. Down in the canal, opposite the entrance to the Hotel Vijaya, was a small boat probably used by a local to navigate the canals. It was covered by a plastic blue sheet and tied to a mooring. I looked around. There was nobody in sight so I climbed down to the boat. I untied some of the sheet, still no sign of anyone, so I climbed in, pulling the sheet back into place behind me.
I lay on the floor of the small boat, my head and feet touching either end. I was unable to see out but I heard the occasional clatter of running feet. There was a women’s scream from the other side of the canal. Shock seemed to take over. I could do nothing but lay on my back. I didn’t want to look out and see zombies coming for me. I just wanted to hide away until the nightmare ended.
What had caused this to happen? I thought of the virus story in the paper. Could that really be it? What caused the zombies to turn? I felt the wetness on my arm caused by the zombie’s bite. Would I turn into a zombie myself or did they have to kill me before I turned like the reanimated zombie in the street, or was it airborne. Would we all turn in time?
Now I’d stopped running I felt exhausted. I briefly slept, snapping awake at the sounds of running feet on the cobbled street above me. More screams and a loud splash as someone fell into the canal, or jumped in trying to escape the madness.
I fell asleep again and woke to the sound of more terrified screams.
Later still I awoke to sunlight penetrating the plastic sheeting. There was only silence. No people, no cars and no bikes. Not even the sound of birds. I rolled over, my body ached, and lifted open the sheeting to peer out. The street was empty but a scene of destruction like a post-apocalyptic horror film played out in front of me. This wasn’t the romantic Amsterdam I’d witnessed yesterday whilst strolling down the Prinsengracht canal.
I slowly climbed out of the boat onto the embankment and before I knew it someone - a woman - came running past me. We looked at each other. She hesitated as though deciding whether to push past me and climb down onto the boat, then chose against it and ran off. I heard heavier footfalls and a zombie came along. It looked at me. Its mouth and chest were bloody, glassy eyes almost sunken into the pale face. Then it looked back at its prey and carried on in pursuit.
It wasn’t all a bad dream. At the sight of the thing I felt the terror from last night return, then as it departed, I felt a calmness flood over me. I started walking up the street. I felt weak, and hungry.
I heard shouting from the other side of the canal and looked over. Someone was waving from an opened window on the second floor of a sports bar. He was shouting my name. On a second glance I could see it was Alan. He was calling me over. I jogged over the bridge, now quiet and deserted. I turned left down a small cobbled road to the bar, above was a youth hostel. Alan had come down to the side door, probably the entrance to the hostel.
‘Fuck me Johnny. How are you?’ He asked. ‘Come on up. We barricaded ourselves in a room last night, but no zombies have been in the building.’
We went up the steep stairs, a great place to defend. I couldn’t believe I was actually here talking to Alan. I found myself in a hotel-type corridor with guest-rooms leading off on both sides.
‘I saw you climb out of that small boat across the canal.’ He opened the third door along on our right, into the room he’d been shouting from before. It was how you’d imagine a youth hostel room to look. Two metal framed bunk beds and a white ceramic sink. Magnolia walls, brown carpet. One of the bunks had been pushed up against the door. Alan and another man pushed it back.
I was introduced to Alan’s two friends. Benny had helped Alan move the bunk bed. He sat back down on the bed and resumed rolling a joint. Rich stood with his back to the room’s only window smoking another joint.
I didn’t want to smoke. I felt warm. I know its June, but it was only early morning. I could feel perspiration beading on my forehead and my shirt sticking to my back, but most of all I was hungry, hungry for warm, bloody flesh.
***
John, the man Alan drank with last night at the Greenhouse Effect Hotel, let out a loud desperate moan. Alan noticed he was sweating profusely and his face seemed to have come out in red blotches. John didn’t look well.
John stepped forward and grabbed hold of Rich, who was stepping across the room to hand his joint to Alan. As the man grabbed Rich’s sleeve the joint fell to the floor. John bit into Rich’s cheek, tearing flesh away with his clenched teeth. Rich let out a cry, putting his hand to his torn face, looking at the blood on his hand. He quickly backed away from the newcomer, out of arms reach, back towards the window. All three men looked at John. The red blotches on his face now looked more like sores. His eyes seemed to have sunken into his face. Sweat ran down from his temples.
For a brief moment time stood still.
John continued after his victim.
Rich let out a loud shriek, realising the extent of what had just happened. Before Alan could move Rich rushed forward and took a dive head first through the open window.
Alan knew why he’d done it. During the night they’d discussed what they’d do if they were bitten. They all wanted their friends to kill them, if they could, before they turned. None of them wanted to join the hordes of the living dead.
John faced the window with his back to Alan, giving Alan an idea. He charged forward thrusting both hands into John’s back. Putting all his weight into it he pushed John towards the window. John’s thighs hit the windowsill and he toppled over the edge, arms flailing frantically. The two remaining men looked out through the broken window, down into the street below. John the zombie lay twisted. He must have landed head first. Blood and brains covered the cobbled street. Rich hadn’t been so lucky. He lay on his stomach, back broken, flapping his arms like a beetle stuck on its back trying to right itself.
His head craned around, eyes pleading to his friends for mercy.
‘Give me a hand with this,’ said Alan. He dragged a bedside cabinet over to the window. Benny helped him hoist it up. They aimed for Rich’s head and dropped it out. The cabinet broke on impact, putting their friend out of his misery.
Alan looked up from the bodies and brought his gaze upon the small boat moored to the other side of the canal. The very same boat John had climbed from earlier.
‘See that boat over there,’ he said to Benny. ‘That’s our way out of this fuck hole.’
‘But everywhere might be like this,’ said Benny in a state of shock.
‘We can’t stay here. The city will be full of them. A boat’s the safest way out.’
‘We’ll have to stock up,’ Benny was starting to think straight. ‘Wherever we go weed will be in short supply.’
Alan picked up Rich’s rucksack and emptied the contents onto the worn carpet.
‘Come on then, let’s stocks up.’
-THE END-
just joking ..... 
