Zombie Cheerleaders on LSD by Peter Caffrey

Author:Peter Caffrey [Caffrey, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mondo Perverso
Published: 2023-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

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Professor Goodtime hurried to his caravan. Glancing around, he made sure no one was watching before unlocking the door and slipping inside. Even though it was dark, he didn’t switch the light on, afraid to face the dead girl in his bed.

What the fuck had he been thinking? It was bad enough he’d brought an injured schoolgirl back and allowed her to sleep in his caravan. He’d been naïve, and as Bob had pointed out, he’d opened himself up to malicious gossip. To compound his problems, he hadn’t told anyone she’d died, and then—like a fucking stupid fool—he’d had sex with the body. This was going to cost him his job, his liberty, and maybe even his life. How would the other prisoners react to a pretty-boy who’d raped a dead child? His bumhole would resemble a blood orange after a few days of his sentence. Getting shanked in the shower would come as something of a relief, his death freeing him from a life of torment on the nonce’s wing of the prison.

Trembling, nauseous, racked with guilt and shame, he stood in the dark, trying to think through his next move. The first thing he needed to do was clean the body, making sure he removed any trace of his spunk from her cunt. Then, if he could get hold of her rucksack, he could say she’d gone home. That would buy him a few days to get rid of the body. Alternatively, he could claim she’d died while he was at the pub, but if the police took her body, would tests reveal what he’d done?

Acidic bile gurgled in his gullet, curdled vomit rising from his bubbling guts. Dashing into the toilet, he puked, much of it missing the bowl. Heaving until nothing else came up, he staggered back towards the kitchen area.

Switching on the light, he fetched a bottle of milk from the fridge and rinsed out his mouth, before gulping down half a pint. Turning, he shuffled towards the bed, before the realisation hit him.

Glenda was gone.

It took a few seconds to sink in.

She was gone, which meant … she wasn’t dead. He’d checked her pulse, but he couldn’t have done it correctly. She must have woken up, realised she was alone, and gone back to her tent.

She was alive.

‘Thank you, God,’ John Goodtime muttered, clasping his hands together in a prayer of thanks.

Glenda was still alive, which meant … she’d know he’d raped her.

Another surge of nausea had him dry heaving. He needed to find out if she was going to tell anyone. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d be flattered by his interest in her. If he involved her in the work at the tomb, if he offered her a role on the team, if he pretended to be in love with her, maybe she’d remain silent.

Outside, he heard Tarquin’s van pull up, along with the chatter of voices. The others had returned from the pub. It was too late to find Glenda.

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