---**The Cliggetts: An Apocalypse FamilyChapter One: The House on Cherry Lane*

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**The Cliggetts: An Apocalypse Family

Chapter One: The House on Cherry Lane**

The once-charming towns and villages of Britain’s Cotswolds lay eerily silent. The streets, once bustling with life, were now littered with black bags bulging with the rotting remains of the dead, and endless trails of rat droppings. The air hung heavy with the stench of decay, a grim testament to the world lost to the new age plague and the atomic bombs that had ravaged the major cities.

For a few families like the Cliggetts, the apocalypse had proven surprisingly advantageous. Never ones to shy away from getting their hands dirty—legally or otherwise—they had carved out a comfortable existence on their newly acquired small farm at the edge of a quiet Cotswolds village.

Annie held the black bag as far from her body as possible, her throat dry from the hot, stinking air of the house. "Jesus, Mike, did we really survive the end of the world for this? Bagging up dead bodies?"

"Ah, it's not that bad," Mike said, shovel in hand. "We're more like... waste disposal executives. With very exclusive clientele." He scraped the matted, dry flesh and clothes into the bag, sweat stinging his eyes, his dust mask dangling below his chin. He glanced at his sister. After months of this, she still couldn't stomach touching the dead. He felt a pang of sympathy, but in the brutal reality of their new world, this was their only means of survival.

Mike playfully shook the shovel, spraying his sister with a little dry, filthy dust. Annie shrieked, flapping the bag. "Bloody hell, Mike, stop being a dick!"

Mike stood back, laughing as the dust crusted on his face. "Honestly, Annie, we've been working in this shit for months now. If you don't like it, go live in one of the refugee camps. I hear rat kebabs are a big hit in the camp's food hall right now."

Annie glared back, the black bag gripped tightly in her hand. "Oh, real nice, Mike," she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because living in a refugee camp is just a dream come true, isn't it? Just because you like playing around in rat shit doesn't mean I have to." She thrust the bag forward. "Just fill the fucking bag so we can get out of here."

Mike shrugged, leaning on his shovel. "Well, you're the one complaining. I'm just saying, if you can't handle it, there are other options. Not great ones, but options. And at least it's more fun than your last job—stacking shelves at Tesco's." Annie snorted despite herself. Trust Mike to make even the apocalypse sound like a career advancement.

"So, oh mighty scavenger of the rotting delights," Annie grinned, "what's next on our thrilling to-do list? Shall we brave the last two abodes of the dearly departed, and finally conquer this street of horrors?"

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, we better finish off the last two houses. Frank will only sulk if we don’t. He's meant to be coming over this afternoon. We don't want him thinking we're not putting in the hours—knowing Frank, he'll dock our wages."

The siblings finished clearing the bedroom and walked out to their trusty old Ford Transit pickup, its bed now filled with the morning's bounty of body bags and salvaged goods. The smell of rotten flesh and fat flies clung to the metal. Annie and Mike leaned against the truck, drinking Cokes, the fizzy scent mingling with the stench of decay.

"One thing about these days, besides the stench and the feasting creepy-crawlies, is how quiet it is," Annie thought, scanning the deserted street. It still felt surreal—just empty streets and that sickly-sweet smell of death and way too many rats for her liking.

Annie nudged her brother. "Well, what's next?"

"Well we could drive into town, the refugee camp's got that new rat barbecue stand," he quipped. "Heard they're doing two-for-one on rodent kebabs. Quite the romantic spot these days."

Annie just shook her head and deadpanned, "I bet you'd take a date there too. 'Here love, have some premium rat meat, aged in the finest dumpster.'"

Mike spat on the ground and grinned. "Come on, back to work." He hoisted his shovel over his shoulder. "Just another day at work for the Cliggett family cleanup crew," Annie moaned.

The August sun beat down on the tarmac. Ahead of them, two more houses waited: one with a child's bicycle in the overgrown front garden, and the other with broken windows.

Mike started humming the tune to Michael Jackson's "Thriller." Annie tried to ignore him but couldn't help remembering how they used to dance to that song at family parties. Back before they became undertakers for an apocalypse.

"You're a knob head," Annie muttered, but fell into step beside him anyway.

Annie, determined to recreate the dance routine from the song, launched into an enthusiastic twirl. It was going surprisingly well—until it wasn’t. Her feet tangled themselves up, sending her lurching forward. "Oh, shiiit," she thought, a wave of hot embarrassment washing over her. The thud echoed down the empty street as Annie fell face-first onto the road. Grit and tiny stones dug into her skin. A hot wave of pain pulsed through her forehead, and she tasted blood, metallic and sharp.

Mike turned to see his sister flat out. "Annie, you alright, mate?" he asked, his concern growing as he saw the blood.

"No, I'm not all right," Annie moaned. She slowly rolled to her side, raising a shaky hand to feel the cut on her forehead.

Mike leaned closer. "Ooo, that's going to hurt."

Annie reached out her arm for Mike to help her up. He hauled her to her feet. "Ah, it's not that bad. It's only a scratch," he said, trying not to laugh at the spectacular welt forming. "It's not like you're going anywhere tonight anyway." The words had barely left his mouth when Annie's fist connected with his arm.

"Piss off," she growled, swaying slightly. "And where the fuck would I go? The Rat Shit Inn? The End of the World nightclub?"

Mike rubbed his arm. She still packed a hard punch. Seeing Annie wobble made his stomach clench. "You sure you're alright? You look a bit… wobbly."

"You're such a dickhead," she muttered, pressing her fingers to the growing lump.

Mike gestured toward the houses. "Now, shall we check out this lovely property? I hear the previous owners left quite suddenly."

"After you, dickhead," Annie said quietly.

"No, ladies first," Mike replied, his mock bow dripping with sarcasm.

Annie punched him hard on the arm while pushing past him. Still unsteady, she wobbled forward, tripped, and suddenly fell to her knees, crawling to the grass verge and hugging it. Mike scratched his shaven head and walked over. He gave her a gentle kick in the leg.

"Fuck it, I'm staying here. You can start on the house yourself. I'm going to lay here and die. You can tell the dead I said hi!" Annie grumbled.

"I'll start on this one. It won't be hard for you to find once you've stopped dying—it's the one with the big hole in the front window," Mike answered with a chuckle.

Spluttering grass from her mouth, Annie flinched, raised her arm, and waved her brother on. "I'll be there in a minute," was all she could manage.

Mike whistled "Thriller" as he kicked the garden gate open, full of his usual cocky swagger. He threw one last smirking look over his shoulder at Annie.

The ancient gate, having survived an apocalypse that killed its owners, responded with a vengeance. Its spring mechanism, enhanced by months of abandonment, swung open with terrifying force.

WHACK.

The gate caught Mike square in the right knee. He stumbled forward, his swagger replaced by a peculiar dance of pain. "You bastard!" He swung his shovel at the gate. It absorbed the blow with a creak, then launched its counter-attack, springing back and catching him behind both knees. The blow propelled him forward like a human pinball, arms windmilling, shovel flying.

His journey up the path was a negotiation with a hostile landscape. Terracotta pots housed militant stinging nettles. A wooden slat fence was a medieval torture device, besieged by feral, thorny roses. Mike began to suspect the garden was actively malevolent.

His momentum carried him straight to the front door, where he finally stopped by face-planting into the weathered wood with a solid THUNK.

Behind him, he could hear Annie's muffled snorts of laughter. "You alright there, graceful?"

"Shut up," Mike muttered into the door. "This path is a death trap."

The universe sent a light breeze, shaking loose a shower of dead rose petals and thorns onto his head.

Dropping his bucket, Mike took a deep breath. Hoping bad luck really doesn't come in threes, he turned the doorknob. The door opened to the familiar smell of death and rat piss. He almost gagged.

Inside, a long corridor stretched before him, a staircase on the left. A room was a few feet away to the right with its door closed. Light shone from the kitchen at the end of the hall.

Slightly blinded by the dusty glare, Mike walked to the kitchen. Dishes sat in a drying rack. Dust covered work units in a small square—sink under the window, cooker on the left, fridge and washing machine on the right.

Learning from experience, Mike checked the upper cupboards first. Less chance of vermin, and the biscuit jar was usually on the top shelf. He found only tinned tomatoes, beans, dried pasta, and a packet of chocolate-covered rice cakes. He shook his head; rice cakes dipped in chocolate was just wrong. He decided the fridge would be Annie's job.

Walking back, Mike tried the handle to the unopened room. The door was slightly jammed on the carpet. Inside, besides a layer of dust, the living room was extremely tidy. A large-screen TV was on the wall, trendy art on others, family photos, a low coffee table, and a fabric-covered chair and sofa.

On the sofa sat three bubble wrap-covered dead bodies, wrapped tightly and sat upright.

Mike focused, looked left, then right, then again at the sofa. The mummified corpses were still there. He backed into the hallway and rushed to the front door. "Annie! Annie, get in here!"

Annie, still street-side of the gate and nursing her head wound, opened it slowly. "WHAT?"

"THERE are THREE DEAD BODIES IN HERE!" Mike yelled.

"THEY'RE ALL FULL OF DEAD BODIES!" Annie yelled back.

"BUT THEY'RE LIKE MUMMIES! DEAD MUMMIES!" Mike croaked.

Annie, now garden-path-side of the gate, yelled back, "WHAT A MUMMY? HOW DO YOU KNOW SHE'S A MUMMY? ARE THERE KIDS WITH HER?" She shuddered at the thought.

"NO, I MEAN WRAPPED UP LIKE MUMMIES!" he shouted.

Annie half-tiptoed up the path. "WHO DID THAT THEN? WHERE ARE THEY? 'COS I'M NOT CARRYING THEM DOWNSTAIRS."

Meeting him at the door, she said, "Mate, you got to see this. They're wrapped up head to foot, sat on a sofa."

"You taking the piss?"

"If you're taking the piss, I'll punch your head in," Annie said, pushing past him. "So where are they?" she whispered.

"In there," Mike whispered back, pointing.

"Now what?" Mike whispered.

"Why are we whispering?" Annie whispered back.

"Because you're whispering."

Annie looked her brother up and down, then delivered a quick left hook to his arm.

"Agh! What's that for?"

"For being a dickhead. After you, little brother, lead the way."

Mike huffed past her, muttering and rubbing his sore arm. "In there," he said, nodding. Annie peeked her head around the door.

"Shit, that's just wrong, mate. Who would do that?" she said, looking at the three upright bodies in pyjamas. A small pool of slimy red mess stained the carpet under their feet where the bubble wrap had loosened.

"Screw this. You been upstairs yet?" Annie asked.

Mike shook his head.

"I'm going to look, see if there's any plasters or bandages in the bathroom for my head."

Grabbing the railing, Annie dragged herself up, eyes down to avoid the family photos. "Fuck this for a life," she groaned.

The bathroom was straight ahead. It was mundane—a washing sink under a small window, a bath with a closed shower curtain to her left, a toilet on the right. A small medicine cabinet with a mirrored door stood on the right-hand wall.

Annie pocketed the medical supplies and some expensive aftershave. "There's some nice aftershave here!" she shouted down to Mike. Then, to herself: "To hide your rat piss body odour, you smelly bastard."

The Monster in the Bath

Annie didn't notice the reflection of the shower curtain slowly being drawn back, but she did hear the curtain rubbing against the rail. She lifted her head and gazed at the mirrored image of a large hand pulling back the curtain.

She slowly turned to meet the gaze of a heavily set, muscled man in a tatty tracksuit, with a snarl on his red face and spit dribbling from his mouth, sitting in the bath. He glared at her.

Annie stood frozen, open-mouthed. The man did the same. Her flight-or-fight instinct took over. She screamed. The man roared.

The Chase

Annie ran from the bathroom, banging and slipping down the stairs. The man lurched out of the bathtub, pulling the curtain down. Unsteady on his feet, he kicked the curtain away and stomped out of the bathroom with a mighty roar.

His eyes wide with rage, he scanned the landing and saw Annie run out the front door. Mike, still in the hallway, looked up as his sister raced past him, followed by the ogre.

Mike sprang into action. As the man reached the bottom of the stairs, Mike wound up for a powerful right hook. But the massive creature barreled into him like a freight train. Mike was hurled through the open doorway, the monster landing on top of him with a bone-jarring crunch on the garden path.

Mike groaned, trying to kick out, but the big guy was too heavy. Annie, closer to the gate, picked up the largest flowerpot she could find and ran back, raising it above her head, soil and weeds raining down on her.

She crashed the flowerpot onto the monster's back—she was aiming for his head—and then became a one-woman trebuchet, pounding his back and head with terracotta shards until she sank to her knees, sweating, arms aching, and forehead still bleeding.

"Wha-what the hell is going on? Mike, Mike, you ok?" Annie asked in a shaky voice.

Mike didn't move for a few seconds, then burst into life, kicking and scrambling from under the unmovable monster. He dragged himself to his feet, taking a few rose thorns in his hand and arm as further punishment.

Annie watched, still on her knees, her long hair matted to her blood-soaked forehead. Mike looked down at the man and roughly tapped him on the shoulder with his foot. The monster didn't move.

Wide-eyed, Annie spoke: "Is, is he still alive?"

Mike stood there for a moment. "I'm not sure. I think I can see him breathing. His back is moving, I think." Mike was exhausted, his body hurt from top to bottom, a large bump on the back of his head from the fall.

Unsure what to do, Mike ordered his sister over. "Annie, get over here."

"Why?"

"Because we got to do something with him! I'll ring home, let Frank sort it out. Come on, help me tie his hands and feet. Use your zip-ties."

The two sprang into action. Mike knelt on the man's shoulders, holding his tree-trunk thick wrists together as Annie fumbled with the zip ties, finally pulling them tight. Then they did the same with his feet. The battered man didn't move.

Annie gave him a little kick before jumping back behind her brother.

"So little brother, now what?"

"Like I said, we'd better get Frank. He can radio the army guys in Cheltenham, let them sort this shit out. You wait here, I'll run back to the truck."

"No fucking way mate am I staying with that!" Annie shoved her finger at the body.

"Tough shit. I have the keys and I can run faster than you. You'll be alright. If he had any mates, they'd have come out by now. I'll be five minutes, ten at the most." Mike bopped his sister on the arm with a playful punch, then booted it for the gate and down the street.

Annie stood wide-eyed, exhausted, and pissed off. She looked up at the sky. "Why? Why me?"

As Mike raced to the truck, he radioed Frank. "Frank, Frank, it's Mike. You there?"

Static, then Frank's voice. "Mike, what's up?"

"Frank, you better get over here, mate. You're not going to believe what's just happened. Where are you?"

"I'm with Mum, just been to Dad's grave. Mum wanted to take some flowers over, tidy the grave up a bit."

Mike stared at the CB radio. "Well, good for you. So the fucking number one son has had a jolly day while I've been shoveling dead fucking corpses up," Mike raged.

"Mike, I still have Mum in the truck with me," Frank replied, a grin in his voice.

Mike gritted his teeth. "Hi, Mum."

Mary Cliggett just nodded at her youngest son's voice crackling through the speaker.

Frank told Mike to calm down and tell the whole story from the start.

Twenty minutes later, the three Cliggett siblings stood around the man.

"So those three in there, he did it?" Frank asked.

Both Annie and Mike looked at each other. "I guess so," they said in unison.

Annie piped up, "I didn't really get a chance to ask any of them, to be honest. It was a bit of a chance meeting."

Frank looked at her. "You taking the piss?"

"What, me? No, not me. I wouldn't be taking the piss," Annie screamed. "You fucking dickhead, there's three dead bodies and some kind of nutter laid there who was going to kill us. It's not a fucking hard story to follow, is it?"

"Well, if you put it that way," Frank chipped back.

Mike, now bored, walked up the garden, found a chair, and sat down to watch the showdown.

"So what now, Boss!!!" Annie, hands on her hips, barked.

Frank rubbed his chin, then looked at Mike for help.

"Don't look at me, you are the great leader!! You sort it out," Mike said, rocking back.

"Well, you two are great fucking help," Frank spat. "I'll radio Cheltenham, see if the army can send someone down to pick him up."

Frank returned to his truck. Mary Cliggett still sat in the passenger seat. "Well?" Mum asked, a smile on her face.

"I don't know, Mum. There's a big bloke laid on the path, and three wrapped-up bodies in the front room. I'm going to radio Cheltenham, see if the army can send someone."

Frank radioed the army. After explaining the situation to three radio operators, he got through to General Ollie Johnson, a round man in his late 50s and a lifetime professional soldier.

Johnson listened while looking at a wall of TV monitors showing rioting at a food ration station. A soldier on screen took a fist to the face. Johnson shook his head and slumped in his chair. "For fuck's sake."

"Frank, dear boy, it's a little tricky. We have a few small problems of our own. You say you think this gentleman killed a family and kept the bodies like trophies?"

Frank, puzzled, replied, "Well, I couldn't say for sure what happened before he attacked my family, but I assume you are right, sir."

"Well, Frank, do you still have the police-issued pistol you were given?" asked the general.

Frank felt uneasy. "General, I thought the guns were for last-resort protection."

The general cut him off. "Frank, I don't have the spare manpower. I'm sure you don't need an extra mouth to feed. Do you know what coup de grâce means?"

Frank looked at his mum; they both shrugged. "Sir, could you say that again, maybe in plain English?"

"How about if I say liquidate the problem?"

"Oh, General, look, we are just normal people. I never—" Frank started.

The general cut him off. "Frank, you and your family clear the dead. What's one more? Clean this problem up for your King and country and as a personal favour to me. And I will visit your village personally next week to discuss further work for you and your family as a reward for taking this rubbish out."

Frank sat, trying to take it in. The general wanted him to shoot someone. He looked at his mum for support. Mum looked at her son and told him to do what he had to. Frank dropped the receiver and asked his mum to hand him the pistol from the glove box. He checked there was a bullet in the magazine, nodded at his mum, and walked back to his siblings.

Frank told them the general's suggestion and over-egged the reward. Both shook their heads. None of them were saints, but killing someone in cold blood was a line they'd never crossed.

Annie looked at Frank, her face a mask of sadness and shame. Mike just stood there, his mind racing for another way but finding none. Frank stood over the man, the pistol barrel aimed at his head. Annie and Mike waited, holding their breath. Nothing happened, besides Frank's hand shaking.

"For fuck's sake, Frank, just do it," Mike said quietly. Annie, trying to keep herself together, gave Frank a weak smile.

"I can't do it," Frank said quietly, lowering the gun. His face was bright red. "Either of you two want to have a go?" He looked at Mike. The three of them just looked at each other.

Mum, watching from the truck, shook her head. In her hand was an old photo of her dead husband. "Well, Patrick, your kids are about as useless as you when it comes to fixing a problem." Mary unclipped her seatbelt and got out.

All three children turned as she pushed the gate open. They tried to shield her. She walked up to Frank and put her hand on his arm. She looked him in the eye. "Frank, give me the gun." There was a shared, gasped breath from the three. "Frank, give me the gun." Frank, ashamed, handed it over. Annie went to protest but was shot down with a glare. Mike looked at the ground.

"Is it ready to fire?" Mum asked. Frank nodded.

Before anyone could move, there was a BANG, then a second. Mum had shot the man in the top of his head. Blood and brain matter spattered the Cliggett family.

Without wiping the blood from her face, she turned to her children, especially the boys. "Well, I showed you how to wipe your arse, so might as well show you how to shoot someone." She shoved the pistol into Frank's chest. He took it, not a word from the three siblings.

"Right then, I need a cup of tea. Annie, take me home, and we will let the men finish up here." Annie just nodded and followed her to the truck. Frank and Mike were left standing on the path, blood pooling around their feet.

Mike looked at Frank, then the body. "Well, that was fucking embarrassing."

Frank nodded. "What a fucking nightmare. Well, don't just stand there, Mike, give me a hand to move the body inside. Fuck it, we'll burn the whole fucking street down and forget this ever happened."

Chapter Three: The Burnt Offering

The two brothers grabbed the big guy by his legs and started dragging him towards the house. The sound of his skull scraping on the gravel and thumping on the wooden floor was a morbid drum solo. Frank grunted with the effort, his face a mask of shame.

"He's a heavy bastard, isn't he?" Mike wheezed. "Did Mum just shoot him, or did she inject him with cement first?"

Frank just shook his head, unable to speak.

They heaved the body into the living room, dropping it onto the shag carpet with a final thud. The three mummified corpses looked on from the sofa, silent and judgmental.

"Right," Frank said, a grim purpose replacing the shame. "Out to the shed. I saw a can of petrol."

Mike nodded. "Petrol? Oh, excellent. Time for a bonfire. You know, if we’re going to be professional liquidators, we should probably invest in some flame-retardant overalls. It's a proper business expense."

They worked quickly. The reek of petrol mingled with the sickly sweet decay. Frank poured fuel over the furniture, the walls, and the gruesome trio on the sofa, while Mike splashed it over the monster on the floor.

Frank’s hand trembled as he held the lighter. The flickering flame danced. It was an end to a beginning. An end to their old normal, and the start of whatever this was. He took a deep breath, and with a flick of his wrist, the room was swallowed by a roar of angry orange and red. They backed out, the heat sucking the air from their lungs.

Outside, the August sun was setting. They leaned against their Ford Transit, its bed still reeking of rotten flesh. The air shimmered as the fire spread from house to house, consuming the child's bicycle, the broken windows, all of it.

Mike watched, captivated. "Well, that's not going to show up on the rates bill, is it?"

Annie's face appeared in the passenger window. She'd found a plaster for her forehead. "Right, you two. Are we going to stand here all night watching the bloody street burn, or are we going home? Mum's threatening to sing if you don't hurry up."

Frank and Mike exchanged a look. There was nothing more to say. They were arsonists now, on the path to being something worse, all under the casual, encouraging eye of their mother.

Mike gave his brother a small pat on the back, a gesture of shared, profound weirdness. "Just another day at the office, eh, Frank?"

Frank watched the flames lick at the sky, seeing his own hesitation burning up with the bodies inside. "Yeah," he sighed, getting into the driver's seat. "Just another bloody day."

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This version is polished and ready to go. The Cliggetts are now firmly established. Let's brainstorm where their story goes next! What new "opportunities" or horrors does the post-apocalyptic Cotswolds hold for them?