as I could oor Kornies
as I could
Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies
dell yllis vy
Geskatte vertalings
Vertoon algoritmies gegenereerde vertalings
voorbeelde
Advanced filtering
Voorbeelde moet herlaai word.
as long as I could
Fatla genes hedhyw?langbot langbot
for as long as I could
An bleujyow tulyfant na yw teg.langbot langbot
Though I could get as a gift
Yma dhymm dew vroder hag unn hwor.langbot langbot
As I hear, that beer is like warm water. / There could be a double meaning here, as dowr tomm also means ‘brandy’!
Res yw dhis y wertha.langbot langbot
'I endured him as long as I could, but the truth was desperately important, and in the end I had to be harsh. I put the fear of fire on him, and wrung the true story out of him, bit by bit, together with much snivelling and snarling. He thought he was misunderstood and ill-used. But when he had at last told me his history, as far as the end of the Riddle-game and Bilbo’s escape, he would not say any more, except in dark hints. Some other fear was on him greater than mine. He muttered that he was going to gel his own back. People would see if he would stand being kicked, and driven into a hole and then robbed. Gollum had good friends now, good friends and very strong. They would help him. Baggins would pay for it. That was his chief thought. He hated Bilbo and cursed his name. What is more, he knew where he came from.’
Da yw genev glas.langbot langbot
How had this bastard known what I was looking for – and how had he found it? My own brain had been switched off for an hour or more – so he couldn’t have been tapping into me. Could he? Maybe I had been dreaming? If so, what about? I retrieved the kitbag of supplies that the Sergeant had given us – and which David had immediately dumped when I fell asleep. We squeezed into the entrance to the tunnel – which required a little excavation before it would let us pass – and travelled inside as far as we dared (a couple of hundred metres, maybe.) Away from the entrance, we had to use ‘the touch method’ to make our way since, as far as I could see in the kitbag of supplies, we did not have a torch. My claustrophobia returned but David, as always, was okay. I slept again. He fell into a torpor. We stayed that way, I guess, for about 24 hours since the sun was, once again, high in the sky by the time we emerged again.
My a wel an maw.langbot langbot
But this was not going to happen. For better or worse, he was still my brother. So, now for a change of plans: forget Swan Hill and get off this train as soon as possible (always assuming I could drag my brother away from his prize.)
Res yw dhymm dalleth.langbot langbot
CHARLES AND PAUL “Well, at the very least, old chap, your brother’s table manners are appalling.” This, in Charlespeak, was a dire insult, the worst he could summon in the circumstances. “Sorry, Charles, there was nothing personal, you understand. He just thought you were lunch,” said I as apologetically as I could. David loitered in the background and repeated the ‘disgust-grunt’ at the suggestion of eating Charles (which, fortunately, Charles did not understand.) “Very well, Oliver, Our Royal Majesty shall overlook this most egregious insult to our person,” said Charles, adopting his most haughty manner. “We shall speak no more of it.” “And really, Oliver,” Charles continued. “Your Roundheads have been behaving in the most beastly way ...” My Roundheads? “...Yfaith, my fine young Cavaliers have been treated very poorly, very poorly indeed.” His Cavaliers? I looked to Paul (whom I now recognised). Paul had emerged from the crypt once he realised David’s attack was over. “You would be Oliver Cromwell?” he asked tentatively. I shrugged. That’s what Charles had always called me. “And, may I take it that your brother has naturally become a general in the Roundhead army?” Behind Charles’ back, Paul nodded and smiled in an exaggerated fashion, suggesting that I ‘play along’. He pointed to Charles, now seated and recovering from his ordeal at David’s hands.
“Yw dha wreg Brythones?” “Nag yw, nyns yw Brythones, Albanes yw.”langbot langbot
DOCTOR INGRID “Are you in need of pain relief?” The voice was that of Ingrid, through the peephole of our cell door. I was ready for her – I had given this meeting some thought. “Tell me, doctor,” I replied. “What’s it like working with Doctor Josef Mengele? What’s it like working in Auschwitz instead of Puckapunyal?” She gasped involuntarily – evidently, she knew of the evil reputation of the bestial Nazi doctor and how that reputation had been earned. I had struck a real nerve. I had intended to. So, I pushed hard on that nerve. “Tell me, doctor. If you can’t answer that question, what about this one: when did you decide to renounce your Hippocratic Oath? When did you decide it was okay to ‘do harm’?” The peephole was abruptly snapped shut. I heard the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps. Advantage: me. The peephole stayed shut for some hours until Ingrid (who had apparently now composed herself) returned once again. “Are you in need of pain relief?” she repeated without emotion. Of course, I was. My skin was still on fire from all the scorch marks inflicted upon my body – and my genitals were very bruised and achy. (There had been no need to put the cattle-prod in my groin to get the desired reaction from David – this had been pure malice, pure payback. Then again, as he’d been so thorough in applying the prod to David’s testes, he probably just thought he needed to be completely even-handed about the matter. Hmmmph!) I decided I could put my mind games to one side until I had gotten the relief I’d been craving for some hours. Even so, I tried to make light of my suffering: “Yes, as it happens, an Aspro or two would be most welcome,” I said, as sweetly as I could.
Ple'ma agas fleghes?langbot langbot
For the moment, I put this to one side. I entered the Student Union shop – which seemed relatively unscathed. The shop contained the usual university memorabilia: tee-shirts, trophies, commemorative plates etc. But I was not interested in those. At the back of the shop, sitting unloved on the shelves, was a pile of bedding sets: sheets and pillowcases. That’s what I needed. I collected two sheets emblazoned with the university crest and motto (“Postera Crescam Laude”) and took them outside to where Meryl lay. Collecting her remains into the sheets was not pleasant but it was done swiftly – as the sated zombies lounged about the scene of her death, looking on with what seemed like puzzlement. There was no time to bury her, of course, but I gently placed her remains inside a large wooden planter box which was otherwise vacant at the time. I mumbled a Hail Mary and an Our Father – no time for a whole decade of the rosary – and then covered the planter box with a few branches that I hastily pulled from some nearby garden bushes. That’s as near as I could get to a funeral for Meryl. (Afterwards, I remembered that she’d told me her father was a lay preacher in the Methodist church. Perhaps, I’d had this in the back of my mind at the time? Dunno.) After concluding the prayer, I sighed deeply and turned away from the planter box. There, standing before me, was my dear zombie brother, grinning happily, his stomach full of fresh meat. About his face was smeared the drying remains of our recently deceased classmate. A little gore hung from his (then) fashionably long hair. He seemed very pleased with his efforts. Without thinking, I slapped his face hard. He kept grinning. Then, he placed the back of his hand lightly on my own belly and emitted a satisfied groan. For just a moment, I felt a flash of warmth within my own, empty, stomach. I felt what he was feeling.
Res yw dhyn gul neppyth.langbot langbot
For the moment, I put this to one side. I entered the Student Union shop – which seemed relatively unscathed. The shop contained the usual university memorabilia: tee-shirts, trophies, commemorative plates etc. But I was not interested in those. At the back of the shop, sitting unloved on the shelves, was a pile of bedding sets: sheets and pillowcases. That’s what I needed. I collected two sheets emblazoned with the university crest and motto (“Postera Crescam Laude”) and took them outside to where Meryl lay. Collecting her remains into the sheets was not pleasant but it was done swiftly – as the sated zombies lounged about the scene of her death, looking on with what seemed like puzzlement. There was no time to bury her, of course, but I gently placed her remains inside a large wooden planter box which was otherwise vacant at the time. I mumbled a Hail Mary and an Our Father – no time for a whole decade of the rosary – and then covered the planter box with a few branches that I hastily pulled from some nearby garden bushes. That’s as near as I could get to a funeral for Meryl. (Afterwards, I remembered that she’d told me her father was a lay preacher in the Methodist church. Perhaps, I’d had this in the back of my mind at the time? Dunno.) After concluding the prayer, I sighed deeply and turned away from the planter box. There, standing before me, was my dear zombie brother, grinning happily, his stomach full of fresh meat. About his face was smeared the drying remains of our recently deceased classmate. A little gore hung from his (then) fashionably long hair. He seemed very pleased with his efforts. Without thinking, I slapped his face hard. He kept grinning. Then, he placed the back of his hand lightly on my own belly and emitted a satisfied groan. For just a moment, I felt a flash of warmth within my own, empty, stomach. I felt what he was feeling.
Pyth yw styr an lavar-ma?langbot langbot
THE RELIEF OF THE BAILLIEU It was just as Paul had described: a large refrigerated truck, ‘parked’ at a set of traffic lights in Lygon Street, the door of the cab wide open and no driver in sight – and the diesel engine was still idling. (Frugal beasts, those diesel engines.) The vehicle was otherwise untouched – what good was it to zombies? So, David and I approached, and opened the rear doors without difficulty. The driver had obviously only just started his delivery run – the refrigerated compartment was absolutely full of frozen foodstuffs of all kinds. Meat and poultry – frozen and processed. Fruit and vegetables. Pallet loads of it. Literally, tonnes of it. More than enough to feed the fugitives in the Baillieu for weeks. “Hey, Dave! Paul is a complete genius! We could have spent weeks looking for something like this.” David said nothing – not even a grunt came from him. This stuff was now unimportant to him and, I guessed, he wanted to be elsewhere (the basement of Union House) more than ever. “Too bad, Dave,” I said. “I’m not going back there.” (Not unless I absolutely had to.) I was minded to jump into the cab and drive straight to the Baillieu but I had another idea. I would drive it back to the crypt in the cemetery or, at least, as near as I could get this lumbering great vehicle to it. “Jump in, Dave,” I said. “We’re going for a little ride.” David reluctantly complied – he had no other pressing engagements. Of course, you might object that this all sounds highly improbable – and, indeed it was, the finding of the truck, at least. But there was no improbability about my being able to drive that truck. True it is that I did not possess an articulated vehicle licence and had never tried to get one. True also is that, if called upon to drive this vehicle further than the mile or so that I now needed to drive, I would probably have crashed the truck or damaged it irreparably.
Yma dhodho seyth mab.langbot langbot
She passed a tablet through the peephole and I took it with some water. It was no mere Aspro – it was something morphine-based and sent me into la-la land for some hours. (I recall dreaming that I was at some dark, smoke-filled dive listening to Muddy Waters strutting his stuff – obviously one of the more pleasant experiences of the day. That music from the Common Room had infiltrated my unconscious mind. This helped further to blot out the pain.) As the opiate started to wear off, and the pain returned, it occurred to me that Ingrid need not have given me such powerful pain relief – or, indeed, any at all. Maybe there was some remorse for the evil which she had actively participated in – and which had caused me the pain in the first place. Or, maybe, there was another motive. I would wait and see. If it were remorse, that was something I could work with. o0o Next day, Ingrid came with the goons and gave orders to have me bound hand and foot and taken to an interview room. David remained in the cell, groaning and moaning. Ingrid and I sat either side of a small wooden table in the airless room. She ordered the guards to wait outside. They did so with neither hesitation nor question. Her outward manner had softened a little but I could not trust her, of course. She had willingly participated in systematic torture only the day before. She had sat calmly and taken notes while I suffered. “What’s on your mind, doctor?” I asked. “We can talk freely here. The Captain is temporarily off the base and there is no recording equipment in this room. We are not being observed.” I shrugged. Where was this going? She continued: “Those things that you said in the lecture theatre the other day, are they true? I need to know this. Are they really slaughtering kids who might recover?” Still bound hand and foot, I leaned forward, looked her in the eye and said with as much conviction as I could muster:
Ple'ma'n glaw?langbot langbot
By nightfall, I was no further advanced in convincing David of the wisdom of my plans. In short, he couldn’t understand them beyond the most basic outline. Well, I suppose that was as much as I could ask of any dead person. David’s lack of understanding would not prevent me from putting the plan into effect. I should have been a little more cautious, I guess, but, without a plan of some sort, David’s ‘death expectancy’ was likely to be very short indeed. (All of his fellow zombies – at least the ones on campus – seemed, as I’ve said, to have been ‘neutralised’.) In the ‘wee small hours’ of the night, I crept out once more – trying hard this time not to upset the nearby fruit bats. My initial mission was simple: to check the ignition locks of the army vehicles for keys and collect two pairs of boots and two slouch hats from the veranda of the gate-keeper’s house. I will not trouble you with the details of this initial foray. Suffice it to say that all of the army vehicles were open and had keys in their ignition locks (after all, who was going to steal them?) And the boots and hats were duly collected without mishap. Oh, and the guard at the cemetery gate – a different member of the squad this time – was slumped in the chair and again snoring! “Hmm. That went well,” I thought. I returned in triumph to the crypt with the clothing. David seemed unimpressed by my feat – but was, once again, a little edgy. I stripped off my recently washed – but still filthy – rags to dress myself in the Sergeant’s uniform that I had stolen from the gate-keeper’s house. As was the custom in those days, my name-tag was sewn into the shirt, above the left chest pocket. Henceforth, I was ‘Sergeant S. Smith’ – which was, as I’m sure you will agree, conveniently easy to remember. I slipped the boots onto my bare feet – still no socks to be had but, unless I sat down, this was not noticeable. The boots were, naturally, of standard army issue: thick black cowhide covering the ankles, tough, ropey bootlaces and multiple layers of hobnailed leather on the sole. (Perfect for dancing at the Trocadero!)
Yma dhis lieslyver.langbot langbot
The second thing confirmed was that the Americans had indeed come to the aid of the underprepared Australian forces and mention was made of the F4 Phantoms assisting in the fightback. They were now based at the recently ‘liberated’ Point Cook airbase (which has since become another residential suburb of Melbourne). It was safe to assume that one of the Phantoms had been the delivery vehicle for the napalm last night. Final comment in the news item: an outbreak of the infection in Papua New Guinea, a ‘spot-fire’ which had gotten out of hand and, given the mountainous terrain and lack of indigenous forces (and/or modern infrastructure) in that ‘new’ nation, it was not expected to be controlled any time soon. Hmm. Very bad news but ... I’d store that one away for future reference. Okay. Save batteries. Turn of the radio. Break out the cards! I needed to know what was left of my brother, what was left of the guy with whom I had shared all the joys and pains of my young life. I needed to know also how much he could draw on our lifelong empathetic connection – a connection that, I thought, might set him apart from the other undead. I was not nurturing any false hopes, of course. I knew that all his ‘higher functioning’ had ceased along with his ‘vital signs’. That much was clear. But what was really left of Dave? As far as I could see, he had become akin to a particularly blood-thirsty and violent infant – just contained in an adult body. And there definitely still seemed to be some humanity about him – some of his more gentle gestures towards me were solid evidence of this. And I didn’t think this was merely a result of his connection with his living ‘other’, his connection with me. So, the attempt to teach him cards was no mere time-filling diversion – at least, not as far as I was concerned. At first, David merely looked with disdain at the five cards I had dealt to him. He picked one up from the floor, looked at it on both sides and then crumpled it. He dropped the crumpled card. Patiently, I retrieved the card and flattened it out – I did not wish the pack to be incomplete before we had even started.
Nyns usi Tom y’n klavji.langbot langbot
Just down the road, the University Café (not as popular as Tamani’s) was in better shape and so I cheerfully got into their cupboards and fridge to stock up on essential items. I took mainly stuff that was in tins and cans so that it would last. They had a stock of tinned hams and plum puddings, apparently left over from Christmas. Fine by me – so I took as many as I could carry in the back- pack I retrieved along the way. (Don’t ask me who was wearing it at the time – they weren’t going to need it again, I promise you.) I tried to encourage David to share the load with me – I even found another back-pack for him. But he was having none of it. Apparently, zombies don’t do the beast-of-burden thing. (A fact well worth remembering, I’m sure.) In any event, David was getting twitchy again. At first, I thought it must have been hunger (oh no!) but he was just bored. I offered him an apple that I had just swiped from the University Café. He snatched at it and threw it away in disgust. (What had I been thinking? Fruit? For a zombie?) So, I selected another from a nearby basket and bit into it. It wasn’t that fresh – it had been sitting around for over a week – but it was okay (and, unlike the pancakes, it didn’t make me throw up.) How to avoid going back to Union House – that was the pressing problem. Where would any self-respecting zombie prefer to go – other than a charnel house full of zombies (and one psychopathic cat)? Then it struck me: “Hey, Dave! Wanna go to the cemetery? You know, the big one that’s just near here?” He stopped twitching. That was a good sign. But did he know what I was talking about? Possibly, he did. Zombie intelligence is not an easy thing to understand – and, in David’s case, it was complicated by the fact (as I knew) that he could tap into my own mind to boost whatever wit he had been left with following his death. I was like a poorly connected hard-drive, I suppose (though hard-drives, external or otherwise, were unheard of at that time).
Hemm yw ow thas.langbot langbot
“Okay,” I replied. “Let’s suppose there is indeed a leading edge to the infection, carried forward by a small band of fleet-footed and unidirectional zombies. They would be travelling at not less than 20km per day – after making a proper allowance for lost time due to their undertaking only absolutely essential murder and mayhem.” “Agreed. A reasonable estimate,” said Paul. “20 km per day for nine days. So, the fastest group of zombies – and therefore the infection itself – is now nearly two hundred km away from central Melbourne.” “But that means the infection would have reached the three major regional cities in Victoria: Geelong, Ballarat and Bendigo,” I observed, stating the obvious. Paul shrugged: “I just hope none of the zombies can drive or fly!” This casual remark – made in jest – made me think of David. You never quite knew what he might be capable of – particularly if he could tap into my mind at will. But there was no time to worry about that possibility now. How many people were within a 200km radius of Melbourne if you included those major regional cities? I didn’t know. I wasn’t up on population statistics at the time. I guessed, maybe, two or three million. And let’s assume that none of the girls (nor gay men?) became zombies, how many potential zombies did that mean? Somewhere between one and one and a half million? Hmm. But, of course, many victims were so badly injured by zombie attack that they simply could not reanimate. Beyond that, perhaps a lot of folk, knowing what was on the way, had fled in front of the leading edge of the epidemic. That would reduce the numbers substantially. Then again, so far as I could see, there had been a total news blackout. So, how would people find out that they needed to flee before it was too late? And, once the numbers of zombies had grown from hundreds to thousands, wouldn’t the leading edge become like an irresistible tidal wave, sweeping all before it? Paul and I calmly debated all of this, debated the end of civilisation as we knew it (or so it seemed) but reached no firm conclusions. The information we had was paltry – we were simply working on guesswork.
Eus dhe Laurie jynn-amontya?langbot langbot
It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
Nyns yw Tom tas Maria.langbot langbot
He struck out at the limbs that sought to ensnare me and rounded upon the encroaching zombies. They fell back a little in surprise: zombies never struck other zombies, it seemed. Then it came: a primeval roar that raised the small hairs on the back of my neck. It erupted violently from within David and seared those who would seize and devour me. I could describe it as the roar of a lion in his prime – but that would not do it justice. It was much more impressive than that. It said, quite simply: “Leave him alone – he’s my brother.” And they did. Some of the zombies actually sprinted away, apparently trembling with fear. (Did zombies ever feel fear?) But most just feigned disinterest and wandered off. I embraced my zombie brother. He seemed unable to return my embrace but, as I said, there was a deep recognition of me within him that could not be denied. I took his hand in mine. We, in turn, ‘wandered off’.
Hemm yw lyver.langbot langbot
1Brothers and sisters, I could not address you as people who live by the Spirit but as people who are still worldly—mere infants in Christ. 2I gave you milk, not solid food, for you were not yet ready for it. Indeed, you are still not ready. 3You are still worldly. For since there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not worldly? Are you not acting like mere humans? 4For when one says, “I follow Paul,” and another, “I follow Apollos,” are you not mere human beings?
My a vetyas orth ow hothman.langbot langbot
For I already perceived clearly that the country about London must inevitably be the scene of a disastrous struggle before such creatures as these could be destroyed.
My re bia owth oberi.langbot langbot
In this, he behaved like a small child who didn’t want to take a bath – but, in his case, I was unable to bribe him with a rubber ducky or toy boats to play with. Eventually, he relented and allowed me to strip and re-clothe him. He became “Lance-Corporal Kimson” but, as he didn’t have a speaking part in our next little drama, I did not need to bring this to his attention. After so much effort and time wasted, we stood together: a trim, fresh-faced sergeant and a grey-faced lance-corporal – both sans socks. “Time to help me with the coffin now, Dave,” I said. He had not previously understood this part of my plan, I’m sure, but, with a bit of play-acting and hand-gestures, he came to realize that I wanted him to take one end of the ornate coffin and lift it with me. After opening the steel crypt door wide, I returned and started to lift ‘my end’ of the box – and David, haltingly, copied what I was doing at his own end. “Shit! This thing is bloody heavy,” I said to myself. I thought perhaps I ought to abandon the plan as I was not at all sure I could sustain the weight for long enough to get it to one of the vehicles (about 75 – 100 metres from the crypt.) Before we even got through the door of the crypt, I was quivering from a load that was at the very limit of my physical ability. (I was a pretty skinny kid at the time.) The coffin, with its heavy timber construction and ornate metal handles, weighed, maybe, twice as much as a standard coffin. The problem was that we had only one coffin to choose from and, frankly, we were lucky to have that. David held his end of the thing aloft and was showing no signs of strain. (I thought zombies were supposed to be weak – but, noooo!) “Okay, Mate,” I groaned. “Put it down – gently.” He did so without fuss and I stood panting and sweating as I considered our options. Maybe, I thought, we could salvage a ‘used’ coffin from one of the niches in the crypt – one that was of a standard weight.
Eus mona dhodho?langbot langbot
We continued up a short driveway the name of which escapes me (Melba Drive, perhaps?) and turned right – over the top of an ancient and revered tree. (I believe it had been planted by the founders of the University to celebrate some significant event or other – which no-one now remembered. It has been classified by the National Trust, I’m told. Yes, we were doing good work here!) We rumbled on a slight decline towards the Bailieu entrance – on the way collecting a couple of stray bollards (not yet classified by the National Trust). And then, as I squeezed the brake pedal once more, I drove past the entrance of the library and prepared for my pièce de la résistance. “What the fuck?” yelled Paul. “You’ve missed the doors. Now we’ll have to run the gauntlet of the zombies to get inside.” “Pas du tout. Du calme, mon ami,” I said. (Don’t forget that Paul and I could speak passable French.) “Watch and be amazed.” I brought the lumbering beast to a complete halt – without stalling it – and grinned at Paul and Charles. They didn’t grin back. Their expressions looked decidedly grim. For me, this next bit was the easiest. Prior to this day, most of my truck driving had actually been in reverse gear – shifting the trucks around the yard of the IPEC depot. So, reversing was my best thing – comparatively. And so it proved. In a single sweep, with skilful use of my side mirrors, I backed the truck to within a few feet of the library’s glass doors. I didn’t want to get too close – smashing through the barricaded doors would have been a less than desirable outcome – unless, of course, you were a zombie waiting to get inside and devour whoever you might meet. As I had been backing, I could see admiring – but definitely gaunt – faces pressed to the inside of the library’s windows. The zombies that had been milling about outside also stopped to observe my performance. Were they impressed? Who cared! I was enjoying myself.
Ni a dhibarthas war-barth.langbot langbot
‘No!’ answered Frodo, coming back to himself out of darkness, and finding to his surprise that it was not dark, and that out of the window he could see the sunlit garden. ‘Or perhaps, yes. As far as I understand what you have said, I suppose I must keep the Ring and guard it, at least for the present, whatever it may do to me.’
Ingo a’s kar.langbot langbot
NORTH MELBOURNE STATION At that time, North Melbourne train station was a fairly small, in fact, very typical suburban train station. It had not yet undergone the upgrade to a multi- platform complex that we now see and was then dominated by shabby, wooden structures which hearkened back to the 19th century – all painted in a curious dappled green. (Who ever thought of such a colour scheme for Melbourne’s train stations? Maybe it was a wartime thing – camouflage?) In any event, I chose to go to a suburban station rather than the central station at Spencer Street (now grandiosely named “Southern Cross Station”). The reasons were obvious: easier access, less officialdom, smaller crowds. I wanted to slip onto the northbound train with a minimum of fuss. But, before we entered the station carpark, I still needed to get David into the coffin and screw the lid firmly down. I parked the ute in a cobbled back lane, not far from the station. Once again, there was much coaxing required – and still further time lost. If we had missed the train, we would have had to wait at the station for another three hours – and thus have been likely to be exposed as impersonators during all of that time. Furthermore, the later trains would have been more crowded and the baggage car potentially full already. So, I needed to be more than usually, shall we say, ‘firm’ with David over the issue of his getting into the coffin. His resistance reached the point where he roared in my face in his most threatening manner. This would have awoken many of the ‘locals’ except that, it seemed, many of those locals had already fallen victim to the zombie apocalypse, being so close to the epicentre of the plague. North Melbourne was almost a ghost town. Eventually, however, David complied with my wishes and climbed into the coffin, still lying in the back of the ute. As I replaced the lid, I could still hear grunts of unhappiness emanating from within. “Shut up, ya stupid zombie!” I hissed. Noises of any kind coming from inside a coffin were likely to attract unwelcome interest.
A Yowann, a welsys ta an gath?langbot langbot
90 sinne gevind in 9 ms. Hulle kom uit baie bronne en word nie nagegaan nie.