The Undead

Day Sixteen

RR Haywood

Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2014

R. R. Haywood asserts his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, unless those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or undead), is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Design, Cover and Illustration by Eduardo Garay.

Edited by Rachael Brimstone.

The story so far

A new landscape was formed after the storm, and with it the promise of a new beginning.

One race to dominate this land. One race to survive.

Words were uttered beneath the Saxon while Howie fought the undead.

Words that brought a whole new pressure.

To be relentless and unceasing. To charge forward and never give up. To do what it takes to survive.

That pressure was building and it became too much. Howie faltered, losing his mind as they ran through the fog and sought the doctors so desperately needed at the fort.

The final act was a simple one. A stubborn man spoke through an intercom at the munitions factory and his words sparked such a reaction in Howie that he fell apart in front of those who love him the most.

The Undead continues…

One

Day Fifteen.

It has been a wholly mixed day and my emotions are spent to almost nervous exhaustion. I must reflect and learn, for it is only by true self-reflection that we advance as a species. I went to the house seeking the first person on the list. He, and his family, were infected and seemingly trapped in an upstairs room. They surprised me, and after a desperate fumble I killed them with the assault rifle.

For quite some time after the massacre, I was downright terrified and waves of adrenaline pulsed through me. I sat in the darkness, waiting for them to subside as I dwelled upon how close to death I had been. However, I had survived and I had walked away. Just.

The morning after, (this morning), we set off again. Jess, my trustworthy steed, and I used country lanes for the first few miles but the incessant clip clop of her hooves on the solid ground soon started to niggle. There-after we used footpaths, verges and fields which, although slower and harder going, were far more pleasurable. The storm had brought down many a tree which also had to be negotiated.

The day passed slowly. Only when we made camp for the evening, with final rays of the sun dropping below the horizon, did the realities of my interaction with the Infected set in.

The first one on the list was infected. He shouldn’t have been infected.

He was supposed to be immune.

Something has gone wrong.

NB

Two

I’m in a dark room and I’m alone. I know I’m alone, but something is coming after me so I have to run except I don’t know which way to go. Panic builds instantly as fear pulses and grips my body. I try crying out but no words will sound from my mouth. It’s light now but grimy and grey. I’m in a street so ruined and destroyed it looks like something from the Second World War. An old park lies in a square behind rusted railings. The slide has fallen down into a pile of rubble, rusted swing chains nestle afifteenmongst the yellowing grass. The sky is streaked blood red and the clouds look heavy and threatening. I don’t know where I am or why I’m here. I don’t like this place. I’m scared, more scared than ever before.

I can’t find my axe, it isn’t here. Dave isn’t here. Nobody is here but something is coming after me. I can’t see it, but I know it is there. I start to walk away but it’s not fast enough so I start jogging, then running, then sprinting as fast as I can but I don’t really get anywhere. I feel like I’m running on ice, there’s no traction underfoot and that panic builds stronger with every passing second. I’m going to die here, alone and forgotten in this filthy ruined place.

Tears prick my eyes, blurring my vision, and my throat burns from the silent screams. Trying to look behind, I can see dark shadows flitting between the ruined walls and collapsed roofs of the buildings all around me. Dark shapes, shadows that are evil with intent.  A dry laugh echoes round. It mocks but turns into a phlegmy cough that hacks up putrid bile from the throat. Still I run, and still I don’t make any progress. Still the fear builds, and still they are coming closer and still I know I will die here. A certainty. Fact. Stop running then, stop running and face your death with bravery and courage. Stand still, tall and proud and look them in the eye as they come for you.

I try. Oh god, I try but I don’t feel tall and proud and I can’t find their eyes. I need to brave like Dave. I need to be strong like Clarence. I need to laugh at them like Cookey. I need Lani’s temper and fierce stubbornness. I need Meredith’s speed and agility. I need all of them to survive. I can’t do this on my own.

They’re coming now, closer and closer. Just dark shapes which loom bigger and higher as they encroach towards me. On all sides they surround me and make me feel small, insignificant, unworthy of life. I close my eyes and whimper in prayer.

Something solid slams into me, ripping me off my feet as they close in for the kill. Being carried roughly along, I open my eyes to see that the dark shadows are now Undead, but far worse than the undead I have come to know. These are barely human, with flesh that drips like acid burns from their bones. Blood seeps to weep from a thousand cuts, eyes deep and hollow but with yellow razor teeth filed into points and hands clawed the same. They give chase but whoever carries me is faster than they for soon they give up and melt back into the ruins of the houses from whence they came.

I can’t see who it is but they run, vaulting rubble and obstacles with ease until we’re far from where I was trapped. I’m carried into a doorway of a church and inside is lit with infinite candles that burn and flicker to fill the space with golden light.

The floor is swept clean, it’s completely free from dust and the air smells sweet now, gone is the musty dampness of decay. This church represents the warmth of life and living.

I’m put down onto my feet and stagger back to face the man who carried me. As Paco stands back he grins, showing those perfect white teeth framed in the tanned face of the movie idol. He looks good, far better than when I watched him die. Grinning sheepishly, he rolls his shoulders as though easing the strain of the burden from carrying me. He’s breathing hard and a light film of sweat coats his face. One muscled arm flexes in front of his face as he uses his forearm to wipe the sweat away.

‘Is he okay?’ I spin at the sound of the voice and feel a surge of disappointment when I realise it isn’t Sarah but a young woman, blonde haired and slim. She looks radiant, beautiful and happy despite the look of concern on her face at the peril I was in.

‘Say, you got away just in time,’ Paco says to me, his deep American drawl so distinctive and clear.

‘You shaved your beard off,’ I mutter and feel instantly stupid at the first comment from my mouth.

‘He wanted to keep it,’ the young woman says with a wry smile, ‘he thought it made him look enigmatic and mysterious. I thought he just looked old and dirty,’ she rolls her eyes but casts a look of warmth at Paco.

‘Nice place,’ I nod at the pleasant surroundings. It’s more than nice; I can feel the safety of this place. The high vaulted beams sweep majestically up into the apex of the roof. Stained glass windows reflect the candle light. It feels entirely normal to be here. Nothing strange about it at all.

‘Here,’ I turn again to see the young woman holding a drink out which I take with grateful hands. Cool, clear water gushes into my parched mouth, easing the soreness of my throat.

‘Drink up,’ she smiles softly, ‘Paco, can you get some more water please.’

‘Sure thing, boss,’ he mock salutes and walks fluidly through a door at the rear of the pulpit. ‘How’s my dog?’ He calls out.

‘Meredith?’ I ask as he reappears holding another cup of water for me.

‘Meredith?’ He asks with a puzzled glance at the woman as he passes me the second cup.

‘The dog,’ I nod before draining the cup, ‘Meredith.’

‘Say, I think we’re all a bit mixed up here,’ he scratches his chin thoughtfully, ‘you called the dog Meredith?’

‘Er, yeah…isn’t that her name? You were calling it out during the fight when er…like…’ Does he know he’s dead? It feels rude to mention it.

‘You were what?’ The girl laughs, ‘that’s so sweet.’ She rests her hand on his muscled forearm.

‘Oh, Paco,’ she smiles sweetly but I can tell there is more to their story than I know.  They share a look so filled with emotion and pain that I have to turn my head away.

‘I never knew the dog’s name,’ he says to me quietly after a long pause.

‘Um…’ nodding I try and look like I know what he’s talking about, ‘so, er…who is Meredith then?’ I ask lightly over the rim of the cup and watch confused as the girl bursts out laughing. The charged atmosphere is broken and Paco shakes his head while rolling his eyes in a wholly amiable gesture.

‘See this broad,’ he thumbs in the direction of the girl next to him, ‘this is Meredith.’

‘Very pleased to meet you, Mr Howie,’ she says with exceptional politeness and even drops me a little curtsy, ‘heard lots about you.’

‘Indeed,’ I keep nodding as it seems the only thing to do, ‘so what’s the dog’s name then?’

‘Who knows,’ he shrugs, ‘but…well,’ he drops his gaze for a second to look sideways at Meredith, ‘maybe Meredith is a good name to keep for her?’

‘She likes it,’ I add with my own shrug. I look about at the surroundings, suddenly aware that I have no idea where I am.

‘Where am I?’ I ask, somewhat bluntly.

‘You’re in a chapel.’

‘Church,’ Meredith corrects Paco, ‘it’s not a chapel and it’s not ass, it’s arse…we keep going through this.’

‘Whatever, talk to the hand,’ he holds one up to wave in her direction, which she promptly bats away with a laugh.

‘How do you know each other?’ The connection between them is strong, pouring from them in buckets.

‘Paco saved me,’ she replies, the laughter easing off as she drops into a serious voice, ‘some men took me from my family, one raped me while the other one laughed. Paco killed them both…’

‘No,’ he interrupts gently, ‘I killed one, the dog killed the other.’

‘Either way,’ she tilts her head back, ‘…I took my own life,’ she adds sadly and I watch as Paco moves closer to take hold of her hand gently within his. ‘Paco stayed with me all night but,’ she pauses, ‘but I was shocked and…well, I just couldn’t handle what had happened…but,’ she smiles gently, ‘mister hero here decided to take all of my sins for his own, he gave me a proper burial and’ she adds, ‘it appears he may have just redeemed himself from the truly awful, hedonistic lifestyle he led.’

‘Say that again,’ Paco mutters.

‘Question,’ I ask them both in a tone that snaps their attention onto me, ‘is this my mind making all this up? Because I know I’m dreaming right now so…’ I motion between them with the now empty cup, ‘so I can’t possibly know this…what you just told me… Hang on, wait, is Sarah here?’ I ask suddenly.

‘No, my friend, she is not,’ a deep voice snaps from behind me. I freeze in position and hold still, ‘Chris,’ I say without looking, ‘you’re here?’

‘I am.’

‘You shaved your beard off too?’

‘Not in a month of Sundays,’ he laughs as I turn, and even though I know I’m dreaming, I can’t help but feel a sense of elation at seeing him again. He looks the same as ever, big, broad and with that dark beard and bright, intelligent eyes.

‘Mate,’ I grin without shame and we clasp each other in a tight hug as the tears prick the backs of my eyes.

‘She’s not here,’ he says once we’ve separated, ‘but we don’t have time for that now. There are things you need to know. We’re all connected, remember that.’

‘Connected? Do what? I want to see Sarah.’

‘Connected,’ Paco says, ‘all of us…we’re all connected…’

‘By what?’ I ask belligerently.

‘By you,’ Meredith says, ‘you are the key stone in the bridge.’

‘I’m not anything in anyone’s bridge. In fact,’ I look between them ‘the bridge can fucking do one as far as I care.’

‘In here is with you,’ Chris continues, ‘out there is without you.’

‘Fucking what? That doesn't make any sense.’

‘Don’t let them win,’ Paco drawls, forcing me to turn.

‘They will achieve one race if you stop now,’ Meredith says.

‘One race,’ I roll my eyes, ‘I keep on hearing that now.’

‘It’s what they want and it’s what they will achieve,’ Chris takes his turn.

‘You three are like a fucking choir.’

‘Grow up and listen!’ Chris snaps, ‘this isn’t about you. We’re dead…we lost our lives…this is about what you can do…’

I stare back, shocked and feeling ashamed at my own flippancy.

‘…you,’ he points, ‘will see this through.’

‘But…’ I stammer.

‘No buts,’ a fourth voice cuts through, causing me to groan inwardly. Not her, anyone but her, ‘no buts, Mr Howie…you wanted to lead so you lead.’

‘Debbie,’ I turn to stare at the police sergeant dressed so immaculately in her uniform, ‘here as well then, and no…I did not want to lead.’

‘Well, you are leading now,’ she offers me a smug smile, ‘so lead and do a proper bloody job of it. Stop this pissing about and get on…’

‘Whoa,’ I cut her off with a wave of my hand, ‘no offence, it’s great seeing you all again and all that but…um…where is my sister?’

‘In time,’ Paco says.

‘Ah sod this,’ shaking my head I take a step away then stop, turn back and tap the side of my own head. ‘I’m dreaming,’ I say to all of them ‘none of you are real… so… yeah… bugger the lot of you.’

‘He needs something,’ Meredith says.

‘Too bloody right I do,’ I retort, ‘I need to see my sister.’

‘It’ll mess him up,’ Paco shakes his head.

‘We should do it,’ Debbie says firmly.

‘Do what?’ I ask, completely lost now at the private conversation going on between them.

‘I vote no,’ Paco says equally as firmly, ‘think what it could do.’

‘He needs to believe in himself, he needs to see it through,’ Chris snaps, ‘and desperate times call for desperate measures.’ All eyes are on Paco, even mine as we wait to see his reaction. He thinks for a second and finally looks to Meredith who nods at him.

‘Okay, okay,’ he holds both hands up, ‘what then?’

‘What what?’ I ask the group at large.

‘Dave,’ Chris says.

‘I agree,’ Debbie replies.

‘Dave what?’ I say exasperated that this is my dream but they’re carrying on with idle chit chat and ignoring me.

‘Agreed,’ Paco nods. ‘Listen up, buddy,’ he turns to face me, ‘what do you know about Dave?’

‘Dave? Little bloke? Kills everything? That Dave?’

‘He’s a regular smart ass,’ Paco shakes his head.

‘Arse,’ Meredith replies.

‘Whatever,’ the American says, ‘Dave was an orphan…do you have that word here?’ He quickly asks the others, ‘is it orphan here too?’

‘Yes it is,’ Debbie says.

‘I wasn’t sure,’ Paco says, ‘lot of different words seeing as we share the same goddam language.’

‘The language we invented you mean,’ Chris replies with a long look.

‘Oi…’ I interrupt them, ‘Dave was an orphan?’

‘He was,’ Paco nods, ‘he was eight when his parents gave him up.’

‘Eight? Fucking hell, that’s old for adoption isn’t it?’

‘They couldn’t deal with him,’ Debbie says softly.

‘Fuck,’ I look down at the ground, ‘poor sod…do you think he remembers?’

‘Would you?’ Meredith asks in a tone that does not require an answer, ‘the point is we are giving you that so you believe us.’

‘Huh?’ I blanch at her words but they’re gone. All of them and I’m not in the church anymore but back in the street surrounded by the grimy ruined buildings and the dark things mooching about.

‘Howie.’

‘Lani? Where are you?’ Her voice is muffled yet distinct and I feel the invisible touch of a cobweb brushing against my cheek.

‘Howie!’

‘Lani…Lani I’m here…’

‘Mr Howie!’

‘Lani! I can hear you…where are you?’

‘Mr Howie!’

‘Leave him alone…’

‘Dave? Is that you?’ I spin round and round, unable to pinpoint the voices, ‘leave who alone?’ A drip lands on my cheek, something wet that I wipe away.

‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani pleads.

‘He needs to rest,’ Dave’s deadpan voice looms eerily all around me.

‘Stop doing that,’ I shout at the walls around me, ‘I can fucking hear you…Paco? Chris? Where are you? Where’s Sarah?’ My voice trails off into a whimper as all the voices suddenly cease, plunging me back into the silence of the ruined landscape that surrounds me and the shadows that threaten to spill out.

Three

‘Howie,’ Lani leans over his prone form. Gently calling his name, she strokes the side of his face. He doesn't respond but whimpers quietly, his body flinching and tensing as though trapped in a nightmare.

‘Howie!’ She calls out louder with a tone desperate to wake him from whatever demons plague his rest. She needs to know he is okay, that he can be woken.

‘Mr Howie!’ She says louder still, using the mister to try and penetrate his unconscious form. She can feel how high his temperature is and the currents of tension pulsing through his body.

‘Mr Howie!’ She tries again, shaking him by the shoulders as fat tears fall from her eyes to land on his cheeks. They quickly get absorbed and dried by the heat from his skin.

‘Leave him alone,’ Dave drops to her side, his tone dull yet firm.

‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani sobs.

‘He needs to rest,’ Dave replies, shuffling closer to shield Howie with his own body.

‘Lani, come away for a minute love,’ Paula gently touches Lani on the shoulder with the merest of pressure applied, ‘come on, let him rest.’

‘He needs to wake up,’ Lani whispers, ‘he won’t wake up.’

‘He will,’ Paula counters, ‘in his own time he will, let him rest…come on…’ she increases the pressure on her shoulder, guiding her away.

‘This is your fault,’ Lani glances up to the shadowy form of Dave, staring hard into his eyes. ‘This is your fault,’ she snaps in a low growling voice, ‘you should have stopped him…he only listens to you…’

‘Lani,’ Paula steps closer, ready to intervene as Lani leans across Howie to snarl at Dave.

‘No, Paula,’ Lani retorts without looking round, ‘you should have stopped him…’ she repeats, ‘why didn’t you see he was going crazy? Why, Dave? Why couldn’t you see it?’

‘Lani!’ Paula’s tone is more urgent ‘it’s done, come away.’

‘I will not,’ Lani shrugs Paula’s hand from her shoulder, ‘you did this…you fucking did this, Dave…Howie only listens to you…oh the great Dave who can kill everyone and always at Howie’s side, Dave who does everything Howie tells him…Dave who can’t think for himself…’

‘Lani! Enough!’ Paula snaps, ‘what’s done is done, Dave couldn’t know what to do.’

‘Why?’ Lani twists to shout at Paula, ‘why didn’t he? We all did…why is he so special?’

‘Lani stop it,’ Blowers steps closer to the huddled group.

‘I won’t stop it,’ Lani shouts, ‘Dave could have stopped him, Dave could have got Howie calm and…and…Howie wouldn’t be like this now if it wasn’t for Dave…we could have…’

‘Clarence,’ Blowers calls out, ‘we need to get Lani away for a minute.’

‘No you don’t,’ Lani glares up at the silhouetted forms standing nearby, ‘none of us could stop him, none of us are special enough…only Dave but he didn’t…did you, Dave?’

‘Lani,’ Clarence moves in to the inner circle, his deep voice soft yet firm.

‘Did you, Dave?’ Lani presses, ‘why? Why didn’t you?’

‘That’s enough,’ Clarence stops close to Lani’s shoulder, ‘move away now.’ The command is still gentle as the big man realises how frail Lani is right now.

‘Why is Dave so special?’ She snaps, ‘why does Howie only listen to Dave? Why him? Why didn’t you stop him, Dave? You saw he was going mad…you saw it…you pulled your gun on us…for the love of God you took a weapon against the rest of us, Dave!’

‘He’s autistic,’ Clarence bends over to press his hands either side of Lani’s shoulders, ‘and he has Asperger’s…’

‘No excuse…he knows enough…you know enough to have stopped him…’ she shouts at Dave, ‘if Howie is hurt then it’s your fault…your fault, Dave….YOUR FAULT.’

‘Dave cannot read people,’ Clarence lifts the girl easily from the ground, ‘he cannot read social situations or…’

‘GET OFF ME!’ Lani yells, ‘this isn’t about Dave, or what Dave can do, or what Dave can’t bloody do…’

Cookey steps in to face Lani, his voice low and trembling with emotion, ‘that’s not fair,’ he says to Lani, ‘don’t say that to Dave.’

‘Grow up,’ Lani hisses.

‘No, it ain’t fair,’ Cookey presses, ‘Dave did stop Mr Howie.’

‘After he went mad!’ Lani shouts, ‘he bust through a bloody wall with the Saxon and attacked innocent people…’

‘Stop it,’ Cookey pleads in a half shout.

‘Dave is unstoppable…Howie could have killed people…he could have got himself killed…what if Howie turns? What then? Dave turns with him? Dave would give himself over to be with Howie…we all know it…not one of us can get through Dave…’

‘Lani, please’ Nick joins in, ‘this is shit enough…just stop it for fuck’s sake.’

‘I won’t fucking stop it!’ Lani’s voice rises in pitch and volume, her body shaking with pure fury, ‘DAVE SHOULD HAVE STOPPED HIM…I HATE YOU, DAVE…YOU HEAR ME? I HATE YOU FOR WHAT YOU’VE DONE…’ A slap rings out clear and distinct in the darkened factory floor of the munitions buildings. Instant silence follows the unmistakable noise of skin on skin, an open handed strike delivered clean across Lani’s face.

‘None of the others would do that,’ Paula hisses, ‘but I bloody will…now stop ranting and get a grip of yourself…’

Lani reels from the contact with her cheek burning from the slap. Humiliated, tears of rage turn into tears of despair and her mind closes off to reason with a conflicting spread of numbness. She swallows audibly and blinks hard in the electric charged atmosphere. All eyes are on her, staring and waiting to see if she’ll erupt.

‘Sorry,’ Lani whispers as she finally reaches up to rub at the tender spot on her cheek, ‘I…I’m…’ she exhales long and slow, pushing the air out as she struggles to master her own thoughts. ‘Dave…’ she turns as Clarence eases his grip from her shoulders, ‘I…that was unforgivable…’

‘No,’ Paula speaks firmly, ‘you had a point but…’

‘What point?’ Cookey asks in shock.

‘Dave should have stopped him,’ Paula says carefully, ‘Lani is right, Howie listens to Dave and she was also right that no one else could get close because of Dave…but,’ she sounds out as she turns round slowly to address the whole group, ‘Dave is autistic and that’s something we have to deal with.’

‘How?’ Roy speaks up for the first time, ‘he can’t assess situations like we can.’

‘Dave?’ Paula asks the small man still kneeling protectively at Howie’s side, ‘we’re talking about you like you’re not here…do you understand what Lani is saying?’

‘Yes,’ the flat monotone voice is impossible to read.

‘I don’t like this,’ Blowers speaks out, ‘you’re patronising him.’

‘I’m not,’ Paula retorts, ‘and forgive me but we’re in a bloody mess right now so we need to get this sorted.’

‘Yeah but don’t speak to Dave like that,’ Blowers replies.

‘Blowers, calm down,’ Clarence orders, happy to use some strength in his voice addressing a younger male. ‘Everyone take five and relax, Dave will stay with Mr Howie…we’re in a mess and we’re here to do a job which is to get ammunition. Blowers, organise a watch on that hole in the wall and get someone on the other side too.’

‘But…’ Blowers starts to reply.

‘No buts,’ Clarence keeps his voice steady but let’s no mistake as to the intent, ‘we sort our own shit out in private…which means not here…we present a unified and switched on front to these people…’

‘Got it,’ Blowers nods with discipline, forcing his own voice to show respect.

‘Paula, I’ll need you to communicate with the people here, we need ammunition and seeing as we’ve breached their factory we’ll also offer them an escort back to the fort.’

‘Okay,’ Paula follows Blowers lead, nodding quickly as the big man steps in to take control.

‘Good,’ Clarence steps back and rubs his own neck to ease the tension in his tight muscles. ‘Good,’ he repeats but glances down in worry at the prone form of Howie and feels anything but good.

Four

Day Two

He looks up at the sky. It’s a deep blue with hues of purple that darken steadily as the day gives way to the relentless and unceasing chase of dark after light.

The ugly man has an affinity to this endless cycle. It strikes a chord that resonates with his own relentless nature. His unceasing drive to do what must be done. With an inward snort of dark humour he realises that he isn’t the only one with a relentless and unceasing nature. The small boy, holding his hand and skipping along while staring down at his new shoes, never stops talking. It’s just a torrent of questions, of questions that don’t have answers, answers that have no questions. Comments, remarks, observations and an appetite to know everything, coupled with a factual certainty that Gregori obviously has the answers to everything.

The ugly man still cannot fully understand why he stays with the boy. The self-justification that by having a small child will make him less threatening to groups of survivors just isn’t true. Gregori doesn't need other survivors. Gregori doesn't need anybody. If he is hungry he will find food. If he is tired he will find a secure place to sleep. If he is threatened he will kill and kill until the threat is negated.

The boy irritates him. The boy annoys him. He speaks too much and moves too slow but there is something, something Gregori cannot quite grasp or understand. The boy shows no fear of the undead. He seems to know where they will be or not be. How? How can he know such things?

‘Gregoreeee,’ the boy announces as the prelude to yet another question, snapping the ugly man from his silent reverie, ‘why didn’t you get new shoes?’

‘I have shoes,’ Gregori’s deep voice grunts in his thick, Albanian accent.

‘But you could get red shoes like my new red shoes and then you would have red shoes and I would have red shoes.’

‘I have shoes.’

‘Are we there yet?’ The boy asks for the hundredth time .

‘No.’

‘Will my new family be there?’

‘No.’

‘Who will be there?’

‘No…I…nobody.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘You ask this. I answer.’

‘Can I have Rice Krispies for breakfast?’

‘I not know this.’

‘Or Cocoa Pops.’

‘…’

‘Or Frosties…is it night time now?’

‘Soon.’

‘Do you have pyjamas?’

‘I not know this word.’

‘Pyjamas?’ The boy giggles, ‘everyone has pyjamas…but girls have nighties…’

‘Nighties? What is nighties?’

‘Girls wear nighties when they go to bed…mummy has a nighty and…’

‘I understand. No I not have these. You not have these.’

‘Mummy said I have to wear my pyjamas.’

‘No.’

‘But, Gregoreee…Mummy said I have to wear them.’

‘No. We don’t have these.’

‘I want my pyjamas.’

‘No.’

‘Fine,’ the boy stops dead in his tracks with a sullen look on his face.

‘What you do? We go now…come, we go,’ Gregori pulls the boy along who simply gets dragged a few feet but stubbornly refuses to walk.

‘I want my pyjamas.’

‘No have these…come now.’

‘No!’

‘Boy, you come now.’

‘NO!’ The boy shouts with his bottom lip poking out and his eyebrows dropped to a look of petulant anger.

‘No shout,’ Gregori glances round the deserted street, at the broken houses and at the cars left abandoned in the middle of the road. Corpses lie still with flies buzzing amongst them. They’re hot and sticky and signs are everywhere that the undead have been here. Blood stains, smears and death surround them but the boy refuses to move.

‘Come now,’ Gregori tugs at the boys hand, urging him to walk.

‘NO!’ The boy shouts louder, ‘I WANT MY PYJAMAS.’

‘Boy, no shout,’ Gregori hisses in alarm.

‘PYJAMAS,’ the boy’s face flushes red with anger while he stamps his foot on the ground. Tugging his hand free from Gregori, he draws breath ready to shout but finds a big, gnarled hand clamping down to cut the shout off. He struggles and thrashes his head side to side while trying hard to pull away.

‘Shush, you quiet,’ Gregori fights with the boy while glaring round, constantly scanning the streets, the houses, the windows and doors. Too many points of access here, too many entry ways to monitor.

‘GET OFF,’ the boy breaks free and screams the words out louder still, ‘GETOFFGETOFF.’

Gregori tries picking the boy up but as small as he is, the child thrashes with unbelievable energy and violence. His golden face flushes a deeper red as his tantrum builds up higher. With a hard kick to the shin, Gregori swallows in pain and lowers the struggling boy to the ground. Small, tight fists get balled up into small hammers that bounce and strike off Gregori’s chest and arms. The Albanian holds his head back, ducking and weaving to avoid the blows while all the time staring round and glancing up at the ever darkening sky.

‘PYJAMAS,’ the boy screams with murder in his eyes. Gregori flounders and hesitates. What do you do with a screaming child? The noise is terrible and with the boys arms flailing so hard he can’t get close to clamp the mouth. He knows the boy has no fear of his pistol otherwise he would draw it and threaten to shoot him. A knife is no good, the boy is too young to have a full concept of having his throat cut or an ear sliced off and Gregori recognises pure temper when he sees it. The boy was like this last night when he rushed forward to defend his mother by stabbing the undead with a kitchen knife.

A blow catches him to the side of the head, a solid little punch that Gregori absorbs with ease but feels the first prickle of reaction. The sky is darker now, the sun sinking down past the horizon. Shadows lengthen and become deeper. This is not the place to be. They need to move.

Another fist whacks him on the chin as he peers over his shoulder to the many doorways and windows of the street surrounding them. He reacts with lightning speed, one hand shoots out to grip the boy’s face, Gregori’s hard fingers clamping onto his jaw. Harder pressure is applied until the soft skin of the boys jaw turns white. He lifts the arm, easing the boy off his feet. Still the boy pays no heed and lashes out with determination. Gregori’s gaze darkens, anger building, but the boy equals him and hammers to try and hit Gregori’s face. He can’t reach so he goes for the arm holding him, raining blows down on Gregori’s forearm until he realises he is having no effect so changes tactic and goes for digging his sharp little nails into Gregori’s skin instead.

As focussed on the boy as Gregori is, his peripheral vision still takes in the sides and behind the boy. Dark now. Night is here. This has to end. A much firmer grip is taken, his left hand squeezing at the boy’s face while his right lifts up ready to deliver an open handed slap across the boy’s face. He sees it coming and stops attacking Gregori’s arm. The boy stares at the open hand with defiance then glares back at Gregori as though goading him to strike. No fear there, no fear whatsoever, just defiance and rage.

‘I not hit you,’ Gregori mutters, ‘you not hit me.’ He lowers the hand and pushes him with enough force to cause the boy to fall down on his backside. Gregori waits for the reaction, ready to push the boy away if he charges in for another attack but the boy snaps his head to one side, staring over to the left, then over to the right before looking up at the sky.

‘They’re coming,’ the boy says back in his usual tone.

On his feet, Gregori spins round ready to face whatever foe comes their way but there is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard either.

‘Listen,’ the boy rises quickly to his feet while whispering across to Gregori, who cranes his head straining to hear anything. He glances across at the boy with a hard yet quizzical expression.

‘Now,’ the boy whispers then it hits. A wall of sound. Voices primeval and sinister that howl into the night sky. Unseen, yet close, and coming from every direction. Hundreds, thousands and more that scream with utter venomous energy it prickles the hairs on the back of Gregori’s neck. In all his years, after hundreds of murders and mass killings, of all the countries and all the cultures he has visited, never before has a sound such as this reached his ears. There is no doubt as to the source. This country doesn't have big wild animals. Dogs wouldn’t sound like that either. It’s human voices but collective and together. They howl like wolves but far worse. Scratchy smokers voices, children’s screeches. females higher in pitch and males lower in semi-baritone, yet all of them screeching with such volume is creates a never ending and multi-directional threat assessment.

‘Come,’ Gregori takes two quick steps and grabs the boy’s hand, roughly pulling him along as he starts charging down the street. The boy complies, running along in his new shoes while staring around with a strange look at the unseen howls permeating the night sky.

The boy says something, too low and drowned out by the noise. Gregori keeps running but barks out, ‘what?’ at the boy. The sound ceases. Ends with a suddenness that is foreboding and almost deafening in its arrival.

‘I said they stop now,’ the boy repeats, ‘they’re coming now.’

‘Where?’ Gregori spins as he runs, his highly trained senses picking out possible points of access to the street. An open door there, a smashed out window, a side gate leading to a rear garden, alleys, walkways… there’s too many and this place is too enclosed.

‘Everywhere,’ the boys says as though talking about something innocuous.

Gregori stops dead and pulls the boy up to do the same. Eyes closed, head bowed and the Albanian lets his sense of hearing come into play. He relaxes with easy breaths and takes stock of the natural noises around them. No wind and no breeze. The air is heavy and hot. There. A noise. A pattering sound. Running feet. Many running feet. Shoes and bare soles slapping on the tarmac. He slowly turns to make use of directional hearing. From behind. Many from behind. Sides too. Noises of doors being opened, furniture being overturned and slammed aside. Ahead, more noises but less than the others.

‘Come,’ he tugs the boy and starts walking faster, then jogging while checking to make sure the boy can keep up. He jogs faster, monitoring the boy and sensing the child can go faster still.

At the speed he judges the boy can run at without tiring too quickly, he keeps going while all the time scanning and checking, picking out obstacles in the darkened path ahead as he charges down the centre of the road. The street lights blink on, slowly in ones and twos, but the solar powered sodium lights soon illuminate the street. They are visible now and Gregori knows that their profile will be easy to spot from the predator eyes of the undead.

They are faster than the boy can run. The sounds of the feet drumming get closer and soon the solid mass of charging human shaped monsters fill the road behind them. Figures crash from the doorways of houses, spilling out into the street, windows crack and smash as bodies fling themselves to get through at the fresh prey outside. With a quick glance round, Gregori judges the undead will reach them within a few seconds. He stops, yanks the boy back and quickly swings him up onto his back.

‘Hold,’ Gregori forces the boy’s arms round his chin, placing the small hands on his jaw. ‘Tight, tighter,’ he barks, ‘use legs.’ He feels the pressure as the boys legs squeeze at his sides.

He has two pistols and two knives. The pistols are drawn quickly, one in each hand. He spins to face the charging mass and picks out those closest. Shots boom out as he fires the right, then the left, then the right. Those in front are slammed back as the 9mm bullets ram through their skulls to scramble the brains within. Despite the moving targets the shots are true and the hands holding the pistols are as steady as a surgeon.

Those in front are taken down but there are not enough bullets to shoot the mass. Deftly and with a blur of speed, he ejects the spent magazines and slams fresh ones in while turning to start running again. The pistols are tucked away securely and he draws the knives. One in each hand with the blades turned up against the forearms.

‘Tight,’ he commands the boy, and feels the pressure of the hands on his jaw and the legs at his sides increase. He jogs, gets faster, adjusts his rhythm and gait to the weight on his back and builds his speed up. Breathing easily, he moves with grace and power. His heart increases the flow of blood, his lungs expand to deal with the increased demand for oxygen. His pupils dilate to adjust to the dark shadows and gloomy air around them. He is a machine, relentless and unceasing. As night chases day chases night, so Gregori runs and matches his speed to those chasing him while carrying a child on his back.

From the side a figure bursts from an open door. Slipping, it goes down on an unseen obstacle but its forward momentum has it crashing through the thin fence of the front garden. It charges. Direct, red bloodshot eyes fix intently on Gregori, the mouth already open to make ready for the bite, fingers clawed at the end of sinewy arms. Gregori doesn't deviate. He doesn’t flinch but calculates the point of impact and makes the tiniest of adjustments to speed and direction. At the last second he simply raises one hand and brushes the sharp steel across the throat of the undead that spins off spraying a hot arc of blood into the air.

More stagger into view ahead. The drumming feet behind are still as close as before. Gregori counts the foes ahead and stops when he reaches thirty. With a clear mind he calculates the options, weighing up the risks, threats and chances of survival with each possible path. He judges the prospect of running into one of the houses, but without knowing if there is an escape route at the rear, the risk of being trapped in a high walled garden is too high.

‘Tight!’ He reaches up, taking care not to cut the boy with the knives, and pushes the small hands into his own chin, urging the boy to hold as tight as possible, ‘keep eyes closed,’ he mutters.

‘I want to watch,’ the boy whispers in his ear.

Gregori doesn't have time to answer but plots the kills ahead of time. A solitary undead charges out ahead of the others. He stabs it quickly through the jugular without breaking stride. His eyes search for a gap. Spotting a slight distance in the front ranks, he selects his targets and gets ready for the impact, hoping the boy will remain clamped on.

He veers off to intercept the one coming in from the left, a big beefy man with a shaved head and covered in tattoos. With a graceful flick, he sends the knife in his right hand spinning away to embed into the throat of the one charging at him from the front. As he cuts the throat of the tattooed man, the one in front staggers into reach with the hilt of the knife sticking out from its neck. Gregori spins, yanking the knife free and lunging sideways to hack again at its neck. Two down and now the two from the right coming in for the final charge. He simply extends both arms and lets the momentum of the charging undead drive into the points. With a wrench of the wrists, two jagged holes are formed in the throats before he pulls the blades free and steps through them to let them stagger and fall behind.

He starts running again and his mind has already moved on from the kills behind him to the solid ranks coming from the front. He powers on, driving his legs faster as he aims for the slight gap between two women, one of them naked with fat breasts slamming up and down with the gait of her own staggered running.

‘Boobies,’ the boy whispers again, staring at the pendulous things that seem alive and moving of their volition.

Gregori runs into the gap, arms held slightly out and the two women are cut down. The press of undead turn and start pushing in but find their own kind impede their movements. Gregori ducks, weaves, bobs and ever presses forward. His fast eyes seek each kill and lock onto the next target while his hands do the work. Sliding into gaps, he weaves and threads a path through the undead, killing anything that stands in his way. Like water through a rockery he takes the path of least resistance, fluid and graceful despite the weight of the boy clamped onto his back. The boy doesn't scream or cry out but remains silent as the gritty work of killing is done again and again.

With a new factor to consider, the safety of the boy on his back, Gregori works to a different rhythm and cadence than normal, never allowing a hand or arm to reach in from the sides or rear. The heat builds in the muggy air and from the press of bodies exhaling rotten, fetid breath. The boy generates heat too which traps the air between them. Gregori starts to sweat, his own body reacting to that of the environment as it serves to reduce the external temperature. The boy also sweats with a light perspiration that glistens on his forehead but slowly increases as the beads form and slide down his face. His arms exude sweat, his stomach and back too. The sweat seeps from his pores to lubricate his hands which grip Gregori’s chin. They start to slip and slide so the boy digs in, scrabbling to gain purchase on Gregori’s stubbly jaw. His legs also start to slide over the sodden material of Gregori’s shirt.

While flowing through the gaps created and feeling the pressure from the horde as those chasing up the street join the fray, Gregori feels the boy losing purchase. In response, he drops his head and pushes his chin out hoping it will give the child something more solid to hold. It works for a few minutes but the sweat works between the fingers and onto the palms, dripping down Gregori’s chin and sliding in thick rivulets down his cheeks.

Desperation sets in. They’re surrounded on all sides by a pressing horde of snarling beasts that lunge in ever increasing frenetic movements as they go for the bite. He snarls back, his upper lip curling while his body ramps up a gear. His arms blurring with stabs and slices while he works to keep his central core as stable as possible so as not to shift the boy. But he has to move forward, to stay still invites death so forward he goes, ever forward with one foot after the other.

A swerve or a sudden veer to the side will see the boy sliding off, but the undead press from behind and he knows his blind spot is now the weakest point. His left hand tucks the blade into his waistband as he spins on the spot. He moves with such sudden power that the boy slides round on the spot to end up facing Gregori, who wraps that left arm round the boy’s back.

‘Hold,’ he grunts into the boys ear and feels the small arms loop round his neck.

Now with the boy held to the front he only has one arm to use but with the burden held stable he makes progress, his left hand pressing into the back of the boy’s head, pushing it hard into the cavity between his neck and shoulder.

A glimmer of light ahead between the dense ranks tells Gregori there is an end point, a destination to aim for. He moves on with his right hand doing the work of two. Slicing, thrusting, killing and slaying. He’s almost there but they press in, blocking his route in a desperate surge. He plunges the knife into a chest, puncturing the heart which causes an immediate, severe internal bleeding as the muscle haemorrhages blood into the lungs. Trying to wrench the knife free, the blade snaps leaving inches of steel stuck in the undead’s chest. Without a flicker of reaction, Gregori drops the broken knife and draws a pistol. Eight shots ring out as he fires each of the rounds in the magazine. Eight are killed instantly. The pistol is pushed back, a twist in the torso and he draws the second pistol. Another eight shots and another eight instant kills. Sixteen are killed within a few seconds and enough of a gap is created that he can push through. The last two block his path. The first gets pistol whipped straight to the nose, fracturing the bone so hard it splinters and send shards deep into the brain. Gregori shoves the pistol away before bringing his  hand is back up to reach out and grip the last undead blocking his escape by the throat.

He spins round holding the writhing beast one handed by the neck and presents the back of the undead to the still lumbering zombies behind. Fingers strong and trained crush the small bones of the voice box, driving them inward to pierce and rupture the airways and cause blood to rush down into the lungs. Still the undead lashes out with clawed hands that reach towards Gregori’s face. With a vicious kick he boots the undead away and it falls to the floor and trips several more undead as they drive on.

Gregori is away. One handed he holds the boy in place while he builds to a sprint. His breathing is hard but regular. His right arm swings to maintain balance and coordination.

Sprinting at maximum speed he outstrips those still chasing, creating distance as his dark eyes flick side to side ever searching for an escape. House after house flash by. Long streets with semi-detached and terraces. The plans race through his mind. Use a vehicle but that means entering a house to find keys which takes time, time for the undead to catch up.

He spots an alley to the right, the entrance illuminated by the glow of a solar sodium street light. He veers off, turning tight on the spot and charges down the narrow path bordered on both sides by high brick walls. At the end he bursts out into a darkened place of an expanse of concrete. His eyes adjust quickly, picking out the rows of garages and a possible escape route which he takes with barely pause for thought.

‘Can we go home for my pyjamas please, Gregoreee,’ the boy asks in a tone so light and innocent that Gregori snorts with despair. A tone that assumes this can be done. He’s been running, fighting, killing and sprinting to escape but of course they should go back for his night-clothes, why wouldn’t they?

A small hand reaches up to rub at his face, the soft skin of the palm pushing against the stubble on his jaw.

‘It hurts me,’ the boy rubs at the stubble as though to brush it away.

‘Sorry,’ Gregori huffs but keeps running.

‘Gregoree,’ the boy precludes to another question forming in his mind, ‘do you do shaving?’

‘Yes,’ Gregori hisses the word while picking out the lie of the land ahead, noting the undulating terrain, spotting the raised kerbs, the old tyres stacked up and the debris littering the ground.

‘My mummy does shaving on her legs, do you do shaving on your legs?’

‘No,’ he takes a hard left into the mouth of another alley, driving his legs to push them further into the near pitch dark.

‘Mummy says mummies shave legs and daddies shave faces…do the monsters do shaving?’

‘No,’ he grunts. Why isn’t this boy terrified? He should be too terrified to speak let alone ask questions about shaving.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Find…find…’ Gregori gives up trying to answer, instead focussing on keeping his breathing regulated as his lungs work harder to oxygenate the blood flow to his muscles.

‘Find pyjamas?’ The boy asks with hope.

‘No!’

The end of the alley he takes a left, heading away from the general direction of the horde. He runs down the street, this one appearing less damaged than the previous. Reaching a T-junction he doesn't hesitate but heads right and keeps his legs pumping to drive on. Smarter houses, bigger with nice windows and front gardens. Gregori takes it in, constantly scanning the doors and windows. Some damaged with dark smears of blood but others looking intact and solid.

Still too close to the horde and too close to this area so swamped with them. They keep going, feet pounding the ground as the heat between them builds to uncomfortable levels. The boy shifts position, his arms tired from holding on.

Gregori spots the entrance set back from the road. A high wooden fence hidden amongst low hanging trees and thick hedges run wild from years of neglect. A driveway that winds up and away from the road. He takes it quickly, rushing to the side and away from the sparse gravel on the surface of the rutted roadway.

He gets the feeling of space to one side, large grounds beyond the tree line. There’s a gap in the hedge and he pushes through to the other side but keeps going. Moonlight shines bright overhead and down on the tiled roof of the big building ahead. It’s an old manor house, large and detached from anything else. Perfect. Old houses have solid walls, deep windows and strong doors and with any luck enough gap has been created that the chasing horde won’t know the direction they took.

But there’s light in the ground floor window. Soft and orange, flickering with shadows that speak of candles lit within. No tactics this time but he heads for the front door, slowing at the last few metres but still holding the boy tight. Breathing hard he wraps knuckles on the door, turning to glance down at the route they took. Movement inside, voices low and murmuring, a door opens and soft footsteps reach his ears. He knocks again, softer this time but urgent and fast and again checks behind to see if they’ve caught up yet.

‘Go away,’ a voice hisses through, deep and distinctly male.

‘I have child,’ Gregori forces his tone to be lighter than normal, quavering his tone to imply a sense of fear.

‘Piss off,’ the voice responds instantly, ‘we’ve already got enough kids here…we’re full up…’

‘They chase us…please…’ Gregori pleads at the door before checking behind.

‘No!’

Gregori frowns once as he tilts his head at the door. Lowering the boy down he crouches to press his mouth close to the boys ear, whispering softly, ‘stay here, I open door from other side…you stay…’

‘I want to come with you,’ the boy whispers back in a pleading tone.

‘No, boy,’ Gregori speaks softly with no hint of anger in his voice, ‘please…do this…stay here…I quick…I Gregori…’

‘Promise?’ The boy whispers.

‘I promise this,’ Gregori whispers then stands up before moving silently out of the recessed doorway. Staying low he circumvents the front of the house, heading round the perimeter checking doors and windows, pausing to listen and absorb the natural sounds and noises. He gains the rear, climbing deftly over an old stone wall to drop into the soft earth of a flower bed. Crossing the raised patio he makes his way to the wooden back door and his mind slips into work mode. A house full of targets. Subjects that need to be negated, an objective to achieve.

The remaining knife is drawn, the long thin blade slides easily between the gaps of the sash window. With the slightest of creaks he works the interior lock over and pushes the bottom sash up. It creaks on old hinges, squeaking into the night with a noise that would send a burglar packing. Gregori shoves harder, forcing the gap big enough to get through.

Heavy feet running towards him from inside the house. His upper body through and he pauses with the knife held ready. A dark room, a dining table to one side.

‘He’s coming in the back,’ a voice shouts.

‘Get the shotgun up here,’ another yells. Gregori’s eyes stare hard at the door as his brain processes the incoming information. Shotgun. England only allows double barrelled shotguns, not large capacity pump actions. Two shots to deal with.

‘In the kitchen,’ the first voice yells out. An interior door is kicked open with a loud thud telling Gregori they are in the next room along and that he has enough time to climb through the window and cross the room to stand beside the door interior door.

The shouts and footsteps get closer, crossing the kitchen adjacent to the dining room within which he stands. The door bangs wide from a solid kick. Stupid people full of fear and panic, allowing their fear to channel into anger as they rampage about telling any possible invader exactly where they are.

The front of the shotgun appears, waving left to right as the holder peers into the room. Gregori waits, holding position. The barrel sweeps left, right, left again. The person holding it can see the open window and knows someone is inside but not being able to see them and it sends the panic and fear ratcheting up through his body. Gregori notices the tremble in the barrel, the slight shake as the sweeps become quicker.

‘He’s in here,’ the voice whispers hoarsely.

‘Get in there then,’ the second male orders but with the same level of panic in his voice.

‘Can’t see ‘im…oi mate…you in here? I got a shotgun…come out with your hands up!’

Pathetic. Adjusting position, Gregori faces the back of the door and pulls one leg back before sweeping it forward in a powerful kick that slams the door into the extended barrel. The holder clutches in fright, pulling both triggers in blind panic that sends a deafening boom into the enclosed space. Both shots negated, Gregori steps round, wrenches the door open and grips the hot barrel with one hand to yank it towards him, pulling the man into the room and onto the point of the knife that stabs deep into the eye socket driving through into the brain. With a low gurgle the man drops down leaving Gregori holding the shotgun and the knife in his hand facing the second man who pisses himself in terror.

Gibbering with fear the man stays rooted to the spot as the ugly man advances with frightening speed. He has sickly, grey, pock-marked skin, greasy brown hair and eyes that seem to bulge from sunken sockets. A rough hand clamps over his mouth and his eyes widen as the knife drives into his gut, twisting, cutting, shredding and spilling the sticky hot innards onto the floor. Dead in seconds and the man slumps down to join his mate.

Gregori drops to wipe the blade on the t shirt of a corpse. His eyes already up and on the next open door. Head cocked to one side, voices, scared and worried. Female, male. He moves off into the hallway and instead of booting doors open with raging fear, he silently opens each in turn to check the inside.

The last room. The one the orange light was coming from. The door knob squeaks as he turns it, the hinges creak as the door swings inwards to reveal three women and a man. Two of the women are young, in their twenties. The last are an old couple, grey haired and staring as wide eyed as the others. Silent and terrified they stare at the blood soaked vision of a nightmare that enters the room.

‘Children here?’ Gregori asks softly.

‘What!?’ The old man gasps, ‘children? No…no children…’

‘No boys?’ Gregori asks just as softly.

‘No,’ the old man shakes his head, ‘no boys…no children here…who are you?’

‘I Gregori,’ Gregori announces, ‘I need the pajajamamas.’

‘What?’ The old man stares in horror.

‘Pajajamamas,’ Gregori repeats, ‘the boy wears the pajajamamas…I need these…’

‘Pyjamas?’ The old man asks, aghast at the surreal shock, ‘no…no we don’t have any…’ he glances at the others as though utterly confused.

Gregori shrugs and closes the door behind him, sealing them in the room.

Minutes later, the last of the bodies is shoved down the stairs into the basement. He took care killing those in the front room to prevent too much blood loss. Quick kills with stabs to the heart and the old couple had their necks broken. They tried to scream and fight but fighting against Gregori doesn't work, it just makes his job easier.

With a grunt he shoves the old man roughly down the stairs and closes the door to the basement, turning the key in the lock before pocketing in his trousers and heading for the front door.

‘Come,’ he says as he opens the door to reveal the boy staring up with wide eyes.

‘You were ages and ages,’ the boy says reproachfully as he crosses the threshold. Gregori checks the view, no sign of the undead, no sign of anything. The shotgun blasts were loud but from a distance they might be muffled enough to confuse the exact direction. Door closed, bolted and locked he turns to see the boy waiting patiently in the hallway.

‘Are there people here?’ The boy looks round at the doors.

‘No, they go,’ Gregori replies.

‘Where did they go?’ The boy asks innocently.

‘They go,’ Gregori shrugs, ‘I ask and they go.’

‘Oh,’ the boy looks up at Gregori, ‘do they have pyjamas?’

Five

‘Ready?’ Clarence takes a deep breath.

‘Yep, you want me to take the lead?’ Paula asks, ‘might be less threatening than some giant bloke holding an axe.’

The big man thinks for a second while glancing down at the double headed axe held in one hand. ‘Yeah, alright,’ he nods, ‘we need ammunition.’

‘I know we need ammunition.’

‘And we’ll offer to escort them back to the fort.’

‘Yes, Clarence, I know that.’

‘Tell them we’ve got a sanctuary and that it’s an island now, tell ‘em we’ve got loads of people there…’

‘Clarence! Yes I know.’

‘And we’re desperate for ammunition, we need 9 mil for pistols, 5.56 for the assault rifles and…’

‘Okay,’ Paula snaps, ‘I’ve got it; just let me do the talking at the start. Come on,’ she takes the lead, moving away from the group sat forlornly near to the still prone form of Howie. Threading through the quality control section of the factory they pass small side offices used by the shift supervisors and admin staff before reaching the big double at the back. Windows, toughened and set high into the walls, allow the bright moonlight to bathe the room in a silvery light.

Reaching the doors she pauses, clears her throat and knocks gently on the thick wood,

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ She calls out in a polite voice, taking care to keep her tone respectful yet firm. Years of dealing with accountancy clients, stressed from impending cut off dates for tax returns and VAT inspections, have equipped her with proficient skills in negotiations. She knocks again, a symbolic gesture of waiting to be invited in instead of just barging through into the next section. These people will be shocked and terrified to the core. Having had their almost fort-like building rammed by an army truck then attacked by a screaming man, well, they’ll be less than hospitable.

She knocks again after getting no response, ‘maybe they’re further back,’ she murmurs to Clarence.

‘Maybe, let me try,’ a huge bunched fist thumps on the door a few times, ‘HELLO?’ He bellows.

‘Clarence,’ Paula groans.

‘What?’

‘You’ll terrify them.’

‘Stop saying that, I’m not that bad.’

‘You are,’ she looks up at him, ‘in this light, really, you are,’ she nods seriously.

‘Well they’re still not answering,’ he huffs, ‘just go through.’

‘We should wait,’ she points out, ‘until we’re invited…or,’ she tuts as he pushes past to stride through the doors, ‘or we could just go straight in,’ she mutters to herself.

‘Hullo!’ Clarence tries to adopt a less threatening, more jovial form of greeting that has Paula wincing at the sight of him lumbering through like some cheerfully psychotic lunatic. The lack of response is concerning but it gives her a chance to swiftly move in front and take the lead, ‘stay behind me,’ she whispers.

‘Haven’t got much choice have I really,’ Clarence mutters, ‘where are they?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replies quietly as they make their way down a darkened corridor, pausing to check inside the side offices and staff rooms, ‘probably right at the back away from us.’

The signs of habitation are everywhere with offices converted and used as living quarters complete with makeshift beds, shoes, clothing, books left lying open and half burnt down candles. It smells of people too, of people living close together, of sweat and food, feet and the scents of the living.

‘This doesn't feel right,’ Paula whispers quietly, ‘it’s like the Mary Celeste.’

‘Nah, they’re at the back like you said…having a meeting probably,’ Clarence says giving up on the whispering.

Another set of double doors indicate the end of the office and administration section. Paula gets there first, knocking and calling out with her body positioned to block Clarence. There’s no response and after a few more knocks she gently pushes the door open to peer inside.

‘Factory floor,’ she whispers back to Clarence, ‘can’t see anyone though.’

‘Go through then,’ Clarence urges. She does, stepping into the room and calling out a greeting. Machinery, large and small, dominate the huge hangar size room. Stainless steel surfaces with inert red warning lights cover the area and the walls are adorned with safety notices informing staff that full protective equipment must be worn at all times. Conveyer belts, processing plants, machines to spin, crush, wash and do a thousand other tasks in a few minutes that would take human hands many hours to accomplish hulk down in the shadows. Wars are supplied from this room and the effect is not lost on Clarence. His nose fills with the smell of gun oil, lubricants, hot brass and the distinct smell of casings. The rounds he has laid down in service for his country in war zones all over the world, the rounds fired back at him, the friends, colleagues and enemies he has seen cut down by the tiny objects, were all mass produced in this room. Millions of them, billions, and every size and calibre are made here to be sent out simply so man can kill other men.

He thinks of the muted conversation in barracks, and mess rooms, and the angry bitter words spoken right after fire-fights when they realised the bullets sent at them were also produced in British and American factories, only to be sold by lucrative contracts to supposedly stable countries that then sell them on for a further profit.

This one building, this one room must be responsible for the deaths of millions of people worldwide and now, in the desperate hour when their species faces extinction and they need it the most, the machines lie quiet and useless. Hunks of metal, plastic and electrical wires all leading to other useless lumps of metal and plastic. This room should be functioning night and day non-stop with a queue of people outside lined up ready to take arms against those things.

‘There’s no one here,’ Paula looks round then up at Clarence with a searching gaze.

‘Keep going then,’ he mutters back and steps in behind as she walks down the central aisle towards the rear end. Their heavy boots sound out each step on the bare concrete surface of the floor, echoing round the room with a noise that only serves to increase the eerie silence.

To the end they go, traipsing past the silent machines that glint moonlight from the polished sections on display. Doors lead off to offices once again converted into living spaces but all are empty, devoid of life and soundless. Without a word spoken they move from room to room, checking, looking and searching. Through another set of double doors with a sign that indicates they are heading towards the storage and distribution sections. Another corridor but this one bare concrete walls and unadorned with any furniture. Red lines painted on the floor indicate the track marks for the machinery used to haul the heavy pallets, boxes and cases from the factory to the areas set aside for sorting and distribution.

Another hangar style room lies through another set of heavy double doors but this one is devoid of machinery other than electric forklift trucks, mobile jacks and haulage devices. Cranes fitted to the solid metal girders overhead rest quiet to gather dust. Sections are marked with letters, stencilled high onto the walls ready to be piled onto trucks and sent out to the many police, armed services and conflict zones around the world.

Clarence picks out the stacks of boxes and crates identical to the ones seen on the naval supply ship they boarded just days ago. Stacks and columns of them. Cases of small and large calibre rounds, sniper rounds, heavy machine gun rounds, fifty calibre rounds and, within a sectioned off area complete with signs warning of explosives, rests cases of hand grenades, mortars and mines.

‘Dave is gonna love this,’ Clarence breaks the awed silence.

‘Are they all bullets?’ Paula whispers.

‘Yep, rounds of every size and shape, see that,’ he points off to the explosives section, ‘grenades, mortars and mines.’

‘Wow,’ she recoils at the sheer amount of stock waiting to be shipped out but instead of the link to death being made, her mind works another route. What are the processes here? How is each round and each case accounted for? What is the flow from production to shipping them out to clients? The paper and audit trail must be immense. Whatever accountants work here must be flat out from the minute they start work.

‘It’s incredible,’ she stares in awe.

‘It is,’ Clarence nods thinking of how many undead they can cut down now and a sense of a definite shift in the balance of power from the things to the survivors.

‘But still no people,’ Paula starts walking through the room, ‘HELLO? ANYONE THERE?’ Her voice rolls round the room, echoing back from the high metal clad sides and reinforced concrete walls. ‘This is…’ she pauses, ‘isn’t right,’ she announces firmly.

Clarence grunts while shining his torch to the sides as he walks down the length of the room, ‘know what I think?’ He asks slowly.

‘What?’

‘They’ve gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘Gone,’ he shrugs but the movement is lost in the darkness, ‘left…gone somewhere else.’

‘Really? No way,’ Paula walks fast to join him as they cross the expanse of floor, ‘where would they go?’

‘They aren’t here,’ Clarence states matter of fact, ‘so if they ain’t here,’ he looks over at her, ‘then they’re elsewhere.’

‘Yes,’ she bites the urge to snap at him, ‘I get that but why would they go?’

‘Why? Why d’you think?’

‘We scared them off? No…no way.’

‘Down there,’ Clarence shines the torch beam to yet another set of double doors but these ones fitted with the standard Health and Safety fire exit sign above. Huge things, thick metal panels fitted with iron bars and a lattice of studs with sunken hinges, fitted with alarms and dead bolts the size of car irons.

‘Yeah I see it.’ Paula sighs at the sight of the objects left strewn across the floor up to the double doors. Teddy bears, books, toys, bags, rucksacks, bedding and objects too bulky to move fast with. An image works its way into her head of men at the doors ordering the women and children to dump anything non-essential as they chose the danger of the night and the darkness outside to the threat of the maniacs within.

‘They don’t know what’s out there,’ Paula whispers sadly, ‘they’ve been here the whole time.’

‘Maybe they haven’t,’ Clarence replies weakly, ‘but still…’

‘They chose that over us,’ Paula finishes the sentence, ‘I…’ shaking her head from the surge of guilt flooding through her body.

‘I… What are you doing?’ She asks as Clarence pushes the solid bar down to find the door swings easily outwards. He steps out with the axe held ready, staring into the moonlight landscape of the cultured grounds surrounding the building.

‘Tracks.’ He shines the torch down onto the distinct area of flattened grass that cuts across the once perfect lawn as it undulates gently into the darkness and out of sight.

‘Fuck,’ Paula sags on the spot, ‘could we catch them up? Talk them into coming back?’

‘No, we get the ammunition and go back,’ Clarence about turns, heading back into the storage room.

‘But we can’t leave it like that, we’re responsible for them…’

‘No we’re not,’ Clarence snaps, baulking at the suggestion, ‘they chose to go, it’s up to them.’

‘They left because of us…families, Clarence, whole families turfed out because we…’

‘We?’

‘Howie then,’ Paula snaps, ‘but yes, because we bust in here.’

‘Why? Why did we come here?’

‘The ammunition,’ she replies missing the point.

‘Because we’ve run out,’ he answers with forced patience, ‘because we used them all up…killing the things…fighting against them…while they stayed in here safe and sound.’

‘Even so.’

‘No even so,’ he cuts her off, ‘they could have let us in or just as easily put some cases outside for us…they could have done many different things but they chose to stay locked up and forced us to break in, Howie gave them a choice.’

‘Did he?’ Paula asks, ‘he was on his own when he spoke to them…I didn’t hear it and neither did you.’

‘What?’ Clarence screws his face up in irritated confusion, ‘what’s that mean?’

‘He’s being going downhill all day…his mental state I mean…how do we know what he said into the intercom?’

‘Paula,’ Clarence reaches his spare hand round to rub at his own neck that feels so tight and bunched up, ‘don’t ever question Howie…I’ve been with him for…’

‘Six….seven days? Maybe just over a week?’

‘Eight or nine,’ Clarence mutters, ‘but it doesn't matter, I would trust that man with my life…hell, I have trusted that man with my life…we all have…everyone has,’ Clarence trails off, ‘which is why he’s like this now.’

‘Yes,’ she draws the word out, ‘but all I’m saying is, we don’t know exactly what Howie said to them.’

‘So what? What does it matter?’ Clarence groans, ‘Howie could have told them we’ll get inside and burn them all alive for all I care…fact is fact, Paula…Howie has had one bad day since this began but even on his worst day he’s still the best human being I have ever met…and fact is fact that they were locked in here…fact is fact that we’ve been outside fighting and risking our lives while they stayed locked in here…frankly I couldn’t give a rats arse to what he did or didn’t say…we needed the thing they had and they didn’t want to share so we did what we needed to take it.’

Paula opens her mouth to reply but finds his words strike a chord of common sense. It doesn't feel right forcing people out of their safe place, but the safe place is a munitions factory and the stock they held inside could make the difference between life and death for so many.

‘I get what you’re saying,’ Clarence says after a pause, ‘and we did say we would offer them the chance to come back with us…but,’ he adds slowly, ‘what can we do? We aren’t splitting the team up to send people out looking for them, not at night.’

‘Okay,’ she nods to herself and realises he won’t be able to see the movement, ‘yes,’ she says abruptly with a tired finality to her voice, ‘what now?’

‘Wait till morning to load up and head back, we’ll need another vehicle but…’

‘We can get some ammunition now though can’t we, for our weapons I mean.’

‘I’ll send the lads back down here to bring some cases back.’

‘Why don’t we just take a case back with us now?’ She asks pointedly.

‘Because we’ve only got little torches and…’

‘I can see fine,’ she moves off hovering the beam of light from her torch as she move quickly to the first stack all wrapped up tight in thick layers of cling-film type packaging. Drawing her knife she slices through the outer layer, digging the blade against the taut plastic until it cuts and she can tear it away with her hands.

‘What we looking for?’ She tries to ask with the end of the torch clamped between her teeth.

‘Maybe ask that before you start taking them apart?’

‘Then how do we see what’s on the boxes inside the cling wrap?’

‘On the manifesto,’ he replies too quickly.

‘What manifesto? Can you see a manifesto? I can see a big printed barcode waiting to be scanned onto a computer system…you could get the power running then work out how to operate the computer systems then find the barcode reader scan the barcode and maybe then we’ll know what’s in each pallet.’

‘They always had manifestos when they were delivered to stores,’ Clarence grunts.

‘And I’m guessing once the army take possession they issue their own paper manifesto seeing as maybe it’ll be hard to operate a barcode scanner in the middle of Afghanistan.’

‘And you’d know that would you?’ He asks bluntly, ‘seeing as you served with distinction in overseas combat zones.’

‘No, but I bloody worked with enough delivery companies to know how they establish stream-lined and paperless systems.’

‘Oh the stream-lined and paperless systems,’ Clarence says scathingly, ‘yeah we’re all for that in the middle of a big fire fight. Don’t worry about the bullets and bombs flying everywhere but for fuck’s sake don’t cut a tree down.’

‘And back to the matter at hand,’ Paula cuts him off, ‘what are we looking for?’

‘Looking for? You should know seeing as you…’

‘Clarence…why are you being like that?’ She snaps.

‘Five point five six for the assault rifles and nine mil for the pistols…look for seven point six two for the big gun. It should be stencilled on the side of the cases…unless they’re a new paperless and streamlined service too,’ he adds with an edge to his voice, ‘you know, so we make life easier for the paper pushers who don’t have to worry about the bullets and bombs flying about…’

‘Here,’ she says ignoring his caustic comments, ‘five point five six…Christ this is heavy,’ she grunts trying to lift the solid metal crate.

‘Allow me,’ he reaches past one handed to lift the case from the stack and lower it to the floor.

‘Wish I had your strength,’ she mutters.

‘Bollocks,’ he curses. The top opened up to reveal layers of shiny brass rounds looking innocuous under the torch light, ‘no magazines…’

‘Oh…will they be here too?’ She asks standing over his crouching form.

‘I don’t know, Paula,’ he bites, ‘I’ve never worked in a fucking munitions factory…I don’t know who makes the magazines or if the fucking munitions factory makes the fucking magazines…I’m a fucking soldier not a…’

‘And I was an accountant and Howie was a manager at Tesco and Lani worked in a nightclub,’ she says abruptly, ‘so you and Dave are…’

‘Me and Dave?’ He looks up with scorn, ‘Dave would know less than me…’ Paula notices his hand once more starts rubbing the back of his neck in a tell-tale sign of tension, ‘and which is why,’ he stands up to look down at the woman in the shadows, ‘I suggested we send the lads down with torches to look properly.’

‘You never said that,’ she prickles at his tone, ‘you said you’d send them down to bring them back…not look for magazines.’

‘I never fucking said that,’ his voice rises in volume.

‘I know you didn’t,’ hers matches his as it ramps up, ‘and don’t swear at me.’

‘I wasn’t swearing at you I was just fucking swearing.’

‘You’re confusing me,’ she shakes her head disdainfully, ‘fine, we’ll come back with more lights and…’

‘Oh really? Shall we? That’s a good idea,’ acid drips from his tone.

‘What the hell has got into you?’ She demands with eyes widening in anger. Both of them hold their torches pointed down and the reflected light casts their faces in terrible shadows that make their eyes appear more sunken, their cheek bones more pronounced and their lips thin and cruel.

‘Me?’ he blanches, ‘you’re being difficult and snappy for fuck’s sake.’

‘What? I am not, you’re trying to control everything and be the…’

‘Be the what? Go on…be the what?’

‘Stop rubbing your bloody neck.’

He freezes on the spot with one hand giving a self-message and if truth be told, he didn’t know he was doing it. Memories surged up of Chris and Malcolm taking the piss when he started rubbing his neck and then Malcolm and Clarence doing the same to Chris when he rubbed his beard. What did Malcolm do? That was it, he cracked his knuckles. All three of them had a tell-tale sign of when the tension got high.

‘It eases the tension,’ he grumbles continuing the massage. The fleeting hurt across his face is evident. A huge man full of strength both physical and mental but barely coping with his own anguish. He blinks several times and looks away, lost, forlorn.

‘Turn round,’ she finds her own voice is now softer than it was as the anger starts to ebb.

‘Eh?’ He glances down with a puzzled expression.

‘I said turn round,’ she nods for him to do so, motioning with her head.

‘What for?’

‘Fine, stay there then,’ she tuts and moves round to face his back, pocketing the torch she reaches up to grasp his shoulders and gently slaps his hand away. ‘Relax,’ she orders gently.

‘What you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘I don’t know it’s dark,’ the feeble joke is weak but it helps break the tension. His hand drops down to his side as her own hands start kneading at the trapezius muscles stretching from his neck to his shoulders.

‘You’re too tall,’ she says, ‘sit down.’

‘Here?’

‘No, outside.’

He sits down, easing his bulk to a childlike position with his legs curled round in front and his centre of balance aided by his hands gently resting on the ground either side.

‘That’s better,’ she moves in closer to rest the front of her legs against his wide back. Clarence is so tall she doesn’t need to bend over that much to start working on his neck and shoulders. ‘They’re really tight,’ she mutters.

Clarence sits rock still, uncomfortable to be touched in this way. It’s too much of an intimate gesture, done at a time of great worry and it feels wrong, forced, contrived. But he takes a deep breath and slowly lets the air out as her hands work harder to massage the bunched muscles. Seconds is all it takes and he presses the button on his torch to switch it off and save the battery. Their breathing fills the air, soft inhalations and slow exhalations. She grunts gently as her hands work harder, digging her thumbs into his muscles, ‘they’re rock hard,’ she mutters, ‘can I hit them?’

‘Hit them?’

‘Beat them,’ she gives a dry chuckle.

‘Go for it,’ he shrugs and she senses the great power in his body as her hands rise several inches from the movement. Using the blade of her hand she rubs it side to side down the right trapezius muscle before started gentle taps along the muscle. Those gentle taps get gradually harder as she starts beating the muscle with hammer fists to loosen the knots and ease the cramping like feeling within them.

His eyes close at the feeling. Endorphins flood from the muscle and the completely painless beating on his shoulders. She drums again and again, using both hands on the same muscle with hard karate chops that send minute shockwaves through the nerves and sinews.

‘God that’s nice,’ he mutters.

‘Drop your head a bit,’ she starts kneading at the back of his neck, using the flats of her palms to generate the force necessary.

Clarence snorts with a low grunt of laughter, ‘this is when Roy walks in and shoots me with his bow.’

‘I don’t think he’d mind,’ she replies quietly.

‘You er, you getting on okay then?’ He asks carefully, not wanting to pry but feeling a need to fill the silence.

‘Me and Roy? Yeah…yeah I think so, he’s nice. Strange but…well, strange times,’ she trails off.

‘Say that again,’ he rumbles.

‘You worried? About Howie I mean?’ She asks.

‘Course,’ he nods, ‘very.’

‘He’ll be okay,’ she says softly, ‘he just needs rest and quiet and maybe, maybe this is the right place for him to have it.’

‘Hope so.’

‘Everything he’s been through.’ She talks quietly while working on his neck and across his shoulders, and like kneading pizza or scrubbing work-surfaces, the repetitive action soothes her as much as Clarence. Doing something simple with her hands lets her mind ease down a few gears and allow natural thought processes to flow. ‘Everything you’ve been through…all of them…’

‘And you,’ he adds.

‘All of us,’ she agrees, ‘I try not to think about it.’

‘About what?’

‘About…you know, those that didn’t make it.’

‘Family you mean? Like friends and…’

‘Yes,’ she whispers, ‘I saw my mother, she was turned…’

‘Christ, Paula,’ his hand lifts across his chest to cover hers that rests on his shoulder.

‘We’ve all lost,’ she mutters.

‘We have but it doesn't make it easier.’

‘It kind of does,’ she counters gently, ‘knowing that we’re all in the same situation and that none of us have lost more than others…probably doesn't make any sense.’

‘No, it does,’ he squeezes her hand, ‘Howie saw his sister get killed by Dave. Me and Sarah were…’

‘A couple?’

‘No, nothing like that…I liked her and…I think she liked me but…there was so much going on and…well, I never really got the chance to talk to her properly.’

She tuts softly, shaking her head at the sadness of it all. Her hands fall still as they both brood in silence for a few long seconds, remembering those they have lost.

‘They’re feeling less tight now,’ she remarks with a final rub along his shoulders, getting ready to make a move again.

‘Feel much better,’ he replies.

‘We’ve got to take comfort where we can now,’ she says slowly, ‘I’d never go with someone like Roy in…well, in the other life, like before…but now, I know he’s kind and he’s strong, fit and healthy…plus he’s on our side which helps,’ she gives another dry chuckle and abruptly slides down to sit behind Clarence and rest her own back against his. The big man stays still, feeling the warmth of her back against his.

‘We had sex,’ she announces softly, craning her head back to rest against his shoulders.

‘Thanks for sharing,’ he chuckles.

‘Sorry,’ she shrugs, ‘the end of that storm, when we went back to our rooms…we had sex.’

‘Again, thanks for sharing.’

‘I haven’t had sex in ages,’ she continues, ‘too busy at work, too busy at life…too busy for anything…the world ends and I have sex with the first man that comes along.’

‘Like you said, you got to take comfort where you can,’ he replies. She feels the rumble of vibration through his body when he speaks, his voice so deep and low, like a talking bear.

‘It was nice,’ she sighs, ‘just having someone else there.’

‘So it wasn’t Roy so much as his penis,’ he jokes.

She bursts out laughing, her back thudding against his as the room fills with the sound of chuckles, ‘Clarence!’

‘Sorry, couldn’t resist…squaddie humour and all that. You’re not offended are you? You know, being a paperless, streamlined paper pusher and all that.’

‘Cheeky sod,’ she laughs again, ‘and yes, I’m deeply offended that you’d think I just wanted cock.’

‘Paula!’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say cock.’

She laughs again in delight at the obvious discomfort in his voice, ‘you started it.’

‘Yeah but…you can’t say cock.’

‘Why not? Cock…there, I said it again.’

‘Stop! Say penis or…or something else…stop saying cock.’

‘Why? She chuckles, ‘I want squaddie humour too.’

‘It doesn't sound right when you say it.’

‘Why not? That’s sexist. You’re sexist.’

‘No I’m not…just…well yes…okay then I am sexist but…’

‘Cock.’

‘Stop it!’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re blushing…in fact I think I can feel it from here.’

‘Rude,’ he mutters, ‘I’m sat in a pitch dark room with a beautiful woman saying cock…so yes, I am blushing.’

‘Beautiful?’ She asks quickly, ‘you think I’m beautiful?’

‘You are,’ he says firmly, ‘very beautiful and a lovely person…Roy is a lucky man.’

‘Thank you,’ she says sincerely.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘…So,’ she says after a pause, ‘when was your last time?’

‘For what?’

‘Sex.’

‘Huh?’

‘The last time you had sex?’

‘Bloody hell,’ he shrugs, ‘almost had it a few days ago in the fort but that was with an infected girl so…’

‘Yeah I heard about that.’

‘I broke her neck.’

‘Good,’ she replies quickly, ‘don’t feel bad about it.’

‘Other than that…maybe a month or so…something like that.’

‘Not that long ago then, did you have a wife or girlfriend?’

‘Nah, just a er…you know.’

‘One night stand?’

‘Sort of, this girl I used to see every now and then. Nothing special or…dunno really, just…’

‘Comfort?’ She asks gently.

‘Yeah guess it was.’

‘No shame in it,’ she muses, ‘I wish I’d done more…they say that don’t they. People who are dying, they don’t say they wished they had worked more or spent more time at work or making money…but more time with their family and doing things…nice things…’

‘I’ve heard that,’ he nods, ‘so you wish you had more sex then?’

She chuckles. ‘Yep. I had this friend who never hesitated…we’d go for drinks or coffee and she’d regale me with stories of these crazy encounters she had with men, always made me laugh.’

‘Good for her,’ Clarence chuckles.

‘Do you really think I’m beautiful?’

‘Eh?’ he laughs, ‘you fishing for more compliments?’

‘I am,’ she announces, ‘make a lady feel nice.’

‘I thought you were a feminist.’

‘I was, no…the office I worked in was full of dirty, old, pervy sods.’

‘Well I ain’t a pervy, old sod.’

‘I know,’ she says quickly, ‘I know that…’

‘Right,’ he says firmly, ‘let’s see.’

‘See what?’

‘Your hair is very nice,’ he starts, ‘er…dark and nice…and I like the way you pull your hair back into a ponytail.’

‘Oh I see,’ she nods, ‘keep going.’

‘And er…your skin is nice, looks soft…like nice and soft…clear too.’

‘Okay, so far so good, keep going.’

‘I am I am, er…you’ve got a cracking figure or does that make me sound like a dirty old sod?’

‘No, you’re alright, you can keep going.’

He laughs gently, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, ‘like,’ he pauses and thinks, ‘your boobs are nice.’

‘My boobs?’ She laughs, ‘how would you know?’

‘No, the outline of them…like…they look nice.’

‘I’m joking, so…keep going.’

‘Nice shoulders, slim and toned…but your stomach isn’t too flat or…’

‘You saying I’m fat?’

‘No!’

‘Joking! Keep going.’

‘It’s nice and soft, like womanly soft…and your legs are nice too…’

‘Keep going.’

‘I’ve run out.’

‘Really? What about my nails?’

‘Nails? I can’t say I’ve ever noticed your nails.’

‘Men never look at nails.’

‘True,’ she admits ruefully, ‘and mine are all broken and chipped now.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Lani is very pretty,’ Paula stares into the darkness.

‘She is,’ Clarence agrees, ‘fierce too.’

‘Beautiful hair.’

‘Lani’s? Yeah I guess it is.’

‘Oh it is, so silky and black…she’s flawless. Not an ounce of fat on her body.’

‘I like a bit of fat,’ Clarence admits, ‘something to hold.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Definitely.’

‘That woman then? Was she curvy?’

‘Actually no she wasn’t, she was skinny…too skinny, but she was a nice girl.’

‘You strike me as being an old fashioned kind of guy.’

‘Maybe,’ he shrugs, ‘more like a freak or a dinosaur or…’

‘Freak? Why?’

‘Cos I’m so big.’

‘Yeah but bloody hell, Clarence, where would we be now without you?’

‘Now is okay,’ he admits, ‘and when I was serving but after the army it was… hard. I know Chris struggled too, and Malcolm.’

‘I’ve heard that,’ she says softly, ‘service people struggling to cope to civilian life.’

‘It’s true. Very true. The army does everything for you and there’s a code, like ethics…you know who you can trust and who your mates are, you know where to get food and clean your clothes. They take care of everything so we can do the nasty stuff but on the outside…there’s no respect or decency, no…no discipline or unity and the only work I could get was security stuff and that was bloody awful.’

‘These are new times alright,’ she says with a sigh, ‘come on, we’d better get back.’ She turns to help him up.

‘Are you holding your hand out?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think you quite realise how heavy I am...’ He laughs whilst grabbing her hand and attempting to pull himself up. Paula staggers forwards and only avoids face planting the floor by using Clarence’s massive shoulders to prop herself up on.

‘Steady on,’ he supports her with one hand on her shoulder, ‘almost sent you flying.’

‘I would have got you up, I was just resting.’

‘Sure you were,’ he chuckles, ‘thanks for this.’

‘For what?’

‘Talking, and the massage.’

‘Anytime,’ she says softly, ‘come here.’ She steps in to wrap her arms round his torso, pressing her body close into his she rubs his back with one hand, ‘you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ he relaxes into the hug, his own arms dwarfing her body.

‘Everyone needs a hug,’ she murmurs.

Taking comfort where they can, they stay close and silent in the dark silent room surrounded by bullets of every shape and size.

Six

Flickering orange lights of flames, candles and lanterns illuminate the ground, yet cast the shadows to the sides deeper and longer. Children sleep fitfully, grouped together in small groups with the best of the bedding given over so they can rest. The weather is still hot so they sleep without covers but rest on soft blankets, clothes and the sparse bedding remaining in the fort.

A crew at the back gate talk in muted tones, careful not to raise their voices above a whisper. With the original gate destroyed by the force of the storm, this crew were tasked with rebuilding it. They combined their limited knowledge and taught themselves what they needed to know in order to fix it. They worked tirelessly, sustained numerous injuries and made hundreds of mistakes before they learnt enough to make it secure. Even with it locked and bolted, the fort has fallen before so a crew remain constantly at this position. The crew leaders take care to run their teams proficiently under the ever watchful eyes of Maddox and Lenski.

Adults, many years senior to the two young people, defer to their decisions and words without argument. The force between them is palpable, a bond that runs deep from mutual respect and trust.

The newly arrived doctors soon had their hands full with queues of injured, sick and worried survivors making a bee line to be checked. Between the four of them, the doctors took stock of the equipment and medicines available, making constant lists of items needed. At the top of every list was the urgent requirement to locate and bring back a pharmacist.

Wounds are checked, washed and dressed. Anti-biotics are given out, Penicillin administered to those sure of not being allergic. Vast quantities of Aspirin, Paracetamol, Codeine and anti-inflammatories are handed out. Re-assuring words uttered by professional doctors, wearing white lab coats with stethoscopes hanging from necks, have a profound calming effect on the camp.

The few beds they have are given over to those most serious cases only and those requiring constant observations. Survivors with an aptitude for care are drafted in to help organise the queues, keep people calm and assist with washing, cleaning and the hundreds of small tasks that keep a medical facility running.

With the sky darkening, the hustling fort gradually slows down and the exhausted bodies can slump down to talk in soft tones, drink fresh water, eat canned food or just simply sleep the pain away.

Maddox walks with long, relaxed strides that take care not to snag or trip on the many obstacles littering the ground. A pistol strapped to his belt is the only weapon he carries, such is the trust in his crews stationed around the fort. He checks in the crew at the rear gates, then makes his way slowly towards the vehicle ramp and up onto the walls, checking the crews along that section, exchanging words and offering his ready smile.

He makes his way down to the front and checks in at the hospital, nodding respectfully at the people waiting to be seen. The doctors glance up and any puzzlement they feel at how such a young man can take lead is kept hidden behind masks of faces that smile and nod.

Next he goes to the front gate and the crew positioned on the inside. He checks that they have eaten, had their vitamins, have drunk plenty of water and that their weapons are nearby and ready,

Through the gates and across the narrow strip between the inner and outer gates, he steps out onto the small beach so formed after the storm.

‘What’s up?’ Darius offers the familiar greeting as Maddox strolls over.

‘Nuffin, you?’

‘Nuffin, bruv,’ Maddox replies, ‘anything going on?’

‘Here?’ Darius glances up from his position seated upon a folding picnic chair, his shotgun resting on his legs, ‘nuffin here, bruv…move along innit, nuffin’ to see.’

‘Fact,’ Maddox nods.

‘They due back by now,’ Darius shifts in the seat, the street slang dropped as he expresses concern.

‘Yeah maybe,’ Maddox stares out over the still waters and to the darkness of the land beyond.

‘In there?’ Darius tilts his head back towards the fort. Friends for years and the inflection of tone given by years of closeness means whole sentences can be conveyed by just a few words.

‘Good,’ Maddox replies, ‘Lenski’s all over it. ‘He grins showing a row a white teeth and an expression that animates his face from the usual brooding intensity.

‘Three immune,’ Darius remarks slowly as Maddox sits down in an empty chair.

‘Four with the dog,’ Maddox says, ‘fucked up.’

‘It’s all fucked up,’ Darius nods in agreement, ‘Howie, Lani and Cookey. You think the others are immune too?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Maddox says quietly, ‘it doesn't make sense that they would pass any immunity between them.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Howie and Lani kiss and probably have sex so they would pass fluids but Cookey? How would they get their fluids into him?’

‘They cut themselves,’ Darius reminds him, ‘when Cookey went down, they cut their hands and pushed them into the wound.’

‘Not convinced,’ Maddox shakes his head, ‘for something to work that fast would make it incredible, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Vaccinations can be made from cells but not that way.’

‘So you think Cookey was already immune?’ Darius asks.

‘I do,’ Maddox presses his fingers together under his chin, ‘but how would three people who are naturally immune find each other in all this shit going on?’

‘That’s why you the bossman now, you get to figure that shit out,’ Darius smiles.

‘Something is going on,’ Maddox nods with a long look over at his friend, ‘something we don’t realise…that’s for sure.’

Seven

Dark. Pitch dark. The absence of light. A vacuum. Nothing exists here yet I do. I am here within this place alone. Where did the light go? I have no knowledge of where the light went. It’s just not here anymore. Standing still, I can feel the space around me but not like I’m outside, more like like a room with a high vaulted rood. My footsteps echo with resonance that bounces off the walls. There’s a dripping sound coming from somewhere and each plop of liquid that falls unseen seems to come from every direction at once.

My breathing is audible, and not just to my own ears, so I keep moving. I take one step at a time with my hands stretched out in front of me. I can’t lift my feet high for fear of tripping on something so I sort of shuffle my foot along a few inches at a time, re-distribute the pressure and do it again, while all the time my head cranes to the left then to the right as I strain to listen.

There is airflow here, a slight breeze wafts by but again I cannot tell where it comes from. I was in that ruined street before, trapped amidst the destruction of whatever foul landscape I was in. I could hear voices, Lani’s and Dave’s, but they went, just went. I closed my eyes because I was so scared and when I opened them I was here, wherever here is.

Step after shuffling step. Tiles. I’m walking on a tiled floor, that’s the sound I can hear from the water dripping. That distinct bathroom sound of water on tiles, except this is no bathroom, it’s huge. I drop down to feel around and sure enough I can just about grope the odd bit of ceramic type tile here and there. Most of it is broken, fractured, and I can feel the thick dust coating my fingertips.

It takes forever to move just a few steps but then no time at all. Time does not exist here because in order to be time there would have to be light. Without light there is no life so therefore there cannot be any time. Interesting. Maybe I am dead then. I died back in the munitions factory and this is the afterlife. How did I die? Did Dave shoot me? Probably.

This afterlife is a bit shitty though. It’s not what I imagined heaven or hell would be like. What’s that other place you can go? Purgatory? I don’t even know what that means – something to do with hanging about for unfinished business?

Fuck knows. Deep down, not that I would admit it to myself of course, I don’t think I died in the munitions place. I think I passed out and now I’m having some fucked up dreams.

This means, that if this is a dream, I can do what I want. You can’t get hurt in dreams can you? You always wake up at the point where the thing will hurt you. Fuck it then. I start walking faster, grimacing as I wait in expectation of walking into something.

I get faster. Striding out, then jogging, then running. Running faster as my feet trip and slip on the broken tiled floor. Ha! I’m dreaming and running in the pitch black of nowhere. Nothing can happen because this is a dream.

‘Arghgh!’ My own scream scares me. The sudden arrival of a human voice, despite it being my own, scares me. I trip on a loose tile and spin off to hit a very hard wall, bounce along a bit and end up crumpled on the floor. It’s not meant to hurt in dreams but that bloody hurt, it really hurt.

Rubbing my knee, I roll about a bit feeling woefully sorry for myself that even in my dreams I seem to hurt myself. I can’t even tell if my eyes are open or not, it’s that dark. I physically make myself squeeze my eyes closed then open wide trying to see any difference. There is something. Not a light as such, more of a very slight change to the shade.

Sore knee forgotten I clamber up, constantly opening and closing my eyes. There is a definite change when I open them. I start walking again, not fast but not shuffling either. Ten steps, then twenty, thirty and I lose count but I start shutting my eyes for long seconds then opening them up to see there is a subtle change. Like the black isn’t quite so black now.

I keep going. Eyes squeezed shut as I count my steps. Twenty, thirty, forty steps and I open my eyes. Ha! A definite change now. Lighter. I’m heading towards light.

‘Stay away from the light…come back from the light,’ I say to myself in a pathetic attempt at humour, but again my own voice scares the shit out of me so I shut up.

I close my eyes again and this time I don’t count but keep walking for what seems like hours, but is in fact probably only about a minute. When I open them I feel a flood of relief. I can see my hands, only just, but I can see the outline of them. I move faster, desperate to be away from the darkness and into the light.

Wherever this place is, it’s very bloody long. Suddenly, there’s a change in the sound of my footsteps and after fifteen days of surviving on my wits, or rather surviving on Dave’s wits, I stop to take stock and work out the difference. The shape of the place I am in is changing, the acoustics are different. I keep walking, straining to see or hear anything. There’s something dark and shadowy ahead, solid and unmoving. Slowing down, I hold my hands out ready to touch it. It’s weird and soft, like hard rubber and smooth too. I recognise it but…stepping closer and the realisation hits me. The underground. I’m in the underground. The Tube network in London, or something very much like it. Long tiled corridors and the smooth black thing is the railing edge of an escalator. Edging forward I realise it sweeps down and away from me and that’s where the light is coming from.

The metal steps are quite steep to walk down when they’re not moving, and my footsteps clunk despite trying to tread quietly.

Down I go, my hand moving gently over the old worn out rubber safety rail. The light at the bottom is distinct and orange, flickering too so I know it’s made from flames.

Torches to be precise. Old fashioned torches stuck to the wall with some kind of burning oil coating the top to produce a smelly yet constant light source. On the floor there are dirty oil stains and the walls surrounding the torches are smoke blackened from long use.

Another corridor stretches away and a fractured old sign on the wall points to East and West platforms with the place names of locations I can’t quite read.

There are more torches to the east but not to the west, so east I head. Stepping into the tunnel and walking along the same broken tiled floor. Reaching another flaming torch I glance down at the ground to see dried oil stains and the smoke blackened wall and curve of the ceiling is also old. These torches have been here a long time.

The corridor leads out onto an old wide platform that stretches off left and right. Ahead is the drop down onto the tracks and the sputtering torches are fitted at irregular points giving light in an otherwise black existence.

It reminds me of the fort. The way tiny sections have been set aside with bedding and a few personal objects. Blurred lines of boundaries between living areas but whereas the fort was at least moderately clean, here is filthy. Along the platform are blankets, rags, old mattresses and all manner of things but everything is filthy, not just dirty but filthy beyond description. The type of filth that would have people in white biohazard suits picking them up with those grabby sticks to shove in yellow bin liners ready for incinerating. It stinks to high heaven with the putrid stench of old oil, faeces, body odour, stale breath and unclean bodies that have spent far too long pressed together without access to washing and hygiene.

But there are no people. Just the empty bedding areas. A few paperbacks lie dotted about, well-thumbed with ripped and torn edges. I bend over to pick one and read the cover, The Second Reality, a story about people descending into double lives within a dream world. The irony is not lost and I cast it aside with a snort. Stepping closer to the edge of the platform I look down and see the tracks have also been given over to living areas. Ply board, old doors, metal sheeting and anything large and flat have been used to lay across the uneven and rutted surface of the racks. There’s more bedding and filthy rags of life and even in this god-awful place I can see there is a difference between the quality of items possessed by those that reside on the platform proper and those that dwell on the tracks. The platform residents are obviously the more affluent residents, the equivalent of detached houses with big gardens while the track dwellers are the council estates who scavenge amongst the filth.

Human nature is unstoppable, unceasing and as relentless as the infection. Not to survive but to carve out a meaning to our lives. I’m better than you are. I live higher up and have more bedding. The roles of existence that serve to validate who we are and why we’re here. The possibility that we’re just another species scrabbling for survival with the rest of the food chain is rarely considered.

So this is what we’ve become is it? Living here as the last few of our numbers dwindle and die out in the darkness of the old tunnel network. Shaking my head I look about, letting my eyes linger on objects that reflect the decline of mankind.

But why am I here and where are the people? Just like the last place this is a reflection of the future and I’m in some fucking Dickens tale of scrooge, being shown what the future looks like without the brave efforts of a few to stem the flow of the infected.

Clumsy and ham-fisted. My own sub-conscious is creating this world, Howie…you have to keep going…don’t stop now Howie!

Bollocks. All of it is utter bollocks. This bedding isn’t even really here. This place isn’t here. It’s made up in my head while I lie flat out in the munitions factory while Dave pokes the side of my head with his pistol.

To show my generalised disdain I start kicking at the bedding, toeing it across the platform with the mad glee of an idiot trying to argue against his own dreams and the make-believe world he just created. Blankets get cast down onto the lower tier of the tracks and in a way it feels like retribution, like an act of anarchy to bring down those who are powerful and redistribute the wealth among the classes. Yeah communism. Bring on the revolution. I work harder, using my hands to fling the shitty, nasty, lice covered stuff away as I power along the platform.

A sudden coughing fit brings me to a stop. Someone fights for breath nearby and suffers from lungs too tight to let his body draw proper breath. Spinning round, I trace the noise to the far end of the tracks by the entrance to the tunnel proper. I jump down, threading my way through the bedding and crap as I peer into the gloom and listen as the dry hacking coughs get closer.

‘Hello?’ I call out to the huddled shape swathed in filthy blankets.

He tries to respond with a voice that starts to call out but the coughs take over, wracking his body that heaves and writhes in situ. I stop a few feet back, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom until I can out pick out a haggard face with deep, sunken eyes and skin the colour of death. A grey beard, straggly and unkempt, frames his face and his wild hair is patchy in places with clear bald spots. The lice are visible from here. Tiny, maggot looking things that crawl through the greasy hairs of his beard. A shaking hand lifts between coughs to scratch at the hairs, delving deep to agitate the skin in response to the vermin infesting it. He has filthy, blackened finger nails and looks ready to die as he fights to gain breath with a horrible, ragged sound of air being forced through something constricted and broken.

‘Where is everyone?’ I call out, not bothering with the pleasantries seeing as this is a dream and the old, dying man doesn't actually exist.

‘Gone,’ he wheezes into the air, not bothering to turn or even glance in my direction.

‘Gone where?’

‘Tunnels,’ he points off to the looming tunnel mouth just yards from his prone form.

‘Why?’

‘Not safe here anymore,’ he finally turns his head to stare at me and for a second I wait for the recognition of it being someone I know, but it isn’t. It’s an old man getting ready to die in the squalor of an old tube station.

‘Oh,’ I can’t think of anything else to say, fighting the urge to offer help while remembering this is all made up shit and is meaningless. I’ve just got to ride it out until I can wake up.

‘I’m dying,’ he wheezes dramatically and somewhat predictably.

‘Looks like it,’ I reply.

‘Take me up top,’ he doesn't so much ask as demand.

‘Do what mate?’

‘Take me up top,’ he forces the words out while fighting off another coughing fit.

‘Top where?’

‘YOU BLOODY IDIOT,’ the bellowing voice startles me enough to step back, the power and depth thundering from the old bugger who descends into another round of coughing. ‘Up…top….outside…bloody outside you blithering fool.’

‘Er, right…’ I nod slowly, ‘yeah, that’s not really gonna happen mate.’

‘I want to feel the sun on my face.’

‘It’s night time,’ I shrug at him, ‘no sun.’

He glances at the watch on his wrist. ‘It’s three thirty in the afternoon,’ he says in a voice that speaks of culture and education, ‘it is not night time, it is day time…’

‘You are covered in lice mate.’

‘Am I?’ He asks with another long and thorough scratch at his beard, ‘can’t say as I noticed.’

‘And this is a dream so…so no, I’m not carrying you anywhere as you don’t actually exist so…er…bollocks.’

‘Yours or mine?’ He glances up at me.

‘Eh?’

‘Blithering fool,’ he tuts, ‘your dream or my dream?’

‘Mine obviously.’

‘Why obviously? Just because you are there talking to me doesn’t mean it’s your dream…this could be my dream.’

‘What? Get off, it’s my dream….I’ve passed out in the munitions factory and I’m having weird dreams…I saw Paco and Chris a few minutes ago.’

‘And I am at home…well, not my home, but a care home. It’s a bloody awful place, run like a blasted concentration camp and, worst of all, they serve weak tea. And I can’t abide weak tea… We’re all dreaming young man,’ he adds wistfully, ‘so rather than standing here arguing who is having this blasted dream I suggest you take me up top.’

‘But…’

‘The lice? We’ve just established that one of us is dreaming…the lice therefore, are not real.’

‘Oh…shit.’ He’s right. This is a dream and as disgusting as he looks, I don’t really feel that I have much of a choice. With a sigh I step closer, grimacing at the stench coming off him. It’s an actual wall of stench that is so foul it has me gagging on the spot.

‘Stop your bloody malingering,’ he chastises me with a mean look, ‘young lad like you can hoist me up and carry me on your back. Here,’ he holds a hand up, ‘help me up.’

Clasping the hand, I’m surprised at the strength in his grip as he clamps on tightly. Coughing, spluttering, wheezing and fighting for breath he gets free of the bedding and slowly gets to his feet while I bend over closer to give what support I can.

‘You’re naked,’ I observe quietly.

‘That I am,’ he replies proudly, ‘naked as the day I was born.’

‘Where are your clothes?’

‘Gave ‘em away,’ he wheezes, ‘I’m going out nuddy as a baby.’

‘Right…awesome…so I’m going to have a naked old man on my back, is that right?’

‘Sharper than a knife, aren’t you?’ He replies in a cutting tone, ‘turn round and crouch down.’

‘Oh for the love of god. ‘Tutting with disgust I do as bid, turning on the spot and dropping down to present my back to him.’

‘Closer you bloody fool,’ he snaps, ‘I’m not a blasted gymnast…that’s it…now hold steady.’ Bony hands grab my shoulders, pulling me back as he heaves himself up. His digits dig into my skin and I can feel the sharp nails cutting me. His rancid breath blasts past my ear and the greasy strands of his beard start tickling the back of my neck. As his hot, feverish, naked body presses against mine, the stench of shit and stale urine brings tears to my eyes and the thought of his encrusted penis rubbing against me makes my stomach flip over.

‘Hold my legs,’ he demands in a hoarse whisper that is way too close to my ear for comfort. My hands reach down and loop under his bare thighs that feel wet and sticky.

‘Hoist me up then.’ He continues giving orders as though this is entirely natural and I am his to do with as he pleases.

Why am I doing this? I could just drop him and walk off. He isn’t real but a figment of my imagination. Except he feels real and that bloody smell is far too real. All of it is too real.

‘Which way?’ I gasp. Unfortunately, the way our bodies are designed means that air is blown out when we speak, which then means that air has to be pulled back in. Breathing in with his whole foulness so close is too much for me at the moment.

‘Are you sick?’ He barks when I bend forward to retch, strands of spittle drool from my mouth as I fight the urge to vomit.

‘Which way?’ I ask again through blurred eyes.

‘The way you bloody came in, you blithering fool,’ he chastises me with that same withering tone, ‘come on, I ain’t dying on your puny back you know.’

‘Puny back?’ I start walking, treading carefully through the flotsam and jetsam of the abandoned platform.

‘Down there,’ one of his hands reaches past my head to point towards the end of the platform and the set of steps leading up.

He isn’t heavy so much as disgustingly fucking gross and I move fast, kicking stuff out of the way until I clamber up the steps and start down the platform.

‘Ah,’ he sighs with too much hot air going into my ear again, ‘I’ll miss this place.’

‘Here?’ I ask incredulously.

‘Not here, you bloody idiot,’ he snaps, ‘how anyone can actually like this place is beyond me and truth be told I was bloody glad to see the back of them.’

‘Who?’

‘Who he asks! The people that lived here you bumbling halfwit.’

‘Why did they leave?’ My god he stinks so bad, so so bad.

‘Why? Why do you think?’

‘I don’t know, this is a fucking dream,’ I remind him harshly.

‘Those blasted creatures that’s why,’ he shakes his head in despair, brushing his beard against my neck and no doubt tumbling a thousand lice down my back at the same time.

‘The zombies?’

‘Yes the zombies…what else would I mean? The aliens? The mutant fishmen that crawled out from the sea…’

‘How…’ I cough up a lump of phlegm which gets ejected off to the side, ‘how long have you been here?’

‘What are you? A bloody policeman?’ He tries to shout but the action renders him into a coughing fit again, and being as close as he is, I can feel the rattle of his bones and the wheeze of his lungs as he fights to draw breath. Fear grips him, fear that this is it, the final few seconds and his hands dig tight into my shoulders while I feel his heart thudding erratically.

‘Hold on,’ I speak softly now, feeling a great sense of pity for a man that knows he is dying and has one last wish to see the sun. Moving faster, I start back down the corridor with the flaming torches towards the escalator.

The voice that comes from the old man is whispered and weak, ‘a long time,’ he says with regret and pain, ‘years, many years.’

‘Why? Why down here?’

‘Last place,’ he takes a ragged breath, ‘we barricaded and sealed off a section and came down here to live.’

‘Why here? There’s got to be loads of places they can get in.’

‘They got clever, they worked things out,’ he explains, ‘and those of us left just couldn’t find anywhere else. Nothing was left…tower blocks were useless, castles and old forts all fell…’

‘Forts?’

‘All of ‘em,’ he wheezes into my neck, ‘everything.’

‘Didn’t you fight back?’

‘With what?’ He snaps with a show of strength, ‘with who? Against so many? No, we ran and hid like rats down a sewer, getting filthy and diseased from the lack of sun and food.’

‘You should have fought back.’

‘Old men and women, mothers with children? You expect them to fight and charge into battle and die like everyone else did.’

‘Not everyone who fought back died,’ I point out.

‘Didn’t they? Then where are they? Where are the saviours of our species come to cast light upon our sorrowful eyes.’

‘Very dramatic.’

‘They died…or they gave up…or more likely they gave up and then died,’ the old man speaks the bitter words so harshly they set him of coughing again and this time it goes on for minutes while his lungs fight a desperate battle of their own to draw air.

At the escalator I pause, not knowing if I am meant to ascend or go somewhere else. Common sense dictates the surface will be up but its pitch black up there and not somewhere I fancy going. But again, between the coughs, a trembling arm reaches out to indicate we need to go up.

Climbing broken escalators with an old dying man having a coughing fit in the dark isn’t as easy as you might think. Halfway up my thighs are burning and my own chest is heaving from the exertion. I’m having to keep a tight grip on his legs to stop him slipping off so I can’t use my hands to pull me along on the railing either.

I stumble forward into the darkness and feel warm, wet liquid spraying the back of my neck. He coughs harder and I’m guessing it’s blood mixed with phlegm and spit being sprayed out. A few times his whole body tenses and shakes from the exertion of the coughs that refuse to stop. Eventually they ease off, dying down to the odd spasm and we walk in near silence for a few minutes until he recovers breath to talk.

‘There was hope,’ his voice comes out weak and strained, barely a whisper uttered into the darkness, ‘when it first happened. Oh don’t get me wrong, millions were dying and being turned and a few were fighting back here and there but…’

‘But what?’

‘Rumours…stories and…’ he takes another few ragged breaths, ‘just whispers really but we heard of a group in the south who were not only fighting back but winning…inflicting huge losses on the other side…trained and armed they were and moved about in an old army truck wreaking havoc. We heard about it, many did…and we all said that if they come our way we’d join them…some even left to head south trying to find them…we kept seeing the turned ones leaving and they headed south too so we figured there was truth in it…’

‘What happened?’ My voice seems unnaturally loud after his muted tones, ‘and am I going the right way?’

‘Yes you are you blasted fool, where else is there to go?’ He groans at my evident ineptitude.

‘So what happened?’ I press when he doesn't continue.

‘Impatient as well as stupid,’ he tuts, ‘nothing happened, the rumours stopped…and hope stopped too, the survivors began to realise there was no help coming so they descended into the usual human fall back positions of squabbling killing and stealing.’

‘What happened to the group? The ones who were fighting back?’

‘I just bloody told you! I don’t know…the rumours stopped, the stories stopped…’

‘There must have been a reason?’

‘Of course there was a blasted reason you halfwit but damned if I know what it is…hurry up I can feel death’s icy hand gripping my heart.’

‘Alright Shakespeare,’ I snort, ‘doth thy icy hand clasp at thy heart doth it?’

‘Don’t mock your elders, you impudent sod,’ he smacks the side of my head with a solid thump that makes him start coughing again.

I speed up, stretching my stride out as I barrel down the pitch dark corridor and like before, I start seeing the first hints of the darkness lifting.

‘It’s not going to work,’ I say once the coughing fit passes but I can feel his grip is weaker now and his breath too shallow and rapid.

‘What isn’t?’ He asks almost slurring the words from fatigue.

‘All this shit, about there being a group that could have saved everyone but they stopped so the whole wide world just gave up because they did…it’s not going to work.’

‘Don’t know what you’re on about you crazy, blasted halfwit, jabbering on about god only knows what…’

‘I was that group,’ I inform him and give an audible groan when we reach the base of another inert escalator. ‘I led that group to be precise,’ I inform him while my own breathing gets harder, ‘for over two weeks…we cut thousands down…more than that…’

‘That was years ago,’ he whispers.

‘Not to me it isn’t…it’s now…my dream you see.’

‘My dream the blithering idiot says, my dream.That’s an assumption not a fact, an ideal not a reality…I can’t abide this filthy, darkened place,’ he spits, ‘I’m glad to be dying…you hear that my boy? Glad to be leaving this cursed and wretched land so full of darkness and…’

‘Take it easy Shakespeare, you’ll set yourself off again.’

‘Do you know the last time I saw the sun?’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Don’t be flippant, you blasted fool,’ he snaps with some energy back in his voice, and despite the circumstances, I can’t help but smile. ‘Yars ago,’ he adds in a whisper, ‘became too sick to walk myself and none of those sick buggers would carry me.’

‘Sick?’

‘Sick, yes sick…what do you think living in the darkness does to you…’ the words hiss out with a wheeze that I’ve already come to recognise as the precursor to a fit and one that is much worse than the others.

I can feel him dying on my back. Literally dying as he struggles to breathe air into his body. Each breath taken in irritates whatever infection is inside him and he can’t help the reflex action of dry coughing over and over with such heaving intensity it shakes his whole frame.

We get to the top and instead of waiting for instructions I head down the corridor towards the light. It becomes a race of life and death. To get this old man outside into the sun before that final breath is expunged from his body or his heart gives out from the fitting coughs.

‘Hang on,’ I gasp and hoist him up higher before breaking into a steady jog. The coughing gets worse as the once tight fingers on my shoulders start losing grip and his body starts sliding down my back. I drop down to a crouch, giving him less space to fall as there’s no way of stopping him falling off.

On the floor he rolls side to side writhing in panic as the coughs just keep coming. His frail frame is such a pale, grey pallor, like there’s no blood flow to his skin. Instead, it sprays frothy and bright red from his thin lips, dripping into his beard and coating his hands. His eyes flicker open, searching for the light ahead of us with such desperation that I don’t hesitate but gather him up in my arms and start walking again. The coughing disrupts my gait and my arms ache from the heavy pressure of his body heaving and shaking.

The light gets stronger, blinding almost in its purity and strength. Sweat prickles my forehead to drip down onto the naked man I carry in my arms but there it is, the latticed gate pulled close across the entrance with a huge padlock and a thick chain holding it shut.

Realising we’re sealed inside, I flounder about trying to work out a way of positioning his body so he might see a glimpse of the sky through the gaps in the metal strips of the gate. His hand thumps the side of my head again and again with nasty little knocks that make me almost drop him to the ground.

‘THE BLOODY KEY YOU BLITHERING IDIOT,’ he thunders with a voice of power snatched between the gasps for air and once again descends into coughs. On the wall, well out of reach from the gate, is a hook screwed into the old grout between the tiles, and a large key is hanging from it.

I have to put him down but I do so gently, then scrabble to get the key and work to undo the padlock, unclasping the looped metal bar and de-threading the chain to wrench the gate open. It takes time as someone has put a lot of effort into looping the chain round the frame to keep it as secure as possible and by the time I turn round to pick him back up he’s already dead.

Lifeless. Eyes open and staring into nowhere. The chest that was heaving doesn't move, nor do the arms that thrashed with the spasms that took over his body. A great shame settles on me, that this was somehow my fault. Gently I lift him back up and step out through the gate and into the bright sunlight of a ruined street where I lay him to rest on the old paving thick with weeds growing through the cracks.

Death. Final and resolute. Without doubt as to its intentions or motive. Simply to take life and never give it back. He is just one old man that passed away in a coughing fit, but it’s more than that. It’s what he represents. The final throes of a humanity that has given up and made a choice to dwell in the blackness of tunnels rather than fight back.

This is all a cheap shot. I know that, but it doesn't take away the emotion of the moment at seeing his lifeless body so pale and weak lying naked on a pavement.

Choices. That’s all we are, a stream of decisions and choices. Of choosing what to do, where to go and the self-justification that we’re making the right choice. They went into the darkness to escape the undead because they lost hope. Too weak to fight back, too ill-equipped to make a stand, so they took courage from the snatched whispers of a group doing that for them.

Like I said; it’s a cheap shot.

But it still bloody stings.

Eight

Day Sixteen.

A new day dawns with the solemn promise from Mother Nature that life will go on. Perhaps not the life of our species, but life nevertheless.

Jess and I made camp in an old barn set down a country lane and bordered by flat fields. Jess ate her oats and was given a good brush down, which she suffered with the regal grace that only a pure blood animal can muster and with a wholesome belief that I am to perform in servitude for her needs.

Before the night grew dark, I made a small fire and heated water to enjoy a refreshing earl grey tea. My rations were opened and a good meal was made of them and it was as the last of the tea was drained that I became aware of Jess showing signs of nervousness.

Horses have strong instincts of flight. She is not a guarding animal but one born to have constant awareness. With outstanding hearing and a keen sense of smell she is a lot more in tune with the surroundings then I am. Having spent so much time together now, I have become acutely aware of when she is unsure, scared, terrified or building up for a tantrum.

She was flicking her head up and her eyes were somewhat wider. They were gentle movements but enough for me to be reaching for the assault rifle and making it ready before heading outside. After my last debacle of entering the house of the first man I was supposed to find who was immune, only to find he was not only not immune but very infected and shut in an upstairs room with his infected family – I did kill them but only after stumbling back to fall on my arse. So after that too-close encounter, I was now ready with the weapon held properly and my feet treading carefully.

It was fog. Fog made Jess nervous. A bank of fog heading towards us like a somewhat translucent wall of scentless white smoke. To watch such a thing is to feel the hairs on the back of your neck prick up and a creeping urge to run and flee builds. I knew it was fog for I have seen fog, however, this was thicker, higher and more dense than anything I have previously known.

It was silent too, for it swept upon me like a noiseless entity that absorbs sound. Not only did it make no noise but it seemed to take noise from all around and make it seem, I don’t know…deader? Emptier? Less resonant?

My guess is that the particles in the air, the trillions of tiny water droplets hovering in a suspended stasis somewhere between a gaseous vapour like state and a physical molecular form, somehow does absorb noise.

Sound is created by the air around us and the differences in friction, heat and speed. There is no sound in space, for space is a void that is empty of air. With no air there can be no sound.

The fog thickens the air, and therefore reduces the shockwaves needed to create sound. I know this. I am a scientist.

But science and mythology are two different things. I know what the fog is but I can’t see through it and that scared me. It scared Jess too.

For some long minutes I remained kneeling in the doorway of the barn with the weapon held up and ready, as though I were expecting the infected to come blundering into view having walked silently across the fields.

My mind sought to create form where there were none. Instead of the rolling mist, I demanded to see monstrous shapes of horned beasts with wild red eyes looming from the depths. I twitched, flicking my aim wherever I supposed they would be. I tried to remember the exact layout of the land around me and aim the weapon to where I supposed the entrance gateway must be but it could have been metres to the left or right. So there I stayed while Jess ferreted about behind me, dropping splatting dollops of horseshit that near sent me into apoplexy.

It was the noise of her defecating that eventually prompted me to turn and face her and in so doing, I observed that although she was watchful and alert, she was now not showing signs of concern or anxiety.

If something were to come towards us, she would hear it or smell it and in her heightened senses I must place my trust, or I shall become a nervous wreck within a day or so.

I found some rope and looped a loose collar round her neck and fastened the other end to my wrist. Being tethered in such a manner meant I could sleep easy knowing I would either be jerked by her head flicking up or dragged along if she gave flight.

As I drifted off I did hope she did not choose to enjoy a midnight gallop.

The morning came as mornings do and I awoke with Jess first blasting my face with warm horse breath. After not getting the reaction she so desired, I was prodded, pushed and finally bit on the shoulder. On seeing me awake she then decided I needed a walk and proceeded to toddle off towards the door while I got jerked by the tether.

The fog was still as thick as the previous evening but seemingly denser or perhaps thicker.

We knew that weather changes would happen but without real data we were unable to predict exactly what those changes would be. The only like-event ever to take place was the extinction of the dinosaurs but without finding a way to go back and ask them what happened, we had no real way of knowing for sure.

Predictions were made as to the expected changes as a result of the cessation of human-kind and our species immediate impact on the planet and the storm at the two week mark was, although a lot stronger than we thought, was not without some sense of expectation.

The thought of setting out in this fog is, frankly, quite terrifying. I know the direction to take and I have maps, a compass and can navigate the route but we will be walking into the unknown without any idea of what lies immediately ahead of us, and solely reliant on Jess’s sense of hearing and smell.

Thinking back to those days within the complex, it now seems like a lifetime ago. The sheer wonder of having the greatest of minds together in the same room and access to unrestricted data was something none of us had ever envisaged before.

Panacea. Even saying the word now sends shivers down my spine. The ability to end all suffering. All diseases and all illnesses cured and propel our species in that next step on the long road towards immortality.

We knew alright. Oh, we knew this was something beyond mere hypotheses. To gather the greatest of professionals and experts in one place, regardless of country of origin or political affiliation – and to enter a research programme to determine the cause and effects of a “hypothetical” scenario???

No. We knew. All of us knew they had something real.

Where did the finance come from? Who paid for us? And how did they get access to all the restricted data? Our primary objective was one thing but the secondary principles we established were ground-breaking.

We were the first group in the history of humankind to correctly calculate the population of the planet and further, we were able to break those populaces down into age ranges, gender and then further into a matrix that determined health, education and ability to survive in differing scenarios.

We were the first group that went beyond the use of mere statistics to correctly calculate the projected annual population increases. We knew what effects the introductions of certain diseases would have in certain areas. To release the Influenza virus in one place would have the same fatally catastrophic effect that, say, the release of Smallpox would have somewhere else. More than that, we knew how differing strains of viruses would have differing effects within populaces that held either natural anti-bodies or had access to first world medical facilities.

We compiled the first fully accredited lift of the stock-piles held by each and every country. Be that food, weapons or medicines. Surprisingly, the first world countries all topped with weapons but not food or medicines. It was the developing nations that were paying attention to their evolution and economy that held the best balance.

Enough for now. My mind is finding ways to delay the inevitable and we must now venture into the fog to continue our search.

Today is Emma Ford. Emma is twenty-five years old and works as a shop assistant in her local town. She has a boyfriend called James who is a local mechanic. An ordinary person of no special concern.

Apart from being immune to the virus that is.

NB

Nine

‘Slow down,’ a voice winces in the darkness, ‘my fucking leg is broke… Derek… Derek?’

‘What?’

‘Fucking slow down.’

‘And wait for that lunatic?’ Derek whispers hoarsely, ‘no way.’

‘They got him down.’ Another voice speaks out too loudly and the others shush and wave for him to be quiet. Panic ripples through them as they flee the munitions factory into the dark night, fleeing from the deranged man. Shushing each other, they gasp in pain from the broken limbs wrought by a deranged Howie battering anyone close enough to strike. Noses that gushed with blood now drip silent as the blood congeals. Fingers snapped out of socket are held steady as tears of fear stream down the men, women and children.

Derek and the men gathered round the intercom, listened as Howie demanded bullets be brought out. That they wanted a fair exchange of trade in return was a perfectly acceptable situation to them. After all, they were in what they thought was one of the most secure buildings in the country.

The munitions factory boasted state of the air security and permanent on-site armed personnel. The walls were re-enforced with steel bars. The windows were toughened to withstand explosive detonation. There was simply no way of getting in.

Or so they thought. The over-reliance on a nation running as it should. They had been relying on the fact that any attack coming would be withstood by those security measures and buy time for the authorities to scramble and counter that attack. The confidence that they were secure was falsely given as without the authorities responding, they had but time to wait until Howie repeatedly rammed the Saxon into the re-enforced wall.

Over ten tonnes of generated energy against an immovable object. Friction. Speed. Power to weight ratio. And a dangerous man descending into a state of mind that meant he would never stop. Each impact shuddered through the walls. Each impact sent shockwaves of dispersed energy under their feet and their terror grew as the brickwork and plaster gave way and finally the steel bars were bent screeching and straining until the snapped.

A hole was formed and through that hole there came a nightmare of the darkest, longest nights. A man torn and bloodied with dark eyes that blazed with fury.

The men inside could have repelled that attack. Howie was one and they were many but the pure wildness that Howie brought cowered them back.

Panic exploded as more came through that hole. Men and women who knew how to fight. Men and women now lean from fifteen days of solid combat. They screamed and shouted at those inside to stop, but the confusion was increased as they screamed and shouted at each other and at the one called Howie.

When they finally brought him under control the damage was done and no sooner had the violence abated, the occupants were surging through their building gathering whatever they could carry to run out and into the dark night.

Now they are stretched out in a straggly line as they run, walk and limp. Children cry and sob, women weep and men grunt in pain. They send whispered shouts to hurry up, slow down, stay together, don’t bunch up, keep watch but stay quiet. Orders and commands conflict and only serve to exacerbate the noise and panic.

Into the night they run. Desperate to be away from the factory and the rogue group of mercenaries who destroyed their safety.

Into the night and shadows of the countryside.

Away from the insurgents.

Away from the danger.

---

One race.

The infection is not driven nor relentless, in the way the ocean is not driven nor relentless. It simply is what it is.

The wind is not relentless. The sun is not driven. The moon has not ambition nor motivation.

The infection is not bound by the same paltry attempts humans make to apply emotion and reason to every process of life.

The infection must survive as the oceans must follow the pull of the moon.

Howie leads the growing resistance and the weapons they carry inflict sustainable losses now, but the resistance will reach a number that can inflict such losses that are not sustainable. The chain has to be broken and the infection understands this.

Break the chain and take away their ability to inflict great losses. Take away the tools they use so well.

As the shared consciousness gathers greater hosts, so the memories and knowledge contained within those hosts are put to use. The munitions factory is explored through the architect’s memories who drew the blue print. The types of machinery there and what they produce are understood by the engineers who built them.

Every round within that factory represents the loss of a host. Those rounds must be destroyed. Every bullet and every bomb must be rendered unusable.

The infection sends hosts towards the munitions factory. Hordes of silent undead, bound by a discipline that means they do not whimper, gasp, cry or make any utterances of noise, move stealthily through the countryside towards the fleeing group running from the objective.

The infection hears them before the unmistakable stench of blood and fear rides the warm thermals of air that precedes the survivors.

As one, the horde ceases movement and remains still. The direction of the fleeing group is tracked and calculated. The horde break from the wide country path to slide silently into the undergrowth to the sides.

‘Derek!’ The voice rolls down the lane, ‘for fuck’s sake slow down.’

Red, bloodshot eyes turn towards the noise and the undead saliva glands pump infected drool into mouths, already preparing for the bite.

Ten

Day Three

Silence in the room. He breathes slow and easy, but forever alert and watchful. Any thoughts on his mind are masked by a face that shows no outward expression.

The index finger on his right hand slowly lifts from the handle of the ceramic mug, holds in the air, then drops down to tap silently back on the handle.

Gregori draws an inhalation of breath that fills and stretches his lungs, before being slowly released. He does it again, drawing breath in but this time, pushes his stomach out to stretch the taut muscles. On exhalation, he contracts his lungs to push every last inch of air out through his mouth. Again. In through the nose, his stomach expands, out through his mouth.

It’s a quick fix designed to flood the body with as much oxygen as possible. If Gregori had closed his eyes and re-opened them once the breathing exercise was complete, he would notice a sharper sense of vision and a greater clarity of view. He continues his breathing exercises until he hears the creak of bedsprings followed by the thud of two small feet hitting the wooden floor boards above him.

A slight frown crosses his face and Gregori’s lips tighten. Why is he here? Why take care of the boy? Why?

There is no objective now. No mission to complete and no pick up point arranged. No safe house to hide away in before he can be covertly extracted and sent onto the next mission arranged by his Albanian mafia bosses.

He looks round the old kitchen at the plates and cups stacked up beside the sink. England was a strange country at the best of times, but here, surrounded by vast landscapes of countryside broken only by the squalor of ruined industrial cities and towns, those places were ruined well before this happened.

The toilet flushes and he hears taps being twisted on then off. The boy works unseen round the bathroom, going from toilet to sink to shower, and those actions alone make the hairs on the back of Gregori’s neck stand up.

Children were small people. That was all. They were people who were smaller. Everyone was born, everyone had a childhood and everyone became an adult, so there really was nothing special about them. It was the facts of life and to Gregori, a target was a target. If he was instructed to kill just one, he killed that one. If he was told to kill many, then he killed many. If those many consisted of children, women, elderly, sick, infirm or disabled then he did it.

The boy was no threat to him. He could move silently from this chair, cross the floor, go up the stairs, into the bathroom and emerge five seconds later leaving the corpse of the boy behind him.

Only he couldn’t do it. No, he could do it except he couldn’t do it. He wanted to do it but…what? What was that?

How did the boy know the things were going to howl like that? Gregori’s hearing is exceptional and he didn’t hear a single sign of what was about to happen. How did the boy know the howling was going to end? How did the boy know they were coming? Why wasn’t the boy gibbering with terror and fear? Why was the boy getting up in a strange house and going for a shower without any obvious signs of fear?

The plan had been to find a group of survivors and leave the boy with them. Gregori had also factored that by having a small child with him he would appear less threatening. Those reasons were now gone. He’d found survivors last night but instead of handing the boy over he killed them and hid the bodies in the cellar.

He was going to head south and find a way back to Albania. Back to his people and the safety they would offer. No, not the safety they would offer as Gregori would be the one giving the safety. It was the order and structure of life he was going back for.

‘Gregoreeeee?’ The boy’s singsong voice calls out into the silence of the old house. Footsteps thud on the stairs as the boy runs down to jump two footed into the hallway. He spins and heads straight towards the back of the house and the kitchen.

‘Gregoreee,’ he grins wide, bursting into the room claps his hands in excitement, ‘Gregoreee.’

‘What?’

‘Guess what, Gregoreee.’

‘What?’ Gregori stares hard at the boy, once again trying to muster what he knows is his most terrifying glare, but it goes completely ignored.

‘S’Sunday! Sunday! Sunday Gregoreee,’ the boy skips and laughs up to the table, ‘it’s Sunday today, Gregoree.’

‘What?’ Gregori widens his bulging eyes and makes his lips pursed and thin in the pre-murder look he reserves for those marked for special treatment.

‘Ha!’ The boy laughs, ‘can I do it?’ The boy makes his eyes wide but pushes his head forward to far. His lips he stretches out into a wide smile thinking it’s the same as Gregori.

‘Did I do it?’ He asks in a muffled voice holding the pose.

‘No.’

The mimic is forgotten as the boy jumps up and down on the spot, ‘Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.’ Clapping his hands he takes the final step towards Gregori and grabs his big hand between his own, ‘Sunday, Sunday, Sunday,’ he sings and swings Gregori’s left hand side to side.

‘What Sunday?’

‘Today is Sunday.’

‘Sunday?’

‘Sunday, Gregori.’

‘Why is this good?’

‘Happy meal!’

‘What?’

‘We’re gonna have a happy meal.’

‘What is appymill?’

‘Happy meal! We have a happy meal on Sunday. Mummy always gets me a happy meal.’

‘I not know this. No appymill.’

‘Happy meal!’

‘You said this. I not know this. Not this thing. No.’

‘You can have one too,’ the boy gasps as though this is the best idea he has ever had, ‘Mummy always has coffee but you can have a happy meal…what one do you want, Gregori?’

‘No. Not this appymill. Not do this. We go.’

‘Fish fingers, ‘the boy holds one finger up, ‘or…or…chicken mcnuggets or…fish fingers or…burger…’

‘We go. You get ready.’

‘Yay, we gonna get a happy meal…me and Gregoreeeee.’

‘Boy. I not do this. We not go this place appymill.’

‘It’s not a place,’ the boy giggles, ‘its food!’

‘Food? What food? Come. We go.’ Gregori ushers the boy towards the front door, mindful that the heat will cause rapid decomposition of the corpses in the cellar, which in turn will stink the house out and attract unwanted attention.

‘Fish fingers!’ The boy states with a disdainful shake of his head, ‘Gregoree… Mummy said they’re not really fishy fingers…’

‘Ssshhh, Boy. We quiet now.’

‘Oh they’re not here,’ he says lightly, ‘they gone far, far away.’

‘Who not here?’ Gregoree pauses at the front door to glare down at the boy.

‘They’re not here. I’ve never seen a fish with fingers and Mummy said they’re not reeeaaalllly fish fingers but then why are they called fish fingers? Do you like the chicken nuggets?’

‘Boy,’ Gregori snaps, ‘how you know they are not here.’

‘Because they’ve gone.’

‘Where?’

‘Far, far away.’

‘How you know this?’

The boy’s attention holds long enough to give Gregori a false sense of hope that he will explain how he knows the things are not here, but that attention soon wanes as he looks up brightly, ‘cheeseburger! You can have a cheeseburger.’

‘Chisburger?’ Understanding finally dawns, ‘burger with chis?’

The boy nods quickly, ‘cheeseburger…and you get a toy.’

‘Toy? This is the quick food?’

‘No,’ the boy shakes his head sadly, ‘sometimes the queue is soooo long and soooo boring and Mummy says I got to stop fidgeting.’

‘Come,’ Gregori leads the way, feeling the comfort of the two pistols in his waistband but knowing they’ve each only got one full magazine each. Two new knives are taken from the kitchen to complete his arsenal of weapons that are now gripped and ready.

‘But I like it when it’s busy,’ the boys chirps up, ‘cos Mummy and me go to the car and we eat in the car and listen to music.’

Gregori leads them down the path they ran up last night. Watchful as ever, he scans the grounds off to one side and the entrance that comes into view ahead.

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘What?’ Gregori whispers.

‘McDonalds!’ The boy giggles.

‘McDonalds? Appymill? Chisburger? I know this now. No.’

‘We can find another one, Mummy said there are lots and lots of McDonalds all over the world.’

‘No world. No McDonalds.’

‘McDonalds didn’t go anywhere,’ the boy states knowingly.

‘It go. Everything. It go or it dead.’ From the entrance lane they emerge slowly into the street with the ugly man peering left, right, ahead and behind while listening, scanning and sniffing the air.

‘But the houses are here,’ the boy points out.

‘So? Houses not people. People die. Everyone dead.’

‘McDonalds didn’t die.’

‘No people to make the chisburger.’

‘Oh that’s alright,’ the boy smiles, ‘Mummy made burgers at home, you can make the burgers in McDonalds if you want to, Gregori. I don’t mind.’

‘I no make chisburgers,’ Gregori stands upright to glare down at the boy again, ‘I Gregori,’ he says tapping his own chest with the hilt of a knife, ‘I kill. I ugly man. I no make chisburgers. I Gregori.’

‘Silly Billy,’ the boy giggles, ‘Mummy said anyone can make burgers or fish fingers…’

‘Not Billy,’ Gregori snaps, ‘Gregori. I kill. No make chisburgers.’

‘But its Sunday,’ the boy explains, ‘we have to have a happy meal.’

‘No Sunday,’ Gregori stands his ground.

‘Yes it is,’ the boy stands in front of him.

‘No. Monday.’

‘Yesterday was Saturday and today is Sunday because it is Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday and Sunday…’

‘Wrong. Monday.’

‘Sunday,’ the boy’s face flushes red.

‘No appymill. No quick food. Quick food bad,’ Gregori prods the boy in the stomach, ‘fat. Bad fat. No quick food. No Chisburgers.’

‘But,’ the boy folds his arms, ‘it’s Sunday and we always have a happy meal on Sunday.’

‘Boy. Everyone dead. Look,’ Gregori points round at the road and the few corpses dotted about lying festering in the hot morning sun, ‘dead. They die. No one make the chisburger. Come, we go.’

‘No!’

‘Boy,’ Gregoree hisses, ‘we go. NOW!’

‘No.’

‘I go,’ Gregori takes a step away, ‘I go and you stay.’

‘Don’t care,’ the boy pouts.

‘Good,’ Gregori nods, ‘I go.’

‘Don’t care.’

Gregori walks off knowing the boy will chase after him. A knowing sense of predictability that the boy will not want to be alone. After a few steps and he allows himself a rueful smile. A few more his eyebrows twitches as he prepares for the sound of running feet. A few more steps and the smile fades but he doesn't turn to check, that would be weakness and this is the game of life.

Gregori gauges the distance at fifty metres and growing. Sixty now which he knows to a child must be like a mile. He keeps walking and at the one hundred metre mark he stops, spins and draws breath to bellow for the boy to move. But seeing the boy standing still in his shorts, red shoes and his little arms folded, he snaps the words off before they leave his mouth.

With blonde hair and tanned skin, the child could be in the Hollywood movies but even from this distance Gregori knows the boy will not budge. His face is set in stone, the little eyebrows down to form a fierce scowl.

‘HAPPY MEAL,’ the boy yells.

‘NO.’

‘HAPPY MEAL.’

‘NO.’

The boy cocks his head to one side and half turns before rotating back to face Gregori with a small smile on his face, ‘HAPPY MEAL?’

It’s a question this time, a loaded one too by the sounds of it.

‘NO.’ Gregori folds his own arms, taking care not to cut himself with the knives held in his hands.

‘FINE!’ The boy lifts his folded arms a few inches and drops them down with a visible sign that he isn’t budging.

Gregori does the same. A slight lift and a drop. The boy plants his feet wider. Gregori does the same.

Seconds tick by. There’s no movement from either of them. The boy turns his head to the right, then back at Gregori, who swivels his eyes trying to see what the boy keeps looking at.

The first one comes from the smashed in doorway of a house. An adult female, obese in size with long, dark hair and dressed in shorts that are way too tight. Rolls of fat hang over the waistband as she staggers slowly onto the road and shuffles round to face them.

Gregori’s eyes narrow as he flicks back to the boy, who is watching him intently from across the distance. The boy doesn't turn or look but somehow knows that the woman was there and she would be coming. Gregori holds position and in turn, watches the boy and the woman. That she is obese is considered as the reason for the slow movement. They were fast last night but then yesterday daytime they were slow too.

He looks up at the sky and considers the change in day to night having an effect on the speed of motion.

Behind the obese woman, another shuffles into view, then another from across the street. A door bangs open with a thud as an undead stumbles out onto the pavement. There’s four now with eyes locked on the boy. He looks back to the boy to see him staring off to the other direction. Gregori looks to see a handful from that side, four, no five. All adults and all covered in dried blood.

He shows no reaction. Not a flicker of emotion as he watches the boy watching him. The things shuffle and stumble with stiff legs that seem unable to bend at the knees. Heads loll side to side as they walk in a tick tock fashion towards Gregori and the boy.

Gregori feigns boredom and taps his foot as though killing time.

‘HAPPY MEAL?’ The boy shouts across. Gregori inwardly winces and pauses before shouting back, ‘NO.’

All eyes are on them and the first sound of a drawn out, grumbling groan comes from the things.

‘THEY EAT YOU,’ Gregori shouts, then instantly wishes he hadn’t as even shouting that makes it seem like he’s getting ready to barter.

‘DON’T CARE,’ the boy shrugs, ‘HAPPY MEAL.’

‘NO. THEY KILL YOU.’

‘NO. YOU’LL KILL THEM. HAPPY MEAL!’

‘NO APPYMILL.’

‘FINE.’

‘I NOT KILL THEM. THEY KILL YOU.’

‘FINE. DON’T CARE. IWANTMYSUNDAYHAPPYMEEAAAAALLLLL’ the veins in his neck bulge as they pump the blood into the boy’s face, burning crimson from the effort of the screech.

‘BOY…COME,’ Gregori shouts the command, ‘COME.’ He shouts louder, ‘NOW.’ He slaps his legs and even goes to whistle.

‘IWANTMYSUNDAYHAPPYMEAAAAALLLLLL.’

‘NO APPYMILL. COME NOW OR I GET YOU.’

The boy’s face screws into the darkest, most malevolent look Gregori has ever seen. It’s dark and brooding, with eyes fixed on the Albanian hitman. A switch is flicked and Gregori strides towards the child. Neither  of them pay the slightest heed to the undead shuffling ever closer they continue in their battle of wills.

‘I SAY NO,’ a bellowing roar from Gregori.

‘HAPPYMEAL,’ the boy roars back.

‘I COUNT THREE… THREE BOY… YOU COME I COUNT THREE,’ Gregori tucks the knives away and holds out his right hand showing three extended fingers while the other jabs the air and points at the boy.

The boy doesn't reply but stares with eyes ablaze with rage.

‘ONE,’ Gregori strides forward on powerful legs and holds one finger up.

The boy’s face grows darker still.

‘TWO,’ two fingers held up and the distance is closed. The boy drops his folded arms to make tiny fists as he prepares for the fight.

‘THREE,’ Gregori is on him, grabbing the boy’s ear he tries to twist it in the same way his own ear was twisted as a child. The boy flails and kicks, refusing to yield to the pain of a gripped ear. Gregori spins on the spot as the boy turns and kicks hard at his shins. Fists pummel his stomach, hips and groin. One connects to the right, sending a shooting, sickening pain through Gregori’s gut. He grunts and drops to his knees as the boy spots the new target and aims for the head.

Gregori reaches out to grab the back of the boy’s shirt. In one swift motion he drags the boy in, bends him double over his bent leg and raises his right arm ready to deliver the first smack on the boy’s backside.

A growl sounds as the first lunge comes in. A quick glance and several are on them, teeth bared and hands clawed into talons. Wrapping an arm under the boy’s stomach, he explodes back from the power of one leg and sends himself sliding back with the boy held safely to the front. Landing on his back, he’s gained three feet before the undead turn and lunge after them.

‘HAPPYMEALLLLL,’ the boy squirms and fights without heed of the danger. A deft twist, right hand down, left arm wrapped round the boy, left foot sliding forward and the Albanian is up in a perfect position to deliver a driving kick of the right foot into the stomach of the closest undead who folds double and staggers back into the next.

Gregori spins and, having already identified the next target, he lashes out with a fist into the face of the obese woman. The density of her absorbs the blow. She’s got legs like tree trunks and although her nose bursts open, she doesn't flinch or rock. After a quick adjustment of pace and position, a blade appears in Gregori’s hand and whispers across her throat as the metal slices through the layers of skin, fat and tissue of the neck.

‘SUNDAYHAPPYMEALLLLL.’

With the knife in hand, the Albanian makes light work of the slow beasts. One handed, with the squirming boy held tight in his other, his movements are neither rushed nor hurried but exactly where he needs to be with the most minimal of effort and expenditure of energy. The fresh kills seep and spurt blood onto the already hot surface of the road and the air fills with the metallic tang of iron.

With the grunting undead slain, the only noise is that of the boy huffing audibly as he squirms to be released from Gregori’s grip. After a final check round, he releases the child who drops, spins and comes back for another attack with tight fists and hard feet raining blows into the now passive serial killer.

Gregori takes the pain without reaction. That most rare pulse of anger he felt just seconds ago is now entirely gone as he stares down dispassionately and takes care to hold the dripping blades away from the child. Life is not a precious gift to Gregori and he has taken it so many times that the very act of killing is a job done by a professional without regard for the moral consequences. Yet he holds position and lets the boy beat him. He allows the fists and feet to pummel until the boy exhausts the pure fury pent up inside and the crimson, flushed face sweats freely. The boy’s arms drop and he stands back with a heaving chest and eyes still brooding with flashes of temper.

‘You finish now?’

The boy nods and looks up with not a flicker of apology but pure defiance in his eyes, ‘It’s Sunday,’ the boy pants, ‘I want my Happy Meal.’

Gregori stares round at the death surrounding them. The torn flesh lies so ripe and open and the flies already settle to lay eggs within the warm, moist bodies. A corpse lies with intestines strewn behind like a string of glistening sausages. Red, bloodshot eyes glare lifelessly into the sky and mouths, encrusted with blood, hang open as the deadly drool still drips out. He takes the sight in and looks back to the boy who stares up. Not round at the death, not at the corpses but up at Gregori. The boy pays no heed to them. The concept of death comes with age but a child of this age should be screaming with terror at the sight.

The boy swallows once, blinks and looks back up as though pained. ‘Please,’ he murmurs, ‘please can we have a Happy Meal?’

Gregori lifts his eyebrows as the boy changes tack. The boy still shows no sense of remorse, or guilt, or apology, or worry, or concern apart from having the thing he wants.

‘Yes,’ the word comes out from Gregori before he realises it, ‘yes, we do this.’

‘Really?’ The boy’s face morphs into a wide grin and the eyes of a child, ‘can we? Really? Really, Gregoreeee?’

‘Yes…but…’ Gregori holds a hand out then stops to stare at the dripping knife held there, ‘but…we need the rule. You no do this again,’ he points round at the bodies.

‘I didn’t kill them,’ the boy says innocently, ‘you did it.’

‘No. No shouting. No hitting.’

‘Okay!’

‘This I mean,’ Gregori says, ‘you make noise…they come…you die.’

‘Noooo,’ the boy laughs with delight, ‘you’re here, silly.’

‘No. They come. You die.’

‘No, no, no,’ the boy sings and reaches out to take Gregori’s hand, ‘they can’t kill me.’

‘Off,’ Gregori tugs his bloodied hand free before swapping it over with his non-bloodied hand, ‘they kill you. You die.’ He starts walking with the boy holding his hand, ‘they bite. You die. They cut. You die.’

‘No,’ the boy laughs and skips, ‘you’re here, Gregoreeeee. They can’t kill me.’

‘I not always be here,’ Gregori says firmly, ‘I go toilet…I go sleep…I go away…they come you die.’

‘Are you having fishes fingers, Gregoreee? Do they have fishes fingers in Albaniania.’

‘Albania. No. You listen. I go. They come. You die.’

The boy giggles with a skip and swings the hand he grips so tightly, ‘no, no, no…you can have chicken nuggets if you like.’

‘Chisburger.’

‘You want a cheese burger?’

‘I eat chisburger.’

Eleven

‘Is he alright?’ Jagger asks as Lani heads back into the main room and walks over to the hole in the wall created by the Saxon.

‘Blowers,’ she calls quietly.

‘What,’ his voice sounds through, muted and strained.

‘You okay out there?’

‘Yeah fine, how’s the boss?’

‘Still the same,’ she replies, raising her voice enough for everyone to hear, ‘asleep I think…or…yeah just asleep.’ She bites the word unconscious off before it spills from her mouth. Howie isn’t asleep. You can be roused when you are asleep and the prospect of him being unconscious is too worrying to contemplate. Being unconscious means you can’t be woken up as something is wrong with you. It means your body or mind is fucked up and has shut down. Howie isn’t fucked up. Howie doesn't get fucked up. Howie is just resting.

‘He’s sleeping,’ she reaffirms, ‘he’ll be okay.’

‘What if he isn’t,’ Nick says from the shadows behind her. She turns to see his face flaring in light as he ignites the end of another cigarette.

‘He is,’ she replies quickly.

‘We gotta get him back to the doc’s. We grab what we can and get the fuck out of here.’

‘He just needs rest,’ she repeats.

‘I’m with Nick,’ Blowers calls through the hole, ‘we’ve got the Saxon, we fucking load up what we can and fuck off out of here. What if the boss needs medical help?’

‘Clarence’ll be back in a minute,’ Lani says with a glance towards the end of the room, ‘we’ll…’

‘He’s not asleep,’ Roy’s voice joins in the conversation as Lani winces at the blunt words, ‘sleeping people can be woken up. He’s unconscious.’

‘Lani?’ Cookey calls through the hole, ‘is that true? Can’t you wake him up?’

‘Cookey, Mr Howie needs rest so…’

‘Yeah but I heard you shouting at him,’ Cookey blurts, ‘everyone was bloody shouting and he didn’t wake up…so he’s unconscious which means something is wrong with him…we gotta get back…’

‘Cookey, calm down,’ Lani says softly, ‘he’s not injured…he didn’t hit his head or anything so…’

‘How do you know he didn’t?’ Roy says stepping closer to the gathering group, ‘head trauma can manifest in unusual or aggressive behaviour. He could have a blood clot for all we know.’

‘Roy!’ Lani hisses.

‘Fuck,’ Cookey exclaims, ‘I’m coming through…we’re getting Mr Howie back right now.’

‘Alex just slow down,’ Lani moves back as Cookey’s head appears through the hole.

‘He’s got a fucking blood clot…that shit kills people.’

‘He doesn't have a blood clot,’ she says softly.

‘He might,’ Roy says matter of fact.

‘He doesn't have a bloody blood clot,’ she snaps, ‘he’s exhausted…’

‘Yeah but Roy knows shit like that,’ Cookey grunts as he gets through, ‘he’s like the doc in our group…so…so like if he says Mr Howie might have a clot then we gotta get him back.’

‘You’ve been fighting non-stop for what? Two weeks?’ Roy asks.

‘More than that,’ Nick says dully, ‘and we’ve all got hit, whacked and fucked up…but we all watch each other like fucking hawks and Mr Howie hasn’t had a big bang to the head.’

‘What about the car park?’ Cookey asks, ‘he was out of sight and had that heart shoved in his gob…he could have had the shit kicked out of him then…’

‘It doesn't take a big bang,’ Roy keeps going as Lani stares daggers in the darkness, ‘any trauma to the head can cause that and we’ve all seen him fight…the way he fights…the man is unstoppable…’

‘Exactly,’ Lani grabs the opportunity, ‘Mr Howie is different…he doesn't get hurt or stop…he keeps going and nothing…nothing will stop him…’

‘But what I’m saying,’ Roy steps closer, ‘is that when he gets in that zone anything could happen and he probably wouldn’t notice it…’

‘Dave’s always with him,’ Nick says, ‘Dave would see if the boss got hurt.’

‘The boss has got hurt,’ Cookey’s voice rises in panic, ‘you seen all those bruises and cuts on him? He doesn't feel pain like we do…he’s got fucking bite marks all over him and…’

‘Cookey,’ Lani cuts him off.

‘No, Lani…Mr Howie takes more punishment than all of us put together…he could get hit round the head with a house brick and he’d keep going.’

‘What?’ Roy sneers, ‘he’s only human.’

‘Say that again you fucking prick,’ Cookey snaps, ‘Mr Howie is better than any one of us.’

‘Calm down,’ Roy groans, ‘Howie is the same as the rest of us.’

‘He fucking isn’t,’ Cookey’s voice drops dangerously low, ‘and it’s mister Howie…’

‘Roy,’ Nick gets to his feet, ‘I like you but say another word like that and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out.’

‘Grow up,’ Roy snaps, ‘listen to reason…Howie…okay, Mr Howie is a human being and human beings are all subject to the same laws of science…if he gets hit in the head it hurts him like it would the rest of us.’

‘No, cunt,’ Cookey takes a step towards the older man, ‘Mr Howie isn’t a human like the rest of us…you weren’t there, Roy. You didn’t hear him in our heads that day.’

‘The prayer?’ Roy asks somewhat too lightly.

‘Everyone heard it,’ Nick says, ‘every person on that field heard it…one man in thousands stood in the middle of thousands and every man, woman and fucking child heard it…you telling me that every fucking human being can do that?’

‘Well no, but…maybe…’

‘Maybe what? Maybe we all fucking imagined it? That it? Maybe we all had a shared fucking phenomena? Thousands of people all fighting to stay alive and…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Roy waves them down, ‘but that doesn't detract from the fact that if Lani and Dave can’t wake him up then he must be hurt.’

‘Where’s Clarence?’ Cookey heads off towards the rear exit doors, ‘CLARENCE?’ He shouts.

‘Cookey,’ Lani jogs after him, ‘they’re sorting the people out.’

‘Fuck the people, fucking cowards hiding in here,’ Cookey’s voice breaks with emotion concealed by a rising anger and panic, ‘CLARENCE?’

‘What?’ Clarence strides through with Paula right behind him, ‘what’s happened?’

‘Mr Howie’s probably got a blood clot, we need to get him back.’

‘Blood clot?’ Clarence says.

‘No, no he hasn’t,’ Lani interjects, ‘Roy said he could have a blood clot if he’s asleep and not waking up.’

‘Roy,’ Paula says in a warning tone, ‘what did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ the man replies, ‘just that confusion, aggression and changes in behaviour are all signs of head or brain trauma and that Mr Howie might have a blood clot.’

‘Roy!’ Paula snaps, ‘you don’t say things like that.’

‘Why not? He might need medical attention.’

‘He’s just exhausted,’ Lani stresses, ‘look what he’s been through.’

‘Fuck it,’ Clarence mutters, ‘he might be right. We should have thought of that.’

‘Clarence,’ Lani takes a breath, ‘Howie does not have a blood clot, he is just…’

‘None of us are doctors,’ Clarence cuts her off, ‘and Roy makes a good point…’

‘Oh fuck,’ Cookey reels on the spot, ‘he’s got a blood clot…oh fuck…oh fuck…’

‘Cookey!’ Nick grabs him by the arm, ‘he’s fine and Roy is bang out of order for saying that.’

‘No he’s not,’ Paula steps in, ‘yeah Roy is too blunt but he’s also a complete hypochondriac which means he’s clued up on this sort of thing.’

‘Hang on,’ Lani says, ‘you just said Roy shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘Yeah but he might also be right, Lani,’ Paula says, ‘Howie changed today…we all saw it…he could have a brain trauma and…’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Nick growls, ‘Mr Howie doesn't have a fucking brain injury.’

‘Right, listen in,’ Clarence booms, ‘the other people here have legged it and…’

‘Eh? Legged it?’ Jagger asks, ‘legged it where?’

‘Just legged it,’ Clarence shrugs, ‘gone out the back door at the far end.’

‘Seriously bro?’ Jagger clucks his tongue, ‘s’fucked up innit.’

‘All of them?’ Blowers asks, ‘they all legged it?’

‘That’s what I said isn’t it,’ Clarence snaps, ‘so we get loaded and go…Blowers I want you to…’

‘We going after them or what?’ Mo Mo asks.

‘No,’ Clarence says with forced patience, ‘we are not going after them, we are loading what we can and going…’

‘We should go after them,’ Nick says, ‘we can’t leave ‘em out there…they won’t last five minutes.’

‘We are not going after them,’ Clarence sounds each word out carefully, ‘we are loading up and getting the boss back to the fort.’

‘Mr Howie would go after them,’ Nick continues, ‘you know he would. I’ll go…’

‘I’ll come,’ Mo Mo adds quickly, ‘can’t leave ‘em alone bruv.’

‘Me too,’ Blowers shouts through the hole.

‘No,’ Clarence says firmly, ‘we’re loading up and going.’

‘Clarence, you can’t leave people to die,’ Nick says equally as firmly.

‘We can and we will…’

‘I didn’t sign up for that,’ Nick retorts, ‘Mr Howie came after me when I got isolated and you know he’d fucking go after them.’

‘Don’t swear at me, Nick,’ Clarence shifts his gaze to look down at Nick.

‘What? I always fucking swear so don’t start that shit.’

‘With the boss down,’ Clarence glares round, ‘I give the orders…and my order is that we load up and go.’

‘Er,’ Paula speaks out clearly, ‘firstly, no one agreed that you take command and secondly, we’re all adults and we all have valid opinions.’

‘This isn’t a fucking meeting for accountants,’ Clarence growls, ‘this is…’

‘I know what it is,’ Paula snaps back.

‘Guys,’ Lani says quickly, ‘get a grip. We can do both.’

‘Both what?’ Paula asks.

‘Go after the people and load up and get then get Howie back to the fort.’

‘I thought everyone had to call him Mr Howie,’ Roy states.

‘I think,’ Lani says hotly, ‘that given the fact I’m his bloody girlfriend I can call him Howie.’

‘So I’ll take Mo Mo and Blowers after the people and you lot load up,’ Nick stubs his smoke out and grinds the ember under his boot, ‘Blowers, you coming through?’

‘Yes mate.’

‘I said no,’ Clarence’s voice drops, ‘we’re loading up and going now.’

‘And you can’t go with just you three,’ Lani says, ‘you got to have Dave or Clarence with you.’

‘Why?’ Nick asks pointedly.

‘You know why,’ Lani replies.

‘Dave won’t leave the boss,’ Cookey says quietly, ‘Clarence, you going?’

‘No. Nobody is going. Blowers, I want you to take Nick, Cookey, Jagger and Mo Mo down the end to sort out the ammunition we need. Roy, you and Lani head outside to see if you can find another vehicle, preferably a van or something big that we…’

Nick interrupts quickly, ‘I can take Mo Mo and Blowers after the group, Cookey, Jagger and Paula can sort the ammunition out and Roy and Lani can find the transport.’

‘Stop fucking interrupting me,’ Clarence seethes, ‘there is a chain of command and…’

‘We’ve all got voices, Clarence,’ Paula cuts in, ‘and we’re not soldiers.’

‘We bloody are,’ the big man finally raises his voice, ‘we are bloody soldiers and we’ll act like bloody soldiers and do the fuck as we are told.’

‘Say something?’ Mo Mo cuts in with a surprisingly tactful tone to his voice, ‘Mr Howie said if he wasn’t here then Clarence and Dave were in charge, he said that to me and Jagger.’

‘Swear down,’ Jagger nods.

‘So’s, if he’s out of it then it’s either Clarence or Dave innit,’ Mo Mo adds.

‘Dave’s out of it with the boss,’ Jagger says.

‘So’s it’s Clarence,’ Mo Mo shrugs, ‘like, I wanna go after them people cos like, that’s what Mr Howie would do, but…but like Maddox always says we look after ourselves first…so…what I’m saying is that we do what Clarence says, you get me?’

‘I get it,’ Nick speaks before anyone else, ‘but they’ll die. We fucked up their safe place and made them leg it so…’

‘They shouldn’t have been hiding here in the first place,’ Cookey points out, ‘and Mr Howie asked them to put the rounds outside but they fucked us over so it’s their fault. Fuck it, we’ve got to Mr Howie back to the fort in case he has a blood clot.’

‘Why don’t we vote on it?’ Paula asks.

‘VOTE?’ Clarence booms, ‘soldiers don’t vote.’

‘Okay then we vote on who is in charge and all agree to do what that person says,’ Paula says calmly, too calmly.

‘I just said soldiers DON’T FUCKING VOTE,’ Clarence explodes, ‘we are a disciplined group and we work with discipline. That means we get on with it. Blowers, take them down and get the ammunition sorted. Roy, outside with Lani…’

‘We should ask Dave,’ Paula interjects, ‘he was a soldier too.’

‘Yes but not that kind of soldier,’ Clarence hisses.

‘What kind of soldier was he then?’ She asks pointedly.

‘He killed people.’

‘That’s what soldiers do.’

‘No. Soldiers follow orders and the very last thing is to kill people. Dave just killed people. That’s all he did,’ Clarence reaches up to rub the back of his neck.

‘Dave?’ Paula calls out, ‘can you hear me?’

‘…Yes…’

‘What do you think we should do?’

‘…’

‘Dave?’

‘Yes.’

‘I said what do you think we should do?’

Dave sits on his haunches with one hand resting on Howie’s chest feeling the rise and fall and the solid heartbeat within. In the darkness he remains, ever watchful, ever present and never resting. One hand grips the pistol with the index finger held extended over the trigger guard.

‘Dave, what do you think we should do?’

Dave doesn’t reply but knows that he should. He knows Mr Howie would go after the people and do what it took to get them to safety. Mr Howie would give the orders and everyone would respond instantly. The ammunition would be loaded, the guns made ready, guards and look-outs posted and they’d be gone within a few hours. His eyes flick over to Meredith lying at Howie’s feet. Her ears pricked and twitching at the rising sounds of the conversation in the main room.

Dave knows he could stand up and walk into that room and assume control within seconds. They’d all listen to him, even Clarence.

‘You just going to ignore us then, Dave?’ Paula snaps.

‘Don’t talk to Dave like that,’ Cookey responds instantly.

Meredith twitches her ears with a soft whine coming from deep within. She lifts her head to look back at Dave who rests on his haunches with one hand on Howie’s chest and the other gripping his pistol.

Twelve

‘Lenski.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘You awake?’

‘No.’

‘I was thinking.’

‘I not awake. Shush.’

‘About Howie and the others being immune.’

‘I not awake.’ She stretches a hand out from the thin blanket and feels her way up Maddox’s chest to his mouth where she presses her fingers onto his lips.

‘Howie is immune. Lani is immune,’ Maddox moves his head to free his mouth from the pressing fingers, ‘and Cookey is immune.’

‘Fine. I awake now,’ she groans and rolls over to face him. Blinking heavily, she props her head up on one hand and yawns. ‘I hear you,’ she taps the side of his head, ‘in there…you never do the switching off.’

‘There’s no way they’d make each other immune,’ Maddox turns to stare at the sleepy Polish woman.

‘No?’

‘No way,’ a tiny shake of the head, ‘Lani was the first wasn’t she?’

‘Urgh,’ Lenski stretches, ‘that is what they say, yes.’

‘Lani was turned but went back to normal. Then Howie. Then Cookey.’

‘Yes.’

‘Howie and Lani could have kissed or had sex…but Cookey?’

‘Yes. They touch him,’ she says softly, ‘when he bit. They touch the place he was bit.’

‘Yeah I saw it, but…you don’t pass immunity like that.’

‘No? Maybe it happen now, maybe they do this.’

‘Pass disease but…’ Maddox trails off, ‘I need to see the doctors.’ He sits up in one fluid movement.

‘Are you sick?’ She asks quickly as she sits up with a worried look.

‘No.’

‘Why you see doctors? It early. Doctors sleep now.’

‘They were immune before this happened,’ Maddox sits on the edge of the bed and twists his upper body round, ‘Lani has a different immunity… but Howie and Cookey were immune before this happened.’

‘I er…’ Lenski blinks again and shakes her head, ‘I not know…’

‘They didn’t share immunity,’ Maddox explains in a rare show of talking more than one sentence at a time, ‘they already had immunity.’

‘Oh,’ Lenski nods, still not quite sure she understands.

‘If Howie, Cookey and Lani are immune,’ Maddox states, ‘how are they together? Everyone else dies if they get bitten but three people in the same group are immune.’

‘Oh,’ Lenski nods slowly, ‘yes we know this, they know this, the doctors they know this. Everyone they know this.’

‘It’s bugging me,’ Maddox sighs softly, ‘really bugging me.’

‘You not fix everyone,’ she reaches out to touch his muscled shoulder, ‘you young but old…everyone they look to you…you not fix everyone.’

‘They look to you,’ Maddox replies, ‘and Howie when he’s here.’

‘Howie yes,’ she nods, ‘me, some. You they see the next Howie…you and Howie.’

‘Me and Howie,’ Maddox repeats the words, ‘Howie…where did he live?’

‘Howie? I not know this.’

‘Lani? Cookey?’

‘Lani is from the er…Isle of…er…’

‘Wight, Isle of Wight,’ Maddox nods, ‘Cookey was in the army and Howie worked in a supermarket. So they didn’t know each other. They had no connection. Not related.’

‘Hmmm,’ Lenski lets her finger tips glide slowly down his shoulder to the back of his arm holding his upper body still. She fingers the shape of the triceps muscles and round to his biceps then down to the smooth skin on the inside of his elbow. Smiling coyly, she sighs and looks up to see him grinning with his white teeth showing clear in the gloomy, dark room. ‘You see doctors now?’ She asks.

‘You said they’re asleep.’

‘They asleep,’ she nods and reaches forward to loop her hands round his neck, ‘all asleep.’

He lowers down back onto the bed and gently pulls the blanket away before tracing a soft path across her naked stomach.

‘Maybe I’ll wait ten minutes,’ he grins.

‘Ten minutes?’ She arches an eyebrow at him, ‘you do this twice then?’

Laughing softly he lowers down and allows the warmth of a woman to soften the hard edges of reality and the constant whirring of his mind.

Thirteen

‘Dave…Dave…Get out there and tell them to go after the group…DAVE!’

Why am I still here? I can hear them perfectly, the whole bloody squabbling lot of them. I can hear everything they say. Weird, ghostly voices float about in this shitty, broken, ruined empty street I’m in.

I keep pacing up and down on the spot wondering why I’m still here and haven’t woken up yet.

‘DAVE?’ I shout into the grey skies way above my head, ‘YOU TAKE NICK AND PAULA AND BRING THE OTHER GROUP BACK, GET BLOWERS AND CLARENCE SHIFTING THE AMMO AND ROY AND LANI TO FIND TRANSPORT WHILE EVERYONE ELSE KEEPS WATCH.’

Nothing.

‘…Dave, what do you think we should do?’ That’s Paula’s voice. Bollocks, I know Dave and I know he won’t bloody answer the stubborn shit. He’ll be sitting right next to me, no doubt with either a knife or a gun in his hand, or a knife between his teeth and a gun in his hand. Maybe a gun between his teeth and a knife in his hand?

‘You just going to ignore us then, Dave?’ I wince on the spot at the scathing tone of Paula then listen to Cookey’s quick rebuke before it once again descends into a bloody mess of arguing.

I swat my chest again and look down as though something is pressing against it but there’s nothing there. And the bottoms of my legs feel hot too.

Am I unconscious? I’m definitely not asleep as I can’t wake up but I don’t feel unconscious. I feel very conscious in fact.

‘STOP BLOODY ARGUING AND GET ON WITH IT,’ I bellow at the sky. Roy is winding everyone up with this bluntness, Nick sticks to his principles which is good, but he should also be doing what Clarence says, and Paula is treating the whole thing like it’s a managers meeting. Cookey thinks my head is about to fall off with a blood clot and Lani is desperately trying to convince herself I’m having a nice nap.

Mo Mo sounds very calm though for such a young lad, maybe we’ve underestimated that one. Nodding to myself I turn on the spot and sigh.

‘This is shit,’ I say glumly, ‘really bloody shit.’ The houses, or rather, what were the houses, are all in ruins. Like something from post war Britain or Berlin. Everything is scorched, busted, ruined, rusty and just generally all a bit fucked up and messy. How do you wake yourself up? Pain?

No hang on, I ran into that wall in the tube when I found the old man and that bloody hurt and it didn’t wake me up. What else can I do?

I start jumping on the spot trying to jig my body. Maybe an increase in heart rate will do it?

I start jogging, heading down the middle of the broken street at a steadily increasing pace until I’m pretty much running. This feels too real, even to the extent my eyes are blurring from the wind in them as I run.

Bloody hell I’ve got so much fitter now and can run for ages. Two weeks ago I would have collapsed by now and be almost puking from the exertion. Mind you, Cookey does think I’m some super hero mega god bless him.

I know they all heard me pray that day and I have no bloody clue how that happened, or anything else but I’m not anything special and quite frankly, it’s getting a wee bit annoying that everyone thinks I am.

Even that old man who died when I carried him out was saying how there was this group led by Howie that could have changed the world. Changed the world my arse. A ragtag bunch of bloody misfits all thrown together and led by a twat Tesco night shift manager.

‘Fuck!’ I slow down to a stop and stare ahead. I know that place. A squat, brick built building that looks intact with open ground all around it that leads into the countryside. That’s the munitions factory. Fuck me.

I turn back to face up the street I just ran down. It’s still the same shitty residential street but when I turn to face forward instead of more shitty residential streets, I can see the ground simply changes into the open land surrounding the munitions factory.

‘DAVE?’ I try again, screaming his name in the hope he’ll hear me. I walk forward steadily, keeping a close eye as the building comes clearer into view and wince again at the sight of the busted in reception area and the Saxon within it. I instantly feel a surge of guilt, what was I thinking?

‘Sorry about that,’ I whisper.

When I turn to look back at the street it’s not there anymore. Just more open ground. Shaking my head, I head towards the building as the sky above me darkens quickly into night.

This is here. I mean, this is here and now. I’m inside that building now and the team are in there now and I’m outside…now.

It’s so real that even the steps of my boots on the roadway seem too loud so I move quickly over to walk silently on the grass. The moon is high and bright, casting the squat building in a silvery shade.

I head down to the reception and spot Blowers leaning against the wall next to the hole I made. A red light flares as he inhales on a cigarette but he pays no attention to my boots scraping and crunching the debris underfoot as I trample through towards him. The Saxon looks huge inside this room, almost like a museum piece reflecting the carnage of war in the corporate world.

Mind you, this place made the bullets which made the wars so fuck ‘em. One trashed up reception room is a small price to pay for all the lives they have taken.

Whoa this is weird. I’m standing right next to Blowers as he leans against the wall and listens to the arguments within. His face looks strained, far more strained than I have ever seen him look. This lad is tough as old boots, as hard as they come but he looks ready to cry right now and sucks on that smoke with trembling fingers.

I peer down through the hole into the main room, and after a few seconds I start clambering through then worry that one of the others will clamber through at the same time which would mean we’d go through each other. That wouldn’t be so bad if it was Lani but not one of the others.

I make noise and grunt with the effort but not one of them even glances towards me, not even when I drop down on the inside and stand up while rubbing my hands together to rid the gritty dust.

Nick, as ever, is smoking. Cookey is smoking. Jagger is smoking. Mo Mo is leaning against the wall and everyone is sort of stood round in a rough circle as they argue and bicker.

‘…and the longer we stand here arguing then the longer it takes to get anything done,’ Clarence is seething. I can see it from here but he also looks defeated too, in the same way the fight looks like it’s gone out of Blowers outside.

‘Why is Blowers out there on his own?’ I ask out loud but of course no one pays any attention, ‘you should have two out there with Meredith keeping an ear on things.’

Nope. Still no reaction so I move into the centre of the group and position myself so I can see everyone. Then I stamp my foot.

‘OI,’ I bellow as loud as I can.

‘Clarence,’ Paula places her hands on her hips, ‘it’s not an automatic right to take charge and yeah you were a soldier but this isn’t a war…this is something no one has done before so we’ve all got skills that matter now.’

That’s a fair point. This isn’t a war zone with Generals and armies running about.

‘But we still have to have a chain of command otherwise the whole thing turns into a pile of shit,’ Clarence growls.

Fair point too. In a perfect world everyone can sit down and agree everything way in advance. But this ain’t a perfect world. This is the end of the world.

‘Why are we still here?’ Cookey groans, ‘Mr Howie could be dying…please…can we just get him back…’

Bless him. Cookey has a special place in all our hearts. Fuck it. He is the heart of this group and anyone of us would die for him. The lad is so open and so honest he has no idea of his own worth. He’s sees himself as the joker and fool when he’s so much more than that.

‘He’s not dying,’ Lani repeats, ‘he’ll be fine in a bit. We can get loaded up and then he’ll probably just wake up.’

Her loyalty is unfaltering but that sheer ferociousness of her character is crumbling away at the thought that perhaps I am not just resting and that something far more serious could be wrong. She falters and bites her bottom lip and even in this gloomy light I can see her blinking back the tears.

The big man rubs the back of his neck and glances over to the room where I lay protected by Dave. His face a mask of worry, confusion, pain, hurt and loss. He can’t hide his emotions either, ‘we’ve got to the get the ammunition and get back,’ he says again, ‘the fort is full of people relying on us.’

The soldier. Strong and resilient but now he too seems almost consumed with worry. He should be the one in charge, not because he was a soldier but because he will always be a soldier. That some of the others aren’t doing as he says angers me.

I admire Paula immensely. She not only survived on her own but slaughtered a whole town of the bloody things in the process. She is tough, quick thinking and an amazing asset to our team, but she has to realise that not every idea she has is the best one and she needs to listen.

‘SHIT,’ turning round I spot Mo Mo standing but a few feet away and staring hard at me with his eyes fixed on mine. He’s looking at me. Half hidden in the shadows but he’s actually looking right at me.

‘Mo Mo?’ I call his name softly with my heart hammering in my chest at the fright of seeing him staring at me. His head tilts slightly and he goes to speak.

‘Mo,’ Jagger prods him in the side, ‘you got any smokes, bruv?’

‘Huh?’ Mo Mo blinks and stares round as though snapping back to reality, ‘what?’

‘I said you got any smokes or what, bruv?’

‘Smokes? Nah…Nick’s got ‘em.’

‘Mo Mo,’ I call out louder this time and step towards him, ‘Mo Mo, can you hear me?’

His head tilts again and his eyes go slightly glassy as though unfocussed, ‘Mo Mo! Can you hear me?’

He blinks and lifts his eyebrows. His soft brown, Arabic complexion is so clear in this light now. He goes to say something then shakes his head and looks round at the others.

‘MO MO,’ I shout, ‘LISTEN TO ME,’ his gaze flicks back to the place I am stood, not at me but where I am.

‘Mo Mo, tell them to get two outside with Meredith. Blowers should not be on his own.’

He opens his mouth as a look of intense worry crosses his face. He looks round at Jagger who is occupied getting a smoke from Nick, then I watch as his eyes track round the rest of the group still bickering.

‘MO MO,’ I shout and again his head snaps to where I am, ‘Blowers must not be left outside on his own. Two outside with the dog…tell them…’

‘You’s,’ Mo Mo speaks then clears his throat as everyone looks round at him.

‘What?’ Clarence asks bluntly.

‘TELL THEM,’ I roar, ‘FUCKING TELL THEM TO GET TWO OUTSIDE WITH THE BLOODY DOG.’

‘Two outside,’ he snaps, ‘get Meredith outside, Blowers shouldn’t be on his own.’

‘Good lad,’ I shout, ‘now get some fucking energy into that voice and do it again…like this…JAGGER OUTSIDE WITH BLOWERS AND KEEP THE DOG FACING OUT…’

‘Jagger,’ Mo Mo turns quickly, ‘get Meredith and get outside with Blowers. He shouldn’t be on his own. Keep the dog facing out…’

‘We need her senses, Mo Mo,’ I prompt him.

‘She can hear things we can’t,’ he adds with a growing energy to his voice.

‘Mo Mo?’ Clarence asks gently.

‘Tell him enough of this,’ I snap.

‘Enough,’ Mo Mo states.

‘And stand up straight…look people in the eye when you give orders,’ I step closer and watch as the young lad stiffens to straighten his back, ‘say it like you mean it but be polite, politeness counts.’

He strides into the middle of the room and glares round at the shocked faces all looking at him, ‘Mo Mo, I want Clarence, Nick, Cookey and Paula getting the ammunition stacked and ready to be loaded…’

‘Clarence,’ Mo Mo spins to face up at the huge man, ‘take Nick, Cookey and Paula down to get the ammunition loaded…’

‘Our weapons are still empty, Mo Mo,’ I move closer and speak clearly, ‘they should be loaded with spare magazines at hand by now.’

‘Why are our weapons not loaded?’ He glares round at everyone, ‘we’ve been here a long time and still have empty weapons? We should be loaded and ready by now.’

‘GOOD LAD,’ I roar, ‘Roy and Lani go find another vehicle…’

‘Roy,’ Mo Mo spins to point at the shocked bowman, ‘and Lani, we need another vehicle to carry the ammunition back…’

‘BUT,’ I cut in, ‘only after they’ve got fresh magazines and loaded weapons.’

‘Get your weapons loaded first,’ Mo Mo snaps.

‘Shame on you,’ I roar at the group.

‘Shame on all of you’s,’ Mo Mo spins round with fire in his eyes.

‘Bickering when there’s work to be done.’

‘You’s bickering when you’s should be working,’ Mo Mo fires the words out.

‘Clarence is in charge.’

‘Clarence is in charge,’ Mo Mo points at him.

‘He was a professional soldier and knows more than the rest of us about how to accomplish our task.’

‘He knows this shit,’ Mo Mo roars.

‘We will find the people who ran off…’

‘Oh we will go after those people that legged it,’ Mo Mo grows taller with every word uttered.

‘But after we’ve got loaded and ready.’

‘But we get our shit done first.’

‘Tell Cookey Howie is fine…It’s not a blood clot…’

‘And the boss,’ Mo Mo faces Cookey, ‘just needed a time out, he doesn't have a blood clot.’

‘Er, Mo Mo,’ Paula says slowly, about to start arguing with him. I grin as I spot Dave creep ever closer forward at hearing Mo Mo speaking.

‘Do as he says,’ Dave barks.

‘No, listen,’ Paula starts to speak but gets cut off by the low growl of Meredith now standing by the side of Mo Mo.

‘YOU WILL FOLLOW THE ORDERS GIVEN,’ the drill sergeant’s voice booms round the room.

‘Well done, Dave,’ I grin.

‘Well done, Dave,’ Mo Mo booms. Everyone starts moving apart from Dave and Clarence who both stare hard at Mo Mo. As one, they both turn to look at my body lying flat out in the room behind then back to Mo Mo.

‘Innit blood.’ Mo Mo grins with a slightly crazed expression on his face, ‘swear down.’

Fourteen

She draws a breath and works to keep any expression of frustration from her face. Only when she is sure her tone and manner will be completely neutral does she speak, and even then she watches him carefully.

‘James, I love being here with you. I really do,’ she nods emphatically, ‘but…’ she stops mid-sentence when he turns to stare. He doesn't portray anger, but a completely normal look of interest in the words she speaks, but the fact he turned is enough for her to choose each word carefully.

‘Go on,’ he nods for her to continue, ‘but what?’

‘Nothing,’ she smiles quickly.

‘What? Say it,’ he smiles back, ‘you can talk to me, you know that.’

‘Yeah of course,’ she nods again, ‘I don’t know what I was saying,’ she shakes her head and gives a light laugh.

‘You said,’ he smiles gently, ‘that you love being here with me but…what was the but?’

Panic starts to rise that he smiles so gently and speaks so softly. His soft, blue eyes settle on her face and she swallows nervously, ‘I…I mean…you’re hungry,’ she looks up with a sudden idea, ‘and I’m worried about you.’

‘Worried? What for?’

‘Because you’re so hungry and you’re doing all the work and…and you need to keep your strength up.’

‘My strength is fine.’

‘Oh god I didn’t mean that, I just meant…’

‘What’s wrong with my strength?’

‘Nothing! James, nothing is wrong but…you’re hardly eating anything and…and not now, god not now but later…like…in days or weeks then…’

‘What’s wrong with my strength?’

‘James! Nothing,’ she rushes towards him sensing the atmosphere dropping through the floor. ‘You’re so strong and,’ she puts her hands on his shoulders she feels the hard bones and sinewy muscle, ‘I mean wow, James,’ she squeezes his thin arms, ‘you’re so strong. Forget it,’ she tries laughing again, ‘I’m just being a worrier as ever.’

‘Warrior? You want a warrior?’

‘What? No! I said worrier…I worry…you know I worry about you.’

‘Yeah right,’ he says quietly and her heart drops through her stomach at the way he says it. It’s a quiet muttered response and his eyebrows lift up. She watches his blue eyes and maybe it’s just her perception but they now seem more grey than blue.

‘James,’ she whispers and swallows again before casting her eyes round the spotless kitchen.

‘A warrior,’ his head tilts to one side, ‘a warrior.’

‘No, I said worrier…I worry, James…’ she closes her eyes in resignation and knows it’s already too late.

‘So…’ he falters and stops as though he is the victim, ‘I’m not a warrior then? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No,’ she whispers and keeps her eyes closed.

‘Yeah,’ he snorts a dry laugh, ‘a mechanic isn’t a warrior, is he.’

She stays silent now. Nothing she can say will make a difference to the outcome.

‘It’s not like I paid the rent is it,’ he says conversationally, ‘or put food on the table.’

She waits.

‘You want to go with them. Don’t you?’ He asks gently, ‘say it, tell me the truth. You want to go with them.’

She waits. Silently she waits.

‘Go on,’ he urges, ‘you know you can be honest with me.’

She doesn't reply but holds still.

‘You want to go with them. Why?’

She wishes he would just do it. The waiting is harder than the inevitable action. The fear of thing is greater than the thing itself.

‘Why?’

Like walking a tightrope. One wrong step and you plummet. She can’t show reaction or speak for fear her tone will be wrong.

‘Tell me, Emma.’

She suppresses the wince when he uses her name. The build-up has started. This slow gentle questioning as he seeks answers to questions that cannot be answered.

‘I asked you a question.’

Even when his hand softly brushes against her cheek as it reaches round to gently cup the back of her neck she shows no reaction. She can’t allow the shudder to show so she breathes instead. In and out she breathes.

‘Emma,’ his voice is that little bit firmer now, ‘I asked you a question.’ The pressure of his hand on her neck increases by the tiniest increment.

‘Why,’ he sounds the words out, ‘do you,’ she braces and prayers the injuries won’t be so bad this time, ‘want to go with them?’

The silence is heavy and loaded. A fizzing, bad energy seems to fill the room and she knows that if she opens her eyes now she’ll see his steel cold eyes boring into hers and he’ll look that much paler than he did before and that much bigger too.

‘Him?’

The word is spoken softly but the impact of her forehead against the table is jarring and for seconds she sees stars behind her closed eyes. His hand holds her down. An act of power and control as he pins her upper body to the kitchen table.

‘Him?’ He asks softly again and she dare not breathe.

‘I asked you,’ he lifts her head up and strikes it back down. Not hard but a display of utter control that she is a plaything to be toyed with, ‘do you want to go with him?’

Him? She knows who he means. Brian. But to say that name will invoke a vicious beating.

‘Is it?’ He demands still so softly.

The name is on the tip of her tongue. She wants to say it simply so the beating comes sooner and ends sooner. The hits and kicks she can take for they give physical pain but this, this precursor build-up of control, power and domination is far worse. She bites it down and stays still.

‘Brian? Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ she blurts.

‘Eh?’ He lifts her up by the fistful of hair he grabs, ‘what?’

‘No,’ she shakes her head.

‘Open your eyes.’

She screws them tightly closed.

‘Open your eyes.’

She shakes her head, ‘I haven’t seen him. Stop. Please, James. Please stop.’

‘Open your eyes,’ the voice growls out now low and close.

Piss threatens to spill out when she opens her eyes and looks at him. That terrible expression etched on his face. The ginger hair now looks so deeper a shade and his skin so pale it makes the freckles that much darker. His belief that by staring into her eyes he can see the truth.

‘Now I’ll ask you again. Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ she glares back trying with every ounce of strength to convey a look of honesty.

‘LIAR.’

And so it starts. The explosion of violence erupts in the spotless kitchen of the spotless house in the ruined street of the apocalypse.

As she sails through the air towards the sink she almost gives thanks that she can at least shut her mind down now. He’ll deliver the beating until he tires and she can curl up and wait until the anger abates.

Her knees slam against the cupboard doors as she bends double. He’s right there, grabbing the back of her head and forcing it down into the stainless steel sink.

‘Lying cunt,’ twisting the tap on he starts soaking her head and again she gives thanks that at least with the power now gone he can’t use scalding hot water anymore.

‘Wash you,’ he hisses, ‘wash those fucking lies out of you.’

She doesn't even like Brian. Yeah Brian is big and handsome but any sense of self was beaten out of her a long time ago and there’s no way Brian would ever look twice at her.

‘Wash…fucking wash…’ grabbing the bottle of washing up liquid he squirts it into her hair then her face and forces the nozzle between her teeth.

She didn’t leave the house either so how would she see Brian? Or any of the other survivors? James went out foraging and locked all the doors.

She gags on the thick liquid and feels the chemical sting in her eyes but that’s just physical and she can handle the physical and as his fingers pry into her mouth to force her jaw open so he can rinse the lies away, she thinks of what life would be like living with the other survivors in the church hall.

James used to show restraint in the sense that facial injuries led to people asking questions and the police calling. So he learnt to strike the body where the bruises wouldn’t show.

Now there are no police so it doesn't matter if he hits her in the face. He hits her in the face.

On the floor with the blood pouring from her nose, her mind turns to how she’ll have to scrub the stains from the floor now otherwise he’ll get angry again.

‘Did you see him?’ He drops down to sit crouched over her, his body weight pinning her down. Reaching up, he grips her wrists and pulls them high so she gets stretched out, ‘did you see him?’ He glares down into her bloodied face.

‘Brian?’ Defiance flares and that look of shock on his face as she utters the forbidden name is worth it, ‘Brian?’ She spits blood from her mouth and gags as a thick dollop hits the back of her throat.

‘Emma!’ He snaps as though hurt at what she said.

‘You’re going to beat me anyway,’ she spits again, ‘big man.’ The defiance grows stronger as it surges up from her gut, ‘go on then, big man’ she urges, ‘beat me.’

‘You said his name,’ James whines.

‘Brian? I haven’t seen Brian in months. I’ve never spoken to him and I’M LOCKED IN,’ she screams, ‘SO HOW CAN I SEE ANYONE?’

The backhander stings and snaps her head to one side. She pants from the exertion of shouting and the adrenalin coursing through her system as she slowly turns back to stare up at him.

‘What’s got into you?’ He sneers with distaste.

‘Not you, that’s for sure,’ she hisses the words out in a scathing tone and watches as the look of hurt morphs into one of rage. As the blows start falling she takes that nugget of pride that at least she got to him.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

James freezes with his fists held mid-strike as his girlfriend of five years lies unconscious between his legs. Her nose and jaw broken and her left eye socket fractured. Blood lies deep around her head and spattered against the white tiles and beige linoleum floor.

‘Hello?’

He looks down at Emma then at his fists dripping red blood. His heart hammering in his chest.

‘My name is Neal Barrett, I’m a scientist with the government. I urgently need to speak with Emma Ford. Is she here?’

The voice comes from the locked, bolted and nailed front door. A man’s voice, clear in inflection and tone. Well-spoken and clearly educated. The type of man that always used to make James feel so inadequate and stupid he’d add fifty pounds to their bill and make sure their cars failed the MOT just for the spite of it.

Is she dead? He peers down to watch her face but the pulped mess gives nothing away.

‘I thought I heard someone in there,’ the voice calls again, ‘is anyone there? It’s vitally important that I speak with Emma Ford.’

Oh shit. He looks around frantically then remembers he was checking if she was still alive. He drops his head to her chest and presses an ear close. A heartbeat, slow and faint but a heartbeat nonetheless. Emma is alive.

‘I say,’ the voice calls out again, ‘I’m from the government. We are working on the spread of the infection and we have urgent need to speak with Emma Ford.’

Government? Shit. That meant the government was still running which meant the country still had laws which would mean they’d do him for beating her. No. They wouldn’t put him on trial but summary execution and just shoot him or something.

Easing himself up he peers round the edge of the open kitchen door into the gloomy but spotless hallway and the barred front door. James moves down the hallway, into the lounge and over to the curtained barred windows.

‘Hello? I think I can hear movement,’ the polite voice calls out, ‘do not be alarmed, I am here to help.’

James eases the edge of the curtain back and winces as his fingers leave a crimson stain on the heavy cream material. Emma will have to scrub that out. With the thick planks nailed in, he angles for a gap to look through.

A horse is in the street. A big one too with a saddle and leather bags hooked on. James moves over, desperately craning to see as a man steps back from the door and looks up at the front of the house.

James stares with wide eyes at the assault rifle ready. He’s seen them on movies and television but never in real life and it looks so brutal. Black and heavy with a magazine jutting out the bottom. The man looks like he knows what to do with it by the way he holds it too. And a pistol on his belt! This man is armed to the teeth with a fucking horse and calling for Emma by name.

‘Emma Ford,’ the man shouts, stares at the house then turns to quickly view the street behind him, ‘my name is Neal Barrett,’ the man calls out again, ‘I’m a scientist…’

He doesn't look like a scientist, James thinks frantically. He looks like a soldier. He has a thick, brown beard and a high forehead but he looks fit too, fit and strong. Panicking, James eases the curtain back gently and creeps away from the window and into the hallway. He freezes at the solid thumping on the barred door and the voice calling out again.

Staring hard at the front door, he backs into the kitchen hardly daring to breath. He turns and again freezes at the empty blood stained spot where Emma was lying a few minutes ago. Turning quickly he spots the flash of metal in her hand as the carving knife sinks deep into his gut. A hand lashes out gripping her throat as she grunts from the effort of twisting the handle.

Pain sears through his mid-section as he feels a growing wetness spreading down his stomach and groin. Emma grips and turns as his hand squeezes to block the airflow to her already weak and dizzy brain. She falters and steps into him pushing the blade an extra two inches deeper. She gasps as her legs give out. James gasps as the blade bites deep and suddenly his legs don’t work anymore either.

Down they sink. Entwined and killing each other as she uses the final seconds of her life to twist the handle back the other way.

‘I…’ she barely gets the word out but his grip on her throat weakens.

‘I…’ She looks up into those blue eyes and the palest of skin now draining of colour as his life blood seeps out through the ragged hole in his stomach

‘Emma,’ blood oozes thick and fast from his mouth.

‘I…’ she grins a macabre smile, ‘fucked Brian.’ Yes! She said it. She got the words out. They aren’t true but it doesn't matter. The victory in death is there as his eyes go wide with fear, loss and hurt.

‘Fucked him good…’ the last word chokes off as the final breath of air exhales from her lungs.

Tears prickle the wife-beaters eyes as everything starts turning dim. The edges of his vision blur and the last thing he hears is the final hammering of Neal Barrett at the barred front door.

Fifteen

Day Sixteen

A quick entry for I do not have time to make detailed notes after each event.

The address for Emma Ford was found quickly enough but despite repeatedly knocking and calling out at the address I could not elicit a response. However, I swear I had heard noises from within.

Consideration was given to forcing entry at the time of calling, and knowing what I know now, I wish I had taken that course of action. I must be more decisive in future and trust my instincts.

I faltered and became hesitant and once that seed of doubt had taken root, I scuttled away while telling myself there could be anyone inside the address including the infected. If Emma was there then surely she would make herself known on hearing her name? I had considered greatly what to say on calling and decided I would announce myself as a scientist, which is truthful, and that I worked for the government, which is not truthful in so much as there is no known functioning government within this country.

On moving away from the address, Jess and I picked out a natural route through the outskirts of the small town towards the centre. It was during that short and somewhat tense journey that I began to notice signs of habitation and organisation.

Certain houses had red crosses spray painted on the doors and windows. Clear, large and distinct and obviously some kind of warning. Others had a blue cross. What these signs meant I could not fathom. Red means danger so I could only assume the red cross was a signal not to enter the address but what did the blue cross mean?

With my senses becoming more alert I then noticed that the main road had been littered with objects in a very careful manner. A vehicle on the right then at a set distance another on the left and arranged in such a manner to obstruct the road.

This meant that I had to zig zag down the road weaving through the vehicles. I further noted that the tyres had been punctured and in some cases, the wheels removed and the vehicles filled with heavy objects such as house bricks and debris.

It occurred to me, at that point, that I was heading down a road designed for a dual purpose. First, anyone travelling at speed would have to slow down to navigate the obstacles and second, anyone fleeing down this road would have solid objects of cover from which to fire from.

There were no corpses rotting in the street either which was a first. It was highly apparent that someone, or some persons had taken time and effort to clear them away and create this bi-functioning roadway.

Jess alerted me that we were being watched. Her heightened senses of hearing, sight and general threat perception told me there were people to the left and right. Her breathing changed, becoming somewhat faster and her ears swivelled frantically, trying to find a source to noises she could hear but I couldn’t.

At such a slow walk I simply put into practise what I had trained for by wedging the reins underside my right leg to hold them in place and riding by the strength of my legs only. This allowed me to bring the assault rifle to bear and held ready. The bolt was engaged and the safety clicked off.

We stayed like this for several moments and the tension within me was palpable. Jess maintained a solid course, weaving gently through the vehicles until I observed ahead that the road ended at a T junction. Straight ahead of me was a high spired church and a man standing in front of it staring down the road at me.

I could see he was armed with a long barrelled weapon but I could also see that the weapon was lowered and not pointing at me. That told me two things. First, that he did not want to see him as a direct threat and second, that others were training weapons on me. As an overt sign of compliance I simply lowered my assault rifle and held it away and pointed down in my right hand while I took up the reins in my left hand.

No sooner had my weapon lowered and he raised a hand. I could not tell if this was in signal to me or to the others clearly watching me from covert positions.

I mean you no harm – I called out to the male and could see as he nodded in return and motioned me to come forward.

I am Neal Barrett, I am a scientist – this I shouted ahead and again watched him nod. I say I shouted this for this is not a verbatim account but a representation of what was said.

The man made motion to lower his weapon even further and started coming forward. He told me his name was Brian and asked me the reason for my journey through the town. This was a point of great care as I did not know the intentions of this man and this is something I had fretted about and worried for greatly during my planning phase.

To say I was from the government could elicit a dangerous response. They could be angered at the government for what had happened. They may kidnap me in the hope of a ransom. Even by saying I was a scientist could be worrying as they may consider me skilled in the ways of this pandemic and demand that I do things beyond my means or capabilities.

In the end it blurted out of my mouth, that I was a scientist that is, and no sooner had I said it and I was cursing myself inwardly.

I told him I was a relative of a girl called Emma Ford and that I was trying to find her. He asked me if it had anything to do with me being a scientist. I said no. He asked why did I say I was a scientist then? I said so he did not think I was a threat to then. He then looked at the assault rifle and the pistol on my belt and said I did not look like a scientist, and asked me where the weapons came from.

I said I was working on a routine research project for the Ministry of Defence when the outbreak commenced and I had simply been fortunate enough to find these as I fled.

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his facial expression and the silence between us grew until I really felt the need to say something to fill that gap.

Fortunately. Brian called out to some people behind him. Woman and men then came into view and amongst them I saw a veritable collection of shotguns and single shot rifles held by farmers.

I was told that Emma lived in the village with her partner, James, and from these people I gleaned that James had been seen several times since the outbreak commenced foraging in houses for food and supplies but that Emma had not been seen.

Brian said some of his group had spoken with James and urged him and Emma to join them at the church, particularly given that James was a mechanic and his skills were in demand. He refused.

I also gleaned that James was “heavy-handed” to Emma in that he beat her regularly. This was worrying as I knew I had heard noises from within and now drew the thought process that perhaps Emma was being prevented from coming out to me.

I thanked them for their time and made motion to leave. On doing so I asked what the red and blue crosses were for. The red crosses, as I predicted, signify a property considered dangerous either by heavy blood loss of the infected, corpses stacked within or dangerous structure due to damage sustained. The blue crosses represented a house that had been cleared of usable supplies and one that also had a fortified room within – such as a bedroom with a sturdy locking bar and bolts.

This simple meeting gave me hope that mankind will find ways through the very worst of times. What I also noticed was the haggard look of the group. They appeared thin, weathered, pale and grey and despite being several in number, it was clear they were surviving but not thriving.

On returning to Emma Ford’s house I left Jess secure a few doors down and made my way on foot to the back of the house. There I found the windows barred and secured and the back door fixed with several thick, wooden planks across it. However, on closer inspection I observed the planks were only fastened to the door and not the wall. To any casual glance the door appeared secured and strong but in reality it was held in place by a single lock.

I did not knock but kept my resolve and quickly forced the door open, intent on finding Emma and possibly James and making them listen – even at gunpoint if the situation called for it.

I found them immediately. I say I found them for I could not recognise Emma due to the disfigurement of her face from a vicious beating. Her nose, jaw and eye socket were visibly broken. Blood was everywhere. There were old bruises on her arms and legs too.

She was holding the hilt of a large carving knife that was embedded in the stomach of a ginger haired male I can only assume was James.

They were entwined in a murderous act of death in a kitchen that was once spotlessly clean, but now dripped with blood.

My heart sank for I knew within myself that I had heard the noises of the struggle while I was outside. If I had taken action quicker I may have stood a chance at protecting her. But then, if I am to be painfully honest, I am not a brave man and even the confrontation with Brian and his group has left me shaken and worried.

Jess and I are resting in a field to the side of the country lane that leads from Emma’s town. Our, or rather, my nerves are frayed to the extent my bowels have been loosened and my stomach churns.

I will have a cup of soothing tea then start again.

List entry for Emma Ford: Deceased.

Cause of Death: Suspected Homicide.

NB

Sixteen

‘What can I do for you, young man?’

Maddox stiffens at the patronising tone of the bearded Doctor Heathcliff Stone.

‘Maddox,’ the younger Doctor Andrew Stone moves swiftly towards him, ‘how are things?’ He adds quickly with a warning look at his husband.

‘Good,’ Maddox nods, ‘my name is Maddox,’ he says to Heathcliff, ‘not young man.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Heathcliff rocks on his heels, ‘it was a term of greeting and not something to be offended at.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Maddox slides effortlessly into a slowly increasing cultured tones, ‘I do not appreciate being called young man. I could withstand, it of course, but that would lead to ill feeling so I feel it is better to inform you now that I wish to be called Maddox and not young man.’

‘Oh,’ Heathcliff blinks sharply.

‘I have many younger people under my care,’ Maddox continues with a stark contrast between his appearance and tone of voice, ‘and many older people who look to me for guidance. Calling me young man denotes me of someone younger and in less of a position than others. It gives distinction to my age where there should be none.’

‘Good god,’ Heathcliff blinks.

‘That’s why he’s in charge,’ Andrew grins. ‘I think you’ve told him,’ he whispers audibly to Maddox, ‘come on, I’ll make a cuppa.’

‘Right,’ Heathcliff nods, ‘cup of tea, yes…splendid idea.’

‘Are the other two doctors here?’ Maddox asks.

‘Sleeping,’ Andrew replies, ‘they took the night shift.’

‘Things okay?’

‘Okay as they can be, given the circumstances,’ Andrew sighs as he leads them into the back room set aside as an office, rest room, day room and general store room.

‘Looks cleaner,’ Maddox stops at the door to peer round at the interior of the makeshift hospital. It’s set deep within the walls of the fort and there’s no natural light but the air smells clean and there’s not a trace of dirt to be seen.

‘Scrubbed and scrubbed and it will keep being scrubbed,’ Heathcliff joins the conversation. ‘I was a surgeon,’ he adds, ‘orthopaedics…you know, hip and knee replacements but I’m from the generation that insisted on the highest standards of hygiene when we still had ward matrons. Not one,’ Heathcliff holds a finger up for emphasise, ‘not one of my patients ever developed a hospital based infection and that is a record I intend to maintain.’

‘Good,’ Maddox nods, ‘if you need help speak to Lenski.’

‘Er, the other girl has been organising it…Lilly? Blonde girl, very pretty,’ Andrew says while igniting the gas stove.

‘Lilly,’ Maddox nods, ‘Lenski said she was doing well.’

‘Well?’ Andrew scoffs, ‘well is not the word. That woman is a godsend let me tell you that, and intelligent! My god she’s bright as a button.’

‘Worth training?’ Maddox asks.

‘Ahead of you on that one,’ Andrew laughs, ‘once we’ve settled down a bit we will need to identify those that can undertake training. Anne was a training doctor so she’s pretty good at that kind of thing.’

‘What am I good at?’ Anne appears behind Maddox yawning while casting a professional eye over the hospital, ‘and you lot make enough noise to wake the dead.’

‘Anne!’ Andrew stares in horror.

‘What? Oh,’ she chuckles, ‘yeah, bad joke…sorry,’ she shrugs with no hint of apology in her voice.

‘I need to speak to you,’ Maddox cuts to the point, ‘all of you. Is Lisa awake?’

‘Lisa?’ Anne calls down to the next room, ‘Maddox wants a word.’

‘Hang on,’ Lisa’s voice floats up, ‘yeah what’s up?’ She rushes up the short corridor while pushing her arms into the white lab coat.

‘It’s not urgent…no, no it is urgent,’ Maddox corrects himself, ‘everyone come inside and close the door.’ He is a teenage, black male from the streets with no formal education but Maddox commands an air of respect and the four experienced doctors shuffle into the small room, close the door and wait with interested expressions.

‘Howie is immune,’ Maddox says firmly, ‘Cookey is immune. Lani is immune. You know that, right?’

‘We do,’ Andrew speaks first.

‘There’s no way they passed the immunity to each other,’ Maddox states.

‘Are you telling us or asking us?’ Anne asks quickly.

‘I’m telling you,’ Maddox replies in a tone that does not invite a response, ‘Howie and Lani could have kissed or had unprotected sex but that would never be enough to pass whatever anti-bodies are needed to gain immunity. Lani turned. She became one of them but then came back,’ Maddox explains and again holds the four doctors interest with ease, ‘Cookey was bit. I saw it. We all saw it. I saw the actual bite too,’ Maddox adds, ‘so there is no doubt he should have turned. I saw Howie and Lani cut their hands and press the cuts to Cookey’s wound…’ Maddox imitates the slits they both made on their hands, ‘but again there is no way that would have passed the immunity.’

‘It’s very symbolic and yes,’ Lisa nods, ‘it shows the closeness of that group but…’

‘But we don’t know anything,’ Anne cuts her off, ‘this virus has no known rules. So until we have more knowledge… anything is possible.’

‘I accept that,’ Maddox holds a hand out before they descend into a protracted medical discussion, ‘but there is something else. I did not witness it,’ he says clearly looking each of them in the eye, ‘but everyone has told me that there was a big fight here on the Seventh day after the outbreak started…’

‘Again very symbolic,’ Lisa mutters.

‘And Howie was beaten down, properly beaten down,’ the tone he projects piques their interest, ‘many saw it,’ Maddox looks to each in turn, ‘then…’ he gives a tiny shrug of his shoulders, ‘then he got back up and started reciting the Lord’s Prayer.’

‘Wow,’ Anne blinks, ‘who heard him?’

‘That’s the thing,’ Maddox smiles like a wolf, ‘everyone did.’

‘Pardon?’ Andrew steps closer.

‘Everyone,’ Maddox repeats with a nod, ‘I’m told that every man and woman on that field heard those words. They heard the Lord’s Prayer as Howie said it…it turned the battle and…’

‘No,’ Anne cuts in with a firm shake of her head, ‘sorry.’ She holds a hand up, ‘I’m sure several people heard him and it became one of those things whereby everyone wants to say they heard it.’

‘Maybe,’ Maddox shrugs again, ‘speak to the lads that were with him. Speak to Clarence…you know him? The big one…ex-paratrooper that served in nearly every conflict in the last fifteen years…he heard it.’

‘He was probably close enough to hear it.’

‘In his head,’ Maddox gives the slow wolf smile again and projects a cold ruthless exterior that silences the four doctors, ‘Clarence heard it in his head.’

‘Right,’ Lisa says slowly, ‘in his head?’

‘And there’s more yet. Howie has this way about him…’

‘Way? What way?’ Anne asks bluntly.

‘I will tell you if you will allow me,’ Maddox says politely, but his smile hangs past the point of comfort.

‘Please,’ Anne nods.

‘The things, the infected people…whatever you want to call them…they are scared of him…Do not interrupt me again,’ he fixes Anne Carlton with a glare that immediately stems the words about to fall from her mouth, ‘I have seen this. With my own eyes in fights them like you could never imagine. We fought against thousands of them. We were so few in number but we won and the only reason we won was because of Howie and Dave. He…’ Maddox glances down trying to find the right words, ‘he just transforms into…I don’t know…I don’t know what to call it…he moves so fast, faster than anyone I have ever seen and they wilt back from him and there’s this power like…like an energy that flows and…’

Heathcliff clears his throat, ‘there are accounts of famous military leaders that inspired their men to the greatest of victories against really terrible odds…’

‘Yes,’ Maddox nods, ‘Alexander the Great was such a man but no, not like this. My point is this and the task I have for you…’

‘Task?’ Anne scoffs, ‘you don’t task us.’

‘Yes I do,’ Maddox cuts her off, ‘Howie, Cookey and Lani were always immune. We need to know if the rest of their group is also immune. I want to know who else within this fort has immunity. Then we need to understand how these people came together when so many millions had died. What is it that draws them together? Why are they different? I need you to work out a way of testing people for immunity…’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Anne explodes, ‘we’re in a fucking old fort hardly coping with basic triage and…’

‘You are doctors,’ Maddox states, ‘you have the knowledge and training to build on. You are the only known hope this country has right now and you will do this.’

‘Or what?’ She glares at him, ‘is that a threat?’

‘No. You’ll know if I ever threaten you,’ Maddox replies softly. ‘Work together and find a functional test. Tell me if you need more equipment or supplies. This is the priority right now.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ Andrew nods sincerely.

‘What? With what? How?’ Anne pushes her head forward as the veins in her neck stand proud, ‘this isn’t an episode of fucking CSI or a Hollywood movie. Have you any idea how much research and specialist knowledge goes into the most basic of understanding of viruses and retro viruses? We,’ she motions to the other three with a frantic wave, ‘are general doctors…medical doctors…we are not scientists.’

‘On you,’ Maddox nods to the four and quietly walks out of the room, ‘and I’ll expect a status update every twelve hours.’ Closing the door behind him, he strides down the makeshift hospital and out into the early dawn with a mind that is already working on the next task at hand.

Seventeen

Derek leads the group further down the path as the first prism of light heralds the new dawn. The path is bordered by dense thickets on both sides and the verges are deep with luscious ferns, grasses and thick stemmed plants making a dog walkers dream.

There’s not a sound ahead of them. Not a stirring in the rushes as the infected remain still. Silent drool drips from mouths crusted with scabs. Skin drawn and beyond deathly pale, now mottled with deeper greys and the veins within show through the thin skin. So organically deathly they are but the red of their eyes splashes colour like the hint of poppies within the greenery of the country path.

The escaping group breathe hard and grunt as broken limbs repeatedly strike the ground. Grown men weep audibly at the pain of having to run with such injuries. Women cry at the pain their husbands are in and children whimper at the confusion harried rush from the place they thought was safe.

‘Right,’ Derek turns to face the group and drops his mouth at the sight before him. Men and women red faced and others so pale they look like they’ll pass out any second. Blood drips freely from wounds not given time to clot. His heart sinks at the view and although he knows they need to keep going, he also knows that without a break they will start dropping to die where they lay.

‘Everyone take a break.’ No sooner are the words from his mouth and those that can fall without pain do so instantly. Those with injuries are helped down to the ground and the groans, winces and yelps of pain echo down the almost enclosed path.

‘Piss,’ a gruff voiced man brushes past Derek and heads to the side already pulling the zipper down on his jeans.

‘Good idea,’ Derek mutters to himself and walks over to join him. Other men spot the action and join in.

‘What about us?’ A woman asks.

‘Go the other side,’ Derek replies as he releases his penis to aim deep into the ferns and deep ditch hidden from view.

Jets of piss start streaming out as the men shuffle feet and grown from the agony of having to run so far after sixteen days of relative inaction.

Stage fright hits Derek and suddenly the thought of pissing in front of other men stems his urgent need to go. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, willing his bladder to just open and let the gush out and when it finally does come he gives a small sigh of satisfaction. His piss arcs out and down, splattering the broad leafed plants but the noise is too weird, so he adjusts aim and points the jet through the gaps where it rains down on the greasy, grey hair of an infected. The piss rolls down the filthy, long strands to pour over the grey forehead and into the red, bloodshot eyes. A black tongue darts out to lick at the urine and the taste of human it brings and suddenly the restraint cannot be held.

As one, the undead rise to surge from the ditch and up towards the standing men and the squatting women. Shock hits. Silent, stunned terror ripples down the line.

A woman screams. Several women scream. Men scream and children scream until the lane is a cacophony of sound tearing the air apart.

The surging mouths are open and the teeth bared as they sink into the closest flesh they can find and several men find their cocks bitten clean off as the infected sink deep into their groins. The bare backsides of the women are chomped and in fear they break away from the sides into the main group in the middle. People trip over the injured who scream in pain as broken limbs are kicked and trampled.

The infected surge ever on from the ditches and into the group. It’s a pulsing, ragged attack as the deadly diseased mouths bite and the clawed hands rake open the skin of the living. With each bite and cut the infection is passed and storms through the veins as it resumes the battle within the new hosts bodies.

Hearts pump strong and fast in panic and only serve to increase the speed in which the infection is delivered to every organ and cell within the body. The survivors flail, fight and some try to flee but the infection works faster than they can ever imagine. The first goes down with a sickening pain to the stomach that has them dropping to bend double. Others follow and one by one the thumps and groans spread down through the group as they topple and gasp from the agony.

The first goes still. Derek clutches his stomach as the pain cramps with agony he has never experienced before. On the floor he writhes as his vision blurs until it darkens and the screams of the dying from all around him are blotted out as his heart ceases function and his brain dies.

So fast was the attack that for one minute there is nothing other than the undead standing drooling amongst the dead bodies. Low growls, hisses and snarls start to echo up and down. Then the first twitches happen, followed closely by the next and another after that. Electric currents passed through muscles that spasm back to life as the infection re-starts the heart in the true state of living.

Brains are accessed and any thoughts other than the sole desire of the infection are quelled and suppressed. The whites of the eyes of the freshly dead bloom with blood as the visible tell of the infection takes over. Saliva is produced, thicker than before, copious in amount and laden with the deadly virus. Fleshy hands that just seconds before were soft and flaccid now curl as the tendons lock the claws into the place. Eyes snap open. Heads roll as mouths open and snap shut. Slowly they rise to their feet and gone are the uncontrolled infected of the beginning when they would stagger on stiff legs and spasm with uncontrolled bursts of energy sent into muscles foreign to the infection.

These infected are understood and the infection is now experienced. The infection has them standing as one. Without motion. Without movement. Eyes fixed and open. Drool forming to drip.

There. The infections rifles through the recent memories of the re-activated brains and hundreds of heads snap to the side as the infected stare down the lane towards the munitions factory.

There. Howie. Dave. Clarence. Blowers. Lani. Cookey. Nick. Paula. Roy. Jagger. Mohammed.

There. They are there. Those that defy are within the munitions factory. Those that refuse to die are here.

The infection is within every brain and the decisions are collective as the hive mind sorts through the knowledge of the newly taken hosts. Within seconds it knows the inside of the munitions factory, the layout, the exits, where the stairs are, the ruined reception area and the hole leading in.

It feels, hears and sees the memories of those that cowered inside as a raging Howie broke through the supposedly reinforced wall.

The infection examines those memories without mind or conscious. Howie is raging. Howie is broken and dangerous. He attacked innocents and was taken down by Dave. The infection hears the screams of Howie as he battered the Saxon back and forth. It watches from many points of view as Howie first appeared grinning through the hole. A different Howie. A broken Howie. A Howie pushed to breaking point and he lies unconscious and prone within a side room as the group falter and panic without their leader.

Bullets. Rounds. Shots. The factory made the bullets and within those walls are millions of bullets. Enough bullets to stem the tide of the infections desire for one race.

One race.

Bullets.

Without Howie the group are leaderless but still dangerous. With their leader down they will fight harder than before to protect him and the infection knows that Howie commands greater love than any man alive now.

They will fight but without the heart of their group their strength will diminish. The small one, Dave, will stay by Howie’s side and only fight if Howie is threatened. But they have millions of bullets and the weapons to fire at them with.

The infection desires a frontal charge with a growing urge to attack and end this now but the infection also knows this has failed time and again.

As one, the infected snap their heads back to face the other direction towards the town from whence they came. As one they start running towards they town. Broken legs no longer give pain. Broken limbs do not cause an issue now and those wounds that bled freely now clot to congeal the flow.

Drumming feet sound along the earthen path as the infection sends them down the country lane, and as the sun lifts free of the horizon so the first break free from the path and into the streets and houses.

Fine motor skills are easy for one undead but with so many the infection cannot control those fine skills. As one, the hosts could drop down to tie their shoelaces but only if they all did the same motions at the same time. The infection knows there is a balance between maintaining complete control and having a basic tool to work with, and drawing back to allow a greater conscious entity within each host. That balance is yet to be found but the infection works and practises with every minute of every day.

Cars windows are smashed as dead arms reach through to drop handbrakes. It takes time but the vehicles are shunted and pushed onto the main road leading to the munitions factory.

The infection then holds the hosts still and silent as it works with the least injured of the newly taken hosts.

Derek stares at the car in front of him then walks quickly to the rear quarter panel where he levers the fuel cap open and turns the plastic cap within. He grabs his shirt, rips it from his flabby body and shoves it bit by bit into the fuel cap. Then he draws it back out and lets it hand sodden with fuel down the side of the vehicle. Derek goes still.

Bob actives and repeats the actions. Getting the fuel cap open before using his own clothing to form the wick.

Jennifer is next. Then fourteen year old Danielle. Fuel caps opened. Material soaked and primed. Jonathon does his then each goes still and obedient.

The infection sweeps an examining ripple through the newly taken hosts. One man moves to draw his lighter from his pocket. He thumbs the wheel and a spark is made but no fire. He tries again and this time holds the little black lever down. A small flame is made. His spare hand makes a flat palm which is held low over the flame until the skin blackens, burns and finally blisters as the heat burns through the layers of epidermis.

One by one. Four more draw lighters and one by one, those four ignite the flames. They each move to a vehicle. Five vehicles. Five bombs made. Five undead holding lighters.

The infection takes the many and sets them against the weight of the vehicles which move instantly from the combined strength of so many.

The country path is too narrow so the infection takes the main road and brings the motion up from a walk to a jog to a sprint as the five vehicles are swept towards the munitions factory.

The infection evolves.

One race.

Eighteen

Day Three.

A killer of men. A killer of women and children. A killer with no compassion. Ruthless beyond compare, his name brought fear throughout the criminal underworld. His was a name synonymous with retribution. The ugly man meant the end. If the ugly man came for you then it was already too late.

His hands have wrought death and he views the human body as a surgeon would: a cut here bleeds out quickly. A bullet in the gut right here means a slow painful death and like a surgeon he can remove organs from the still living and show it to them as they die.

He fears nothing. He is nothing. Void. Empty. A machine disguised as a human but with no emotions or sentiment attached.

‘Gregoreeeeee,’ the boy looks up at the pock-marked skin of the ugly man.

‘Gregoreeee,’ the boy says more urgently and tugs at the hand of the killer as he speaks.

‘What?’ Gregori scans. Always scanning. Always watching. Forever watchful. He knows the distance to the first hard cover and the time it would take to get there. He knows the exits and paths leading from the immediate vicinity and which vehicles would be easiest to take. His senses are always heightened.

‘Need a wee wee.’

‘What?’ He glances down with irritation, ‘we?’

‘Uh-huh,’ the boy nods, ‘need a wee wee.’

‘What we we, we here…we go there,’ Gregori points ahead, ‘we find the chisburger.’

‘I need a wee wee.’

‘What? What we? What is we?’

‘Toilet!’ The boy giggles.

‘Toilet,’ Gregori repeats the word and shrugs, ‘go then.’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere. Go anywhere. I not care.’

‘But,’ the boy looks round with suspicion, ‘where though?’

‘Here,’ Gregori shrugs and scans the area, ‘there,’ he points to one side, ‘or there,’ he points to the other side, ‘I not care. Go toilet.’

‘So I can wee wee here?’ The boy asks through narrowed eyes as though this is not possible.

‘We we? What? Yes…yes go.’

‘Right here?’ The boy looks down at the pavement, then up at Gregori then round at the road littered with bodies, pools of blood the ever present signs of carnage.

‘Yes,’ Gregori huffs his first ever huff and rolls his first ever roll of the eyes, ‘go…I not care…poop on the street,’ he shrugs.

The boy bursts out laughing, ‘you said poop,’ he giggles.

‘What? Gregori sneers, ‘poop is not funny. Poop,’ he repeats and looks down in distaste at the boy cracking up in fits of giggle. ‘What?’ He snaps, ‘poop… is not funny… poop… poop… is word…. poop…’ he shrugs with each pronunciation, ‘poop…’

‘Poop!’ The boy wails with a face flushed from laughing, ‘you said poop, Gregoreee.’

‘Yes. I say this. You poop now,’ he nods down at the boy.

‘I don’t need a poop,’ the boy roars in delight, ‘I need a wee wee.’

‘Piss?’ Gregori asks, ‘wee wee mean piss, yes?’

‘Oh no!’ The boy stares up with a look of pure delight on his face, ‘you said a rude word.’

‘What?’ Gregori huffs his second ever huff, ‘I not understand.’

‘Mummy said that is a rude word.’

‘What is this?’

‘Don’t look,’ the boy suddenly turns round and bends slightly forward as the pressure on his bladder increases, ‘can I really wee wee here?’

‘Yes. Yes you do the wee wee and the piss and the poop…’ Gregori, already turned round on request of the boy darts a quick look over his shoulder to see the boy shuddering with laughter as the jet of piss sprays everywhere, ‘poop and piss and poop,’ Gregori shrugs, ‘I not care.’

‘I’m weeing in the street,’ the boy laughs and leans back to aim higher, ‘haha, I can wee in the street….can I wee on that dead man?’

‘What? No!’

‘Will he know I wee wee’d on him?’

‘No.’

‘Then why can’t I wee on him…’ the boy gasps as he stems the flow and hops forward to the corpse lying face down a few feet away.

‘I’m weeing on a dead man’ the boy singsongs as he resumes the urination on the head of the corpse.

‘Boy. No,’ Gregori snaps, ‘not do this.’

‘You said he was dead,’ the boy half turns to glance at Gregori, ‘and you said dead are dead and they are dead and they…’

‘I know what I say but…’ Gregori pauses trying to think of the right word in English, ‘this not…it not…’ he screws his face up, ‘bad…bad to piss on dead man.’

‘Finished!’ The boy announces, ‘you can wee wee on the dead man too if you want to, Gregoreeee,’ the boy offers with genuine sincerity.

Gregori looks over at the wet puddle forming on the ground beneath the corpse and the dribbles across the tarmac. ‘Come…’

‘We go,’ the boy mimics a deep voice as he skips over to the Albanian, ‘come…we go…’ he makes his voice deeper. ‘When we will have the Happy Meal?’

‘We find it,’ Gregori replies instantly but doesn't know why he replies or why they are looking for the MacDonald’s. He doesn't know why they don’t take a car and head somewhere. Anywhere. Where? Why?

Where and why?

A prickling within him. A feeling he never experienced before. Uncertainty and hesitation. Go where? Why?

He is the ugly man and he always knows what to do. Someone always tells him what to do but then nobody ever tells him what to do. He is tasked and left to it but the parameters outside the actual mission are very closely defined. He is collected from the airport or seaport. Delivered to the target then collected from the target and extracted to a safe house until delivery back to the port.

He stops in the street and stands staring ahead then just as quickly he starts walking again. Where? Why?

‘Are we there yet?’

Where? Why?

There is no mission now. His natural instinct is to head home for Albania and he knows he could take the boy with him. But they’d kill the boy at the first display of temper or tantrum the boy shows. Children in Albania do not behave like that. Not ever. They get beaten until they stop and if they die, they die.

He could leave the boy. He should leave the boy. He can’t leave the boy.

He stops and stares, then just as quickly he starts walking again.

‘Why we going so fast?’ The boy asks, ‘can you see it? Pick me up.’

‘No. I not see it. Shut up,’ Gregori hisses.

‘I want my Happy Meal.’

He drops down and grabs the front of the boy’s t-shirt if a clenched fist, dragging the child to within an inch of his face. ‘Shut up,’ the gun is in his hand and pressed against the boy’s temple before Gregori realises.

Where? Why?

‘Shut up,’ Gregori whispers again.

No mission. No objective. Freedom escalates past uncertainty towards fear. He examines the boy’s face. The blue eyes framed by golden skin and the blonde mop of hair. A child. A tiny child with eyes that hold him rooted to the spot. There’s defiance within them. A daring for him to pull the trigger. The boy shows no fear but simply leans left to look over Gregori’s right shoulder, ‘up there.’

‘What? Where?’ Gregori stands and spins in one fluid motion.

‘MacDonald’s,’ the boy groans as though the answer is obvious, ‘it’s up there… Mummy used to come here and she went into that shop to look at the shoes and she always said shoes first and Happy Meal second…it was soooo boring,’ the boy rolls his eyes.

‘Come. We go,’ Gregori grasps the boy’s hand and tugs him along. Everyone is scared of him. Everyone fears the ugly man. Women scream. Men weep and children cower.

‘Fishy fingers fishy fingers fishy fingerrrrrrsssssss,’ the boy skips and sings while swinging Gregori’s hand, ‘and Gregoreeee is having a cheese burgerrrrrrrr…come…we go,’ the boy mimics the deep voice again, ‘cheeseburger…come…we go…I Gregori…I shoot you…Gregoreeee?’

‘What?’

‘Can I shoot the gun please, Gregori?’

‘No.’

‘But…but…please, Gregoreeee….just once…please….just once…I promise I’ll be good and everything…’

‘No.’

‘Please, Gregoreeee….I’ll be good and quiet and…and…and….please let me shoot the gun and make it go bang bang.’

‘You be quiet?’

‘Yeah soooo quiet….like a mouse that is asleep cos the mummy mouse read him a story and gave him warm milk and…’

‘You’ll be quiet? You promise this?’

‘Yeah! I promise and double promise and….’

‘One bang…’

‘One bang…just one bang….I’ll be quiet and…’

‘Okay,’ Gregori stops and looks round, ‘what? Shoot what? Window? You want break window?’

‘A dead man,’ the boy announces and earns a hard look.

‘You shoot window.’

‘A dead man.’

‘No dead men. Window. Car…look you shoot car.’

‘Dead man,’ the boy says firmly.

‘No. No shoot car…shoot window…shoot…’

‘Dead man,’ the boy goes to fold his arms.

‘Okay okay,’ Gregori says quickly, ‘dead man, you shoot dead man.’

‘In the head.’

‘In the head? You want shoot dead man in the head?’

‘Make his brains come out,’ the boy nods, ‘like you did.’

‘You see this?’ Gregori asks with raised eyebrows, ‘you really do this?’

The boy nods and points further down the street to the unmistakable mound of a body lying prone, ‘that one.’ He strides off with confidence leaving Gregori to walk behind and watch as the boy gets to the body, stops and turns back, ‘he’s head came off already.’

‘Shoot chest.’

‘No. I want to make brains come out.’

‘No head,’ Gregori points down at the mangled body.

‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘That…they look like sausages.’

‘Er…I not know the word…inside here,’ Gregori taps his own stomach, ‘they in here.’

‘Why did they fall out?’

‘The stomach,’ Gregori motions his own stomach, ‘you cut here and they come out.’

The boy watches Gregori make a slicing motion across his own belly then looks down at the body. ‘Does your heart come out too?’

‘Everything it come out.’

‘Can you put it back in? Can that man have his sausages and head back in?’

‘No. They come out you die. The head it come off you die. The heart…’

‘Gregoreee,’ the boy cocks his head to one side, ‘does the man be dead when the sausages come out?’

‘I think…you mean, you mean he see them…he see them and then he dead?’

The boy nods.

‘Yes,’ Gregori says matter of fact, ‘you show them to the man. He see them. Then he die.’

‘And when his brains come out can he see them too?’

‘No. The heart you show…seconds…one second…two second…three seconds and he die…the things in here,’ Gregori taps the boys stomach lightly, ‘you show and he die…the brain he die and no see.’

‘Will the man always be dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mummy said you go to heaven but the man is there,’ the boy points down to the corpse.

‘Not the body. The body is…’ Gregori frowns, ‘the body is like car…yes like car…but inside is not the car…inside here,’ Gregori taps his chest, ‘is not…I not know the word…soul? You hear this?’

‘Mummy got soles for her shoes in that shop,’ the boy points across the street.

‘What?’ Gregori glares over at the looted shoe shop.

‘Mummy got her sole in the shoe shop.’

Gregori stares in fascination at the shoe shop then round at this weird and strange land, ‘come…we go.’

‘But…there’s one,’ the boy spots the feet poking out from behind a car and runs ahead giggling. He darts out of sight then runs back laughing and waving at Gregori to hurry up.

‘What?’ Gregori looks to the boy and follows him round to see the undead turning slowly round on the spot. Both legs broken at the knee joints and splayed out from the mangled pelvis but the thing groans at the anticipation of being so close to a fresh host.

‘Can I shoot its head?’ The boy jumps up and down with excitement.

Gregori watches the creature closely and waits until it has snaked round on its stomach. He takes in the red eyes, the drooling mouth and the long hair that was once so pretty and blond.

‘Woman,’ Gregori states dully.

‘Where is it?’ The boy moves to Gregori’s side and starts patting for the pistol.

‘Here,’ Gregori slides one out and holds it firmly in his hand, ‘you listen?’

‘Okay,’ the boy nods eagerly.

‘Do what I tell?’

‘Okay,’ he nods again.

‘It heavy.’ Gregori steps behind the boy and shifts it into the child’s small hands, ‘use two… like this…’ The Albanian manoeuvres the boys hands to grip the pistol, ‘I hold too.’

‘No, let me.’

‘Boy! It hurt you when it shoot… it hit you in nose.’

‘Okay,’ the boy goes silent and still as he lets Gregori move his hands into position.

‘This,’ Gregori tilts the gun to one side showing the safety switch, ‘this here…gun not work… this now here… gun work… not work… work… not work… work… yes?’

‘Okay.’

‘Trigger,’ Gregori gently shifts the boys finger over the trigger, ‘touch not heavy…like this,’ Gregori taps his finger lightly to show how little pressure he applies. The boy copies him.

‘We go back,’ Gregori walks the boy back and away from the oncoming undead now holding her mouth open as she prepares for the bite. ‘Do not close eye,’ Gregori whispers, ‘not movie, not one eye…two eyes…aim…’ he points the gun down at the head, ‘but if you shoot…the bullet it go through and it come back up and shoot you…no shoot down…’ Gregori moves the boy to the side and lowers the stance so they are aiming at the side of the head, ‘now the bullet go through and away…yes?’

‘Okay,’ the boys whispers.

‘I say three you shoot…one….two….three.’

The gun fires a solid shot that strikes the undead female in the side of her temple. A small hole forms as the bullet goes through the skull but the back of the skull explodes in a pink mist of flying blood and brains that showers the road beyond.

‘Brains!’ The boy exclaims, ‘did you see the brains?’

‘I see,’ Gregori thumbs the safety and slides the pistol from the boy’s hands noticing the boy didn’t flinch at the huge retort and nor did he brace so hard his arms were rigid. The child absorbed the retort as though he had done it a hundred times.

‘Make her sausages come out now,’ the boy looks up and smiles at Gregori.

‘No,’ Gregori shakes his head, ‘she dead. Dead is dead.’

‘Aw but I want to see her sausages.’

‘Chisburger.’

‘Fishyfingers!’ The boy forgets the brains in an instant and rushes after Gregori. Eyes up and watchful as he reverts to the base state of being. With no traffic or ambient sounds the single retort of the pistol will have echoed for miles in this near silent landscape. It was a risk, but one calculated and stupidly taken. Things are changing. Gregori is changing. He would never risk a shot like that under any other circumstances so why do it now?

The boy chatters non-stop. He talks breathing out and gets so excited he talks while breathing in. He swings Gregori’s hand as he walks and skips. Nonsensical mutterings that Gregori only half understands from the language and age barriers between them.

Gregori has never had a cheeseburger. He has never eaten food in a MacDonald’s. He eats food that provides nutrition and nothing else. Food is fuel and not for the delight of tasting or the enjoyment of gorging. Water hydrates. Food nourishes. Clothing protects. Exercise prepares the body. Constant vigilance keeps the mind sharp.

‘THERE,’ the boy skips ahead and dances on the spot at the sight of the golden arches fixed to the wall above the restaurant. ‘Gregoreeee, there it is,’ he points needlessly up the street.

‘Boy,’ Gregori stares at the child, ‘quiet now, I listen…you listen.’

‘But…but…’

‘Boy. You shoot head and see brains. Quiet.’

‘Okay,’ the boy swallows the excitement while shuffling impatiently from foot to foot.

‘We go in,’ Gregori points to the front of the restaurant, ‘but we make sure no one here…no one follow,’ he turns slowly to view all sides, ‘we listen…sounds…we use nose,’ Gregori makes a show of sniffing the air, ‘we listen…use ear…use nose…use eyes…’

The boy turns slowly in a mimic of the big man. He stares at every house, entrance, car and shop before tilting his head to sniff at the air.

‘What hear?’ Gregori cups his own ear.

The boy cups both his own ears, ‘nothing.’

‘Hear nothing?’

‘Birds!’ The boy exclaims.

‘Good. More?’

‘Er…’ the boy slowly turns in a circle while pressing his hands behind his ears, ‘nothing?’ He looks up.

‘Good. Nose? What your nose tell you?’

‘Tell me?’ The boy giggles softly.

‘I smell,’ Gregori sniffs the air, ‘what? What I smell?’

The boy sniffs again, then again before his face changes with a sharp focus, ‘smoke?’

‘Good,’ Gregori whispers, ‘smoke. I smell smoke. You smell smoke. What smoke?’

‘I dunno,’ the boy shrugs.

‘What smoke come from?’

‘Fire?’

‘Good. If smoke then fire. Where is fire?’

‘I dunno,’ the boy looks everywhere.

‘Can you see fire?’

‘No.’

‘Is fire close?’

‘No,’ the boy completes the turn and looks up at Gregori.

‘Fire somewhere,’ Gregori motions the surrounding area, ‘but not close…we know this…we careful of this…if smoke get more in our nose then fire get closer…fire makes you die.’

‘Okay.’

‘How many dead bodies?’ Gregori asks the boy while holding eye contact, ‘here, this place…how many dead?’

‘Um,’ the boy again turns slowly, ‘one…’ he points to the one they shot, ‘two,’ he points to the headless one further back, ‘three…four…five…five, Gregoreee.’

‘Good,’ Gregori nods, ‘we know this. Five,’ he holds the fingers of one hand splayed out, ‘we watch this…we smell smoke and we watch dead bodies…’

‘Why?’

‘If body moves,’ Gregori shrugs, ‘it not dead. We eat chisburger and come out and now there is six bodies…where number six come from? We come out and four bodies? Where did body go? We know this and we not be dead. We remember,’ Gregori taps the side of his head, ‘in here…we watch,’ he holds two fingers towards his eyes, ‘we listen,’ he cups his ear, ‘we use nose,’ he sniffs, ‘we remember,’ he taps the side of his head again, ‘we live and not be dead.’

‘Okay.’

‘You do this,’ Gregori prompts the child and points to his own eyes, ears, nose and taps the side of his head.

‘We watch,’ the boy presses his fingertips against his closed eyes, ‘we hear,’ the boy cups the backs of his ears, ‘we smell,’ the boy shoves a finger up each nostril, ‘we remember,’ he finishes with a tap to the back of his skull.

‘Good,’ Gregori almost grins which involves a twitch at the side of his mouth, ‘now,’ he holds the boys gaze, ‘now we not be dead.’

‘Fishy fingers now?’ The boy asks softly but hopefully.

‘No,’ Gregori scowls, ‘not fishyfingers…chisburger.’

‘No!’ The boy laughs and pushes Gregori playfully, ‘not cheese burger….fishy fingers!’

Gregori leads the boy to the front of the restaurant and takes in the smashed plate glass window giving way to the chairs and tables lying scattered across the floor.

‘Behind,’ He pushes the boy behind him and steps over the window frame as he draws a knife from his waistband, ‘we watch…we hear…use nose…remember,’ Gregori threads a path through the strewn floor as they head to the counter, ‘you play game? Game where hide and other child find?’

‘Hide and seek?’

‘Yes. This game. If play now. Where you hide?’

‘Um…’ the boy looks round then points to the door leading to the toilets, ‘there.’

‘If place you hide. Is place they hide,’ Gregori first peers over the counter before heading towards the wooden swing door, ‘look place where you hide. Check place. Not be dead.’ He leads the child into the corridor and checks the disabled, men’s and women’s toilets, ‘is empty?’

‘Yes,’ the boy nods, ‘but…’

‘What? Speak.’

‘I could hide in the kitchen,’ the boy says.

‘Good,’ Gregori says softly, ‘this good. Very good. We check kitchen, yes?’

‘Okay,’ the boy heads towards the door.

‘I go first,’ grabbing a small shoulder he eases the boy back then heads out into the restaurant and through the gap at the end of the counter. ‘Where we see?’

‘There,’ the boy points to a side office. Once cleared Gregori lets the boy find anywhere a person could hide. Cupboards, fryers, shelves and cubby holes.

‘Is clear,’ Gregori announces, ‘no…’ he turns, ‘food here…food kept cold…where this place?’

‘What place, Gregoreeee.’

‘Place food stay cold. Milk in this place.’

‘The fridge?’ The boy starts looking and finally points to a metallic door fitted into the far wall.

Gregori pulls the door open and sniffs the first release of air. Meat is held in here. Cheese. Vegetables but the air is still cold and above his head a green LED light flashes.

‘Power,’ Gregori points to the light, ‘they have way to make power.’ He heads over to the griddle and searches for an on switch. This being MacDonald’s and the high turnover of staff employed meant everything was designed to be easy and fast and the big switches marled ON/OFF makes it easy.

He goes round the room activating everything he thinks they might need, ‘boy, you watch door.’

‘Okay,’ the boy turns to stare at the way they came in, ‘I can’t see.’

‘You small,’ Gregori hoists the boy up and carries him over to the counter top, ‘you look out now.’

‘Come…we go,’ the boy mimics the deep voice.

‘You want go?’ Gregori asks, ‘okay,’ he says with a shrug, ‘we go.’

‘No!’ The boy giggles, ‘make Happy Meals, Gregoreee.’

‘Okay, I make appymills,’ Gregori turns back to the kitchen.

‘Come…’ the boy affects the deep tone, ‘we go…’

‘Okay,’ Gregori turns back to the counter, ‘we go.’

‘No no no! Make Happy Meals.’

‘I make appymills,’ Gregori turns back.

‘Come…’ the joke is repeated as the boy descends into fits of giggles as the knife carrying ugly man turns first one way then the other.

‘Enough,’ Gregori snaps, ‘I Gregori. I hungry. You watch. I make.’

Gregori has never cooked before. Everything was done and provided for him and now, in this most foreign of places he causes chaos and disarray as works out what should be cooked and how it’s cooked. Burgers are put in the deep fryer. Fish fingers are placed on the griddle where they get charred and burn. Fries are heaped on top of the burgers but they cook too fast and everything has to be turfed out onto the draining side. Smells feel the room as the heat rises from the machines.

He finds knives and spends minutes weighing each one and scowling at the blunt blades then more minutes are wasted as he finds a knife sharpener and brings each blade to the exact specification required by a killer.

He stares at lettuces and tomatoes, gherkins and seeded buns. Machines start bleeping. Food litters the floor and several times he winces at being splashed with hot oil or touching the griddle plate.

With the concentration of a man determined to succeed, he finds the flat packed boxes for the Happy Meals and spends another ten minutes working out to push them in from the corners so they pop into boxes. A magical thing that has his eyes going wide in surprise so he makes more. Squeezing the corners and lifting his eyebrows as each new box is made. The boy said there was a toy. He hunts the kitchen and the side office until he finds a huge box full of the plastic wrapped toys ready to be dished out. He takes the box and pours the contents on the counter as the boy stares in delight.

‘Find toy,’ he mutters then walks back to his glorious creations burning and sizzling.

The boy, left to his own devices, jumps down from the counter and drags a chair over to make a step to get back up. Then he heads into the kitchen and remembers watching the people take the cups from the tube and press them against the plastic lever to make the drinks come out.

He finds the cups and selects the biggest one, then realising he can’t reach the drinks dispenser he goes out and drags another chair into the kitchen. Standing taller he pulls a face as he tries to decide what to drink. He pushes the cup and makes Coke Cola come out. Then he gets another cup and make Diet Cola. Then Fanta and 7up. He sips from each and smiles at the sugar laden fizzy sensation in his mouth. He tries combinations of several then all until his mind is racing from the influx of so much glucose.

With the sugar driving him on, he prods and presses the milkshake machine but nothing happens. The lights are off so he goes back to the counter and starts unwrapping the toys. Gregori makes a mess. The boy makes a mess and if the health authority should visit now, the place would be condemned instantly.

Crunching glass underfoot and the boy looks up to spot the lumbering undead trying to navigate the step up and over the windowsill. With a toy in hand the boy frowns, ‘Gregoreee.’

‘What?’

‘A dead man is here.’

‘What man? Oh,’ Gregori leans round to spot the undead, scowls and grabs one of the newly sharpened knives, ‘don’t move, boy,’ he launches the knife through the air and nods in satisfaction as the body is slammed back from the blade driving deep through the right eye socket.

The boy stares dispassionately and goes back to unwrapping the next toy which he sorts into colours and places with the rest he’s unwrapped.

‘Another dead man,’ the boy announces a few minutes later and stays still as the knife sails by to strike clean and true into the head.

‘What toy do you want, Gregoreee?’

‘No toy.’

‘You can have a green one, or a red one…or a…another dead man, Gregoreee,’ he pauses as the knife hits the head, ‘or a yellow one…do you want a car?’

‘Yes. Yes I have car.’

‘What colour car? Do you want a green one or a red one…Gregoreee…’

‘Dead man?’

‘Yes, Gregoreee.’

‘I cook now,’ Gregori huffs his third ever huff, ‘I no time to kill,’ he flicks the knife out and doesn't watch to see if it strikes home as he has just figured the burgers are cooked on the griddle and the fish fingers can be deep fried, ‘they come up.’

‘Pardon?’ The boy looks up politely.

‘Fishy fingers, they come up…they done they come up…good,’ Gregori watches the floating fish fingers sizzling in the oil and gives a scowl at the mound of wasted, burnt and under-cooked food stacked high on the drainer.

‘Boy.’

‘Yes, Gregoreee.’

‘I thirsty. You have drink?’

‘Hang on,’ the boy ditches the latest toy and hops down to run over and clamber back up to the drinks dispenser where he stares until deciding that Gregori is an adult and should have Coca Cola.

He fills a large cup then spills most of it down himself and on the tiled floor as he heads deeper into the steaming kitchen.

Gregori takes the cup and a big swig. His eyes widen as he pulls the cup away to stare in horror, ‘what this?’

‘Coca Cola.’

‘You drink this?’

The boy nods, ‘fizzy pop.’

‘No drink this,’ Gregori shakes his head at the vile taste of so much sugar, ‘no. No drink this. Water. Where water?’

It takes time but the food is made and piled into the cardboard Happy Meal boxes. No wrappings or grease proof paper but just lobbed in and piled up until the fries and fish fingers spill out over the rim and the pair of them are sat on the counter amidst a sea of Happy Meals toys arranged by colour.

They eat in near silence. Munching fries, fish fingers and slightly burnt burgers covered in too much cheese and slurping drinks. Water for Gregori and a mixture of Coca Cola, Fanta and 7up for the boy.

Several bodies lie outside the window and each with the hilt of a knife poking out of its head.

The boy nudges Gregori in the side as another one shuffles into view. An old man wearing a striped pyjama top but no bottoms and a deep festering wound on his right thigh.

‘How many?’ The boy leans round to count the knives stacked to Gregori’s side.

‘Two,’ Gregori grabs one, flicks it out and watches as the body spins round and slumps down, ‘one.’

‘Okay,’ the boy shoves another handful of fries in his mouth, ‘moffterfor,’ he sprays fries out as he nudges Gregori at the next one.

They watch with interest as the undead woman trips and staggers over the already downed bodies before finally getting to the windowsill. She tries to step up but doesn't lift her leg high enough.

They eat fries and watch.

She tries again and again, each time staggering back a step as she fails to navigate the sill.

They slurp drinks and watch.

The woman changes tack and just walks forward so she falls through the window to land on a heap on the inside.

‘She got in,’ the boy remarks in a contented tone, ‘can I shoot her brains?’

Gregori thinks for a second then shrugs and pulls the pistol from his waistband, ‘remember?’ He passes the gun over and shuffles closer to the boy.

‘Um…work…not work?’ The boy presses the safety switch.

‘Other way.’

‘Work…not work?’

‘Yes. Now gun shoot.’

Holding the pistol two handed the boy lifts it up and taps his finger gently on the trigger, ‘will it hurt my nose?’

‘No,’ Gregori puts his hand on the boy’s back to stop him being sent back and off the counter, ‘hold arms out.’

The boy stretches his arms out, ‘will the bullet hurt me?’

‘No, no come up…it go that way…see,’ Gregori motions the end of the barrel and sweeps his hand towards the woman undead now on her feet and groaning audibly.

‘Okay,’ the boy takes aim and fires a deafening shot that booms in the enclosed space. The bullet sails past the woman as the boy frowns, ‘her brains her in her head.’

‘You miss, try again.’

The boy aims again.

‘Breathe,’ Gregori advises quietly, ‘not hold breath…breathe out as shoot.’

The boy breathes out and fires. The woman stagger back from the shoulder hit and lands crumpled amongst the tables and chairs. They both watch as she writhes and spasms to get upright.

‘Aw,’ the boy groans as she sits up and he spots the fresh blood seeping from the wound in her shoulder.

‘One more,’ Gregori knows he should not be wasting bullets like this. He should not be firing a loud weapon like this. He should not be sat here eating bad food like this. He shrugs, ‘again,’ he prompts.

The boy takes his time and holds still until the woman is back on her feet and swaying less. Gregori takes in the focussed look on the boy’s face as he tracks the head and gently pulls the trigger.

‘YES! I DID IT,’ the boy bounces on the spot as Gregori deftly takes back the pistol.

‘Good.’

‘I did it…I did it, Gregoreee…her brains came out…’

‘Yes. Good,’ Gregori thumbs the safety on and glances back across at the child. The kickback didn’t bother him and Gregori felt the force of the recoil through the boy’s body as he held a steadying hand on his back. He didn’t blink or flinch either. Not a flicker of concern.

‘Night soon,’ Gregori remarks to fill the silence after the shot, ‘we go.’

‘Where?’ The boy asks.

‘Find place. Sleep. We hide and sleep.’

‘Hide and seek?’

‘No. Hide and sleep. They danger in night,’ he points down to the now still body.

‘Will I have pyjamas?’

‘We look,’ Gregori replies, ‘we try. If no then no. If yes then yes.’

‘Okay,’ the boy burps and giggles as he hops down from the counter to venture forward and peer down at the grey matter spattered across the floor, ‘can we see her sausages?’

‘No.’

‘Can I see her sausages?’

‘What?’

‘Can I get her sausages out?’

‘No!’

‘Can we eat her sausages?’

‘No. Not say this. Not ever. You eat that you die. I kill you.’

‘Have you eaten sausages?’

‘Not from dead man. Eat dead man and die.’

‘Okay…is it here?’ The boy points at the woman’s stomach.

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘How?’ Gregori walks over and crouches down, ‘cut like this,’ he slices his fingers left to right over the top of the woman’s midriff, ‘they inside but…but she down so…they not come out.’

‘Do it,’ the boy nods, ‘I want to see her sausages.’

‘Boy. She dead. Dead is dead. There no…why take insides out? She dead.’

‘Show me,’ the boy urges, ‘can I see her heart?’

‘Heart?’ Gregori stares at the child, ‘why?’

‘I never seen one,’ the boy shrugs.

‘No. She danger. Her blood it danger. Her blood touch you die.’

‘Why?’

‘She has er…she has sick…she sick…her sick touch you and you sick…then die.’

‘They’re going to howl now.’

Gregori snaps his head up at the boy then out to the now dark sky outside. How did he not notice? How did he let this happen? A chill runs down his spine as he glances back to see the boy’s head tilted up as though he too is about to howl.

Lights on in the restaurant. Discrete and soft and he failed to see the day was going faster than he thought.

On his feet and he draws both knives, ‘come…we…’

His words cut off as the howling hits the air with a sudden screeching that comes from every direction. The night fills with noise from the hundreds of voices that give sound. A chilling noise that has Gregori racing to leap over the windowsill and into the street. Hundreds of them. More than that. Solid ranks on either side and they scream into the night as one drawn out sound.

‘BOY,’ Gregori yells, ‘WE GO…NOW…’

The boy ambles and gently steps over the will while staring with amazed interest at the two sides trapping them.

‘NOW,’ the boy shouts up at Gregori at the second the howls end, plummeting the scene into a deafening and oppressive silence.

Only one way out and that’s straight across the road and through the shops on the other side and hope to hell there is a back entrance. Gregori sweeps his gaze across the frontages of the stores and turns back to face the stores right behind him. If he could funnel them he could hold them off but two knives are not enough for a group that size and the pistols only have one magazine each, not even that after the shots taken by the boy.

He squats quickly with his back to the boy, ‘UP,’ he snaps and waits as the boy jumps up to wrap his arms round Gregori’s neck. ‘Tight…TIGHT,’ he roars.

‘We will see their sausages?’

Gregori doesn't reply but starts running. The undead start running. Everyone starts running. He aims for the stores and curses his own stupidity as the boy whispers in his ear, ‘I need to poop.’

Nineteen

Day 16

I have but a snatched few minutes. I stumbled into an awful situation. I don’t have time to make a full entry but if this becomes my last notes then head back to my base – the address is at the front of this book complete with GPS coordinates and postcode. Find my diaries and know what happened and how this came to be.

There is a gathering in this town. A mass of the infected all holding position in the central square. Hundreds of them. We walked right into them!!! We turned a corner and there they were. I don’t know why. Jess did not smell them but that I put down to the wind direction or simply that she is not bothered by them as they want humans to infect, not horses.

We scarpered pretty darn quickly from that place and cantered down side streets into the maze of alleys of this blasted old town. Why didn’t we build towns in a grid formation like the bloody yanks! Alleys and twisting lanes and avenues that don’t blasted lead anywhere.

We found an old quay with warehouses next to it. One of them is converted into an arts centre and it’s in there we hide. The old doors were big enough for Jess to get through and I can only hope we’ve found somewhere they won’t look. I don’t know if they’re coming to search or even if they saw us. I saw them. Turned Jess round and we got out of it. I should have gone back the way I came but fear and panic had gripped me and I don’t know…I just took lefts and rights in a blind worry that they were right behind me.

Why are they here? What’s here that they want? Why gather in one place? This does not fit the information we knew about. I should try and find out but I have my objectives to accomplish and me being dead serves no purpose. This is recorded. Everything I do is recorded but…but the chances of a vastly reduced population and someone finding these books are unlikely…should I run? But where? How do we get out of here? I must be calm and think clearly. Jess is faster than they but…but only if we know the way out.

Okay. Calm down Neal. I must calm down. I must calm down. My heart hammers so much and it feels like my chest is restricted. Is this a panic attack? I knew I should have recruited guards or soldiers to work with me. This is too much for a scientist to do.

I must calm down and find a way out.

NB

Twenty

‘I’m bored,’ I turn round from the window and face Dave who faces me. The me on the floor that is, not the me at the window.

‘A new day,’ I say glumly, ‘a new dawn heralds the start of another fine morning in the apocalyptic world. How can Mo Mo hear me and you can’t?’ I ask the small man, ‘you’re Dave, you’re like this magical being that can do everything…well, apart from hold a sensible conversation that is.’

He doesn't reply but stays where he is, sat on the floor next to my body with one hand resting on my chest.

‘Is this an out of body experience?’ I ask no one in particular, ‘it’s a bit shit if it is. I thought it would be flashing lights and music and…’ I shrug, ‘some other cool shit. Come back from the light, Howie…’ I snort and look away when even my stupid ghost voice doesn't get a response.

The old man in the tube station I can understand. That was a representation of bad shit to come if we don’t do our good shit now. Wow, that’s a lot of shit.

He was showing me what will happen if we don’t keep going, if I don’t keep going. What the hell is this? A cunning plan to bore me so much I want to go back?

Hang on. Go back? Does that mean I have a choice? Can I choose to go back or…what’s the alternative? Be a ghost? Am I a ghost now?

I stride out of the room looking for Meredith, then remember that I ordered her to be taken outside to keep watch, or rather, I suggested to Mo Mo who half ordered, half suggested it to everyone else.

‘Where you go, I go.’ The words stop me in my tracks and I spin round to see Dave staring at the me on the floor.

‘Say that again,’ I stride back towards him.

‘Hear me, Mr Howie. Where you go I go…’

My god. The look of terror on Dave’s face at the prospect of a future without Mr Howie. Not me. Not the me here but the me down there. The me that leads and shows the path.

What does that mean? ‘Dave,’ I say gently, ‘what does that mean?’

I’m in a place that Dave can’t reach and it’s killing him more than anything we’ve done together. In his mind I’m struggling and fighting and without him, he fears I will lose.

‘You’ll fix this,’ he says quietly, ‘Mr Howie, you’ll fix this.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ I say sadly, ‘got nothing left, mate.’ As I say the words I feel a sense of distance being created, like I’m falling away but without moving. It happens slowly and so organically that it feels entirely natural, and even somewhat nice. I can let go. Just let go and fade away to somewhere warm and safe where none of this matters. I exhale slowly and feel the pressure of it all lifting, like a great weight being taken from my shoulders and mind. Warmth spreads through me so gently it makes me sigh, and it feels like I’m falling but slowly, so slowly. Sinking down into a beautiful warm place of…

‘INCOMING,’ the unmistakable tone of Blowers shouting in alarm rings out, but it’s too late now, I’m too far gone. My heart ramps from serenity to explosive thudding but I can’t stop the descent. A huge bang shakes the whole of the building and sends juddering shockwaves through every beam and wall.

But I’m not there. I’m in the street where I started. I start running, making ready to shout orders for Blowers to get inside, for a GPMG to be placed covering the hole and for someone to plan an escape route. I want to know the security of the building and have eyes on the point of attack. What exploded? The sound was two noises, an impact then an explosion. Like a battering ram. A car set on fire and set against the wall.

I want magazines laid out, weapons made ready and a… I’m sprinting but the street is the ruined street and not the munitions factory. It doesn't end like it did before. I reach the point where it ceased being the street and it carries on being the same dismal fucking town, ruined and broken, blackened and in heaps of bricks and rusted metal.

Hands on my head, I spin round and round. The group are under attack from something concerted and organised. Something that has worked out to use a car as a weapon and send it against the walls of the munitions factory. My group are under attack. My team.

The tranquil state of being is gone. It’s replaced with an utter desire to be back in the midst so I can lead the charge with my axe held firm. So Dave and I can loop out from that hole and attack them from the rear or the flank. I want Meredith with us so her teeth can tear them apart but I can’t do anything.

‘COME ON,’ I scream into the air, fists clenched and arms locked, ‘COME ON…SEND ME BACK…’

Why won’t I go? Why can’t I go? ‘LET ME BACK…DAVE…HIT ME, SLAP ME…WAKE ME UP…DO SOMETHING…’

Nothing. With a frizzed blurring the air shimmers all around me and the street is how it was before this happened. The houses no longer destroyed and people walking about their business. The sun shines bright and high in the sky. Cars move slowly past and children laugh as they play in the park.

‘NO…NO,’ I rage and run through the street as it flickers between the destruction of the future and the hope of the past. I don’t care one shit about this fucking street. Put me back in the fight. Give me my team. Let me lead like I was.

Static electricity makes me gag and drop to my knees. My hair stands on end as the street blurs faster than it was before. Then it settles and the silence is only broken by the fetid, ragged breathing of the undead.

I stand slowly, sensing them behind me. Knowing they are there.

‘No,’ I mutter the words through gritted teeth, ‘not now…not fucking now.’

Growls ripples through them and I turn slowly to find the whole of the street behind me rammed from left to right with rank upon rank of the infected.

I stand straight and stare them down.

‘Not happening,’ shaking my head I look up to the grey streaked sky as the first fat drops of rain fall heavy to land on my face.

‘Send me back. Please. Please send me back.’

There’s movement within them. Their ranks are deep but there’s a flash of long, black hair.

‘Marcy? MARCY?’ I run towards them. They close tighter and prevent me getting in but make no move to attack.

‘MOVE…MARCY…’ I grab the first and send it staggering from the front rank with a heave but they close up. Another I tackle and start fighting them harder and harder. Fists slamming into noses and jaws. I kick and gouge and drop them one by one but the ones are few and the masses are many.

Panting hard, I step back and fix my eyes on the now solid front rank. Hands are not enough. I need a weapon. My axe. Knives. Anything. Give me something.

She moves towards me like water flowing through rocks. ‘Marcy!’ She doesn't reply and I only get glimpses as she moves round and between them but coming ever closer.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I attack the front rank again with renewed purpose and manage to get two ranks deep before they force me back out to stagger and drop to my knees.

‘Force isn’t always the answer.’

‘Fucking is,’ I’m on my feet staring at the woman who tried to saved me, tried to kill me, then saved me again. ‘Are you here?’

She looks down at her ample cleavage and smiles coyly, ‘I think I am.’

‘I’m knocked out. In the mun…fuck it…in the munitions factory, they’re being attacked…send me back.’

‘What makes you think I can do anything?’ She asks lightly but the words are cut off by my hand gripping her throat.

‘I will end you whether this is a dream or not,’ I increase the pressure, ‘know this. Can you send me back?’

She shakes her head as a tear rolls free down her cheek and one hand lifts to gently cover my wrist.

‘Fuck…FUCK….FUCKFUCKFUCK,’ I let go and spin round as the rage burns through me. I end up punching an undead in the face just for the hell of it.

‘You wanted out,’ she speaks softly and her voice sends shivers racing up my spine.

‘Don’t talk to me.’

‘Why? Why not, Howie.’

‘Your voice is like fucking treacle. It…  it does something to me. Just… fuck off.’

‘Howie. Come find me.’

‘Find you. You’re right there…how do I get back? Tell me?’

‘You’re so lost,’ she takes a step closer, ‘so lost.’

‘Don’t,’ I growl.

‘You carry the world on your shoulders. You take the burden without complaint.’ I glance up at her to see a look of complete pain etched onto her face, but other than the red eyes there’s no sign of the infection. Her skin is as tanned and lustrous as ever. Her hair shines and shimmers with waves of midnight raven. Her lips look as full and sensuous as her hips and breasts. I swallow and breathe out slowly while forcing my eyes away.

‘They’re right, Howie.’

‘Who are?’ I ask without looking but sense her getting closer by the second.

‘They told you to see it through. They’re right. This…’

‘Don’t touch me.’

‘This is a dream,’ she whispers so close to me now I can sense the warmth of her body, ‘this isn’t real.’

‘Feels real.’

‘Howie,’ she reaches out to touch the side of my face and no sooner do her fingers brush, a fat tear wells in my eye to fall singly down my cheek.

‘This is not about you. This is about what you are, what you can do.’

‘No,’ the word comes out muted and torn.

‘The weight of the world is upon you. You falter one step and berate yourself so harshly,’ her tone is so soft and compelling I can’t make myself move away from her. ‘Your team needs you, they all need you…’ I half turn and find myself sinking down into her warm embrace. Hands wrap round my back as I rest my forehead on her shoulder.

‘You faltered but you will be stronger. You have to see this through. You have no choice. Listen… listen to me,’ she lifts my head to stare deep into my eyes, ‘you’ve done more than anyone could ask…but this isn’t over and you have more to give.’

‘I can’t,’ I gasp as the tears run free.

‘You will,’ she say gently, with an almost maternal essence, ‘you must. You do not matter. What you can do matters most. It matters more than anything.’

‘…stay here…’

‘With me? You want to stay here with me?’

I nod and she laughs a pained sound full of remorse. ‘Oh Howie,’ she pulls me in for another tight embrace, ‘no, you cannot…but…you have to find me…’

‘I tried but…’

‘But what?’

‘But I broke…and I’m scared…I think about you and…I love Lani but sometimes I think about you.’

‘You will be strong,’ she pushes me to arm’s length and holds me there, ‘I do too. All the time. But…’ she pauses and sighs, ‘close your eyes.’

I do as told without question for there is no danger here. Marcy would never hurt me. I don’t know how I know but I do.

‘When you open your eyes you will rise and you will fight, you hear me?’

‘No…’

‘You will fight as you have never fought before. Your team are strong but without you they falter and bicker and argue. Clarence has the strength of five men but he cannot carry what you can. Paula is smart but she lacks the humility of your touch. They cannot win without you. The infection is throwing so much at them right now, right as we speak…cars laden with fuel are being sent flaming against the walls and a hole has formed. Your team are strewn throughout the building, fighting separately without cohesion, while Dave remains by your side staring into the darkness. The infection aims for the ammunition and is working route towards blowing it. If it wins, all your team will be killed. One has already suffered a bite. Without you and Dave the group lacks the heart to keep going. Howie,’ she pauses and steps closer, ‘your team are the hope, they are the future. You cannot go on without them and they cannot survive without you. Dave will close his eyes and accept death as a means of being with you. You will die. They will die and with you the hope of mankind dies. So when I say you will fight, you will rise up and fight and your voice will carry throughout that building. They will rally on you and you will blaze a path through them,’ her breath on my face now and her hands cup my cheeks. ‘Lani is torn. She knows the team need her but she longs to be by your side. She is at the far end, at the most dangerous point and she covers a gap in the wall. She’s alone and scared but she knows if she turns away they will break through. So again, when I say you will rise, you will rise and the strength will be there again. I promise. All of this doubt will be gone.’

I nod and weep but it’s as though her strength flows into me with a calmness I have never felt before.

‘When you open your eyes you will lead, do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you open your eyes you will not falter again, do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will fight and win and you will find me.’

‘I will. I swear it.’

‘Good, now keep your eyes closed…there’s one last thing to do.’

I stiffen as her lips touch mine but only for a second. Within that second a whole barrage of thoughts race through my mind. That this is wrong. But I’m dreaming. That she’s infected but I’m immune and I’m dreaming. Everything is wrong but everything is right and that second passes as I sink into the kiss of her full lips against mine. My heart surges with power and the strength I felt flowing into me before is doubled, tripled, forced through every vein in my body until my muscles feel like they’ll burst with energy. Her hands grip the back of my head as her tongue darts between my lips. The flow increases until I’m no longer human, for surely no human has ever felt like this. She breaks and breathes a long, contented sigh.

‘I’m still a woman,’ she whispers, ‘now go…go…’ She pushes me roughly away, ‘but remember me…’

Twenty-One

‘Lilly!’

She turns and smiles as Maddox threads his way through the moving crowds of the forts survivors.

‘Hey, Mads,’ she blows a strand of hair from her face and stands waiting for him, ‘everything okay?’

‘Yeah, listen,’ he stops and offers a wry smile at the sight of the clipboard in her hand, ‘Lenski’s at the gate. We’ve got more survivors turning up.’

‘More?’

‘Word’s spreading,’ he replies, ‘we’ve sent two crews out in boats to the shore on the other side…’

‘Are they being checked?’ She cuts in quickly.

‘Darius and Sierra are there,’ he nods, ‘and that nurse has gone over but I don’t like putting him at risk.’

‘We can’t send one of the doctors.’

‘I know. Lenski wants you down with her for processing.’

‘At the gate?’

‘Yeah, why? That okay?’ He notices the fleeting glimpse of a frown creasing on her forehead.

‘No, no it’s fine,’ she says, ‘I was arranging a rota for childcare but…’

‘Anyone can do that,’ Maddox says and looks round to see two women stood nearby talking, ‘you two, are you assigned a task?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The older woman blanches in surprise.

‘We need a rota for childcare, can you do that?’ He speaks fast, firm yet soft with a perfect blend of respectful commanding authority.

‘Er, I suppose…’ the older woman blinks a few times.

‘I worked in a nursery,’ the younger woman offers, ‘for childcare,’ she adds quickly with a nervous glance between Maddox and Lilly.

‘You did? Brilliant!’ Lilly beams, ‘right, we need a safe area made for the children. It needs to be checked for anything that can cause injury or harm and we need people to be with them…make sure they eat, drink water…have rest time, not too long in the…’

‘In the sun, yeah I was thinking that,’ the younger woman interjects, ‘who is doing it now?’

‘Now? No one really,’ Lilly says with an imploring look.

‘What’s your name?’ Maddox asks.

‘Angela.’

‘Angela, you are now in charge of childcare for the fort and act on my authority, get what you need from the stores. There’ll be a radio somewhere for you and we’ll get you a few guards assigned. Got it?’

‘Wow,’ Angela offers a nervous smile, ‘really?’

‘Yes, really,’ Maddox says seriously, ‘you get any problems you find one of the crews…’ He turns to spot Ryland patrolling nearby with a shotgun held across the crook of his arms.

‘Ryland, your crew on now?’

‘S’up,’ Ryland nods in greeting, ‘yeah we’re on.’

‘Angela,’ Maddox nods at the woman, ‘she’s in charge of childcare now, get her a radio and stay with her.’

‘Sweet,’ Ryland smiles at the woman. ‘Ryland,’ he nods with a grin, ‘you’s better come with me innit.’

‘Lilly,’ Maddox motions for the woman to fall in beside him as he starts striding back towards the front. ‘You cannot do everything yourself,’ she watches as his eyes dart to every corner of the fort. Nothing escapes his attention but he takes time to look at her and show his interest, ‘delegation is the key to leadership.’

‘Delegation. Right.’ She nods and hurries alongside and notices again how people seem to step out of his way and he rarely has to swerve or deviate. The power of the man exudes utter confidence, that nothing is beyond him and unlike the crews and guards who hold long barrelled weapons and stare with fixed expressions, Maddox has a single pistol in a holster on the back of his belt. Unassuming, yet it only serves to increase his control. ‘You’re one of us now, Lilly.’

‘Am I?’ She asks with a surprised look.

‘You are. Howie goes out and does out there,’ Maddox nods forward, ‘and we run this, so you’re one of us that runs this. As such,’ he spares her a glance amidst the chaos around them, ‘you need to assert control and authority.’

‘I’m only fifteen,’ she blurts.

He stops and stares at her with a poker face, ‘how old am I?’

‘Pardon?’

‘How old am I?’

‘Er,’ she concentrates, ‘I would say…’

‘I’m eighteen,’ he resumes walking.

‘What!?’

‘Howie is twenty seven yet he commands everyone and do you know what Howie did before this?’

‘Worked in Tesco, didn’t he?’

‘He did. I was in a gang that grew cannabis. Howie worked in a supermarket. Lenski is a Polish immigrant…you get me?’

‘I think so,’ she nods and sidesteps a man carrying planks of wood.

‘It’s in your voice, your manner, your bearing…look people in the eye when you talk to them and assert the authority in your voice but…’ he spares her another glance, ‘only shout or raise your voice when you have to.’

‘But you and Howie can fight,’ she says quickly, ‘everyone says how tough you are. So by the masculinity of your toughness you command that respect.

‘Ever seen Lenski fight?’

‘Well no but…’

‘Lenski doesn't fight.’

‘Right.’

‘Does Lenski command respect?’

‘Oh god, yes, but then she’s got that Polish look, you know, she doesn't show her emotions or…’

‘Do I show emotions?’

‘No, no you don’t…but Howie does, Howie isn’t like that.’

‘Everyone’s different. Make no mistake. Howie is special but he’s also got the ability to be utterly ruthless when he needs to be. You have to find your way but you’re too valuable to do that slowly over time. Find it. Assert control.’

‘I’ll try,’ she bites her bottom lip then stiffens to show resolve.

‘Maddox!’

‘Yes,’ Maddox holds a hand out to show the approaching Doctor Andrew Stone he is aware but he is also busy. It works too. The eighteen year old simply stops the doctor and looks back to Lilly, ‘everyone speaks well of you.’

‘Do they?’ Lilly blushes from the praise.

‘One of us. Go find Lenski.’

‘Okay and er…thanks, Maddox.’

‘Anytime, Doctor Stone, what have you got?’

‘Right,’ Andrew steps in and rubs his hands, ‘we’ve inventoried the equipment and we have enough to start some basic analysis…’

‘Good. What do you need?’

‘Need? Who says we need anything?’

‘You need an infected?’

‘Well yes, yes actually we do…or rather not an actual infected person but we need infected blood.’

‘Got it,’ Maddox nods, ‘I can do that. I can get you an infected person.’

‘Is that safe?’

‘No. Nothing is safe but I’ll make it safe enough. It won’t be brought in here but we can bring one close enough so we can get samples and you can do whatever tests you need.’

‘For a thorough analysis we’ll need the ones we know are immune, some we know are not immune and obviously the infected. Also,’ Doctor Stone steps in to lower his voice, ‘the one that turned but stayed normal?’

‘Lani?’

‘No…the other one, the woman…’

‘Marcy?’ Maddox lifts his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Yes, yes her. We need her too. We need every known type so we can get a cross section of all the blood types and…well, to even begin to understand how this infection works is way beyond us but we may be able to identify certain things within the blood that are different across that spectrum. Listen, we are just general doctors…you understand that right? We’ll do our best but we’ve also got sick, injured and…’

‘I get it,’ Maddox cuts him off, ‘you’ll get Howie and his team when they return. As for an infected,’ the youth pauses to think for a second, ‘that will have to be Howie too. Marcy…Marcy I can get.’

‘Really? How?’

‘Ears are for listening, eyes are for watching and the brain does everything else. Thank you, Doctor. You’ll have what you need as soon as possible.’

Maddox strides off. Not because he has another specific task but because he needs time to think, and he thinks best whilst walking. Also, it makes him look busy which means people don’t interrupt unless it’s important.

The immunity is beyond his control so that is pushed to one side of his brain. An infected he can get but again, that is a task best completed by Howie so that too is segmented to one side. Marcy. He’s heard the story and knows who the woman is, and from what he can gather, she’s close too. Whatever happened between her and Howie is unfinished. He could wait until Howie gets back and ask his group to find Marcy but that will take time, and he couldn’t be sure that Lani would agree to it. Not that it would really matter, Howie would see that it was for the good of the fort and get the job done, but he wouldn’t like to cause unnecessary upset between those two.

‘Maddox, we need more fuel for the generators…’ a man rushes up with a harried look on his face.

‘For cooking? There’s more fuel in the store room at the far end, find Ryland. He’s the duty crew chief.’

‘Got it, thanks, Maddox.’

Weigh up the risk and the threat. He can take a crew with him to find Marcy but that exposes that crew to unnecessary risk and he knows he can move faster on his own. The Bossman used Maddox as an enforcer to collect debts and it was a skill Maddox honed over several years. Finding people and making them want to do the right thing. Opposition doesn't faze him. Maddox knows he’s fast at running and capable in a fight. But then he leaves the security of the fort to someone else and if he was to die out there then it leaves this fort without an established leader.

‘Mads, we got anymore suncream?’

‘Stores. You know that,’ he casts a searching look at the young boy, ‘Carl, you getting enough water?’

‘Yeah swear down, Mads,’ the youth nods his head eagerly.

‘So what’s up?’

‘Nuffin,’ the boy looks down and fidgets.

‘Carl, you know where the suncream is kept. You wanted to speak to me. What’s up?’

‘My stomach hurts,’ the boy blurts with a flush of embarrassment.

‘You told your crew chief?’

‘Can’t find her,’ the boy mutters.

‘Skyla? Where she at?’

‘Dunno.’

‘How bad is it?’

‘Fucking hurts,’ the boy winces, ‘like fucking proper.’

‘Let me see…’ Maddox sees the shame on the boy’s face and guides him over to one side out of view, ‘come on.’

‘It’s like…in here,’ the boy lifts his t shirt and rubs across his abdomen, ‘and it hurts when I piss.’

‘You sure you drinking water?’

‘Swear down,’ the boy nods.

‘Carl, I ain’t angry. You get me? How much you had today?’

‘Water? Some at breakfast.’

‘You on the early crew?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Go see the doc.’

‘But Skyla said I had to stay by the gate.’

‘I’ll do the gate, go see the doc and if anyone says shit then tell ‘em I said so. You get me?’

‘Yeah, thanks, Mads,’ the boy goes to walk off then stops, ‘is it bad?’

‘What? Your stomach? Nah is it fuck,’ Maddox grins, ‘you probably dehydrated. Stay in the shade. Tell you what, see the doc and tell ‘em I said you got to stay in there and help them today.’

‘Okay, Mads,’ the boy runs off, stops and runs back before handing over his rifle with a sheepish grin.

‘Loaded and the safety’s on,’ the boy runs off again leaving Maddox holding the weapon.

‘Mads, we got two boat loads coming in,’ another young voice calls out from the gate.

‘Carl has gone to the hospital,’ Maddox announces on stepping through into the middle section, ‘keep this gate locked and stay alert, you get me?’ He looks to the crew standing ready with shotguns, ‘you lot been here all morning, you had a break yet?’

‘Nah, Mads but we’s okay.’

‘Skyla, this is Maddox. You hearing me?’

‘Alright, Mads.’

‘Your crew need rotating. Where are you?’

‘Toilet.’

‘Sort your crew out.’ He clips the radio back on his waistband and walks out to the small beach. Two boats move slowly, laden with survivors. Maddox nods to Lenski and Lilly waiting to receive them and casts his eyes over the watchful crew. He stays a few feet away from everyone else in yet another subconscious, but overt, display that he is in charge.

‘We bring them in or?’ Lenski turns to Maddox.

‘DARIUS?’ Maddox shouts across the still water, ‘HOW MANY?’

‘ELEVEN,’ Darius shouts back, ‘ALL CHECKED. NO WEAPONS. NO BITES.’

‘BRING ‘EM IN.’

Lenksi watches the boats as they ground out gently in the shallows. The crew ranges out into a wide semi-circle, weapons ready but lowered. All eyes scanning the new arrivals.

A few men, more women and yet even more children. All of them bedraggled, sunburnt, filthy and completely terrified. The refugees take in the youths holding the weapons and the distinct lack of friendly faces ready to greet them. A weighted silence, heavy and oppressive.

‘Lilly,’ Maddox says softly across, ‘they need a warm welcome.’

She beams with genuine sincerity, ‘Hi. I’m Lilly, this is Lenski…you’re all safe now.’

As she speaks, Maddox waves his hand low, signalling the crew to ease back. They respond instantly with smiles and nods as a palpable relief sweeps the occupants of the two boats.

‘We’re going to get you out of the boats but we need to process you before you can go inside…’ Lilly steps into the smooth explanation as Maddox turns to look out of the still water and the land beyond.

The golden, beached bay sweeps inland gently and the blackened stumps of the ruined estate look stark and ugly as they protrude above the water. His eyes follow the bay towards the houses set back. They’re expensive beachside houses and the only place close left close enough that could house someone.

That’s where she’ll be. Watching the fort. Is she watching now? Staring at the tiny figures on the beach.

‘Where’s the adults?’ A rough voice snaps his attention back to the group clamouring from the boats. ‘They’re just bloody kids…you seeing this?’ A bearded older man shakes his head in distaste, ‘bloody kids with guns…where’s the grown-ups? Where’s this Mr Howie and his army gone?’

With an inward sigh, Maddox knows Marcy will have to wait and as he steps towards the man, his mind shifts into the task at hand and the diplomatic skills he’ll need to keep the day running smoothly.

Twenty-Two

‘Down.’ Gregori turns from the back door and squats in the narrow corridor. The boy slides down and gets pushed quickly into a corner. ‘Stay here.’ The Albanian ducks out of the back door, checks both directions and quickly gets back inside before closing the door quietly.

‘Boy,’ he squats down to face the child, ‘they come…I fight…you stay…’ He speaks quietly and urgently. ‘Yes? You do this?’

‘Okay,’ the boy replies without fear.

A narrow corridor runs from the front of the building to the rear. Locked doors lead off to store rooms, offices and staff rooms. A recessed side door sits next to the plate glass display window and double doors of the clothes shop. It’s painted white but with black scuff marks down both walls, indicating this is the service entrance, but the walls are solid and high. The floor is concrete which gives good grip. The width doesn't allow more than two at a time to come down.

An egress point is behind them so this makes a perfect tactical point to hold them off for a while. He can kill. Let the bodies mount up and cause and obstruction. The rest will ram in behind then he can use the egress point and take the boy into the dark shadows of the night.

He draws both knives and holds them with the blades pointed down while he breathes slowly in through his nose and exhales out through his mouth. His heart rate lowers instantly and the running with the boy has warmed his muscles and expanded his lungs to drive more oxygenated blood to his body.

He glances back to make sure the boy is staying put, and as the sound of drumming feet and snarling voices gain ever closer, he once again wonders what the hell he is doing. But that thought vanishes as the first undead arrives square in the purposefully left open doorway.

A calm descends. The calm he has been trained for since a child. The resonance strikes him and again he turns to look down at the boy standing quietly behind him. The beast snarls with wild abandon at seeing the prey is close. The boy stares with interest as Gregori feels a prickle of discomfort at realising he was the same age as the child when he started his training.

He looks back at the oncoming undead then back to the boy. He was young, young like the boy is, and he too was unafraid. That’s why they chose him. His father’s debt had to be paid but they could have taken that payment in many different ways. His father could have been put to work, his mother used as a sex slave until the debt paid. Property, or what little they had could have been taken but they took the boy instead.

He remembers it, that day they came. He remembers hearing his mother sobbing and his brothers and sisters cowering in fear while he stood at his father’s side waiting for the unsmiling men. His father was stoic, firm and so full of pride but ultimately he was weak. He gave up his own child but he did it to protect the rest of his family. Weakness and strength. Honour yet servitude.

The men had already chosen Gregori. They knew he was different from the stories in the local school. How Gregori got into fights with much bigger boys and never backed down, how Gregori never cried and never told tales.

The transaction was simple. The men came in and waited. Then the old man came in and stared down at Gregori before nodding without a flicker of emotion. That was it. He was chosen and he was taken.

The years after stream through his mind in an increasingly rapid succession of images. He views himself as a third person and never through his own eyes. He sees the small child being taught the ways and the beatings he took when he got it wrong.

The boy looks up to lock eyes on Gregori as the beast surges down the passage with the uncontrolled blood lust of a newly turned undead. They are approximately three days old and they are strong and wild, and have yet to evolve into the coordinated monsters they become.

‘Watch,’ he turns back to the boy, ‘watch me.’

‘Okay,’ the boy nods.

‘Learn,’ Gregori has time to nod once before slamming the impaled undead into the wall and wrenching the blade free with a vicious twist. Blood sprays from the arterial cut and soaks against the wall but not one drop touches the Albanian. The passage fills as they charge down but Gregori has chosen his ground well, and takes one small step back. The already downed body impedes the next who trips, staggers and has her throat cut as she falls.

With two down, Gregori holds his position. Using the minimal amount of effort, he slices and stabs into the seemingly never ending supply of bodies.

‘Neck,’ the single word rings out and Gregori quickly glances back to make sure the boy is paying attention, ‘neck…’

‘Okay,’ the boy repeats.

‘Slice,’ Gregori slices. ‘Slice,’ he does it again. ‘Slice,’ he keeps sweeping the blade across throat after throat. The sharpened steel whispers with the faintest of brushes but enough to go through the seven layers of epidermis and rupture the artery in the side of the neck.

Hot, crimson blood pumps high and to the sides but the position of the cuts, the bodies and the killer mean never a drop touches him.

‘Stab,’ Gregori sticks a blade into the larynx of a fat male, ‘stab, twist…see?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stab…twist,’ he turns his wrist while pulling the blade out thereby destroying the windpipe and causing a massive loss of blood which runs down into the lungs of the undead, ‘stab, twist…slice…stab, twist…slice…see?’

‘Yes…sausages.’

‘What?’

‘Sausages.’

Both hands blur as he moves forward in a sudden charge and the passage becomes clogged with bodies downed with slit throats and ruined necks. He stabs one through the eye while easing the blade across the throat of another. He ducks to avoid a hand scything through the air and while low, aims for the hamstrings and Achilles tendons he can reach. Growling snarls, grunts and howls sound out as body after body falls to land noisily in the deepening pools of blood.

Those dead start to get punted across the floor and a wet scraping sounds adds to the noise. Gregori gets pushed back as the onslaught keeps coming. He moves faster but they push harder. He kills more but more keep coming. Thousands upon thousands have perished in the densely populated working towns packed into the north of the country. Thousands and more that are fresh and driven to take more hosts and this is a foe the like of which Gregori has never seen before.

A light sweat breaks out on his forehead as he grunts from the exertion of the work at hand. He takes what cuts he can, slicing open stomachs to release their contents and in the heat of battle he hears the boy give a cheer at the sight of the glistening sausages being spilled.

‘BOY,’ Gregori hacks left and right in the final blur to gain a vital few seconds, ‘Come…’ Breaking from his spot, he runs to the boy, squats down and then launches off towards the back door. With a swift kick it opens and he’s out into the sultry night, running down the rear service lane. The corridor behind him fills with the undead pushing and driving forward until those bodies are disgorged from the doorway to spill left and right. Legs and ankles are broken as the raged beasts surge over and through the obstacles. They fall with twisted limbs but instantly start crawling.

Gregori spares a glance back and immediately increases his speed as the first runners break free from the pile up and start after him. The service lane is blocked on both sides by the high walls of buildings and the only doors and windows are secured with metal shutters or thick iron bars.

With no choice he pounds the road with the boy gripping his neck. Holding the knives ready he can’t spare a hand to help secure the boy, which factors into the speed he can go. Another glance back and the runners are gaining. Pistols wedged into his tight waistband, a knife held in each hand and a child clinging to him. He could ditch all of them and sprint safely away and that thought is considered along with every other option that presents itself.

Diversion and distraction is called for. When faced with overwhelming foes and unable to find a safe extraction point you must give the pursuers something else to worry about, but until such an opportunity lends itself to use…then you run.

He does run. He runs as fast as he is able to given the circumstances but he knows they’re gaining. At the end of the service lane he takes a right knowing this will lead him away from the area of the town he was in.

More shops, stores, charity shops, bookies, dry cleaners, shoe repairs and the hundred and one other independently owned shops found on the edges of every town centre. Sounds from every direction speak of danger close. Screams and wails of utter pain, misery and terror. The growls of the undead heard close but not seen. Glass being smashed. Thumps and bangs as objects are thrown.

The deeper into the town he heads the more he hears and all the time those behind him charge after in a long procession that will simply never tire or run out of steam.

A woman runs across the road ahead of him screaming at the top of her voice at being chased by the small horde of undead hot on her heels. She aims for a doorway as Gregori watches, knowing the mistake will cost her life. She slams into the door, hammering and screaming and suddenly it opens with a sliver of orange light. She’s pulled in as Gregori instantly changes direction.

‘WAIT,’ he bellows ahead, ‘CHILD…I HAVE CHILD…’

Five ahead of him. The five that chased the woman. He slows enough to be able to fight without fear of tripping and gauges the positions of each. The first is a male with a balding head that deviates from the door and heads straight towards Gregori, only to slew off to the side from the combined shoulder barge and laceration to the artery in his groin. It’s a difficult cut to do at the best of times given the thickness of the thigh muscles and on a moving target at that. But it works and the blood sprays down onto the pavement as Gregori swivels and back steps. The remaining four charge through the freshly laid pool of blood to be cut down by vicious hands holding vicious knives that give vicious cuts.

‘CHILD…’ Gregori roars… ‘I HAVE BOY…’

The door opens again, just a fraction, but it’s enough for Gregori to slice the last one down and charge across the short distance. With a half turn, he aims the solid muscle of his shoulder into the door and powers through.

‘Get in,’ a man hisses as others grab his arms to pull him clear. In a split second Gregori has taken the sight in. A packed room full of survivors. Some dressed in evening clothes of dresses, trousers, smart shirts and others are workmen in thick blue cotton trousers and polo shirts. A bare concrete room with one other door leading out and several candles flickering violently from the drafts of air created by the opening and slamming of the door.

‘You alright?’ A man with a deep voice asks Gregori. Others appear in front of him and a woman starts to ease the boy from his back.

‘Let him down,’ she whispers urgently. ‘Get the bloody door closed!’

‘It is closed.’

Voices in accents speak back and forth and Gregori reverts to type. Head down, avoiding eye contact in case they should recognise him in the future. He counts the pairs of legs, one, two, three…nine people. Five men and four women.

‘Is he your son?’ A different woman asks.

‘Give them water.’

‘Are you bit?’

‘They’re at the door.’

‘That door is solid, nothing’ll get through that.’

‘Here mate, have some water.’ A bottle is thrust under Gregori’s nose which he takes with a curt nod and drinks deep. Fluid must be taken on board. Enough to prevent dehydrated but not so much it bloats or causes cramp.

‘Boy,’ he turns and spots the child’s face being cleaned with a wet-wipe. The boy watches Gregori closely and doesn't utter a word. There’s a connection between them as though the boy knows what’s about to happen.

‘Drink, boy.’ Gregori hands the bottle over and watches as the boy takes a few glugs.

‘Fuck me…they’re going fucking nuts to get in,’ one of men whispers in a terrified voice.

‘Ssshh,’ another one says too loudly giving away his own panicked state.

‘Can they get in?’ A woman asks.

‘Helen, how many were coming after ya?’ The man who gave Gregori a drink speaks to the woman who got in just ahead of him.

‘Fucking hundreds,’ she gasps out between ragged breaths, ‘few…a few after me…but he had tons…’ she points at Gregori.

‘They can’t get in can they?’ The woman cleaning the child’s face asks.

‘Back?’ Gregori nods to the other door.

‘Leads to the front of the building and the High Street…fucking crawling with ‘em, mate.’

Gregori nods and affects to wipe the sweat from his forehead while all the time checking, scanning and thinking. They won’t be at the front. They all came after him so he knows there won’t be any at the front and now they know this once concealed entrance holds fresh meat, they won’t stop until they get in.

Thumps and bangs at the door confirm his thought processes. Solid bangs as undead launch themselves against the solid wood of the door that vibrates and rattles the frame. Showers of dust sprinkle down from the plaster above, glittering in the candle light, and each fresh bang elicits a worried gasp.

‘He’s got guns. ’Ere, mate, you got two fucking guns...’ A man points to Gregori’s waistband, ‘where you get them from?’

‘I find,’ Gregori shrugs.

‘Find? Find where? Tom, you’re ex army…you know how to fire guns?’

‘What pistols? Yeah, did ‘em in basic…never used one but I remember. ’Ere mate, you’d best hand ‘em over.’

‘No. I keep,’ Gregori keeps his tone low and his eye contact down.

‘Listen, mate. You said you found ‘em. Tom there is ex-army so he’d better have ‘em.’

‘No,’ Gregori shakes his head and gently slides the knives back into his waistband so the blades run parallel with his legs.

‘Mate, we’re not fucking asking,’ the man whispers urgently, ‘give ‘em to Tom. We need them guns and they best off with someone who knows how to use ‘em.’

‘I know,’ Gregori replies.

‘No offence mate, but you don’t look like a soldier…you Polish or sommit?’

‘Yes. Polish,’ Gregori nods, ‘Polish army.’

‘Polish army? Nah mate, hand ‘em over. You can stay with us but we’re having the guns…come on,’ the man holds an expectant hand out as Gregori weighs the options while remaining devoid of expression.

He half turns at the loud thumps coming from the door. He listens to the cracking of the plaster above the door and knows the door will yield within fifteen minutes. The plaster will fracture which will loosen the frame and it’ll be that frame that gives.

Hundreds. Maybe more. Maybe a thousand. Just in this one area and no doubt more rushing to join the frenzy. Diversion and distraction. Nine people. Thousands of infected. The odds are not good but they’re enough.

‘Mate,’ the man snaps, ‘guns…NOW!’

‘Yes,’ Gregori nods but doesn't move as he looks down and clocks the positions of each person and calculates the way they are likely to move when he starts, ‘boy?’

‘Yes, Gregoreeee.’

‘Stay still.’

‘Okay.’

‘Still for what? Mate, we’re having them guns,’ the man moves first with what he thought would be a warning hand gripping Gregori’s shoulder. He’s several inches taller than the Albanian and outweighs him by at least thirty kilos. Bigger. Heavier. Stronger and with people he already knows.

But slower. His wrist is broken first, followed a split second later by a loud crunch as Gregori slams his open palm into the back of the man’s elbow. He lets that strike carry through with a fluid movement that he reverses, and he strikes back to slam the blade of his palm into the man’s voice box.

‘FUCK!’ Tom shouts and lunges to grab at Gregori, who side steps and holds a foot out to trip the ex-squaddie. With one hand he gently reaches out to snuff the closest candle, then darts round the back of the now screaming survivors to the next candle. One only remains but the light is now poor enough.

Old habits die hard. He draws one knife and blinks slowly. ‘I Gregori,’ he announces to the room and starts stepping through them.

The first cut is the woman who ran in ahead of him. A deep slash across her stomach and the blood oozes out thick and fast as she screams. Gregori knows the closest man will lunge at him instead of backing away. He has that look about him, clean shaven, tidy hair and serious eyes. For his efforts he gets his hamstrings severed and falls crying to the ground. Tom, back on his feet forgets every part of his training and rushes forward with a furious yell. Gregori, anticipating the attack, back steps and flicks the blade gently across Tom’s outstretched arm. The deep cut to the wrist sprays blood high and wide as Tom spins, screaming as his blood drains faster than he can cope with.

Round the room he goes, cutting, slashing, disabling but not killing. He doesn't want to kill. He wants blood, as much blood as can be spilled without causing instant death.

Nine people down. Five men and four women screaming in pain as they beg for him to stop. He has stopped. The knife is away as he steps towards the boy.

‘LEAVE HIM,’ the ex-soldier screams and tries to scrabble across the concrete to protect the boy.

Gregori squats, ‘up.’

The boy doesn't speak or show emotion but reaches out and wraps his arms round Gregori’s neck.

Stepping over the bodies he moves to the door and first pulls back the thick top bolt then the bottom bolt. With only left holding the door he gently prises it back until only the smallest amount is keeping it shut.

‘Come…we go…’ The boy mimics Gregori’s deep voice and as he moves deftly to the interior door, the boy turns to smile at the dying nine bleeding out on the floor.

The door bangs and gives a little. It rattles hard in the frame as chunks of plaster fall from the wall above. It bangs again as the snarling from the other side increases. The nine weep and cry, holding each other tight as they listen to the impending death about to be wrought upon them.

As the interior door closes and Gregori disappears from view, so the outer door gives and the nine face the onslaught of undead, pumped to a frenzy by the stench of blood and piss. The last thing they hear is a small boy speaking in a low voice, ‘Come…we go…’

Twenty-Three

Day 16

They saw me. Of that there is no doubt. Hundreds of them, maybe more, possibly thousands.

My god I am so terrified. Utterly terrified. My chest feels so tight I can hardly draw breath and my heart is hammering so much I feel dizzy. My stomach is knotted into a tight ball. I’m not suited to this type of activity. I can’t cope with it. I fear I shall die here today.

We hid in the arts centre but now, looking back just that short time ago, shows me of the poor decisions my panicked mind is making. Hiding in a blasted arts centre with a horse!!! What was I thinking? There was a big enough door to get Jess into the place but none of the any other doors were big enough to get her out.

We stayed quiet for a while but Jess sensed them getting closer. Maybe she doesn't perceive them as a direct threat to her, but the general alien sounds they make, or their predatory nature, certainly spooks her for no sooner had I realised they were drawing closer, she was snorting and slamming one metal shod hoof into the tiled floor, a nice clanging sound that echoed round the old warehouse.

They heard us and came running. I mounted Jess, secured my assault rifle across my chest and just had time to grip the reins when they started beating in the big door. The poor horse was skittish, terrified of hearing the beasts outside but being trapped inside a blasted building. We cantered and slid round the inside looking for a viable alternative exit but on finding none other we knew we had to go out that main door. The problem was that the door was locked on the inside by me when we came in, which meant I would have to get off Jess, unlock the door, get back on Jess and get out before they got me. There are thirty or so rounds in the assault rifle and even assuming I got clear shots with each it would never be enough to stem the tide coming against us.

So the only option was to wait and stand a few metres back from that door and listen to the constant hammering as they beat it down from the outside. Every single bang and thump made me want to puke and I think it was a combination of my fear and the whole situation that added to the panic Jess was feeling.

I must, for the sake of posterity, say now that once again I owe my life to that horse. She’s big and clumsy, highly strung, overly sensitive and stubborn as a mule. But she’s also exceptionally strong and very well trained by the police that owned her before I. I understand that horses will naturally shy away from tightly packed groups of people that present a wall. Police and military horses are trained to go through such things and use the power of their size and strength to do so.

There we waited. Slowly those doors started to give. The noises were indescribable. Snarling and growls like wolves or beasts from nightmares and in my frightened state, I knew the noises were done on purpose to generate more fear so the infection could pick up on the hormones and scents released. Even knowing that did not stop me from being utterly shit scared. Listening to such a thing but being unable to flee or do anything other than wait until the inevitable. I knew my time had come. I knew I was going to die and even contemplated sacrificing myself in the hope they would leave Jess alone but that same fear kept me rooted in the saddle.

The doors finally gave way with an almighty splintering of wood and tearing of bricks that created a cloud of dust and debris spewing into the centre. There they were. A solid mass of old and freshly turned infected hosts.

What struck me was that they paused. Only for the briefest of times but they held back as though taking it all in. Scanning the room to see what the opposition was, and it was as though a combined effort was being undertaken…no, that is unclear. I am a scientist and must…must make accurate records…forgive my shredded nerves.

The door was broken down. There then stood approx. one hundred infected persons within line of sight and so densely packed it was hard to gauge the specific quantity of them. They were clearly ranged from hosts taken days ago with old festering wounds to newly taken hosts still with colour in their cheeks and hair on their heads that wasn’t greasy, greying or falling out.

Every mouth had bared teeth. Every mouth was drooling and I know the infection is contained within that drool. Every hand was clawed so not only could they bite and pass the infection but they could claw and rake to open the skin and pass the infection that way.

Every pair of eyes were on me and Jess. The eyes were red from the blood being forced to surround the pupil.

*** IMPORTANT*** The red eyes are the only visible sign of an infected person. The appearance of clawed hands, drooling mouth and decaying manner is a by-product and secondary in terms that it is a behavioural manifestation done as necessity. The blood in the eyes is the only known irreversible side-effect.

I have been a scientist long enough to know when a visual examination is taking place. That pause WAS a visual examination of me, of Jess, of the scene, the place, the locality. That concerns me greatly as it means the intelligence of the infection is growing. They did not simply charge but they assessed first.

When they did charge I clamped my muscles and waited to die. Jess did not. Jess had other ideas and her training kicked in. The charging beasts were no different to her than a solid line of student protesters or football hooligans. They were screaming, wailing things to be gone through and my god that horse went through them. As a side, I am rather glad the place was a warehouse as the ceiling beams were high. So when Jess reared up on her hind legs and kicked out with her front legs I did not strike my head on the floor above, but rather whimpered in abject terror while the horse did the work.

She kicked and out, sent a good three or four of them flying away and timed her landing to perfection so that another one was trampled down. This gave her space to gain purchase as the tiled floor was slippery but the body she landed on was not.

Then she went forward. She did not walk nor run but…well, she ploughed…yes, that is the best word I can think of to describe it. She put her head down and simply powered through them. Several times she reared up but she did so less than before and only enough to batter them aside. She used her head too. Thrashing side to side and using that solid bone to beat them away.

Horses are docile herd animals but remind me never to get into a fight with one. She was a ferocious animal that could not be stopped.

It was only when we were halfway through that horde that I recalled having the long bladed machete with me. I did not draw it. I did not do anything other than hang on for dear life and quite possibly I closed my eyes for some bits and prayed Jess would get us through.

Going through the doorway was the worst point but she seemed to sense the resistance would be harder, and I felt a surge of speed as she aimed for that gap and charged through them. Of course I feared getting bitten or scratched on the legs but her head, neck, feet and sheer immensity of her removed them from our path. She did not falter or become skittish but showed a tremendous ability and confidence in her own size.

Once outside, I glimpsed both sides of the street and felt my stomach churn once again at the clogged streets.

At this point I thought Jess was losing control as she started moving sideways. After a few seconds I realised this was just another tactic of using her ample behind to trample them down. She stepped high too. Like they do in dressage. Her high feet came down heavy and I even heard the snapping of bones as she landed on legs, ankles and feet. With space gained she powered on and gained speed to get through them.

Street after winding street we went through and every single one of those streets was full of infected, but I did notice that after the initial density of the group coming through the doors, the rest were almost in pockets or distinct hordes. Like teams as it were. Groups moving together. Seven or eight in one group. Twenty or more in others but I confess that in the chaos, I could not detect if each group had an alpha leader or if they were each still controlled by the hive mind.

With Jess taking control I let her…I say I let her, I had no choice in the matter…Jess led us out and ran down a street building at a gallop. It was about halfway down the street when I realised she was aiming for the five bar gate at the end. I think my maximum level of fear had been reached as I do not recall feeling an increase in terror, but rather a continuation of sustained terror. I think I gripped correctly and I know my backside was off the saddle as she leapt but everything seemed to go in a sort of Hollywood slow motion from then on. The landing was solid. She did not miss a step but just kept going and once on the turf of an open field she ran like the wind. Her stride opened and although it felt she was at her fastest before, she found an extra gear and moved up until the wind was roaring past my face and whipping the tears from my eyes.

I could not have stopped her if I had wanted to. Jess was in charge and it was Jess that ran until she could either run no more or felt sufficient distance had been gained.

Once she slowed and gently eased down to a canter, I looked back and sat amazed at the great distance now between us and the town way back. The infected were coming after us but they were small and in the distance.

It was right at that point I knew I had made the right decision in not only choosing a horse as my transport, not only in choosing a riot trained horse, but in choosing Jess.

We moved some miles until finding this old stable block in the lee of a hill. Running water and equipment in their tack room meant I was able to give Jess a cooling wash and brush down while she drank deeply and ate food.

It is here I make these notes while constantly watching the land around me for signs of movement. Will they keep coming or is there another purpose to the gathering I have found in that town? If I were a brave man, or a trained soldier I may find a way to deplete their numbers with bombs and such like. But I am not and my mission is one of the upmost importance.

Greater care MUST be taken. I MUST not allow myself to get into such dangerous points again…

I must go. Jess has lifted her head high and is giving that snort of worry. Something is coming after us.

NB

Twenty-Four

Jagger glances across at the stony faced Blowers. Only a few years between them but the battles, fights, deaths and constant striving for survival have etched a mask of years on the team’s corporal. He stares ahead then off to the left, to the right then back to ahead. He listens intently and constantly glances down to watch Meredith strolling about sniffing the ground.

He’s deeply unsettled yet he shows no outward sign of the troubles in his mind. Being separated from Cookeywas difficult. He’s always teamed up with Cookey. Why not now? They’ve been together from the start; they know how each other move and the work together instinctively to cover each other’s backs. Cookey is a dick but he makes everyone laugh and yeah, the constant barrage of jokes gest a bit much sometimes, but Blowers wouldn’t change it for the world and without doubt now counts Cookey and Nick as his best friends.

Jagger stays as stony faced. Years of living in a hard council estate teaches you not to betray your emotions. He’s different from Blowers and he looks with his eyes instead of moving his head.

Why did Mo Mo send him outside? Why did Mo Mo shout the orders? That wasn’t Mohammed. Jagger shifts position and goes to say something then stops when he realises he doesn't know what to say without sounding a twat.

‘Shit, isn’t it?’ Blowers mutters.

‘Huh?’

‘I said it’s shit,’ Blowers sighs, ‘Mr Howie down…’ he stops and sighs again, ‘and what was all that with Mo Mo?’

‘Dunno bruv,’ Jagger blurts, ‘he ain’t done that before.’

‘No?’ Blowers turns to stare with his mouth turned down, ‘he sounded like Mr Howie…like…that’s what Mr Howie would say…I mean…’

‘Yeah I get it,’ Jagger murmurs, ‘shit innit.’

‘Say that again.’

‘So is Clarence number one now?’

‘Eh? Number one?’

‘Yeah like the bossman? Is he in charge?’

‘Should be,’ Blowers nods, ‘but…he…he didn’t look too good just then.’

‘Stress,’ Jagger nods knowingly.

‘Stress?’

‘Yeah bruv, stress,’ Jagger replies, ‘it’s fucking way worse than people think.’

‘Right,’ Blowers remarks.

‘We going back then?’ Jagger asks for the sake of the comfort of speaking.

‘Yeah,’ Blowers sighs again, ‘Cookey’ll keep on until they see sense. Lani’s fucking losing it…Paula thinks we’re in a managers meeting and Roy just talks bollocks.’

‘Yeah,’ Jagger nods slowly, ‘Maddox is like Mr Howie…he’s like…got that way innit. You get me? Everyone wants to do what he says cos…’

‘Shush,’ Blowers holds his hand up an inch. Jagger goes instantly quiet and knows better than to ask what Blowers heard. Instead, he strains to see anything different while noticing Blowers motioning towards the dog who stands taut and alert with ears pricked.

She sniffs the air. Dissecting scents as they carry through her nasal passage into the olfactory senses of her brain, forty percent of which is given over to her ability to smell.

She glances back to Blowers, to the member of pack with her. She knows her sense of smell is greater but she also knows his height and advanced species of sight outmatch hers.

She separates the scents hitting over two hundred million receptors. Badgers. Foxes. Species of birds. Old carrion meat and the now ever present smell of blood, piss, shit and fear. She picks up on the scent of Nick smoking within the building. She smells the nerves given off by Lani and Clarence. Wood smoke hangs unseen from a great distance. Burning rubbers, chemicals and a hundred other scents. A hidden world of messages, knowledge and understanding and there, right there, is the smell of the things. They’re coming. Coming this way.

The pack leader is down but not dead. She felt his heart beating as it was before and knows his body is still strong. Either the pack leader comes back or another steps forward to challenge for the role. She senses Mo Mo, Clarence and Nick for the role of leader for those have the energy. Dave is the same as her, a member of the pack and one given to a set of skills but not given to lead. A protector not a leader.

But the pack leader is down and the pack are not together as they should be and there is danger coming. The things that tried to kill her little one are coming. She can smell them. She is repulsed by that stench and images of sinking her teeth into their flesh flood her mind. An urge to attack and drive them off. She gives voice. A warning first to the pack. She smells something. They have to listen and smell too. The voice she gives is quiet but steady and she feels the hand on her neck. She knows the message has been passed and now she gives her big voice.

She stands proud with the hairs on her back standing up. She shows teeth. Big teeth. Teeth ready for killing. She roars in defiance, warning them to stay away, stay back, do not come here for I am here, the pack is here. You threaten the pack and I will not let you pass.

‘Oh fuck…not now…’ Blowers stares hard as the massed snake on the road comes into view. Vehicles are being pushed by the many figures running alongside. No noise. Silent. An approach of overt stealth that steals into view.

‘Fuck…Jagger get inside and warn the others. Fuck.’ Blowers raises his rifle and takes aim as the first rag hanging from the first vehicle is ignited. Spotting the plume of smoke, he lowers the assault rifle and stares intently as his heart booms through his chest. He draws breath and in that second he knows everything has just changed.

‘INCOMING….INCOMING….INCOMING…’ he roars the words over and over. Without hesitation he raises the rifle and fires single shots into the dense crowd. Jagger is an instant behind him and the air fills with the rapid pop pop of the weapons. The vehicle gains speed. The undead sprint flat out with everything they have to send the vehicle against the building. Down the access lane they surge, aiming for the reception building and the already weakened wall.

Blowers empties the first magazine, rams the next one home and flicks the weapon from single shot to full automatic. He aims and fires a solid withering stream of lead, but the effect is negligible as but a few fall.

‘GET IN,’ Blowers grabs Jagger’s shoulder and sends him staggering towards the smashed in wall of the reception. He shoves in his third magazine and fires again, before turning to race behind the lad.

‘MEREDITH…’ He forces the dog into the room, past the Saxon and into the hole of the wall. ‘COVER ME,’ he shouts ahead as he throws his assault rifle through first and starts the mad scrabble.

The vehicle gains momentum and, timed to perfection, slams into the ruined wall. The rag ignites with a flickering blue chemical flame that flares up the material to the fumes seeping from the fuel inlet. The gases ignite and plume down the tube into the tank. The chemical reaction finds resistance in the membrane of the tank which is pushed beyond the limits of it construction. As the fuel ignites it heats the air which expands with such force it blows the tank and the vehicle surrounding it in a filthy black cloud of flaming smoke.

Blowers grits his teeth and feels first the impact of the vehicle then a second later the heat, noise and shockwave of the explosion. Wide eyed, he scrabbles to get his legs and feet from the room before the twisted super-heated fragments of vehicle strike the wall.

Two hands reach in to grab his wrists as Jagger tugs the older lad free. Dropping down the safe side, they rush to pick up their assault rifles and aim on the hole.

‘Back,’ Blowers waves Jagger to fall away, ‘give me your weapon and go tell the rest,’ Blowers snaps.

‘But…’

‘NOW!’ Blowers unleashes a furious roar as he snatched the weapon from Jagger, lays it down on the ground and slides the box of magazines brought up from the back of the factory. One by one he takes them out to place them bullet end up and ready for a rapid change.

‘DAVE,’ Blowers shouts, ‘We’ve got incoming, Dave…’ he works fast, checking each weapon and getting ready for the flow he knows will be coming any second. Glancing round, he spots Dave staring intently down at the still unconscious form of Mr Howie and with a scowl, Blowers snaps back to the problem in hand.

Thick smoke starts pouring through the hole as the burning rubber of the tyres melts along with the chemical fluids, seats and other materials of the flaming car. Brick work falls from the weakened wall.

The smoke hits his eyes, which immediately fill with tears to rid sensitive organs of the particles carried in the air. He coughs, blinks, wipes his face and grimaces while taking aim down the hole.

‘Come on you fuckers….’ He mutters and blinks again, ‘Dave…Dave! We’ve got incoming, Dave…’ he spits and waits feeling the greatest sense of fear so far.

‘What the fuck got into Mo Mo?’ Nick asks Cookey as they carry another box of ammunition to the thick metal shutter earmarked by Clarence as the place for stacking.

‘Fuck knows,’ Nick says quietly.

‘We should just get what we can carry and go now,’ Cookey looks round at the others working, ‘this is fucked up…what if the boss has a blood clot?’

‘He doesn't,’ Nick repeats again, ‘Mr Howie is fucking indestructible.’

‘You heard what Roy said though.’

‘Fuck Roy, the bloke is just rude.’

‘Yeah I know, Nick. But he’s got a point…he’s just blunt.’

‘Blunt? Fuck blunt…Dave is blunt…Roy is fucking rude. Lani is blunt…Roy,’ Nick shakes his head, ‘that’s not our way.’

‘What ain’t?’ Cookey asks.

‘What?’ Nick puts his case down and lights a cigarette, knowing it’ll earn him a bollocking from Clarence for smoking in here.

‘Our way,’ Cookey says, ‘what’s that mean?’

‘S’wot Mr Howie says,’ Nick blows the smoke out, ‘we got our way of doing things…and that ain’t it. We’ve got to be polite and nice. Fuck, Cookey, we’re the authorities now, mate.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Cookey, for fuck’s sake, Mr Howie has told us a hundred times. We do things the right way, we stay polite. How many times did he tell us to smile and look nice?’

‘Yeah,’ Cookey’s face brightens at the memory, ‘ha, you remember when we formed a chain to get that shit to the top of the wall and you were on the Saxon loud speaker?’

‘Yeah,’ Nick chuckles, ‘see, that’s our way.’

‘Yeah I get it,’ Cookey sags with a crestfallen look. ‘I’m shitting it,’ he whispers.

‘Shitting what?’ Lani walks over.

‘Nothing,’ Cookey mutters knowing to give voice will only worry the woman even more.

‘Howie? He’ll be fine,’ Lani says too brightly, ‘he’s resting.’

‘You’re fucking losing it, Lani,’ Nick stands up straight and waits for the backlash but she doesn't reply. She just smiles softly. ‘Lani, fucking get a grip,’ Nick whispers urgently.

‘I’m fine,’ she shrugs, ‘so is Howie.’

‘This is fucked up,’ Cookey groans. ‘Don’t be like that, Lani,’ he pleads, ‘you’re scaring me.’

‘Why?’ She asks, ‘scared of what?’

‘You, being all weird and shit.’

The mask slips and the girl shows her emotions but for the briefest of seconds.

‘What if he’s not?’ She asks softly.

‘The boss?’ Nick asks and she nods. None of them reply but instead watch the burning embers of the end of Nick’s cigarette.

‘Thought you were going for transport?’ Cookey finally asks.

‘Guess,’ she shrugs.

‘Where’s Roy?’ Nick asks.

‘Here,’ Roy says from behind him.

‘Thought you two were getting the transport?’ Nick asks again.

‘We were,’ Roy casts a loaded look at Lani, ‘but er…’

‘What?’ Nick presses, ‘we need to get the fuck out of here.’

‘I figured we’d wait a minute,’ he says quietly.

‘What for, Roy?’ Nick demands, ‘Mr Howie needs help and we ain’t got time for a fucking rest.’

‘Lani seems a bit odd,’ he says with a quick lift of his eyebrows as he struggles with the insurmountable task of using tact and diplomacy.

‘Eh?’ Nick glances from Roy to Lani, ‘oh…fuck…yeah right…’

‘We’ll get this done then come with you,’ Cookey cuts in quickly.

‘Sounds good,’ Roy offers a fake smile that does nothing to hide the worry etched on his face.

‘We’ll be alright,’ Nick says to all of them, ‘we got through worse than this before.’

‘Sure,’ Cookey walks off to get another case.

‘I’ll give you a hand…’ BOOM. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘That’s gunfire,’ Nick snaps back, ‘CLARENCE…’

‘I can hear it,’ the big man strides from the back of the room.

‘Fucking automatic,’ Nick tilts his head at the sound of Blowers firing on automatic from outside. A muffled sound comes through, muted through the thick walls, all too familiar to them.

‘Make ready,’ Nick blurts the order without waiting for Clarence. Grabbing his own assault rifle he checks the magazine then quickly pats his pockets to make sure he’s got spares.

‘Blowers,’ Cookey is already off and running.

‘COOKEY WAIT,’ Clarence booms, ‘we go together.’

‘Fucking hurry up then,’ The normally smiling lad snarls with impatience at the thought of Blowers on his own.

‘FUCK,’ he drops low at the explosion of the vehicle against the reception as it sends a vibrating shockwave through the building.

‘GO,’ Clarence orders at Cookey’s already retreating back.

Blowers stares into the smoke waiting for the next explosion to come but it doesn't. The infected, on seeing the lack of damage sustained at the reception building, change course to send the next vehicle into the metal shutters at the far end. Blowers feels the impact and twitches with concern.

‘Dave…what the fuck is going on?’ He calls out and stares into the hole through the tendrils of smoke billowing through, ‘where are they attacking?’

Cookey races through the rear section, through the factory floor, as he charges hell for leather towards the far end. As he reaches the next set of doors the second impact slams behind him into the thick metal shutters. It’s closer now and the noise against the steel bounces, echoes and rolls round the huge chamber like rooms. He stops with a hand on the door and pauses to turn back, ‘CLARENCE?’

‘GO…’ Clarence roars, ‘GET TO BLOWERS…WE’LL COVER HERE…’

‘Fuck,’ Cookey jumps back as Jagger pushes through the door breathing hard.

‘Incoming,’ Jagger gasps, ‘they got cars…on fire…cars on fire…fucking hundreds of them…’

‘We need height,’ Nicks snaps, ‘to fire down on them.’

‘The shutters are the weakest point,’ Roy interjects, ‘if they get through we’re…’

‘COOKEY,’ Clarence booms, ‘GET TO BLOWERS...JAGGER GO WITH HIM…EVERYONE ELSE BACK IN THE SHUTTERS ROOM.’

There’s another explosion as the third vehicle slams into the shutters, then the fourth and fifth are sent rolling and ablaze to join the awful cacophony of noise.

The group split, running in different directions. Cookey goes towards the front to be with Blowers. Lani runs back into the ammunition storage room towards the exit door at the far end. The rest go for the shutters, now buckled and groaning under the weight and heat of the blazing vehicles on the other side.

A dull roar reaches them as the massed undead outside scream into the air. They surge towards the munitions factory. Breaking into pre-set groups, a large section veer off towards the reception building and the hole they know is there. Another break off towards the rear emergency exit doors the survivors used in their panicked flight just a short time ago. The main bulk go for the shutters.

Through the many pairs of eyes of the hosts, the infection quickly established that the reception building has not sustained any further damage and it also knows there will be people inside aiming weapons at the hole made by Howie. What it does notice is the Saxon standing silent and brooding on the once pristine tiled floor of the reception area.

The power of the vehicle is well known to the infection from the countless battles, fights and skirmishes done since this began and as Cookey races through the building, he hears that dull roar from the undead suddenly cease.

Blowers holds his aim with his finger ready on the trigger. The succession of explosions told him the attack was being focussed on the shutters and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the sound of the foot charge.

He listened with increasing concern as they breached the reception. The snarls, groans and hisses sound clear as he increases his grip and makes ready to cut them down. The sudden cessation of noise stopped his breath in his chest. Silence from the other side. Complete silence.

‘Come on,’ he mutters under his breath, ‘come on…get it started…’ The waiting was the hardest bit. Waiting meant they were planning. Planning meant the infection was getting smarter.

‘Dave,’ he whispers over his shoulder, ‘they’re planning something.’

Dave doesn't respond but stares fixed at the prone form of Howie.

Clarence heaves the General Purpose Machine Gun over to the shutters and moves quickly to get the thing loaded and positioned. The others open cases to grab magazines which they rest on the ground ready for rapid changes. Roy lays his bow on the ground next to him and takes up the assault rifle.

‘What the fuck?’ Nick is the first to voice his concern at the sudden drop in noise from outside. There’s just the crackling and spitting of the vehicles on fire as thick choking black smoke seeps through the gaps of the damaged shutter.

‘Oh no…no…no no no,’ Blowers feels the panic rise harder on hearing the unmistakable sound of the Saxon firing up, ‘Dave…they’ve got the Saxon…’

Still no response as Dave refuses to budge from his position. One hand clutches the pistol, the other rests on Howie’s chest and his eyes fix unblinking on Howie’s face.

‘Blowers,’ Cookey bursts into the room running flat out with his assault rifle already up and aimed.

‘Saxon,’ Blowers calls back, ‘they’ve got the Saxon started.’

‘Fuck no…’ Cookey drops with heaving chest next to his mate and starts laying out his own magazines, ‘they’ll get in,’ he adds quickly.

‘Was it the shutter they rammed?’ Blowers asks without moving his aim from the hole.

‘Yeah.’

‘Is it holding?’

‘Dunno…I was running here.’

‘The saxon’ll get through it.’

‘Yep,’ Cookey lifts his rifle to aim through the hole, ‘we’re fucked.’

‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘Dunno…at the back,’ Cookey whispers.

‘Dave for fuck’s sake,’ Blowers snaps as Cookey looks round to catch glimpse of them in the side room, ‘he won’t move…doesn't even reply,’ he adds to Cookey.

‘Like I said,’ Cookey replies, ‘we’re fucked.’

Both lads fire as one at the fleeting glimpse of a body on the other side of the hole. A shadow passes but enough and the booming shots echo round the room.

The undead hold still as the infection works the controls of the heavy armoured vehicle. It’s a tiny, old woman at the steering wheel which would be comical if it wasn’t for the dire threat of the situation. The size and age doesn't matter, just the ability to be controlled. She shunts the vehicle back, turns the wheel and shunts forward, and in turn slams the rear and front into the walls as she slowly gets it facing out.

A shadow passes in front of the hole and the infection hears the weapons opening up. There’s two of them which means maybe only two are covering that hole.

They have enough for a few sacrifices to be made and it sends one into the hole, moving as fast as possible before being cut down by a hail of bullets. But the view was enough. Blowers and Cookey are on the other side but no more. The rest must be at the rear.

The saxon bursts out of the reception into the open air where it gathers speed and powers into the grounds, churning divots of once perfect lawn up. It turns slowly, almost lazily, back to face the building and starts the journey towards the shutters and the fiery wrecks slowly melting to fuse against it.

The old woman bounces on the cushioned seat. Her wrinkled, gnarled hands clutch the steering wheel as her red eyes stare fixed at the weakest point of the building. The gathered hordes part as the vehicle lumbers towards the building, gathering speed as it goes.

Inside, Clarence racks the bolt back on the GPMG,.

‘There’s grenades over there,’ he shouts to Roy, ‘bring ‘em over.’

‘Is that wise? What if they throw them back in?’ Roy shouts back.

‘Fuck it,’ Clarence grimaces at the realisation that the ammunition and explosives are a very dangerous thing to be near during a fire fight.

‘What’s that?’ Nick steps closer to the shutters, ‘an engine…shit…’

‘WHAT?’ Clarence barks.

‘The saxon…that’s the fucking saxon.’

‘Blowers must have got out,’ Paula says.

‘No,’ Nick shakes his head, ‘he wouldn’t leave that hole unprotected…’

‘Dave and Howie?’ She glances round to Clarence.

‘No,’ he mutters, ‘we’d know…’

‘Who then?’ She asks with a puzzled frown which quickly morphs into shock, ‘oh…oh no…’

The engine they have heard so many times, which was normally a comforting roar, now turns into a defiant scream as it thunders towards them.

‘Will it get through?’ Paula shouts.

‘It’ll get through anything,’ Nick yells back, ‘we need to…’

‘FALL BACK,’ Clarence is on his feet lifting the GPMG and the case of ammunition. He strides away from the shutters as the rest follow suit.

The old lady shows no reaction until at the last second she bares her teeth. The saxon impacts on the shutters as the old lady slams her foot down to drive increasing power to the wheels.

There’s huge bang from the initial impact. Metal grinds and compacts as the front of the saxon drives the flaming vehicles harder against the already yielding shutters. She backs up, pulling way back onto the churned up lawn, before changing gear and slamming her foot back down. The saxon wheel spins on the soft mud but finds traction and roars as it goes forward to once again smash into the vehicles.

The shutters buckle inwards. Bricks fall from the walls as the solid steel bolts pop from the solid steel frame. She backs up again and takes another run up while the massed hordes remain silent and still.

Blowers and Cookey fire and fire into the hole. The first one through was cut to ribbons but even now, after already exhausting several magazines they can see the pulped body being slowly pushed forward. They shoot at it, through it, through the gaps, and keep killing but the infected on the other side keep pushing the bodies through, using them as shields.

Clarence lifts the GPMG to hold at waist height one handed, while clutching the magazine with his free hand. A shiny ammunition belt links the two together and he waits with his heart racing and the awful growing feeling that everything just went very horribly wrong. This fight isn’t like the others. The infection is using tools and weapons and the spirit amongst the team is already broken. Every person in that room clutches their weapon and stares in horror as they listen to the saxon reversing then screaming forward to drive the shutters in a few more inches at a time.

The infection gains the knowledge of the motions needed to pull the Saxon back and forward. It takes the horde at the back door and eases back to give them a greater degree of free thought while still pumping them full of hormones to build them into a wild rage of unleashed thirst and blood lust. As one, they race to the door and start beating themselves against it. Slamming fists, feet, legs, arms and heads smash against the wooden doors until those limbs become battered and bloodied.

The munitions factory was never designed to withhold sustained attacks. In the event of a strike, they simply had to wait until the authorities arrived.

The shutters yield with every impact, groaning as they buckle ever inwards. The rear doors rattle in their frames as the hinges are loosened. Blowers and Cookey fire and fire as the completely ruined and pulped body is forced through the hole to drop down in a mangled heap.

The old lady pulls back further this time. Taking the saxon onto fresh lawn, she changes gear and gently eases her foot down as the vehicle rumbles forward. Steadily, she pushes her foot down harder and with the extra space, the saxon builds greater speed until it crashes jarringly into the vehicles and the shutter bends in by almost a metre. She pulls back and as the infection draws its attention from her it releases the horde to charge. And charge it does.

At the hole they slowly push through as the ammunition is being used so very quickly. At the rear door they loosen the hinges and vibrate the doors in the frame so the brick work starts to give. As each inch of movement on the doors is gained, so the greater motion they can use.

At the shutters they aim for the metre gap on either side, plenty of room to get through. Clarence opens fire on the left gap, a sustained but controlled burst that destroys the first bodies. He starts to rake across the doors, hoping to fire through and kill more but the shutters are thick steel and the rounds ricochet on the inside to ping back into the room. Shouts of warning sound out from Nick and Roy.

‘I’LL TAKE THE LEFT SIDE.’ Clarence roars, knowing he can’t afford the time to switch aim at the exposed gaps on both sides, but also he can’t risk striking the shutters for fear of the bullets coming back in to kill his own team.

Nick, Roy, Jagger and Paula focus their small arms fire on the right side but the fleeting glimpses of bodies are few and far between. A taunting begins. Dead body puppets are propped up and presented to be peppered and pummelled by the persistent pounding given by the weapons.

The rear door starts to buckle as Lani takes aim and makes ready to fire. The room fills with the deafening thuds of rifles and machines guns. Shouts are given and ignored. The heat of battle builds as sweat starts to flow but the energy is different. The bond between them is weakened by the bitterness of Howie going down. Tiredness from the previous day spent running, fighting and hiding showsnand nerves frayed by the vigilance needed during the journeys through the fog. After a night and day awake, they have to give what they can to stay alive.

‘BLOCKAGE,’ Blowers casts the weapon aside and grabs the one taken from Jagger. He aims and fires as Cookey screams ‘MAGAZINE,’ and loads yet another one into his rifle.

Round after round is fired. Magazine after magazine is emptied and although they are but metres away from thousands of bullets, they cannot stop to get more. Worrying glances get cast down at the rapidly depleting stacks at their feet.

‘SINGLE SHOT.’ Blowers turns his weapon over and makes the change before raising, aiming and firing with greater care. Cookey does the same. They disgorge from the hole in a never ending vomit of pulped bodies shot to bits in an effort to waste ammunition and energy.

The infection forces the team to split. Attacking three points at once, and without the cohesion given by Howie, without Howie shouting at Dave to give orders, and without Dave giving those orders in such a manner that everyone hears – they become fractured, broken and the fear saps at their energy reserves.

The rear doors give as Lani opens up with a withering volley of automatic fire that shreds the first comers to bits. But the infection watches through those that die and sends more from the shutters round to the rear doors. The hive mind tells those at the hole there is a breach and those in the reception push harder and make more noise to drive the panic and fear higher.

Still Dave watches enraptured at the sleeping form of Howie. To anyone, his face a mask that is devoid of expression but Howie would see the concern there. He would see the slight narrowing of the eyes and the gentle crease across Dave’s forehead. He clutches that pistol but does not for one second glance anywhere else other than at the man he watches. The heart is strong beneath his hand and Dave feels that heart as it speeds up and slows down. Dave watches the rapid eye movement of Howie’s sleep and the twitches and silent murmurings given. Dave knows Howie deals with something, battles with something, fights something but that he does it alone.

‘FUCK…’ Cookey yells in pure frustration as he snatches a glance round in the vain hope others will be coming to support them but the room is empty, ‘DAVE…WE NEED HELP!’

Dave doesn't flicker but rests that hand on Howie’s chest, as though driving energy into his beloved leader.

‘LAST MAGAZINE,’ Cookey screams. ‘FUCK YOU…’ he adds in a voice that breaks with emotion.

‘Easy mate,’ Blowers pulls the trigger and hopes to hell the bullets are killing something the other side of that hole.

‘Not like this…not like this…’ Cookey repeats over and again, ‘not here…not like this…’

‘DAVE!’ Blowers yells, ‘we’re running out…’

Nick snatches the magazine out and slams a new one home as he dares to step forward and rake the gap with thirty rounds of fully automatic gunfire.

‘GET BACK YOU BLOODY TWAT,’ Roy lowers his rifle a second as he curses the stupidity of the action.

A huge bang sounds out and the shutters give another three feet as the old lady slams the saxon back into them from the other side, the noise of the engine lost in the constant thunderous noise of the fire fight.

Lani steps back to buy time as she changes magazine and starts firing from the hip as they burst and push to gain a footing within the room. As the gun clicks empty she knows the time it will take to change again is enough time for them to gain the room. The gun is cast aside, the meat cleaver is drawn and a tear rolls down her face as she knows she will die here. The urge to turn and run to be with Howie is so strong, but she has to hold position for his sake. The noise is so great she cannot call for help and the air is so thick with smoke and fumes that any effort to shout will break her down in coughing. She needs to buy time for the others, but more importantly, Howie. Hopefully Dave will finally realise how dire the situation is and get Howie out of here. If they all die, if all of them lay down their lives to buy enough time for Dave to get Howie out of here successfully, it will have been worth it.

‘Fuck you,’ she snarls her upper lip up and rotates her wrist as the first one comes in for the kill. A twirl and the innards are spilled as she drives deep into the horde in a desperate fight to hold that rear door.

Nick backs away from the shutters and glances down to see Lani firing from the hip. With a shock he realises the immensity of the foes she faces and starts towards her.

‘HOLD YOUR GROUND.’ Clarence, unaware of Lani’s plight, roars the order at Nick. He pauses and glancing down spots Meredith raging with barks at the shutters. One hand reaches to grab her by the neck as he forces her round to show her the back door. As Lani throws the gun down to draw her hand weapon, so Meredith spots a fight she can join and she’s away, sprinting across the distance of the room as she fixes eyes on a big male aiming for Lani’s back.

As Lani severs a hand and spins round to open a throat, so the male lunges and is taken neatly away by an airborne Meredith attaching her teeth to his face. She drops and her body weight takes him clean down to the floor. She rags once, twice and removes enough flesh to ensure he bleeds out then she’s off, snaking and leaping to fight back to back with Lani.

Lani senses the presence of the dog and that act of kindness both increases her fortitude to hold the door until she dies, but at the same time it presses an almost overwhelming sadness through her. They are dying for him. They are giving their lives in the hope Howie will live.

‘HOWIE,’ she screams the name and feels the pressure building as she is driven further back into the room. She cannot falter now. She cannot give ground, so she fights and her long, black hair swishes left to right as she dances and swirls in an ever pressing circle of death. Meredith senses the desperation and goes up a gear. She becomes faster, biting harder, ragging quicker and killing with everything she has.

Not enough. It’s not enough.

They break through the shutters as the Saxon once again pummels them inwards. Surges of undead pour through the broken sides and the desperate group fight a backwards retreat as they fire into the thick ranks of incoming infected.

Clarence knows they have to stop shooting. The further back they go the greater the risk of a stray bullet igniting something, or exploding an exposed round in a case or a magazine. A horrible thought crosses his mind. They’re fucked. They stand no chance of winning this fight. But they could draw as many in as possible before the blowing the place to shreds. It would be a final fuck you to the infection and it means they could choose their own manner of death and die proud, the way Chris did. He glances back towards the huge pile of explosives and the temptation is there. Except for one thing. Dave. Dave will never let harm come to Howie so even if they all die here, they do it one by one to buy time for the man they all follow. More determined than ever, he lets out a roar and tries to fight harder. But the feeling isn’t the same as it was before, the energy wanes and he fights with a wildly increasing desperation.

The infection gains the shutters and the rear doors as the two lads in the room covering the hole fire their last magazines. They drop the rifles to draw handguns and fire two handed in perfect synchronised movements.

Three breaches. Three points of entry. The pistols click empty and the time for shooting is over as the time for fighting begins.

‘WEAPONS DOWN.’ Clarence roars the order, drops the GPMG and grabs his double headed axe, pausing for the briefest of seconds to make sure the rest have finished firing. As one they drop firearms and take up hand weapons. Nick rams the butt of his rifle into the face of one running faster than the others. As it goes down, he drops the rifle and gets his toes under his axe. Flicking it up in the air, he catches it by the handle and spins round to remove the head of the next one coming.

The roar of the undead increase tenfold as the infection senses victory and from all the glimpses through all the eyes there is no sight of Howie or Dave.

Lani is cut and bitten but she fights on. Meredith is kicked and raked but she fights on. They hold their door with a viciousness of epic proportions as pure stubbornness keeps them alive.

Blowers slams his axe down and takes a pulped head clean off, but the body is pushed through with such force it slams into Cookey and drives him back. A never ending flow pushes and pushes until the strikes given by Blowers and Cookey lose aim and strength. They no longer give longer killing blows but they break shoulders and sever arms. It’s not enough to kill and the undead cram and force each other through that gap.

Clarence fights but his aim and focus is off. His energy not right. His rage is there but it’s fuelled by fear and not the righteous glory it was before. Roy and Paula fight back to back. Jagger and Mo Mo the same. Nick is the only one that keeps hope alive in his heart. He was alone in that house, and without hope, but despite the most awful of circumstances, Howie came for him. Howie will never leave them to suffer. Howie will come.

‘Keep coming you cunts,’ he mutters and glares but somewhere, deep down in his soul, the first prickle of hesitancy creeps in. A blood clot on the brain. A medical thing. What if Howie doesn't come back? What if this truly is it?

Fuck it. This last sixteen days have been better than all the days of his life before. He belongs somewhere now. He is part of something and no fucker will take that away.

Cookey goes down under the weight of an undead slamming into him and feels the teeth sink into his shoulder. He grimaces and screams with rage as he drives his thumbs deep into the eye sockets, before twisting round to kick at the next one coming through the hole.

‘DAVE…’ The smiling lad screams without humour now, ‘GET THE BOSS AWAY. GET HIM AWAY…’ The thought of dying is real. This is it. They are overrun and losing but it’s not help he calls for but the protection of Howie. ‘DAVE…TAKE HIM…’

‘COOKEY…GET UP YOU CUNT.’ Blowers slams his foot down on the neck of the one surging through the hole.

‘BLOWERS…I THINK WE’RE FUCKED MATE.’ Cookey heaves the body off, gets to his feet and winces as Blowers grabs the one halfway out and shoves him over to Cookey.

‘I’ll grab ‘em…you kill ‘em,’ Blowers shouts and spins as Cookey goes down again from the weight of the body hitting him. Both of them are bleeding, cut everywhere, eyes sore and stinging from the dust and debris. Voices break and give out. Limbs get heavy and weary as they fight a battle that goes against them.

As Blowers turns to help his best mate, the hole is left unprotected. The undead surge in one after the other. Blowers grabs the neck of the one on Cookey and slams it to the side. He turns back and curses at the sheer numbers getting through the hole.

Cookey jumps to his feet and the lads spare a glance at each other, it’s a fleeting meeting of eyes but the decision is mutual. With a nod they charge. Without axes. Without knives. They charge with bare hands.

Blowers reverts to his boxing training and lashes out with hard punches that break noses, jaws and slams his foot down onto knee joints. Cookey fights like a bastard. Biting, gouging and strangling anything that comes at him. Back to back they are pressed and ready to die. The skin on Blowers knuckles open but it goes unheeded as he punches and punches. Pain radiates from the blows he gets back and one gets past his guard to sink teeth into his arm.

Pure anger erupts and he beats the thing off. ‘I’M BIT,’ he screams, ’GET OUT. GO BACK.I’ M BIT…’

‘FUCK OFF,’ Cookey yells back.

‘GO…I’LL HOLD ‘EM. GO…’

Cookey doesn't reply but feels Blowers pressing harder against his back. He pushes back, the only comfort he can give and he fights with blood pouring down his face, with blood seeping from his hands. With his legs growing heavy and his arms hurting, he fights.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Blowers mutters.

‘Don’t be,’ the only words Cookey can get out.

Meredith bleeds from open wounds. Lani bleeds from bites. Roy fights to defend Paula so unused to hand to hand combat. Jagger and Mo Mo feel the tide of the battle turning so badly against them. Clarence falters and grows weary.

Nick smiles.

‘Now,’ he mutters, ‘now. For fuck’s sake, Howie…NOW!’

‘I’m still a woman,’ she whispers, ‘now go…go…’ she pushes me roughly away, ‘but know this, not everyone will survive this journey, Howie…’

A kiss and the energy pours through me. Into my lips, my limbs, my muscles and my chest burns like an electric rod is pressed against it. Energy flows into me. Pure energy. Energy unlike any that has ever been experienced before. Marcy pushes me away and gives me a stinging open handed slap across my face. My eyes snap open but it’s not her I see.

Dave. Dave stares down at me with eyes ablaze and his hand ready to hit me again.

‘GET UP.’ That voice drives me up and without movement, without motion, without leverage I am on my feet and burning with a fire which heats from my gut. My heart roars and lungs that fill with air.

‘We fight,’ I shake from head to toe as I lock eyes on Dave. ‘WE FIGHT. FIGHT DAVE…WE FIGHT…’

He nods. Words are not needed and it takes minutes, hours, days and weeks to turn from facing him to look through the doorway into the room. I see my lads pinned back to back and surrounded by the filthy beasts that dare touch them and that sight, that view of my team being beaten down, is enough to make me know I will never, never stop fighting.

‘MY BOYS.’ I roar with a voice that matches Dave’s and two terrified heads snap round to face me but I’m already running.

The pure hatred is balanced by the purest of love for my team. Fuck mankind. Fuck everyone. I fight for these boys that were prepared to die as I lay sleeping in that room.

‘Back to the others…NOW.’ I roar at the lads.

‘MOVE…GO GO GO…’ Dave repeats the order in only the way Dave can and together, me and the small man launch into those beasts.

‘THEY GOT THE SAXON,’ Cookey blurts as he and Blowers back away.

Now that only makes me worse. The thought of it. The intrusion that our machine has been used against us and defiled in such a way.

I don’t use weapons. Not my axe or a knife, but I snap necks one after the other with hands that I didn’t know could do that. Each head is gripped and simply twisted to the side as I feel the spinal column snapping. Again and again. Like water I move through them. Fluent and graceful. Dave matches me. Kill for kill we go one for one. Snap and drop. Dead and drop. They do not touch us for they are slow and we are far, far faster than they ever will be. Hands out. Head gripped. Neck snapped with ease. With insulting and offensive ease we kill those that got through until around us lie only the dead and nothing else. I glance round and see the lads standing at the far end with open mouths.

‘Still here? I gave you an order,’ I smile gently, ‘go on…we’ll be right down.’

They turn and run as I bend over to smile at the undead coming through. He turns to look up at me, but it’s not him I see but the thing inside.

‘One race, is it?’ The energy blazes dark in my eyes as I snap the neck and stand up.

‘Which way?’ Dave asks with a nod at the hole.

‘You that way,’ I give my own nod at the hole, ‘I’ll go after the lads.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’ He grabs the body and pulls it clean through before diving in head first and God help the thing that meets him halfway.

I glance round and see my axe is back in the side room. After a quick deviation, I’m running after the lads. I go through doors I didn’t know were here, but I remember Marcy’s words that the team are in the room at the far end and Lani is on her own protecting the rear door.

At the mid-point I catch up with Cookey. He’s bent over Blowers on the ground clutching his left arm.

‘What? What’s happened?’

‘Bitten,’ Blowers gasps.

Shit. The realisation that Marcy was right hits me hard, ‘where?’

‘Arm,’ he looks up at me, ‘sorry.’

‘Let me see,’ I gently lift his hand away to reveal the punctured teeth marks, ‘any pain?’

‘Hurts like a bastard,’ he grunts.

‘What’s this?’ I turn his hand over to see the opened wounds on his knuckles, ‘you’re cut to bits.’

‘Punching,’ he says apologetically.

‘When?’

‘Back there,’ he nods at the way we just came from. I don’t say anything for a second but wait for his own brain to catch up.

‘Oh…oh shit.’ his eyes go wide, ‘fuck….’

‘What?’ Cookey looks terrified, pale and drawn.

‘Huh,’ Blowers snorts with laughter as he gets to his feet, ‘didn’t realise.’

‘You too then,’ I nod at him.

‘Looks that way, Mr Howie.’

‘What?’ Cookey repeats, ‘fucking what?’

‘You’re such a twat,’ Blowers shakes his head but can’t keep the grin from his face.

‘Eh? What!?’ Cookey looks down at Blowers knuckles dripping with blood and the visibly open cuts. He stares hard for a second then up at the bite mark.

‘Oh…’ he says softly, ‘oh right.’ The grin that spreads across his face changes his whole appearance, ‘you’re immune.’

‘Yeah,’ Blowers replies just as softly, ‘think I am.’

‘Mate,’ Cookey stares in shock.

‘Later.’ I pat Blowers on the shoulder and start running again. They fall in beside me and I don’t need to look to know the relief they feel or see the grins on their faces. They fade though as they remember the dire situation we are running towards and the unknown of what we might find.

I remember yesterday and forcing these lads to run because of my own obstinate issues. They’re exhausted, drained, wounded and I can see they hardly have anything left to give.

‘Lads, drop back and let me do….’

‘No chance,’ Blowers gives a burst of speed with Cookey right at his side. Through the double doors, into the factory section and sprinting flat out down to the next set of doors and already the sounds of fighting are reaching my ears.

Lani is torn. She knows the team need her but she longs to be by your side. She is at the far end at the most dangerous point and she covers a gap in the wall and she knows if she turns away they will break through. The words given to me by Marcy fill my mind and as that image, that emotion and feeling settle inside my mind, so I find greater speed and opening my stride I outstrip the lads as I aim for the last set of doors.

She is at the far end at the most dangerous point. There’s something in her voice. A warning. A tone of inflection and suddenly the fear is upon me. Lani is torn. Torn? The word has more than one meaning. No. Please no.

The doors burst open as I charge into them and head straight through without slowing.

‘STAND YOUR GROUND AND FIGHT…’ The words spill from my mind and I can see Nick with a wry smile on his face as he fends off several undead. Clarence swings his axe to cleave two in half as he turns with a slow grin spreading across that broad face glistening with sweat and filth. Paula sags with relief as Roy turns, sees me running and goes back to the fight. Jagger and Mo Mo suddenly get faster and fight harder. Nick is possessed and Clarence roars with glory as the energy of the team becomes one again.

Behind me, the lads burst into the room as a cheer erupts. Now we are whole and together we fight. Except two are missing. Lani is torn. At the far end. Lani is torn. The most dangerous point.

I hammer through and pass the group, swerving round cases and stacks of boxes and there it is. The light pours through the smashed in emergency exit door at the far end.

A horde, thick and fast are spilling through and I watch as though time slows down as she fights with a speed and dexterity I have never seen from her. The light glimmers and catches on her raven black hair and that golden skin seems to glow, but on her face there are tears that stream and her heart is broken. The tide against her is too great, far too great but she tries to dominate that central ground. The ground about her feet is littered with the dead and dying.

They converge on her and as one engulf her. I watch helpless as she’s torn from her feet. Teeth and nails gouge into her arms, legs and torso. She screams and bucks but the bodies swarm and she’s taken out of sight.

Meredith attacks with blood spraying from her mouth and I scream, oh I screa,m and demand my legs go faster. I cross that ground with every ounce of strength willing Lani to just hold on.

‘LANI….’ If she hears me she will know I am coming, she will know to fight and keep fighting and to never give up. She held this door on her own, at the most dangerous point to protect those she holds most dear.

I cannot speak nor form words, but the passion spews forth as a howl of utter frustration and then I am amongst them and upon them. I grab bodies and heave them aside with a strength that flows and burns. One after the other after the other is wrenched from that writhing bundle. I see dark hair, raven black and silky straight and down I go after her, stamping and kicking while my hands grab at body parts to cast them aside. I get bitten and scratched, thumped, kicked and battered but the pain does not reveal itself until I see her slender arm and grab a firm grasp of her wrist. I heave and run backwards to free her from the massed pressing bodies but they cling and bite into her. I kick down to free the rotten corpses from her blessed skin but hands that are broken and ruined cling on until I can stamp and wrench. Meredith is within them, biting and ragging furiously but never quickly enough, and then she’s free and I’m dragging her body across the floor.

They’re up and surging towards us, intent on finishing what they started but Lani is no longer alone and like fuck will I let one of these bastards get by me. Meredith is at my side and we bring a frenzied death down on them. My axe was dropped somewhere but my hands do the work. Their skin is soft and yielding and I tear throats out with my bare fingers, snap necks and arms. A leg is torn free by the dog and I take it up to use as a weapon. A human leg complete with shoe that I grip and swing out to take more of them down.

Dave appears behind them with a roar that has every head in that building turning and it’s enough for me to drop the leg, grab Lani and drag her further into the room as Dave shows them what dangerous really looks like.

‘Lani…Lani…’ I’m dragging her by the arm but she doesn't answer. Her face is covered in blood, her clothing torn and ripped. Her body torn. Torn. Lani is torn.

Free from the melee, I drop down and force myself to stay calm. I start checking for injuries but she’s bleeding from so many places. The infection can’t hurt her but the wounds are so many. Bite marks, grips marks, bruises and cuts to her neck and cheeks.

‘Lani…’ I try to identify the worst injuries but the blood covers nearly every inch of her exposed skin and I can’t see anything other through the blurred tears that I blink furiously away.

Time ceases and I have no idea what goes on around me until suddenly hands are touching me and the team are dropping down to my side.

‘Move, Mr Howie, move…’ Roy’s tone is urgent and I let him take over. He drops down to inspect the wounds. ‘Water.’ His tone is calm and bottles are handed over. He pours them over bite marks and identifies the ones bleeding the most. ‘Bandages.’

‘Where from?’ Nick asks.

‘First aid kit. Find one,’ Roy calls back and several of the team burst away as Roy goes back to gently pouring water over the wounds. He lifts her head and starts pouring the liquid down her forehead. She murmurs and twitches as the water hits her mouth, an instinctive reaction to take fluids in and one that has me gasping in hope.

Roy holds the mouth of the bottle to her lips and lets the tiniest trickle in. Just a drop which she takes without sound. Then a bit more and he waits, watching for any reaction before doing it again.

‘Give her more,’ Jagger urges.

‘She could drown,’ Roy replies softly, ‘little bit at a time.’ He eases some more into her parched lips as I take hold of her hand and rub it gently.

‘Here,’ Nick drops down breathing hard and holding a large green box with a white cross on the front.

‘Bandages. Get the wounds covered,’ Roy instructs. Paula and Nick work fast, opening the box to take the clean sterile bandages from within. The plastic covers are ripped open with teeth and the dressings applied by Roy as he starts on the ones bleeding the worst.

A deep cut to her right thigh is bound first and we all help to raise the leg so Roy can loop the bandage underneath. Her left calf is next. Her right arm. Her left arm and her stomach.

‘Dave, get outside with Nick and get our fucking saxon back.’

‘On it,’ the pair race off.

‘Everyone else get ammunition stacked and ready to go. Re-load the weapons and make ready in case they come back. Hang on, Dave? Did you kill ‘em all?’

‘Yes,’ he shouts back.

‘Cookey and Blowers you cover the outside of the shutters, Jagger and Mo Mo face down to those rear doors, Paula you watch the top section. Roy, once Lani is finished check the dog next then everyone else in turn.’

‘On it,’ he nods with the same prompt reply the others give.

‘How is she?’ I ask in a quieter voice.

‘She’s lost a lot of blood,’ he turns to glance up at me, ‘There’s a lot of wounds. Her heart and pulse are shakey. We have to watch for shock now.’

‘Shock?’

‘Her body is shutting down to protect the vital organs,’ he explains slowly, ‘which is why she’s passed out. Her mind doesn't need to be working for her to stay alive. The danger now is her core temperature will plummet and that makes it harder for her whole body to work. Worst case is she goes into cardiac arrest.’

‘Okay,’ I nod quickly, ‘you mean her heart could stop.’

‘Yes, if it does we can do CPR or find a defib machine. She needs emergency medical care.’

‘Everyone,’ I shout, ‘fuck covering the doors, we get loaded and we go as soon as possible…’

The saxon is found and put to use, battering the vehicles away from the where the shutters were and then backed into the building. The rear doors are opened and Clarence carries Lani to lie in the back while the ammunition crates are stacked and shoved into every possible place.

‘Car park round the corner,’ Nick runs back in, ‘want me to grab something?’

‘Get what you can, the bigger the better…Dave go with him. Roy, please stay with Lani.’

‘I can but you said the dog needs checking.’

‘I’ll do it,’ grabbing bottles of water I head over to the animal still standing and still alert as she flicks her head to look from the shutter entrance to the rear. ‘Good girl,’ I drop down at her side to stroke her huge head. Her tail wags and she whines softly. I pour water into my hand which she laps and keeps lapping until two bottles are drained. Her wounds are checked. She bleeds but not badly and she takes the pain without complaint when I pour clean water over the worst injuries. We need to go. Go now. But the fort needs ammunition and that value is greater than one life, which is something I will be discussing with the team when the time is right.

Once cleaned and checked, Meredith deftly jumps up into the Saxon and lies down next to Lani with her head resting on Lani’s chest.

The only words spoken are those from necessity. Nick comes back with a small van that gets jammed full of ammunition crates, boxes of grenades and everything else we can fit in. There’s plenty left here but with two vehicles loaded with as much as we can carry, we finally load up.

Nick and Dave stay together in the van as I clamber into the driver’s seat and cast a quick look back at Lani. She’s being watched so carefully by everyone perching on and wedged between crates and boxes. Clarence takes the front with me with another two crates on his lap and a curt nod.

The engine fires up and the machine that was turned against us pulls away to start the journey back to the fort.

The Undead Day Sixteen

To be continued…

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four