THE UNDEAD

The First Seven Days

Compilation Edition

R. R. Haywood

Copyright © R. R. Haywood 2012

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.

The Undead: One to Seven, have previously been published as a seven book series.

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 Eddyart.

My name is Howie. I was named after my father Howard, but it became too confusing to have two Howard’s, so I became Howie.

I am twenty-seven years old and I work as a night manager in a supermarket.

The following is an account of what happened during the worst seven days that the Earth has ever seen.

DAY ONE

DAY TWO

DAY THREE

DAY FOUR

DAY FIVE

DAY SIX

DAY SEVEN

DAY ONE

At first it was just a news story, a mad man somewhere had run amok in a busy European city centre on a Friday night, attacking people and biting into them. It only caught the attention of news channels because there was mobile phone footage showing the attacks. But, within hours, the television channels were all taken over by news bulletins and special reports; conflicting stories of widespread outbreaks of violence, with random people being attacked by crazed savages who were lunging and biting at them. Groups of maniacs were seen dragging people to the floor and eating them.

The hazy video had famous landmarks in the background and showed people shouting and running in all directions, then a police officer was shown standing next to a patrol car with blue and red lights flashing. He fired his pistol at something out of view and then he was engulfed by bodies. The person holding the phone screamed, as they ran away.

It all happened within hours and it spread so fast across Europe to places that even I had heard of.

Cities and towns were quickly overcome with violent attacks and some news reports suggested that the attackers were biting and tearing at the flesh, then running off to find another victim. Images flashed across the screen of those victims with horrific injuries and, pretty soon, all censorship was gone and they were showing brutal and violent scenes.

The police seemed unable to contain the violent attacks and some countries were bringing troops in to try and restore order.

The news anchors were calm at first, but, as the night progressed, they became increasingly concerned and it wasn’t long before they ran out of clichéd comments.

News channels are brilliant at finding experts to give live testimony as events unfold, but as all of this  happened so fast, there were no experts. This wasn’t terrorism, a plane crash or a natural disaster. I  imagined that the Producers would be frantically going through their lists of experts, trying to work out who to call, but the story developed too quickly and, within hours, it was in Central Europe.

At first, the so-called experts talked about civil disorder, then riots and this quickly progressed to revolution and an attempt to overthrow the governments.

As more and more reports came in they started using words like pathogens, microbes and airborne organisms and the news anchors tried desperately to make sense of a continent exploding in widespread violence.

To begin with, I watched the start of the events feeling detached and safe, but as it spread and came closer, I felt more and more uneasy and then downright scared.

It’s late at night and most of the people I know will be in bed, but I want to share this with someone.

I try to send a text, but my phone is indicating that there is no network coverage, which is strange as the signal is normally excellent. I keep trying, but there is just an empty signal bar.

As I become more freaked out, I pick up my landline and dial my parents’ number but it’s engaged.  They might be trying to call me, so I hang up.

After a few minutes of waiting, I try again.

Still engaged.

I try my sister in London… engaged.

I ring my friends’ number’s… all engaged.

Every number that I call comes back with the engaged tone.

I realise that the voicemail hasn’t kicked in for any of them. So, in desperation I call 999.

Engaged.

No mobile and no landline.

I live in the top half of a semi-detached house; only a few minutes’ walk from the small town centre. The bottom half of the building is occupied by a young couple.

I look out of my lounge window; it’s a warm summer evening and the window is open. The outside world looks like it always does: quiet and peaceful.

I go back to the television and keep trying telephone numbers I know, and, after a few minutes, I hear footsteps outside in the street - fast footsteps.  I look out to a normal suburban road with houses on both sides and orange coloured streetlights.

As I look down the road, I can see a really fat man trying to run.

As he comes into view, I see him looking back. He is wearing a suit, his tie is pulled down and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. He is trying to run and clearly struggling for breath and… he keeps looking over his shoulder.

I crane my head to try and see what he is looking at and, within a few seconds, another man comes into view - it looks like he is chasing the fat man.

The fat man is trying his best, but the other man is gaining ground. As they get closer, I start to see that something isn’t right with the second man. His isn’t a normal way of running; there is no cohesion in his movements and none of the fluidity that you normally see when someone runs. Even when people who don’t normally run go faster they are generally co-ordinated, but this man isn’t - he is jerky and half stumbling, but still going fast.

The panic starts to rise in me and I look back at the footage running on the television: grainy shots of people trying to escape something, then a hazy image of a stumbling, demented man comes into view. He is grabbing at a victim, sinking his teeth into his face, and then he drags him to the floor in a frenzied attack. More crazed people are joining in and then they all suddenly stop and burst away, going in different directions; like a choreographed act.

My head slowly moves back from the television to the window. I have a deep sense of dread and a sickening feeling grows in my stomach.

I look out and see that the fat man is almost caught; the other man is so close to him.

I can now see more people running towards the fat man. It looks like the fat man can tell he is almost done for and he spins around and tries to lash out. He screams and flails with his arms, but the other man is upon him; throwing himself forward and ignoring the blows from the fat man’s arms. The thing is biting and lunging his mouth at the fat man who is running backwards, frantically trying to push the creature off.

Then he trips and goes down and it is on him, biting at his face… the others have made ground and are there too.

I think they are going to pull the attacker off, but as they get closer they dive forward onto the fat man and then it’s all just a mess of bodies writhing on the floor. Soon, the fat man’s screams end.

Lights come on and another man comes running out of his house, dressed just in boxer shorts. He runs towards the bodies on the ground whilst shouting loudly and holding some kind of stick. He uses the stick to beat and hit them, but they reach up and attack him. In defence, he swipes out, hitting them and getting good blows in. I watch as they get knocked to the ground… but they get back up.

A normal person can’t get hit like that and get back up.

The man in boxer shorts is shouting but I can’t hear exactly what he is saying, but I do hear the word “Police”.

He can’t fight them off and they pull him down, as the same frenzied biting begins.

A woman, who looks about thirty, comes out of the same house. She wears an old style, grandmotherly type of dressing gown, which looks out-of-place on her.

She stands stunned for a second then gives a piercing scream, which seems to give them a fresh burst. She doesn’t stand a chance as they leap from the man on the floor onto her; biting into her face and neck. She stays on her feet, staggering about with them on her, then she is engulfed and they all go down.

More lights are coming on now. I am mesmerised and can’t move; my window is a television screen to some weirdly, surreal movie.

More people come out of their houses and rush into the melee and the things lose no time in attacking them by frantically gouging and biting.

These people have just been woken up by the screaming and shouting; they are panicked and sleepy and they don’t stand a chance.

In a house further down, the lights are coming on and then the blue front door opens. This house is just past where the fat man is lying on his back in a pool of blood, his legs spread and his arms out to the sides.

An old man slowly comes out of the house and looks up at the bedlam taking place.

Creeping forward, he takes a few steps and looks down at the fat man. Maybe he is talking to the fat man… asking him if he is all right? He extends an arm and touches the fat man on the shoulder but gets nothing in return.

A loud scream erupts from the carnage taking place up the road and the old man turns his head and looks; his arm still extended down to the fat man. The fat man reaches up and grabs the old man by his pyjama front, pulling him down and, as the fat man does what is possibly his first sit up in at least twenty years, he forces his mouth straight into the old man’s face, and sinks his teeth in.

The old man tries to pull back, but he is gripped and cannot get backwards. The fat man pulls him down and leans over the old man; biting and thrashing at his neck. Even from this distance, I can see a burst of red as the jugular is opened and the fat man is sprayed by the hot blood.  The old man’s arms move slower and then drop down to his sides.

I look further up the road and realise that the man in the boxer shorts is now standing up; his ravaged face still pouring blood down his chest. He shuffles forward, slowly at first, and then moves faster. Stumbling and gaining pace, he staggers up the street and then he stops.

He turns slowly, until he is facing my direction, and his head lifts. The light and distance mean I can’t see clearly, but I can make out that his face is a mess of red, hanging flesh.

I don’t know if he can see me but I panic and drop down beneath the windowsill; my lights are off - with just the light from the television illuminating the room.

Utter panic grips me as I slowly rise up and peek out; the net curtains giving me some kind of shield.

He is still standing there, with his arms hanging limp at his sides.

I have a creeping sense that he can see me through the net curtain, but then he turns and stumbles away.

I see more of them running past doors that have been left open when the house’s occupiers came out to see what was going on and met their grisly ends; leaving their loved ones unprotected.

More lights come on as people are roused from their slumber, before being set upon. There is screaming, shouting and confusion everywhere.

A middle-aged woman, wearing a short nightshirt, comes running out of her front door with her arms in the air; she is screaming for help. She can see someone in the street a few doors up and she runs straight to him, grabbing at his arm to spin him round and scream in his face.

The man lunges straight at her, devouring her face in a frenzy of biting. One of the attackers comes lumbering out of her door and joins in and then more are upon her.

I am rooted to the spot.

The phone is in my hand and I am dialling 999 again and again, but each time I just get the engaged tone.

I watch as the deranged assailants bend over her. I can see that they don’t use their hands to hold her, it’s just the sheer frenzied nature of the attack, they push ever forward with their heads driving into her body and face. Their mass of body weight prevents her from getting away. They are biting any part of her body they can get at; like wild animals tearing at a fresh carcass.

Then, as quickly as they first descended upon her, they all depart. She is left lying on her side, facing towards me, arms and legs splayed out and blood all over her face and body.

I keep watching. I can’t take my eyes away.

Minutes pass, then she starts to twitch; like an electric current has been passed through her body. She convulses – her arms and legs jerking up and down and she suddenly sits up, her head lolling down onto her chest, as if her neck is broken.  She slowly gets to her feet, in an awkward movement, and not using her hands or arms to support her. She stands with arms hanging limp at her sides, swaying from side to side. Another attacker is running towards her. I wait, expecting her to be attacked again, but this one runs straight past her, paying her no attention. He is moving with purpose, as if he knows where he is going. As he passes her, she twitches and follows in his wake. It looks like she is mimicking his jerky running as she takes off after him.

I move over and switch the television off, so that the illumination doesn’t attract their attention.

My mind is racing… what have I just witnessed? It looks so different in real life – but even the TV is showing what is really happening. My brain struggles to cope with it all. People are being killed but they get back up a few minutes after their death. I think of all the zombie films I have ever seen, but the thought of using the word zombie seems far-fetched; fictional. What I have just seen is played out in every zombie film… but this was real.

The undead are here.

I can’t think straight.

There is no way of contacting my family. They don’t live close by and there is no way I am going out into the street. Then I think of the young couple downstairs… do they know what’s happening? I want to go down and warn them. I would not have to go outside, our front doors are both internal and the outside door is always locked.

I slip my trainers on; I’m wearing old jeans and a tee-shirt. I stand behind my front door and listen, but I hear nothing.

I open the door and peer out, moving slowly and listening for the slightest noise.

Putting my front door on the latch, so I don’t get locked out, I move down the narrow flight of stairs. The hallway is in darkness, but the main front door is frosted glass, which lets the light from the street lamps through. Their front door is at the bottom, on the right. No doorbells on the inside doors, as the main front door has an intercom system for both of our flats.

I bang on the wooden door and the sudden thumps are startling in the quiet. I get no response and so I bang again, this time calling out: ‘Simon? It’s me… from upstairs!’

I bang again and call louder, but there are no noises from within.

The door has a Yale lock, so there is no keyhole to look through.

I try once more, banging louder and calling out again.

I try to think of when I last saw them, but I can’t put my thoughts in order. After a few minutes, I give up and lean my forehead against their door, trying to work out what I should do next.

A noise to my left and I quickly look to the front door.

I can spot a silhouette through the glass; an indistinct shadow moving across it. I hold my breath and stay still, staring at the door.

Seconds pass with no movement. I start to edge away, towards the bottom of the stairs, moving slowly; in case my movement is seen from outside.

I creep backwards and my heels hit the first step. I wait, just for a second, then a figure slams into the glass from the outside. The loud noise makes me jump as I try to move up the stairs backwards, but I stumble and lose my footing, sliding down the couple of steps I have just gone up. My feet thump down and I yelp loudly as my bottom hits the step.

The figure slams onto the glass again and I hear a crack as the glass splinters, but stays intact.

I’m now running up the stairs, turning at the top and heading to my door. As I go into my flat, I hear glass smashing and the noise of someone falling through. I slam my front door shut and put the feeble safety chain on. No deadbolts, no peephole…

I walk backwards, away from the door, listening to the thumps and bangs coming from the hallway. I am whimpering and breathing hard, blind panic within me, there is no other way out. I’m trapped.

I run into my bedroom and over to the wardrobe, open the doors and then stand still. I have no idea why I opened the wardrobe.

A loud bang at my front door and I yell out.

I run back to the door and can see that it’s still shut and locked. Bangs and scrapes come from the other side, accompanied by weird, groaning noises.

I bang my hand against the door and shout “FUCK OFF,” which just causes more groans and bangs.

I move up the small hallway and into the kitchen, taking a large knife from the drawer, then I go back to the front door and shout loudly: ‘THE POLICE ARE ON THEIR WAY AND… I’VE GOT A KNIFE.’

My voice sounds hoarse, panicked and stupid.

I can feel a tingling vibration coming from the wooden door and frame.

I run into the lounge and look out of the window, pulling my net curtains aside and leaning out. I look down to the front of the house and see them stumbling quickly towards the main door; there are more in the street heading my way.

The old man in pyjamas is crossing the road, blood all over his face and down his front. He passes under the street light and I see that his nose is gone, bitten off by the fat man a few minutes ago, it is now just a bloody mess in the middle of his face.

There are more across the street all moving towards my house. I shout out again: ‘HELP… SOMEONE PLEASE HELP,’ which just makes them stumble faster.

I look across the road and see them coming out of front doors, arms hanging down by their sides. Every one of them is covered in blood. They have horrific injuries: faces torn and shredded, ears missing - men, women and children savaged while they slept, bitten all over their bodies and now they stumble across the street with the blood glistening on their pale skin.

I see children staggering with them, young children and older ones. They exhibit the same jerky movements and their arms hang loosely down.

There is one man crawling on his side across the road, using his hands to drag himself along; his legs extended uselessly behind him. A bloody slick is left in his wake as each jerky movement causes more of his insides to spill out.

I’m yelling and screaming; waving my knife at them and threatening to stab and slash them open.

The more I yell, the more they respond - but I’m too panicked to take this in.

Some of them have stopped on the path beneath me and are staring up at me, just a few feet away.

I grab a coffee mug from the low table behind me, go back to the window and pull my arm back, causing the cold remains of my coffee to splash in my face. I then launch the mug hard at old pyjama man. Good shot, straight in the face and he gets knocked back and falls down.

I turn round and look for something else to throw… the remote control – when hurled it hits a man on the shoulder, but it’s too light and he doesn’t even flinch.

I grab things from the lounge and throw them, anything within reach: books, DVD cases, even an empty vase gets launched hard and hits a woman on the head; shattering into fragments; she goes down.

I watch in horror as more of them walk over the vase’s broken glass; the shards lacerating their feet, but they don’t stop moving.

There are bangs from the front door.

They must have entered the main entrance in droves, gathered in the communal hallway and are now headed up the stairs.

I run back to my front door… it is still closed and locked – and I look for items to barricade it, but my hallway is small, with no furniture.

Running into my bedroom, I grab the contents from my bedside drawers and carry it all back, putting it behind the front door, but it’s only from three small drawers and looks feeble.

I next go into the lounge and push the flat screen television off the solid, wooden cabinet. I start to drag the cabinet towards the door, but the DVD player and satellite receiver box are still in the cabinet and are plugged in; the cabinet refuses to budge, the wires taut and holding. I open the glass doors and yank them out, forcing the leads to break. These are thrown to the side and the cabinet is dragged to the front door; the bedside drawers go on top of it.

Back to the lounge and the low table is added to my barricade. I keep going and drag or carry whatever I can find. It’s not great, but it will slow them down… the hallway is small and it doesn’t take much to fill it up. I add my double mattress onto the pile.

I go back to the lounge window, look out and my stomach drops at what I see.

Beneath me is a large crowd of the undead, they can’t get into the front door as the hallway is crammed but they are still trying to move forward, pressing into each other with groans and weird animal noises emanating from them.

There must be at least twenty of them, crowding towards the front of the building, with more coming across from the street.

I look round and see the DVD player on the floor. I pick it up, raise it high and then I throw it into the middle of the crowd as hard as I can. It smashes into the head of one of them, amid the heart of the throng. I can’t tell if it was a man or woman, but I see it go down and their space is quickly filled as they all push forward again.

Then I do the same again with the satellite receiver box, smashing it down into the middle of the crowd. I don’t wait to see the damage, but instead I run around the flat, grabbing anything small enough to throw.

In the kitchen, I see the kettle. It is an electric, stainless steel one; nice and heavy. I grab it and start back to the lounge, stopping after a few steps to turn back to the kitchen. I fill the kettle with water and switch it on, but, in my haste, the kettle is over filled and water spills out from the top.

I then grab everything I can: pans, plates, cups, bowls, the sugar and coffee pots and the bread bin. They are all carried into the lounge and dumped by the window and I scurry back for more missiles.

The kitchen fills with steam and I realise that I didn’t put the lid back on the kettle and it keeps boiling away. I grab at the kettle, but the hot water splashes onto my hands, scalding me, and I almost drop the kettle.

Back at the window, I look down at the crowd.  I am only one floor up from the ground and I slowly pour the hot water down onto the mass, watching as the water hits faces and bare skin. Small clouds of steam rise up.

This has absolutely no effect, other than washing some of the blood from them.

Boiling hot water, straight onto them, and no effect… maybe it cools by a few degrees as it falls?

In desperation, I raise the kettle above my head and throw it down, as hard as I can. I hear a loud whack as it strikes one on the top of the head and I see the body drop out of view.

Yeah, that’s better, much better. Blunt trauma beats hot water.

I take a heavy, ceramic pot from the pile and throw it down hard. It strikes a shoulder and the impact is enough to make the body stumble. The press of bodies causes it to lose its footing and it’s gone from view; trampled on as the space is quickly filled.

A frying pan is next and I launch it down; it hits one on the head but bounces off, no damage.

I grab items quickly and take my shots; it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. I have never been in a fight, never caused physical injury to another person before in my life but I am doing so now. I’m slamming full cans of beer down, cups and mugs and watching as they impact on the heads of the undead beneath me.

Some shots are good, the toaster was great, nice and heavy and straight onto the bald head of a man - he goes straight down but, again, the space is filled.

Groans and noises come from them as they are struck, not the noise a person normally makes when they are hurt, but a reaction, nonetheless.

I keep going, fury and anger within me and I yell abuse as I throw my missiles into them. My yelling causes them to look up and I get some good face shots in.

Within minutes, my pile is diminished and I am breathing hard from the exertion. The front of the house is littered with household objects and I can see some bodies lying about, but there is still a large crowd of them and they are all pushing forward.

There are more loud bangs coming from my front door, sporadic and not aimed, but determined, and it won’t take long before the door is forced by the sheer press of bodies; the barricade will slow them down, but only for a short time.

My bedroom looks out over the front, at the back there is the kitchen and bathroom.  The bathroom window is too small to climb through, so I go into the kitchen; the window is above the sink and I climb up, looking down.

Shit! There are more of them, all round the building.

I search for anything left to throw.

I look at the gas hobs and think about the hot water.  Then I remember reading books about medieval times when they would pour hot oil from castles onto the invaders.

I find a bottle of vegetable oil in the cupboard and then realise that all my saucepans are now in the front garden. I have nothing left to use to heat the oil! My microwave is still there, but I have no pots or bowls.

I think of throwing the microwave, but I know it’s useless now, it might drop two of them at best, but that still leaves lots more.

I go back into the lounge and over to the window. I gave up smoking a few weeks ago and I think of how much I would enjoy a smoke right now. My lighter is still in the corner of the window sill…

I can’t smoke… but I can drink! Going back into the kitchen, I see a bottle of brandy on top of the fridge. I didn’t think to grab it in my hunt for missiles. I take the bottle back to the lounge window, watching the undead beneath me as I raise the bottle, and, as I do so, I glimpse the lighter and lower the bottle from my lips.

Brandy is flammable… right?

So I could use it like a Molotov cocktail… it might burn the house down but I’m almost dead already - it’s only a matter of time before they get in.

I dash into the bedroom and tear some strips from my pillowcase, stuffing them into the brandy bottle to soak up the amber liquid, then I pull them out. I’ve seen this done in movies and feel confident of just how to do it - you light the end and, once it’s burning, you throw the bottle… easy.

Back at the lounge window, I have the bottle with some brandy-soaked strips of material hanging out of the top. I take the lighter and look down into the crowd.

Here goes.

I light the end, as I shout: ‘Here you are fuckers. Have some brandy!’

I light the wick as I give my cool one-liner, but the wick flares instantly and bursts into flames. In my panic, I throw the bottle down into the crowd, it hits one on the head and bounces down and the strong glass remains unbroken, as the fall is cushioned by the stupid fat-head that it struck.

That’s it! My last good idea cocked up. But, within a few seconds, I see smoke coming up from the crowd, then a whooshing noise and there are flames shooting up.

The brandy has caught and is on fire beneath the crowd. It’s only in a small, confined space, but I can see the black smoke and I watch as the flames cause them all to move about; they can’t escape because of the press of bodies pushing forward.

A couple of them are on fire now, flames licking up as clothing catches alight. I can’t tell if it bothers them as all they can do is stand still.

This is disgusting. I thought it would be good to watch them burn, but it’s still a human form on fire and it makes me feel sick. The smell is awful; a mixture of alcohol and burning flesh.

I start to gag and move away from the window as thick, black smoke billows up into the lounge.  I’m coughing and retching, bent over, puking up bile and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I hear a car horn and try to look out of the window, but the smoke is too much, so I go into the bedroom and pull the curtains down. In the middle of the road is an armoured security van.

The van is stationary and, as I open the window, I hear the engine ticking over. The horn is pressed and I watch as the bodies jerk round and start to move towards the van. I wave my arms and shout: ‘Over here!’

I keep yelling and I watch as the crowd starts to turn and move away, towards the van.

They continue to break away, charging at the van, which rolls forward a short distance and carries on sounding the horn. The undead move faster, stumbling and jerking after the van.

I look down and can see that the crowd is thinning. There are a couple of bodies on fire on the ground and one undead has just caught alight, but is still moving away towards the van, which sounds the horn repeatedly and keeps rolling forward.

I see more of the undead in the road behind the van. There is a massive crowd coming up the road following it; they are going from my house and joining the crowd as they chase the van.

The van waits for them to get close, then rolls forward a few more feet. I watch as the undead crowd get close, then the reverse lights come on and it goes backwards at speed, slamming into the dense crowd and causing a backwards ripple effect into the horde, as the front of the crowd loses its forward momentum. Then the van shoots forward again and continues with the horn.

There are undead bodies on the ground that were crushed by the reversing vehicle, getting more trampled on as the crowd staggers over them.

They are pouring out of my front door and into the road. The van slowly moves away, still sounding the horn - like the pied piper of the undead.

I watch as more and more undead file past my house in the wake of the van. The fat man is with them, still waddling along then, after a few minutes, it goes quiet.

I wait at the window, the van’s noise moving further away. Stunned and silent, the after effect of the excitement and adrenalin have left me shaken and my hands tremble as I cover my face, reeling from all that has happened.

I know I can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.  They have gone for now, but they could come back.

There were so many of them honing in on me. How did they all know that I was here? The undead can’t think… or can they? Was it an instinct…a signal they emit to each other like a super organism? I have no idea, but I do know that I have to leave now.

My parents live about a fifteen-minute drive away.  I live in Boroughfare, a small coastal town.  Brighton is not too far away and London is a two hour drive - that’s where my sister is.  She took a job as a PA for a banking company a few years ago.

My parents have a detached house in a nice, quiet area.  They always go to bed early and I know they lock the doors, so maybe they are okay.

My mind is made up… I will head across town to my parents house.

I look at my watch, it’s almost 4.30 a.m. As it is mid-July, I know that the sun will be up in half an hour or so. I need to get moving, while it’s quiet. I don’t own a car, so unless I can find something to drive, I will have to walk.

I go back to the hallway and look at barricade; I don’t know if any of them are left out there. I think about removing the barricade, but I’m too scared of what I might find.

I go back into my bedroom and pull the sheet from the bed, then another sheet from the airing cupboard and I tie them together with a duvet cover.  I go to the window and look outside, to make sure they are not there.

The lounge window overlooks the main door, so if I climb down the lounge window I won’t be able to see if they are in the communal hallway.  The bedroom window is a few feet away and will give me a chance to run, if they come out of the front door.

I tie the bed sheet onto the leg of my double bed and drop the sheets down - they reach to a couple of feet above the ground.

I go back into the lounge and pick up the large kitchen knife. I put this into my belt, with the blade resting against my leg.  No way! If I fall or slip it will impale me! I need a sheath, but kitchen knives don’t have sheaths. I find the small rucksack that I use for work and put the knife into the main compartment, leaving the top open and then I try to wedge the knife into the top zip - so that the handle is left out, with the blade in the bag.

I then put the bag on my back, but it hangs down too low - I can’t reach the handle. I tighten the straps and raise the bag further up my back, and now I can reach the handle.

In the kitchen drawer there is a claw hammer, and I put this into my belt; at least I have something that I can use. I think back to that man during the night, hitting the undead with the stick.  He hit them hard and they got knocked away, but they came back. So I know that hitting them won’t kill them, but maybe it will buy me a few seconds to run.

I go back to the bedroom window and start to climb over the sill, grasping the bed sheets with both hands. I wait, sitting astride the window ledge, listening and looking up and down; no noise and no movement. The night’s veil is just starting to lift, only a few minutes until sun up. I don’t know if that is a good thing or not.

I need to go but I’m scared.

The final act of leaving the safety of my home is almost too much for me to contemplate. Then I look down at the still smouldering remains of the undead; blood and carnage everywhere. A few bodies are lying still, they must have been the ones I knocked down when the crowd was pushing forward - they have been trampled to death, but then they were already dead, so they have been trampled to death again… what do you call that? How can they be killed twice?

I guess that maybe the injuries were too much for the bodies to keep functioning, but then I think of the one I had seen crawling across the ground with his innards falling out.

The spine? It must be that the spine was broken as they went down, maybe their neck was snapped by all of the undead feet driving down on them.

I have to go.

I get over the ledge, until my feet are hanging down, then I start to lower myself with my hands.

I feel extremely vulnerable now with my legs dangling beneath me and I keep looking down, left and right, as I lower myself; imaging that one of them will come out of the door and bite into my ankle and drag me down to my death.

I can feel the panic rising and try to go faster, and, within seconds, my feet are banging against the window of the downstairs flat.

I lower myself down, until my feet hit the window ledge, then a bit more and I drop to the ground.

As soon as I am down, I move away from the building into the road; the hammer out of my waistband and in my hand.

At ground level, I get a close up view of the frenzied attacks; blood stains everywhere. Some of the blood has started to congeal, but the larger pools are still wet.

A white car is parked just a few feet away, with bloody handprints smeared across the bonnet.

A crash occurs behind me and I see one of the undead stagger out from my front door, slipping on the wet blood, but coming straight at me.

I am off, running fast.

I look back and he is still coming, but he is further back. I am outrunning him as his jerky motion cannot keep up. I keep sprinting, until I feel my lungs will burst and my legs hurt. I slow down and look back, but he is gone from sight.

I keep walking fast. The quickest route is straight through town and down the High Street, then off onto the main road.

I keep to the middle of the road, looking left and right and behind me; my ears straining for any noise.

A few minutes later, I reach a side street that feeds into the town centre. I go slower until I reach the building line. The sun is almost up now, as the night sky gradually ebbs away.

I can hear birds singing and seagulls are flying overhead. I move cautiously, one step at a time as the High Street comes more into view.

To the right is clear, but the left isn’t and my heart sinks as I see an enormous crowd of undead. They are gathered around the armoured van that had led them away from my house.

The van is in the middle of the road, but I can’t see why it stopped - it doesn’t look like it crashed. The van is surrounded now; maybe there were just too many bodies to drive through.

I watch as a roof hatch opens and a man climbs out. He stands on the roof of the vehicle looking down at the crowd of undead as they swarm around him, some raising their arms up, like fans at a rock concert.

He looks over to me and I stand still, unsure of what to do.

‘RUN,’ he shouts at me.

I take a step forward and he shakes his head: ‘NO, RUN… RUN NOW.’

I don’t know what to do, he saved my life but he is trapped now and I can’t get to him. I can’t just leave him to his death.

We stare at each other as the massive crowd of undead gather at his feet.

The man is still shouting at me to run and his voice is loud but calm; his movements steady and controlled.

How can he be so calm? I was the complete opposite when they surrounded my house. I screamed abuse and threw cups at them!

I can’t just leave him here to his certain death. I look round, frantically trying to see something that will give me inspiration. Maybe I could get a vehicle and do the same as he did - lure them away with the sound of a horn.

I look back at the van and can see that there are hundreds of undead surrounding him, spread out in a wide circle, all pushing forward.

The man is high up on the top. If the undead at the front get trampled down, that will give height to the next row as they push forward.

There are a few vehicles parked up nearby and I move towards them, keeping to the building line; my movements slow and guarded.

I get to the closest car, but it’s locked and secure. This is the town centre and no one in their right mind would leave a car unlocked here. I check other cars nearby, but they are all locked too.

Nearly all of the buildings are closed but some lights are on in shop windows, illuminating the goods on display.

There is a pizza take-away place a little further up the street; they do local delivery that I’ve used countless times. They must have been open, it was only a few hours ago on Friday evening when it all happened and the pizza place normally stays open until at least midnight.

I look up and can see that the sky is now much lighter; the sun is almost up. Another few minutes and it will be daylight.

As I look towards the pizza restaurant, I spot a moped lying on its side outside; the distinctive white delivery box on the back. Before I know what I’m doing, I am running over, and, as I get closer, I see blood on the floor, next to the moped.

I can’t tell if there is blood on the red frame or black seats but I can see that the keys are still in the ignition.

I lift the moped up and turn it around to face the undead crowd.

This is an old style twist and go moped, no gears - it is used by students and teenagers to earn a few extra quid. The white box is battered and marked.

I wheel the bike out into the road. The van is a few hundred metres away and I wave at the man who is still standing on the top. I try to point at the moped and show that I will drive away and try to get them to follow me.

I know the area well: at the bottom of the High Street there is a roundabout that leads onto the main road out of town, not far now and I will be on the motorway, making good distance.

The man is waving at me and shouting, but I am too far away to hear what he is saying.

I get on the moped and the fuel gauge is showing half a tank. I turn the keys to the off position and then back on. There is a red button marked START, I press it and the moped splutters and starts ticking over. The loud noise from the exhaust is so familiar to me from all of the times I have had take-away delivered and heard the moped come up the street.

As the sun rises and daylight fills the street, I look back to the undead, expecting them to be already coming for me. My hand is on the rubber grip, ready to twist and pull away.

However, something is wrong… the outer ring of undead have turned and have started towards me but they are moving slower, much slower - they are shambling and dragging their feet in an awkward shuffle, barely at walking pace.

They were fast before, not quite at running speed but they moved quickly and with purpose - like predators after prey - relentless and sustained.

Now they are stumbling, as if they are walking through deep water; each step a struggle. I look all about, fearing some kind of trap, but they are all the same. Some are turning and heading my way, others are still standing round the van, but whereas before they had a menacing aura and an evil fast motion that was fuelled by a hunger for human flesh, now they are a stumbling mess. The steps they take are thudding with straight legs and arms hanging limp with heads lolling down. They keep knocking into each other, bumping away and going off course, unable to follow a straight path.

The man is still standing on top of the van. I raise my arm to him, palm up, the international signal for “…what the fuck?”

He raises two arms, palms up, the international signal for “…fuck knows.”

I step off the moped and push the stand down with my foot, leaning the bike over to rest in situ, engine still running and ready to go.

I take a couple of steps towards the mass crowd of undead, watching them move and shuffle. I can hear low groans, guttural growls and long, drawn out moaning noises. What’s happened? Why have they changed? Just a few moments ago they were frenzied and savage.

The crowd is still too thick to attempt a rescue; there are hundreds of them. About half are now turned in my direction, the rest are still surrounding the van.

I go back to the moped and press the horn, a feeble warble sounds out, but I keep my finger pressed down on the button. This appears to focus the direction and they shuffle towards me. More of the undead further in the crowd turn away from the van and also start towards me, but there is no change in their speed or pace.

I keep pressing the horn and twist the accelerator grip, thinking that I will rev the engine – but I forget that the moped has no gears and is a twist and go model.

The moped shoots forward and pulls me along, and, in my panic, I twist more and the moped pulls away faster; the kick stand banging into the road surface and propelling the moped off to the right. I slip and fall over; the moped veers off for a short distance and then crashes into a parked car with a loud bang. I hear the tinkling of glass as the headlamp is smashed. The moped comes to rest, engine spluttering and then dies out.

I get to my feet and look back at the crowd and I see the man standing, with one of his hands over his forehead, his head slumped down. I feel embarrassed.

I run over to the moped and lift it up again. It starts first time and I wheel it back into the road.

Pressing the horn again, I wait until they get closer.

There is one undead out front, he must have been a late arrival to the party. This undead is a young man, maybe twenty years old, still in his designer jeans, tee-shirt - muscles showing from his tight top - hair gelled up in the middle in that messy on purpose style that I hate. At least his face has improved: a massive, ragged hole where his pouty sneer would have been. His flesh flaps and rows of teeth show through the gash in his cheek and there is blood all over the front of his once white tee-shirt and down his arms. There is also a dark stain across the crotch of his blue jeans, but it doesn’t look like blood, he must have pissed himself - which makes me feel better! I was terrified, but at least I didn’t wet myself.

I’m not much older than him, but I’ve always hated the weekend town centre crowds. Preening, strutting fuckwits. My hair sticks up and is always messy, without the need for gels and sprays.

I think back to the times when I had been out in the town at weekends; getting barged into by idiots like this who flare up with their arms puffed out and shouting: “…wot? D’yawantsomedoya…” while texting away on Facebook.

I’ve always worked, maybe it isn’t the best job, but I’ve held it down and made duty manager and I know that if I do the hated night shifts there will be a chance for promotion.

No, there was a chance for promotion… that’s gone now, it’s all gone… everything has gone.

A deep sense of sadness fills me. I’m breathing hard as I think of all my work mates, most of them were no-hopers but they were an okay bunch. We had a laugh and got on well, shared jokes and stories: wildly exaggerated accounts of women we had been with, or not, as the real case was.

The night shift was full of the rejects, the ones too daft or stupid to work during the day and there were some hard cases there too - blokes that simply couldn’t function in normal society, so they found a job that kept them away from the mainstream.

I can feel anger building up, with the thought of my mates being savaged by monstrous, preening, pretty boys like this. They were always coming into the supermarket at night, especially after the clubs had kicked out, throwing stuff about and taking the piss out of the staff.

I look up and watch the undead pretty boy come towards me, the anger is consuming me and I can feel my breathing becoming deeper and harder. He is only a few feet away now and I watch as he shuffles and groans. He is looking at me and I can see that his eyes are very bloodshot and entirely red. His skin is very pale and his mouth hangs open, with drool dripping down onto his chest.

I draw the hammer from my waistband and step forward. Then I pull my right arm far out to the side and slam the hard metal into the side of his head. He goes down and I am on him instantly, repeatedly pounding the hammer into his head, shattering his face and crushing his skull.

My arm is a piston, driving the blunt ended weapon into his head. Blood and brain matter spray up and coat me. My hands become slick and glistening; terror and rage mixing into a deadly cocktail and all reason is gone. I have bloodlust and I cannot be stopped until I have destroyed this thing beneath me.

I stand suddenly, becoming alert to my actions. What is left at my feet is not recognisable. The head is pulped, gone… destroyed.

I destroyed it. I killed it. I killed the undead… my chest heaves as I struggle for air.

A sudden movement to my right… an undead is there, lunging at me. In reflex, I swing the hammer out in a backswing and connect to the face as it leans in with teeth bared. The force drives the undead off to the side, spinning into a female zombie: a young woman wearing a nice, blue dress. She is full-figured with heaving cleavage and long brown hair, but her face is slack and her eyes are filled with blood. Spittle hangs down from her once pretty mouth.

She staggers toward me, leaning forward from the waist, head straining from the neck, lips now pulled back - ready for the bite. I feel repulsed and step backwards; the mantra in my head: “You never hit a woman”.

I move further away and keep staring at the woman, she appears uninjured; no bite marks or blood on her - until I see the blood stains down her bare legs; a chunk of muscle in her right thigh has been gnawed away.

To my left, another young male is coming at me. This one is tattooed all over his arms and on his neck. I lash out, smacking the hammer into the side of his face and he goes down. He keeps moving though and rolls onto his back, then sits up and gets back to his feet. As he raises up, I strike him again, harder, and I see his head snap to one side with a sickening crunch and he goes down again.

Within seconds, he is on his back, sitting up. I spin the hammer round, so that the claw end is now the weapon and I step forward, driving it down into the top of his skull, cleaving through the bone. The force I use pushes the claw into his skull too hard and it sticks. I try pulling it out, but all I do is pull him towards me.

I put my foot onto his chest and pull harder and the strength of my pull forces his body into my foot. I stagger backwards and fall down; the hammer is left sticking out the top of his head.

I get to my feet and realise how close the crowd are now, another minute or so and I will be overwhelmed. Their density is blocking my view of the van.

I move backwards, no weapon now. I remember the bag on my back and I reach my hand down behind my head, groping about, but I can’t feel the knife handle that I left there. I pull the bag from my shoulders, as I keep moving in reverse.

Every one of them is staring directly at me; hundreds of undead all coming for me - watching me. Long drawn out groans, hundreds of bloodshot eyes watching my every move… the still air filled with the sound of their shuffling feet.

I watch as the fat man from last night tramples over the pulped remains of the pretty boy and, within seconds, he is gone from my view, engulfed by the swarm.

My fingers are scrabbling for the zip to the bag’s main compartment.

I get my hand in and feel the plastic handle, and, taking hold, I pull the long kitchen knife out.

I am still moving backwards.

I look at the shiny blade, then at the mass of undead, then back to the blade. It looks puny and feeble now.

‘Fuck this,’ I mutter.

I’m off, running away. I throw the knife off to the side, then regret the action immediately. I stop and go back, grabbing the knife and I start running again.

Towards the end of the street I slow down, I have gained a couple of hundred metres from the undead.

The road has inclined very slightly and I step onto a bench to look over the crowd, I can see that the top of the armoured van is empty. The man has gone.

I scan about for a few seconds, but I can’t see him; there is just a mass of undead on a slow march - a zombie protest - through the town.

I keep moving and, after a few minutes, I see a mountain bike propped up against a wall with no lock. I grab the bike and start pedalling, faster now, and, within minutes, I am out of the High Street and onto  the main road.

My parents live back the other way, but I will go on the main road and cycle back the long way.

I check behind me. There is nothing there. It feels eerie… no people, no cars or vans.

I know it’s still very early in the morning but there would normally be delivery trucks, milkmen, commuters; all slowing emerging as the day wakes up. Now there is nothing, it’s so quiet, then one of the pedals squeaks annoyingly and it sounds too loud in the still air.

I haven’t cycled in a long time and it doesn’t take long before my thigh muscles are hurting.

I neglected exercise for too long, working all night then sleeping in the day. I have been eating crappy food and drinking too many beers in front of the television. I’m paying for it now. I feel exhausted and drained and I slow down, unable to keep a decent pace.

My parents’ house is a fifteen-minute drive away from mine. As I don’t have a car, my Dad would pick me up or I would get the bus.

How long will it take to cycle to them?

I try to work it out: a car going at about 30 mph would take 15 minutes, so if I cycle at 15 mph it would take me half an hour.

I have no idea what speed I am doing, but it must be at least 15 mph.

I try to remember what speed normal walking pace is.

I’m sure it was on TV once… I think it was 4 or 5 mph, and I reckon I am going much faster than walking pace.

My arse hurts and my legs are on fire; feeling weird and pumped up. I could take the side streets or the motorway… yes, the motorway will be much quicker.

I cycle down the junction and onto the motorway.

It is still early but very warm and the sweat is pouring from my face. I hold the bike steady with one hand, while I pull the bottom of my tee-shirt up and start wiping the stinging sweat from my eyes and face.

I am in the outside lane, keeping clear of the sides, in case anything comes out at me.

A noise from behind…a car engine, loud and fast. I drop my hand, look back over my left shoulder, and see a red car coming up behind me, the engine screaming out into the quiet air. I immediately put my hand up and start waving; the car is in same lane as me.

I start to move over, towards the middle, but the car does the same - it’s coming too fast and I pedal hard to get over to the left side. The car passes me, going very fast, and I catch a glimpse of a woman driving.

As the vehicle pulls ahead of me I see someone in the back seat, but it looks weird, like the passenger is sitting up and leaning forward to speak to the driver.

The car suddenly veers off to the left and strikes the safety barrier with a loud crash, as the front of the car impacts the back and spins round; the momentum causing the vehicle to flip over,  bouncing high at first and then rolling, until it comes to rest on its roof.

There are bits flying off into the sky; a wheel is sheered off and bounces across the road, hitting the central barrier and rolling away.  The noise is terrible. Then I hear a loud bang as the car impacts on the tarmac as it flips over. Then the vehicle comes to rest and all is instantly quiet again, apart from the squeaking of my pedal as I cycle faster towards the wreck.

The car was going so fast that it covered a lot of ground in those few seconds, and it takes me a while to reach it.

I am cycling as hard as I can, the wind is blowing into my face and flapping the sleeves of my tee-shirt.

The car looks destroyed, the front end is crumpled in and the remaining front wheel looks buckled. The windows have shattered into thousands of tiny pieces that are now glittering on the road.

There is a foul odour of burning rubber, mixed with chemicals and I can smell petrol too. There are liquids coming out of the front of the car and pooling on the ground.

As I give a final burst of speed - with my arse off the saddle - I hear a loud crunch and feel a sensation through my feet; the bike shudders and vibrates, then there is suddenly no resistance against my feet on the pedals - the chain has snapped and come free.

The pedals don’t have to drive the cogs now and the sudden free movement causes me to lose control. I am only a few feet away and heading straight towards the car. I apply the brakes and steer to the right, to avoid hitting the car, the bike hits some of the liquid and the back tyre loses grip, causing me to fall off and slide a couple of feet on my back.

I lay there stunned for a second… how is it possible that I can almost cycle into the only stationary vehicle on three lanes of motorway?

I hear noises behind me, coming from the car, and I get to my feet, moving towards it.

The vehicle is upside down, with the windows low against the ground - the roof of the car has been flattened down and I can see that the doors are buckled.

I crouch down and can hear more movement from inside.

A slender female arm thrusts out and I jump back, thinking of the undead, but then I hear a voice. It is quiet and strained: ‘Help.’

I call out and lower myself down to look inside. I can see a tangle of blond hair, and a hand that is opening and closing, then the fingers flex.

‘Please help.’

‘Are you okay?’ I answer.

This is perhaps the most ridiculous thing anyone can say, given the circumstances; she is clearly not okay.

I take a chance and reach out to her hand, and, as soon as we touch, she grasps my fingers and her head lifts up. I can see a normal face, no bloodshot eyes or drooling spittle - her hair is a bit messy, but I put that down to the horrific accident she has just been in.

I think back to my First Aid training… she might have suffered a neck or spinal injury, so moving her could be more dangerous than leaving her, but I have no phone, so cannot call for an ambulance - I strongly doubt there are any ambulances anyway. There is no choice… there won’t be any help coming.

‘I’m going to try and pull you out,’ I say to her.

‘Okay,’ she says, her voice strained and weak.

I take hold of her wrist with both hands and start to pull. I worry about hurting her and don’t pull hard enough. I try again and she starts to move. As I pull her out a little she shifts position and pushes her other arm out too. I take one wrist in each hand and pull, she is surprisingly light and her upper body is soon clear. I cannot see any blood on her white blouse.

As her upper body is pulled free of the car she gives a piercing scream.

I immediately let go of her arms.

Her legs must be trapped…  I imagine a shard of metal gouging into her leg as I was pulling her.

‘I’m so… so… sorry, hang on, let me look,’ I say to her.

She screams again and is thrashing her arms and upper body. I drop down quickly and try to see inside, I have to go down on my stomach and the broken glass crunches underneath me. I wriggle close to the car, until we are lying next to each other.

Looking inside, there is a man laying down the middle of the car, his body wedged between the gaps of the front seats, his legs in the back of the car. One of his legs is bent at the wrong angle; the knee joint clearly shattered. An arm has been shorn off, leaving a bloody stump at the shoulder.

One of the woman’s legs is underneath the dashboard area, where the pedals are. The airbag has deployed and is now sagging down from the steering wheel. The woman’s other leg is across the passenger seat with the man’s head resting on it and I watch as he opens his jaw wide and takes a massive bite into her calf muscle. His face is already covered in fresh, wet blood from the bites he has previously taken and I can see the wounds in her shredded skin. He is moving his face from side to side, like he is eating a melon.

I wriggle backwards and get to my feet. I take hold of her wrists again and pull hard, she comes out of the car and I keep pulling her, until we are a few metres clear.

She is screaming loudly and, as soon as I let go of her wrists, she bends over on her side and grabs her injured leg.

‘My leg! Fuck! It hurts! Oh… fuck! It hurts!’ she screams, in agony.

I look down at her leg, the blood is pouring out from the wound. It looks deep, the bite must be down to the bone, her legs are very slender and the muscle is well defined. I need to stop the bleeding, but I don’t have any bandages. I take the belt off of my jeans and start to wrap it round her thigh.

‘We need to stop the bleeding,’ I say to her. ‘I’m going to pull this tight. It might hurt.’

I thread the belt through the clasp and draw the material tight against her skin, then pull harder and I can see the skin next to the belt going white.

I pull hard and try to hold it in place. but the wound is still pumping blood out; a large pool forming around us. It must be in the wrong place and I loosen the belt and push it higher up her thigh. She is wearing a short, black skirt and I push it up so I can try the belt again. Stupidly, I feel very awkward, this woman is very attractive and it feels wrong to be pushing her skirt up and feeling her thighs, so I apologise to her.

‘It’s okay, don’t worry, please just stop the bleeding. I’m bleeding too much, there’s so much blood,’ she says, in a remarkably, calm voice.

I pull the belt tight and I can see that it hurts her.

‘I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,’ I keep apologising.

‘Just pull it tight and keep going,’ she speaks through gritted teeth, her face going red.

I pull hard, but there is no change and the blood keeps coming. She is on her side, looking down at her leg.

‘Bloody pull it then,’ she growls at me.

I wrench with all of my strength, the belt has gone round her leg and through a metal hoop and I am pulling it back on itself, the metal hoop digging into her thigh.

I sit down and push my feet against her thigh, so that I can gain leverage.

She screams, and the blood flow eases, but I can’t tie the belt off and I can’t hold it like this for long; the belt is too tight against her leg to push the end through.

I wrap the long end back round her leg again. There is a double layer now and I try to force the outer length under the first one.

I am still pulling to keep the belt from loosening, and it takes a while to slowly work the material under to keep it tight.

She has gone quiet and I think she must be gritting her teeth. I slowly ease my grip and the belt holds in place, she is still bleeding but it has slowed considerably.

‘I’ve done it,’ I say hoarsely.

I’m breathing hard from the effort.

No response and I look up to her face, she is still and her eyes are closed, the redness has gone from her face. She looks asleep.

‘Hey, hey… wake up!’ I tap her on the shoulder, but get no response.

I gently slap the side of her face, just enough to try and wake her. Still no response. I lower my head, so that my ear is next to her mouth and I can feel very soft breath on my cheek.

A groan behind me… the undead male is trying to crawl out of the car, his head is out and he is wriggling and clawing along, stretching his remaining arm out towards the prone woman. It takes me a couple of steps and I am at the car. I drive my right foot down onto his head. It feels solid and I feel the jolt go up through my leg. My left hand is holding the car for balance and I am stamping down harder and harder. I aim for the neck and, within a couple of blows, I feel a crack under my foot.

The undead is instantly limp and lifeless.

I hobble over to the woman and drop down at her side. I then lower my ear again but I cannot feel the soft breathing anymore.

‘Wake up, come on, please wake up,’ I am pleading, I put my fingers to her throat, feeling for a pulse, but there is nothing.

I try her wrist and then back to her neck… no sign of life. I lift her eyelids; I don’t know what I am looking for, but they always do this in the movies… it must be the pupils, to see if they dilate. There is no movement, just blank eyes.

In desperation, I lower the side of my head to her chest, trying to hear a heartbeat. I stay for a few seconds, attempting to calm my breathing, so that I can listen properly.

Her hands suddenly reach round and grab me, pulling my head into her chest. Her breasts are squished into the side of my face. She is gripping so tight and I can feel her trying to rise up, while trying to pull me down; the equal force preventing her from lifting herself.

I try to pull away, but her grip is so strong; a hand on the back of my head and nails digging into my scalp, clawing at me. I can’t get leverage, my left arm is now underneath her, my right arm beating at her. I use my right hand to try and prise her fingers from the back of my head but they are so strong and I can’t move them.

I can hardly breathe as her breasts push into my mouth and cover my nose; she has rolled onto her side and is trying to curl round.

I use my left hand and grope about, until I feel her hair. I take a handful of hair and jerk her head back, but I pull so hard that her head is snapped back and she instantly straightens and arches her back. I manage to pull back and extract my head from under her vice-like grip. I get my head free and look at her, her eyes are open, completely bloodshot; the whites replaced with red. Her lips are pulled back and her perfect white teeth are exposed. She rolls over towards me and I jerk backwards, trying to keep out of her reach.

‘Fucking bitch… you fucking bitch,’ I shout out, in sudden anger and fear.

I get to my feet and kick her in the face. She is still writhing and I do it again; pulling back like a footballer, ramming my foot into her nose. I feel the bone crunch and her head snaps back, I do it again and her head is snapped to the side at an unnatural angle - and yet she carries on.

I stagger away with my hands to my head, deeply in shock and feeling sick that I lashed out like that, kicking a woman in the face.

She spoke to me and we shared something, maybe only a few seconds in time but we shared a connection; two living people.

We have hundreds, sometimes thousands of interactions every day; we speak to people without thinking anything of it. But after everything that’s happened since last night and seeing the undead kill people and watch them turn, then seeing the car crash and getting to her while she was alive… another human being that needed help. She was alive and spoke to me and I failed, I failed to rescue her.

If I hadn’t fallen off that bike, if I had got up quicker and moved faster. If I had pulled hard enough the first time, I may have saved her, but I didn’t do those things and she died.

It’s my fault. She looked at me, spoke to me, we made eye contact and I told her that I would help her.

The sickening action of kicking her replays in my mind - the image of my foot connecting with her face.

This is awful, the most awful thing I have ever done.

Every previous sin can be forgiven and forgotten. Every previous bad act I have perpetrated is erased. Nothing will ever be the same again from this point on.

I tried to save her and I failed but then she came back and was attacking me; the strength in her hands and arms was incredible. She turned and became undead, and I had to stop her… didn’t I?

I justify the action to myself… if I didn’t kill her, she could have got me or someone else.

I have to change this thought process. She was not a she when I kicked her, she was an undead.

They are all undead.

The woman from earlier on was not a young lady out for the evening, getting excited about wearing her new low-cut, blue dress. She was not a she. It was an undead.

They all are.

The quicker I get that into my head, the safer I will be and the greater chance for survival I will have.

They are all the undead.

I lower my hands from my head; resolute, changed and hardened. I have killed to survive and I will do it again - if I have to.

I admit there was a part of me that enjoyed the first kill with the hammer. No, not enjoyed, that isn’t right, something else. Something primeval. An instinct buried and softened by modern society; this sickens me but, at the same time, it provides comfort and I walk away without looking back.

After half an hour I am still on the motorway, the fields and trees off to both sides slowly giving way as we pass a village.

I haven’t seen or heard anyone, the adrenalin has fully worn off and I feel totally and utterly drained.

At walking pace it will take me ages to reach my parents house. There is nothing on the motorway that I can use, I should go into the village and find a vehicle.

I can’t see a junction anywhere or a turn off, I’m sure that the next junction is miles up the road, near my parent’s village.

I walk over to the side of the road and clamber over the crash barrier, then down a ditch and across into a field. There is a barbed wire fence in a bad state of repair; it is held in place by wooden posts. A few kicks at one of the posts brings it down, the wire sagging lower, and I can step over safely.

I walk across the field and the uneven ground is hard, after the smooth surface of the motorway. The field looks to be pasture; I think that’s what they call it… the type of land that animals graze on. I realise that I have no idea what different types of land there are, or what different crops look like, or even if they can be eaten or not. I work in a supermarket, selling produce all day. We get training on certain things so that we can sound convincing to the customer and increase sales, but I can’t remember anything useful.

The field borders a lane, which I follow into the village. The first few houses are detached and large, but gradually they get closer together, until a pavement starts running down both sides.

I reach a junction and realise this is the village centre, I have been here a few times before, when the motorway has been closed off, or my Dad wanted to take the scenic route. I remember that there is a

garage workshop at the end of the main road, so there should be cars there in for repair; the keys will be with them.

I move off, keeping to the middle of the road and looking all around me as I walk. I can see some of the houses have open front doors, which is very creepy.

I am looking left and right and fail to see the massive blood stains on the pavement and road until I am walking through it. The road surface is dark, which makes it harder to see the wet and sticky blood.

There is a large stain, like someone was brought down here and bled out. There is too much blood to have just been from one person, but then the human body has something like eight pints of blood in it. I try to imagine what eight pints poured onto the floor would look like. The blood stains go on for a few metres.

There was action here and recently too, the blood is hardly dry. A white UPVC door has bright red hand prints up high, smearing down into a large blood stain at the bottom of the doorway.

This was a mistake. I should have stayed on the motorway.

Up ahead and off to my right is a small selection of shops. I know there is a café here that used to serve really nice cream cakes, and there was a newsagent too.

The shops on the right are opposite a small, village square, and that is where we used to park to visit the cake shop.

I can’t see the square yet, but, as I get closer, I get a feeling of impending doom, and, as the row of houses on the left end give way to the square, I start to see people standing about.

As I get closer, I correct myself. They are not people.

They are undead.

Lots of undead.

I stand completely still. There must be thirty or forty of them dressed in differing styles of night wear: pyjamas; nighties; pants; knickers and bras - some are naked. All of them are covered in blood.

I can’t understand why they are all here, standing in the village square. Maybe they are drawn here, by a type of zombie intelligence.

I slowly back away, one step at a time, watching for any sign that they have seen me.

Behind me, I hear glass bottles being knocked and shattering. I spin round and see an undead male coming out of a doorway, kicking the milk bottles with his feet, making them spin them off to shatter on the road. This one is only a few doors down from me, if I move quickly I could get past him, but another of the undead comes out of the house opposite, staggering into the road, heading my way.

They are on equal sides of the pavement now; almost like they had planned the ambush. The village square undead have sparked up - hearing the glass shatter, they have all turned towards me.

‘Shit, shit,’ I murmur quietly.

They are slow moving, shambling with their stiff-legged walk.

The village square undead are spilling out onto the road, heading my way.

I turn and start back, thinking that I can still make it through the middle of the two behind me, but there are more now, emerging from houses further down the road. The road is not wide enough to get through safely.

The newsagent’s is just a bit further up. I bloody hope it’s open. I run for it, passing the butcher’s window and the nice cake shop. I turn and head towards the butcher’s, thinking of the massive knives and cleavers they would have. The door is locked and too solid to force quickly. I run on towards the newsagent’s.

They are across the road, ahead of me, coming from my left, slow moving and I pass them by a few metres as I reach the shop. The door is closed and I push hard, it’s locked.

‘Shit.’

I look down and see the word “PULL” on the door. I yank the door and thankfully it opens. I close the old, wooden door behind me. I then put the lock in place and look for bolts, but there are none, instead there are two metal hooks meant to hold a bar - but I can’t see the bar anywhere.

I move away from the door, as the undead get to the other side, banging into the glass pane of the door and I can hear the groaning.

The shelves are full of chocolate bars and sweets, which make me realise how hungry and thirsty I am. I grab a can of Red Bull from the chiller cabinet and start drinking. The sickly, sweet drink is too fizzy to drink quickly and I belch loudly.

I open my rucksack and start shoving chocolate bars inside. The knife is still there and I take it out; it still looks small and puny but it makes me feel better by holding it. I fill the bag with bars and some bottles of water.

Behind the counter is the cigarette display - all of the supermarkets have been fitted with sliding metal doors now, in a vain attempt by the government to hide cigarettes away. Smaller shops are not covered by the same laws and can still show their wares.

I did give up smoking but hey, I’m surrounded by the undead in a strange shop; my home is destroyed and civilisation has fallen. Fuck it, time for a smoke.

I take some Drum tobacco and green papers. Tailor made cigarettes are too expensive, so I switched to tobacco sometime ago; there was nearly always someone selling duty free tobacco from their holidays. After smoking roll ups for so long, I couldn’t go back to normal smokes, the taste is disgusting.

I open the packet and roll a smoke, my hands shake a little, but it’s quickly done and I use a lighter from a display pack on the counter.

I inhale deeply, and, within seconds, the nicotine has kicked in and mixed with the strong caffeine from the Red Bull. I feel light headed. Swaying a little, I put my hand to the counter and lower my head down, until my forehead is resting on the cool counter top.

After a few seconds, I pull backwards and get a view of under the counter; a baseball bat is wedged onto the shelf.

‘Thanks very much,’ I say, into the quietness of the shop.

I pull the bat out and hold it in both hands. I suppose these shops open early and could be easy targets, especially in the dark, winter mornings.

The cigarette is in my mouth and the smoke curls up and goes into my eyes, stinging them, and they water instantly. I clench my eyes shut and wait for a few seconds.

As I focus again, I see an undead standing at the back of the shop behind a bead curtain that separates the shop from the private area. It is a large built, undead male with his fat gut straining against the material of his short sleeve shirt.

There is blood all down the front of the shirt from a ragged wound in his neck. The undead moves slowly forward, pushing through the bead curtain, which rattles loudly. Drool is hanging down from its mouth and evil looking, red eyes stare straight at me.

I look about for an avenue of escape, but there is nothing. The front door is the only other way out and I can see a mass of undead standing outside, staring in and walking at the door and windows.

The undead shopkeeper shuffles forwards, his bulk fills the aisle as he heads towards the counter. I stand still and spit the cigarette away to the side, not taking my eyes off him.

As he gets closer, I watch his head roll back and forth, then to the sides. As his head moves about, he still stares directly at me. Then his head hangs down and he looks up at me; menacing and very scary.

He walks straight to the counter and I grasp the baseball bat at the base with two hands and slowly twist my upper body off to the right, raising the bat behind me, ready to strike.

We stare into each others eyes, fixed, unmoving, neither of us blinking and long seconds go by. Then his lips peel back to show yellow, uneven teeth and his mouth starts to open wide. He can just feel the bite, he can visualise sinking his dirty, yellow teeth into my flesh.

‘Piss off,’ I shout and swing hard, slamming the bat into the side of his head. An almighty swing and he goes flying off to the side, colliding with the shelving unit. His body weight crashes into the metal frame, driving it backwards, spilling chocolate bars and sweets all over the floor.

The follow through from my swing brings the bat straight into the side of the till with a thunk.

I put the bat down on the counter and pick the till up; it’s very heavy. I yank it hard to pull the cables free and then I raise it above my head and slam it down on the squirming undead who is wrestling with the shelving on the floor. The till smashes into his head and bounces off, driving in the bones of his cheeks.

I move out from the counter with the bat in my hands, step over the now dead undead and move towards the beaded curtain.

Stepping through with my bat raised, I see a small stock room and a flight of stairs going up. To the back of the stock room is a door - barred and bolted. I move over to the door and stand listening, there is a dirty, old, wired glass pane. All I can see is a small back yard and a wall a few feet away. There is no movement outside.

I pull the bolts back, tug the door open and then peer out into the yard. It has a high brick wall and a wooden gate. I go over to the gate and raise the latch… it leads out onto a small road.

The road is empty and clear on both sides.

Going left will take me towards the garage that I was originally heading for, but an idea forms in my mind and I quickly turn back.

I close the gate quietly, then head into the stock room and shut the back door, pushing the bolt into place.

I move up the stairs, with the bat raised and ready. There is a small flat upstairs: a kitchen, lounge, bathroom and two small bedrooms.

They are all clear.

I go back down and into the shop. I see four cans of lighter fluid on display behind the counter and I  take them out into the stock room where I find another six cans, and a large box of matches.

Back upstairs, the windows are of a sash type. I open the window at the front of the building and lean out.

Below me are about fifty of the zombies, all gathered at the front of the shop. I have flashbacks to last night, when I was trapped… I had tried to make a Molotov cocktail, which resulted in puking up, but I don’t intend to stick around and watch this time.

I pull the little plastic spout on the first one, up-end the can and squeeze a jet of liquid out onto the crowd below - I try to aim at their faces. They seem excited by the liquid being sprayed on them, and are still very slow moving, but I can hear more groans and noises coming from them.

It takes quite a long time to empty each can; leaning out and bending over, to prevent any spraying on me or the windowsill.

I open the box of matches and pause for a second, hardly believing what I am about to do… mass murder at any other time. I strike a match and flick it out, but it expires before it falls a few feet. I try another and the same thing happens. The third time I lean out and brace my feet, ready to pull back in quickly. I extend my arms, strike a match and quickly shove it into the open box, pushing it into the dark heads of the little sticks. The box flares instantly; a bright light and stench of sulphur. I drop the box and pull myself in, ducking down below the window.

I hear a whooshing noise as the lighter fluid ignites. I peer out, just a glimpse, before I run.

The flames are spreading quickly, leaping from undead to undead. I remember the sickening smell of burning flesh from last night and I quickly move away from the window, down the stairs and out of the back door, to the gate and out into the street.

I turn left and start running, bat in hand.

I reach the end of the street and turn left again, this takes me out onto the main road. I look back down to the shop and can see thick, black smoke and flames licking at the side of the building.

Bodies on fire… they are still standing there; like they haven’t the sense or intelligence to move away. Even the ones standing on the outside aren’t moving away. They wait at the point they last saw me; ever hopeful to find one more piece of living flesh to bite into.

The building has caught light now, flames are shooting up the side, more smoke pluming into the air. There is an undead female moving across the square, heading towards the flames, and another undead behind her.

Further on, past the fire, I can see the undead moving up the street, heading towards the blaze.

They are like insects at night; drawn to light. I don’t know if it’s the action, the movement, the fire or just the crowd of other undead that draws them.

I move away and head towards the garage.

Last night I watched as they massed at the front of my house and behind my front door. But then I was screaming abuse at them from my window, alerting them to my presence. Then the armoured van went past, the horn sounding repeatedly. Was it the noise of the horn that pulled them away or the already huge stream of undead in its wake?

The thoughts give me hope.

Maybe I can carry something that will distract them with movement or noise; something I can throw if I get cornered or trapped. There are plenty of children’s toys that bounce about with loud noises and flashing lights. I should have kept a can of lighter fluid and matches… I could set one of them on fire, which will draw others to it while I get away.

I need supplies and weapons.

The bat is good; it’s longer than the hammer and means I can keep them away from me.

A gun would be perfect, but I have no idea where to find one, the only guns in Britain are shotguns, even a double barrelled shotgun only gives two shots at a time, but a shotgun is also long and heavy - like a bat.

I think of the movies and news reports, of robbers using sawn off shotguns. That would make them smaller and lighter to carry, but reduces their secondary use as a blunt instrument or a ranged weapon.

The police have guns, you see them quite a lot these days, armed police with pistols on their belts. They keep the bigger guns locked in armoured boxes in the car. I guess there must be armouries in the police stations.

That gives me another thought… maybe the police are holed up in their stations? If they have weapons and strong buildings they could remain safely inside. Boroughfare has a police station in the town centre - I should have gone there first.

Ridiculously, I wonder if they would arrest me if I was armed with a gun.

The garage is detached, a sprawling collection of buildings, workshops and lock ups.

To either side of it is wasteland. There are old wrecks and pieces of machinery rusting in the grounds. Big ,double, wooden doors face out onto a hard standing; oil stains on the ground. There is a single fuel pump in the middle, hardly used as the price is always so much cheaper at the supermarkets.

There are two cars on the front, an old Vauxhall Cavalier on a jack; the drivers side wheel is missing. The other one is a silver Nissan Micra.

I move slowly over to the Micra, the bat is held in my right hand, out to the side. The car is locked. I walk over to the reception door, which is also locked. I then look through the window: no sign of movement and the lights are off. I start walking around the edge of the building, looking for an easy entry point.

I hope the Micra is in for a service and not a repair. There might be other cars inside that I can use.

Round the back, there are more doors, old wooden ones with no windows, the few glass panes are filthy and barely offer a glimpse inside.

I could force one of the doors open, but I worry about the noise that this will make.

At the front again, I check the double doors, but they are flush together and well secured. The reception door is the best option as the top half is a large glass pane.

I stand listening for a few seconds.

I will have to be quick, smash the glass, get inside and find the keys - then get out and go.

I pull the bat back and swing at the glass pane in the door. The glass is toughened and fractures, but stays in place. Another swing and the bat smashes a hole in the glass, but the pane remains in place.

The glass is designed to withstand impact and not shatter into pieces. I keep hitting the glass, smashing holes and forcing the bat around to create a hole big enough to climb through. The noise is too much and it’s taking ages to clear the glass, but I keep going; hitting and moving the bat around in circles.

The hole is big enough to lean my head through and I check to see if I can unlock the door from the inside.  No good, I look about to check for movement. I can see thick, black smoke in the sky above the village - the fire must have caught on the buildings.

I keep smacking the glass away, until I have cleared a hole big enough to get through.

I slip my bag off and put it through the hole, then I push the bat through. I climb in, which is harder than I thought it would be, as the bottom ledge is too high to step over and I don’t want to enter head first. I have to hop my leg in and straddle the bottom of the frame, then shift my weight over to draw my remaining leg in. Within seconds, a loud alarm is sounding, and, looking up, I see a motion sensor attached to the wall.

I grab my bag and the bat, look about, and see a small sales counter for fuel payment; packaged wiper blades, oils and lubricants are on display.

I go behind the counter… but there are no keys. I check drawers and cupboards – again, nothing.

A door leads into the workshop area and I go through. It’s very dark as the grimy windows are not letting much light in.

I notice light switches on the wall and flick all of them, watching expectantly as fluorescent strip’s blinker on slowly.

There are three clear work bays: one has a car jacked up high enough to walk under, the other two are clear. Tool drawers and various machinery are positioned around the outside. There are shiny red sets of sliding metal trays with cool logos on them - everything seems to have a “snap on” sticker on it.

There is a small, metal key cupboard on the wall, but the door is locked.

I search and find a large, flat-headed screwdriver. Taking this back, I force the end into the gap between the metal door and the frame. I lever back and the door is forced open.

Inside are a few rows of hooks, with various keys hanging down and two sets of car keys on fobs. One of them has the Nissan logo on a metal clasp. I take the keys and head back into reception; the ceaseless, wailing alarm feels like it’s penetrating my skull.

An adult female undead is leaning through the door, groaning and trying to walk forward... her head and shoulders are through the hole.

I use the bat and strike downwards on her head. The undead bends over the frame and I quickly swing upwards and she goes flying back out of the door and keels over.

I look out of the smashed window; she is lying with her feet by the door and her body stretching away.

Her head is at an unnatural angle; the neck broken with either the force of the blow or the impact from hitting the ground.

I start to clamber through and my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again. I step down on the leg of the undead, which makes it easier to get out. I move away quickly, in case she gets back up.

The Micra keys do not have a clicker; it’s an old car and I have to put the key in the door. I put my bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. Soon the car is in gear and shoots forward and… stalls.

Shows how long it’s been since I last drove a car.

I try again, keeping my foot down on the clutch.

The car starts and I pull away. The seat is too far forward and I feel for the handle underneath me and push it back.

I drive away from the village, heading in the direction of my parents’ house. In the rear view mirror, I can see plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.

The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. There is no one to put the blaze out. No police will cordon off the area. No ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.

It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.

I have an uneventful drive to my parent’s village.

The car radio has buttons for preset radio stations. I press through all of them but hear nothing – only silence and the odd burst of static.

Don’t they have emergency broadcasts telling people to stay in their homes or wait for further instruction?

I use the tuner, going through the frequencies.

The radio locks onto any signal being broadcast, and, after a few minutes, the car is filled with the sound of a man speaking in calm and measured tones.

He repeats a message, over and over:

“There are survivors, you are not alone.

Do not come to London, we are completely infested.

I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.

If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.

Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.

Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”

I keep listening to the deep voice which I find calming and re-assuring.

There is no sign of panic or distress in the clipped English accent.

I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of a well-kept older man; groomed and sophisticated.

I think of the Forts on the south, they are known as Palmerston’s Follies.

They were constructed in the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There are many of them along the coast: old style batteries that were used for huge cannon and mortar placements. They were positioned to repel ships but also built to withstand land forces. Some of them have fallen to ruin, but most have been preserved by historical societies. They are all surrounded by high walls and have underground rooms connected by tunnels. I have seen them many times but never paid much attention; they are just a part of the landscape, a forgotten history.

The most famous are the three or four big, round bastions in The Solent; the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering - used now as private hotels or left to decay.

I start to form a plan in my head.

If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the Forts and then try to find my sister. She lives in a posh apartment block, with secure entry.

It was Friday evening, yesterday, when it started, so she would most likely be out at a wine bar or social function – networking, as she calls it.

The message on the radio said that London was infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.

There is a small gathering of undead outside the shop near my parent’s house.

Unlike the previous village, this shop is on the main through-road and it’s a modern, large, convenience store - more like a mini-supermarket.

I slow down as I drive past, scared that I will see my Dad amongst them.

No sign of him, but they are standing outside the shop, peering in.

As I go past, I see movement from within the shop - there are people inside. The windows have posters and signs up and I can’t see them clearly, but someone is waving at me and I catch a glimpse of another person standing with them.

My Dad could be inside! He might have gone there for his newspaper and become trapped with some other survivors.

I think about going straight to their house, but if he is inside I could be too late if I have to come back.

I slow the car and look back; there are five undead, all adults.

One of them looks like a delivery driver, wearing matching blue trousers and jacket, another is very old - even from here I can see his hunched over thin frame and wispy grey hair, he is only wearing baggy shorts and a white vest, the shorts are pulled up high and the vest is tucked in.

There are two undead women, late middle-aged, both dressed in sensible trousers and shoes and sleeveless jackets with pastel coloured shirts. They look like they were dog walkers: early to bed and early to rise, clean living with dogs that are always perfectly behaved and expertly trained.

The last undead is a young male, he is dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt.

I watch them move; slow and shuffling, facing into the shop. They are trying to walk ahead and are pressing their bodies against the door and windows, banging into each other.

I look about, but I can’t see any more undead anywhere. If I am going to do this I have to be quick, the noise and movement might attract more and I don’t want to end up trapped inside too.

I leave the car in the road, engine running and door open. I take the bat and leave my bag. Then I go back and close the door; in my mind is an image of an undead sitting on the backseat, waiting for me.

As I slam the door, the old male undead turns round and watches me; he starts shuffling towards me straight away. Within seconds, they are all turned and moving towards me - like an unspoken message has passed between them.

I think about getting back in the car and leaving the people inside the shop to their fate, but I would never forgive myself if I did that.

The undead are still moving slowly and again I think about last night and how different they are now; arms hanging down limp at their sides, heads lolling about, walking with straight legs - which accentuates the movement of their upper bodies.

I need to separate them, they are too close together for me to risk attacking them, even with the range of the baseball bat, it would only take one of them to lunge quickly and I could get bitten.

I look at the area… the pavement has obstacles: a bike rack, litter bins and post box. There is a high step down from the pavement to the road, these are things which will impede my movements and could cause me to trip or fall.

But the road is wide and clear, with no obstructions.

I move off to my right, luring them into clear ground. I’m choosing my battle ground, selecting where to fight and it feels strange. There is almost a sense of excitement, a weird feeling, like just before the roller coaster moves off. I am  scared, yet excited.

The old man is nearest; he saw me first and has the head start. I thought his old age would make him slower and the others would go past him, but they move at roughly the same speed. It appears the undead are not hampered by age or infirmity.

Watching the old man come towards me, makes me uneasy - he looks very old and frail and there is a large wound on the top of his right shoulder where the flesh has been bitten away. There is blood all down his front; it is also smeared up his neck and on the side of his face.

I’m getting the same feeling as I had when the undead girl in the blue dress was in front of me, attacking a woman or the elderly seems wrong.

Then I remember how I felt after the motorway, when that undead woman tried to bite me – I had tried to help her, but she didn’t care.

They are undead.

They are all undead.

I raise the bat up, poised and ready - and wait for him to come.

He is a few metres in front of the others; red eyed with saliva hanging down from his mouth.

I look again and can see that he has no teeth, just gums. He is pulling his lips back and baring his gummy mouth. I almost laugh out loud… how can he bite anyone? Will he just suck on them… like a love bite? He should be carrying a blender to make flesh soup. I almost feel sorry for him and then I see his long fingernails, his old hands look like claws, the strength of that woman at the car was incredible and he probably has the same strength too. His fingernails look like they could rip flesh open. The infection could still be passed.

The humour is gone.

Fuck him, he is undead.

I step forward and swing the bat hard into the side of his head and he goes spinning off to my left.

I move to the right, going round the side of the small group of undead. They all turn to follow me. I move back to the left and they all turn again. I move right and, again, they all move as one; synchronised zombies.

I move backwards until they are in the middle of the road, then I run round the back of them. They shuffle round to follow me but they are too uncoordinated and bump into each other.

The delivery driver is on the outside.

I dart forward and strike him on his shoulder, he spins into the two dog-walking women, knocking them away and creating space between them.

As the delivery driver goes down onto one of the women, loud moans come from them, as they both try to get up at the same time, working against each other.

The old man is still down; the young man is closest now.

I step out, so that I am facing his left side and, before he can turn, I smash the bat into his face. His nose explodes and I hear the crunch of bones above the impact of the bat. He stumbles backwards and falls onto his arse. I hit again and he goes down onto the ground, but stills moves and is instantly trying to rise up. I go behind him, so that his head is just in front of me. I then bend over and strike to the side of his head like a golf swing; the impact is hard and his body is jerked round with the force.

The delivery driver and woman are separated and are trying to get up, the other dog-walking woman is coming at me, lips pulled back, showing her already yellowing teeth.

I aim an uppercut swing to her chin, but miss and I almost fall into her. My body slams into her and I drop my shoulder to force her backwards, and, straight away, her arms come up to grab at me and she grips my left arm; her fingers like a vice, jabbing into my elbow.

I use the end of the bat to hit the side of her head, but we are too close and I cannot generate enough force. I keep hitting to prevent her from getting her teeth into me. I try to pull my arm away but she is gripping too hard. I move backwards, forcing her to stumble after me.

Her grip is so strong. I try to wrench my arm away, but she holds it tight. I keep smacking the bat into the side of her head and my feet hit the old man on the ground. I step away and force the woman to walk into him, tripping her up. She stumbles forward and goes down, but the force of her grip pulls me down too.

The delivery driver is at my right; I swing out and strike at his chest. I’m half bent down and having to swing up and out to the right. The blow knocks him back, but he stays on his feet and comes back at me. I hit down again at the woman and drive her down again; she is still gripping my arm.

I swing out and, once more, knock the delivery driver backwards. I shuffle the bat out, so that I am holding the end, then pull back and swing down as hard as I can into the back of her head, then I put my foot onto her arm and pull myself free.

Moving away quickly, I smash the delivery driver in the face and he goes down. I hit him again and again, driving the bat into his skull; the blunt trauma beats his head in.

The tripped woman is rising now and I drive the bat into the back of her head, forcing her down; she lies still, on top of the old man.

There is only one woman left and I am breathing hard, but I am focussed. I look up just as a young Asian man comes up behind the woman and hits her in the head with a cricket bat, knocking her forward, towards me and I quickly swing out and send her back at him. He is ready and hits her from behind and again she staggers forward.

We both step in and strike at her and she goes down from our repeated blows.

Her head is destroyed; the skull imploding under the blows: brain matter, blood and tissue bursting out over our feet.

I stop hitting and step back, looking around to make sure they are all down, then I look at the young man still hitting at her with the cricket bat.

‘I…  I think she is finished, mate,’ I say to him.

He stops and steps backwards, holding the bat with both hands down at his front, blood all over his shiny, white trainers. He looks young, no more than fifteen years old; he is dark-skinned with black, gelled hair; Indian or Pakistani, maybe Sri Lankan.

Behind him, the shop door opens and an older woman comes running out, angrily yelling at the boy.

‘What did you do that for? I told you to stay inside!’

The boy just stares down at the mangled body beneath him, he doesn’t react as his mother stands next to him shouting. She gets no sign that he is listening and tries to pull the bat away from him. Feeling that motion, he becomes alert and steps away from her, pulling the bat from her grasp.

‘He was trying to help us, we couldn’t just leave him on his own, he could have been killed,’ his tone is angered and high pitched, showing his age.

‘No, you could have been killed, you foolish boy and don’t talk back to me… don’t you ever talk back to me!’ she shouts back at him.

She switches into a language that I cannot understand, speaking quicker to the boy. He finally hangs his head and starts back towards the shop. The woman stays and looks at me, and when she speaks, her tone is polite:

‘Thank you for what you did. I am sorry for my son, he is young and foolish.’

She looks about at the bodies, the blood stains on the road, the woman’s brains beaten out of her head - but she shows no emotion or reaction.

‘You don’t have to be sorry… he was just trying to help, he was very brave to do that - you really shouldn’t be angry at him,’ I say to her.

‘Please do not tell me what I should or should not do with my son,’ she snaps back.

‘Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I can’t believe what’s happened, or rather, what’s happening, this is… just so… ‘ My voice trails off.

‘Have you seen more of them? We tried calling the police but we cannot get through. 999 is not working. We cannot get hold of anyone.’

‘They are everywhere. I’m from Boroughfare and the whole town is gone. I went through Littleton on the way here, that’s gone too.’

‘Oh… oh, my,’ she puts her hand to her cheek.

‘I was watching the news on television last night, it’s all over Europe,’ I say, gently.

Her mouth hangs open, the shock is visible on her face. She stays silent.

‘I’m err… looking for my Dad, Howard. He comes down every morning for a newspaper, have you seen him?’

She stays silent for a few seconds.

‘I’m sorry, what… what did you say?’ she looks back at me, with a confused expression.

‘My Dad… Howard? He comes down every morning for a newspaper, have you seen him today?’ I repeat.

‘Oh, Howard! Yes, we know Howard, always so polite. No, we have not seen him, there is just my family - my son and daughter and me, of course.’

‘Is your husband not with you?’

‘No, he is visiting family at home.’ Her voice becomes very soft.

‘I’m sure he is okay, maybe it is just Europe that’s affected, if he is somewhere else he might be safe,’ I try to re-assure her.

‘He is in India.’

‘Look, why don’t you go inside, it’s not safe out here in the open.’

‘Yes… do you want to come in?’

‘No, thank you, I have to go to my parent’s house, they live on the estate. Listen, I heard a broadcast on the radio, it said that people should go to the Forts.’

‘What Forts?’

‘The old ones, the Palmerston Forts, there’s quite a few of them all along the coast. The radio said that London was infested and people should head over to the Forts and take food, water and medicine.’

‘Oh, I think we should stay here and wait for help, we have enough food, thank you.’

‘I don’t think it will be safe here, those things are everywhere,’ I point at the bodies on the ground. ‘Other people might want to take your food, maybe you should take what you can carry and go to the Forts? They are strong and there will be others there… do you have a vehicle?’

‘We have a van - my husband uses it for the Cash And Carry.’

‘Take your van, load it up with as much as you can feasibly take and then leave,’ I urge her.

‘What about my husband? What if he comes back and cannot find us?’

‘Leave a note for him and… also one that tells other people where you have gone so they can go there too - but do it quickly.’

She glances back at the shop, clearly unsure of what to do. I can see her dilemma; the shop looks strong and secure, a safe place.

‘I saw these things last night, they were different, they weren’t slow like these were, they were fast. If they change again they won’t stop until they have got you… and your family.’

She stares back at me, the suggestion of a threat to her family has sharpened her instincts for survival.

‘Where are these Forts?’

‘Check the Internet, if it’s still working, if not, look at local maps, they are tourist attractions and will be marked… do you sell maps?’

‘Yes… yes, we have maps.’

‘Check them and find the nearest Fort, then load up and go - please don’t stay here - it’s not safe.’

‘Okay, okay we will go. Food, water and medicine,’ she repeats back to me.

‘Take what you can get into the van quickly: water, tinned food, any medicine… Aspirin, Paracetamol… anything, take clothing too, but please be quick.’

She goes to move away,

‘Will you come? We could travel together?’ She asks me.

‘I can’t, I’m sorry… I have to find my family. I will try and get my parents to follow you. I’ll ask them to come here first and see if you are still here, but don’t wait for them, load up and get going.’

She nods, and walks back to the shop, still in shock. I’m worried that she’s not taken it in and will try to wait it out. Her son comes out of the door, walking towards his mother; a teenage girl comes out behind him and stands, holding the door open.

‘Hey, thanks for your help again, mate. I just said to your mother that people are going to the Forts on the coast, she said you had a van, I really think you should load up with food and water and go there as soon as possible, take anything you can carry.’

“Are you going there too?’

His mother interrupts before I can answer:

‘No, he has to find his family, go back inside please.’

I turn and walk to the car, the bottom of my bat is covered in blood and bits of gore. It smears on the seat as I get in.

I pull away and can see the shop door closing as I go.

I drive the short distance to my parent’s house, it’s quiet and I do not see any undead.

My parents moved here a few years ago; the old house was the family home. This is their new house and it feels different, still homely and welcoming, but it’s not the same.

My Dad retired from full-time employment two years ago, he was an engineer for a telecoms company and had a good retirement package, but he quickly got bored of playing golf and went back as a part-timer.

My sister and I bought him a new set of clubs for his 60th birthday. Well, I say we bought them - my sister paid most of it as she earns a fortune. I paid what I could, but still, it’s the thought that counts.

Their new house is detached and modern, and the large driveway is empty, Dad bought a new Toyota when he retired and always leaves it on the driveway; proudly cleaning it at every opportunity.

The driveway is empty...

I leave the Micra on the street, engine off, but keys in the ignition, ready to go. I walk towards the house; the front door is closed, and all the windows are shut. There is a gate to the rear garden but it’s locked and too high to climb.

I check the front door - it’s unlocked and I enter. I wait for a minute in the hallway, stairs ahead of me. The hallway leads to the kitchen; to the left is the lounge with the door open. The dining room is to my right. There is no sound and I close the front door behind me.

I want to call out but don’t want to risk alerting any undead that I am here. I go into the lounge and then the dining room and finally the kitchen; there are two half-drunk mugs of coffee on the side, both are cold.

I go upstairs with my bat raised, but find nothing in the two guest rooms and the bathroom is clear.

My parent’s room is also vacant; the drawers are empty and thrown around and the wardrobe is open - there are clothes lying about. It looks like they were in a rush. So they must be aware of what’s happening. I go back downstairs and check the rooms again. There is an open notepad on the dining-room table with a handwritten note in my mothers writing:

Howie,

Dad got a phone call last night from an old colleague working in France, they said what was happening, awful things. Dad spoke to your sister. Sarah is safe at home, locked in and secure. The phone line went down when we were talking to her. We kept trying to call you but all the numbers were engaged. We are going to come and get you, but I suppose if you are reading this, then we have missed each other.

Stay here Howie, we will try your place and come back here before we get Sarah. We left the front door unlocked, in case you left your key behind. You can lock the door though, we both have our keys.

Please stay here Howie, we will be back soon.

Love, Mum and Dad.

I read the note over a few times… Sarah is safe, thank god. The relief is massive.

I know they will come back here before they do anything. I feel so weary now, hungry and exhausted. In the kitchen I find a Cornish pasty in the fridge and wolf it down within seconds - followed by another. I make a mug of tea, as the electricity and gas are still on.

I try the home phone but find it dead – there is not even a dial tone. I check the router: lights flashing red, no Internet and no phone line.

I lock the front door and go upstairs into the bathroom.

I am filthy and covered in blood, gore and dirt.

I look at my hands, they are blood stained, and the nails are crusted and grimy. I strip off and have a hot shower. I wonder how long it will be before the power goes off… might as well take the opportunity now.

I soak and scrub myself, the water runs red at first and I keep scrubbing, until the filth is washed away.

My clothes are too dirty to put back on but my Dad is a much bigger build than me and I know that his clothes won’t fit me. These clothes need to be thrown away; the blood could be infectious, but then I would have nothing to wear.

I remember that there are some old clothes of mine in bin liners in the loft. I had left them at the old house and Mum kept nagging me to go and sort them out, which I never did.

I wrap a towel around my waist.

The loft hatch is in the hallway and I find the long stick from my parent’s room; the hatch opens downwards and a folding metal ladder extends down. I climb into the loft and turn the light on, the loft is boarded out and I can see a pile of black bags with white sticky labels marked “Howie” on them.

I find an old pair of faded blue jeans; I used to live in these years ago. I grab a plain, white tee-shirt, then I figure out that the white colour won’t blend in too well, and so I keep looking through the bag, until I find an old, black, v-neck jumper. I check that the jeans still fit; they are a little tight around the waist, but they will have to do.

Finally, with nothing left to do but wait, I go into the lounge and lay down on the sofa, thinking through all that has happened.

Within seconds, my eyes are heavy and my breathing has slowed. I jerk awake a couple of times, my body twitching, but, eventually, I drift off to sleep.

DAY TWO

Waking up slowly, drifting back to consciousness, I stretch out lazily; arching my back and pushing my arms away from me.

The sofa is lovely and soft and I can feel myself getting ready to fall back into slumber. I have always loved dozing in the afternoon. The sound of the television low in the background - the reward of modern society - to relax and snooze in the safety of your lounge.

But there is no modern society left, and the safety is gone.

As I wake up, I think of everything that has happened and try to imagine what the future will be like.

Has this epidemic spread across the world? The news reports were only talking about Europe. Maybe America and the other continents are safe. Europe is small in comparison to the others.

I try to imagine a world map. Europe is joined to Russia, which is joined to Asia and other places I don’t know the name of.

Does Asia join America somewhere?

My lack of geography knowledge shocks me.

If the infestations spread across Europe so quickly, surely other places would be affected. Maybe some islands have been able to prevent entry to people and keep themselves safe.

There must be some safe places. The Americans have strategic policies for everything. They would have initiated some lock down protocol, but then all the movies show the top brass going to underground facilities while the masses suffer, and some handsome underdog hero that everyone said would never make the grade, somehow saves the day and gets the girl.

A sudden thought hits me. If the problem is restricted to Europe, the other counties wouldn’t allow it to spread. They would try to destroy it, and destroy us in the process. Nuclear bombs would be sent into every major capital and city. We would be annihilated. But… if places outside Europe are infected too, there is no hope.

We are fucked either way.

I get up and go into the kitchen, taking a glass and running the cold tap. I rinse my face first and then fill the glass with water.

As I take big gulps, I suddenly get an image of rotting, undead corpses floating in reservoirs, infecting the water supply.

I spray the contents of my mouth out; water soaking the window in front of me. How does the water supply work? I have no idea. You turn the tap on and water comes out – but where does it come from? The water is treated, so there must be treatment places where they add chemicals. There was something in the news years ago about water companies adding fluoride to the supply - but I don’t remember why that was a bad thing.

How easy would it be to infect the water supply?

I stare at the remaining contents of the glass… the water looks normal. It’s clear, and there is no noxious smell or odour. I didn’t taste anything foul when I first drank it, but the thought is there now.

Maybe if I boiled the water that would make it safe.

What would Ray Mears do? He would use earwax and moss and make a slingshot from cow turds, before building a tree house city and living like a demigod.

I wonder what Ray Mears is doing now? Has he survived? It would be ironic if the television survival experts were now also undead, roaming around Welsh valleys, biting sheep.

The water I spat out is dripping down from the window.

I look out and see that it is still light outside. I check my watch, it is 9 p.m. I slept for hours; it must have been midday or maybe 1 p.m. when I finally lay down on the sofa. My parents should have been back hours ago. Where are they? There is no way of contacting them.

I go into the lounge and check the router: still red flashing lights; no phone line.

In my panic I left my mobile phone at my house!

They said to stay here and wait, but that was hours ago. It would only have taken them an hour, at the most, to get to Boroughfare and back.

I think back to the massive horde of undead in Boroughfare town centre. If my parents had driven anywhere near the town centre, they could easily have become overwhelmed. I hope that my Dad would have the sense to avoid going through there.

I should wait here, but if they are not back now, then something must have happened. I head into the dining room, and write a note, telling my parents that I waited until 9 p.m., and that I am going to check Boroughfare, then I will come back here. I tell them to wait here, lock up and stay safe.

I turn to go, but go back to the note, an afterthought added to my letter:

Don’t drink the water!

My bag is still in the Micra, and I take my bat from beside the sofa. The end of the bat is filthy, with crusted blood and bits of dried gore. I go back to the kitchen and start running it under the tap. What am I doing? Who cares if the bat is dirty? I start towards the front door, then stop and go back to the kitchen and out into the garden; looking round for any other weapons I could use. I don’t want to use knives, as their range is too short, unless I could find a sword; but swords are not exactly a household item.

Nothing in the garden.

I open the back door to the garage and step in. Dad is an engineer, so he must have tools.

There are gardening tools: hoes and shears. The shears are good, but, again, the range is too short - I want something long to keep them away. A garden fork? But it would get impaled easily and stick in the body. A metal spade? No, it lacks the striking power. Then I see an axe hanging from the head, and a plastic cover over the metal end. The handle is longer than the bat; tough plastic with a rubber grip. I take it from the hook and pull the plastic cover off. The metal end is shiny, unused. The blade looks sharp. Not sharp enough to cut my finger when I press gently, but I can imagine the damage that it could do. The other side of the metal head is squared off; a perfect blunt instrument.

The axe is heavier than the bat too, and it feels comforting. I should ditch the bat, but it has proven to be a very good weapon, and I feel reluctant to lose it… maybe I could use both.

In the garden, I practise swinging both at the same time, fending off imaginary undead. I end up clashing the things together - they feel clumsy and awkward.  Plus… I will need both hands to generate the power of force needed.

I leave the bat in the hallway, by the front door, and step outside into a lovely, warm summer evening; the air is still and soundless.

The Micra is gone!

I left it on the road outside the house, and now it has bloody gone.

I look up and down, but there is no sign of it.

I start walking out of the estate. I’m sure there were cars on the driveways before, but now most are empty.

It takes me several minutes to get down onto the main road, then I start towards the shop, hoping there will be something I can use. It’s still light, but that won’t last. It will be dark in less than an hour.

I start jogging, holding the axe in my right hand.

The shop comes into view, and, as I get closer, I see cars parked outside in the road. There are more bodies on the ground too. There were five earlier, but it looks to be at least double that amount now.

My Micra is parked amongst the other cars, looking small amongst BMW’s, Mercedes and Range Rovers.

I head towards the Micra, but the doors are locked.

The shop door opens, and a man steps out and walks a few steps towards me.

‘Can I help you?’ he asks, in a polite, but firm voice.

This man is older, maybe in his fifties; dark hair, greying and swept back. He looks refined and cultured.

‘Hi, this is my car,’ I point at the Micra.

‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure there must be some misunderstanding.’

More men come out from the shop. They gather behind the older man. A collection of weapons held in their hands: knives, bats, metal poles. Another man steps out from behind the crowd. A double-barrelled shotgun rests across the crook of his arms.

This is clearly a deliberate act to show me he is armed. The group look menacing with stern faces.

‘What’s going on? Why are you all here?’ I keep my tone polite.

‘Ah, well, you see. There is food here. Food and supplies and well… we thought we would take care of it and keep it secure, if you like. Until the authorities can get a grip on this, er… situation,’ he pauses. ‘Of course… you are welcome to join us.’

‘Thank you, but I need to get to Boroughfare. My family went there looking for me. I need to try and find them.’

A deep voice from the back, ‘Boroughfare’s gone mate!’

‘Yeah, I know – I was there at the time. May I ask what happened to the Asian family that owns this shop? A woman and her two children?’

‘Ah, I see, yes… no sign of them, I’m afraid. We came down from the estate a few hours ago. Well, the ones that are left did, anyway. We got together and decided to make our base here, because there’s plenty of supplies, and it’s on the main road.. and all that,’ he speaks with a clipped, almost military manner.

‘Okay, they must have gone then. Did you see a note? They said they would leave a note, saying where they were going.’

‘Ah, yes, there was a note, but not in English - so none of us could read it, you see.’

‘That makes sense. Did any of you hear the radio message about the Forts?’

Looks pass between them, a sudden interest, and I can see they are all looking at me keenly. Some of the men from the back move round, so that they are closer.

‘The Forts. What Forts are those? We haven’t heard any radio message. Was it an emergency broadcast? We’ve been scanning the medium and long wave frequencies but not heard a thing.’

I relay the message I heard on the radio. I tell them that London has gone, and people should head to the Palmerston Forts. They start talking amongst themselves, before I finish speaking.

‘Ah, I see, right well, there we go - the British Government has a plan. Did they say which Fort precisely?’

‘No, just that. The Micra had it on the radio earlier. Didn’t the person who stole… er… who took it hear the message.’

He starts looking at the men gathered around him.

‘Who brought the Micra? Nigel, was it you? No, must have been Malcolm then. His car was in the garage for a service. Malcolm, where are you?’

Another man pushes through the crowd: thin build, glasses and floppy blond hair. He looks sheepish.

‘Sorry about your car,’ he says,  ‘I thought it had been abandoned.’

‘That’s okay, mate. Did you hear the message on the radio?’

‘No, there was nothing. I only drove it here though.’

‘It might still be on. Have you got the keys?’

He hands me a set of keys, and we go over to the car. I unlock the door and lean in, turning the radio on. The volume is down too low to hear anything. I twist the knob, and the car fills with sound:

“There are survivors, you are not alone.

Do not come to London, we are completely infested.

I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.

If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the south coast.

Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.

Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”

I turn the volume up loud. There is an instant reaction as the men gather closer round the front of the car, and then more come out of the shop: women and children. People shouting for everyone to “shush” and be quiet.

They all stand silently, listening to the message.

One of the men leans in to look at the front of the radio, at the FM frequency setting, and rushes back into the shop.

As one, they start talking and moving about quickly: a sudden need for action, and the hope of a safe place to go.

‘Ah, now hang on - hang on a minute. We need to organise ourselves and gather supplies, plan our route and travel in a convoy,’ the spokesman is shouting, as they rush off.

They disperse quickly, heading back into the shop, and I’m instantly forgotten. It’s just me, the Micra, and the keys in my hand. Well… it would be rude not to.

I drop the axe into the passenger side. My bag is gone, but at least I have the car. I start the engine and reverse out onto the main road. Pulling away, I see the spokesman stop and look back. He holds his arm up as I drive towards Boroughfare.

The motorway is the fastest route; the daylight is starting to dwindle, and I need to move quickly.

The radio message is annoying now, and I turn it down, but not off, just in case something changes.

I was on this same motorway just a few hours ago, but going in the other direction. Within a short time I see the wreck from earlier, and the woman still lying by the mangled car. I keep my speed up and get past her quickly.

A few minutes later, and I take the junction that heads into my town.

Force of habit kicks in, and I put the indicator on at the three hundred yard sign.

I come off the motorway and drive towards town, trying to think of my route. I need to get to my place but avoid the town centre. I hope that Dad would have thought this too and taken the longer road; with luck, I will follow in his wake.

I skirt round the town and drive towards my flat through suburban streets. There are signs of devastation everywhere: abandoned cars with doors open; glass on the road; front doors hanging open and windows smashed - blood marks and stains everywhere.

No people though, and no bodies.

I hear a scream and a woman comes running out of a house up ahead. She is clutching her neck and  bright red blood is pumping out from between her fingers. An undead child shuffles into view in the doorway. The woman runs out into the road and comes at me. She is screaming and looking back, while holding the wound in her neck. Not looking where she is going, she runs straight into my car, and her head slams against the windscreen; her blood splattering all over the glass. The windscreen fractures but remains intact. I brake hard, which sends her flying forward. I stop and get out to see her lying in front of the car, not moving.

My natural reaction is to rush forward and help her, but I’ve learn that lesson already.

The undead child has come down the garden path and is on the road: a heart-breaking image of teddy bear pyjamas soaked in blood. I get back into the car and steer around the woman and continue driving.

Now, only the passenger-side windscreen wiper is working.

I use the water sprayer to clear some of the blood, but with only one wiper it just smudges the watery blood over to my side, obstructing my view. I have to lean over in order to see through the clear side.

I get to my road and pull up outside my house. The bodies I set on fire last night are still there, burnt and blackened, and the contents of my flat are still strewn across the front garden.

The scene looks surreal; like someone has created a movie set and carefully placed the objects near to dead bodies.

My toaster stands out the most. Something about the image upsets me deeply. Memories of making tea and toast when I got home from working nights; tired and looking forward to sleep.

The safety and comfort of my home is gone. I think of the news reports of far away places suffering from war or natural disaster; refugees giving accounts on losing everything and how they can never go back. I felt sad for them, but no real empathy. How could I? We live like kings with everything we could ever need or want. I try to push the thoughts away. This isn’t the time to dwell it now. I can grieve later when my family are safe.

There’s no sign of my parents here and I don’t want to go inside and double check. I know they would have seen this devastation and feared the worse. Even if they went inside and checked, they would think that I had gone.

I try to work out what they would do next.

Their note said that they would go back to their house, but they never arrived. Either they changed their minds - which is unlikely - or something stopped them. The road ahead leads into the town centre, the same route I took last night. If they didn’t go back, then they must have gone that way. I have to go and see.

Driving forward slowly, I realise that it’s almost dark and I speed up. I really don’t want to be out when its night. I get to the T-junction and the High Street is ahead of me. The right leads down to the roundabout and away from the centre, and the left leads into town and the main shopping area, bars and café’s. The right is clear of undead. The moped I crashed into the parked car is still there.

I look left to where the massive horde was last night, but there is no sign of them. The armoured van is still in the middle of the road, and, again, I wonder what happened to the driver.

I turn left and drive towards the van, stopping next to it. No sign of why it stopped, and I can only guess that it was just the size of the crowd that prevented him from moving on.  He should have turned the other way and lured them away from town.

I start to drive on, but I get a sudden idea. I stop the car and get out. Taking the axe with me I head over to the van. It’s a big, blue, square looking thing with some symbols on the side and big writing on the back saying “Police Follow This Van”. I can’t work out if that’s an instruction to the police or if they are telling potential robbers that the police are actually following them.

The driver’s door is locked, and so is the passenger’s. There is no sign of damage to the front of the vehicle. The man climbed out of a roof hatch last night. The van is too high, and the sides too smooth to climb up.

I get back in the Micra and park it tight alongside the van. I clamber out over the passenger seat and climb on the bonnet and up onto the roof of the car. I can see over the top of the van now. The hatch is still open. The lid is raised, with a grab handle on the inside. I push the axe onto the roof and then I climb up.

Looking into the hatch I can see a black, swivel chair. To one side are shelves and compartments, all of them numbered. I drop the axe down and then lower myself down onto the chair. Inside I can see cloth money bags on the various shelves, and each bag has a serial number. We use these at the supermarket, and I am well accustomed to handling money and having large amounts of cash near me. Even so, there is a natural temptation to fill my pockets.

At the front of the van is a door leading into the cockpit. The door is wedged open with a small, red fire extinguisher. There is a numbered code lock on this side of the door, but nothing on the driver’s side. I guess the rear passenger has to be able to get out, but there is no need for the driver to get in.

How did the driver get through to the back then? I saw the van being driven, then the man getting out onto the roof. There must have been two of them, or he’d already wedged it open.

The keys are still in the ignition. The controls are the same for any normal vehicle. I get into the drivers seat and turn the ignition. The van turns over but doesn’t start. There is a symbol of a fuel pump flashing in orange, and the gauge is reading empty. That explains it. He ran out of fuel!

Simple really.

The last of the daylight is almost gone as I climb back out of the van and drop down onto the roof of the Micra, but, as I step down onto the bonnet, some movement ahead catches my eye.

There is a single undead coming towards me, wearing black trousers and a black shirt. He has a very large build and looks like a bouncer from one of the clubs: shaved head and no neck. I watch as he shuffles along slowly, his arms hanging limply. As he gets closer, I see that the top of his bald head has been savaged, there are also blood stains down his face, and flesh sticks out from his scalp.

This man is huge - at least six feet, four inches. The muscles in his forearms bulge out, and the sleeves of his shirt are tight against his upper arms. I wouldn’t want to meet him on a normal day, never mind now. He is still a couple of hundred metres away.

I turn to move back to the car. The daylight has gone completely and the night has set in. I look about and see the streetlights are on - some of the shops still have illuminated windows.

I look at the man mountain undead again. He has stopped; motionless. His head is slightly raised and not lolling about, like it was just a few seconds ago.

He lifts his head higher and lets out a huge, guttural roar. Then I hear others from further up the road. Somewhere nearby another joins in. They are all emitting a deep, terrifying roar; like wolves signalling each other.

My heart is pounding. This is the single most frightening thing I have ever heard. The sound goes on for a while. There must be hundreds joining in now, and the call reverberates down the street, echoing off the buildings.

Then suddenly they stop.

The sound doesn’t diminish or die off. It just ends, but the silence that follows is truly deafening.

The undead drops his head and stares straight at me, then he starts shuffling slowly. Suddenly, he is moving faster. His head is fixed and staring at me, and his movements are jerky but far more controlled than they were a few minutes ago.

This is like last night, when they were wild and frenzied. He is running now, lurching towards me; his arms flailing about at his sides.

I turn towards the car and launch myself into the passenger side head first, then I instantly regret it. The car is too small to twist around in properly; he will be at my back within seconds. The axe is still in my hand, but the space is too confined to bring it up.

I twist onto my back and try to reach the open door. He is through the open gap instantly, and his head drives forward. I pull my knees up and can see his wound in close detail. The flesh is bitten away down to the bone, and chunks of skin are creased up; the blood is congealed and dry down his face. His mouth is bloody and his lips are pulled back, showing two ugly rows of blood stained teeth. His red bloodshot eyes add to his look – they are ferocious.

I kick out, frantically trying to keep him away, but it is like kicking a tree. My feet keep going, cycling back and forth, and the soles of my trainers strike him repeatedly in the face. His nose smashes, and his head is constantly jerked back, but he keeps coming at me, gnashing his teeth.

I use both feet at the same time, kicking out with all my strength and he gets knocked back a little. The force shudders him away from the car, but he stumbles and goes down onto his arse. I can’t risk leaning forward to close the door. I look round in desperation. The keys are still in the ignition, and as I turn them, the Micra’s little engine comes to life. I lean down and press the accelerator, but it’s not in gear.

I lean over and try to force the car into gear, but it won’t go in without the clutch being pressed. The undead is coming forward again now, and I press my right hand down on the clutch and use my left to push the stick into first gear.

The undead is back, and my feet are kicking out again.

My kicks are panicked and not aimed. I can feel they are connecting, but I’m trying to look at the pedals. If I lift the clutch without power, the car will stall.

Fuck it! Fuck it!

My feet are cycling again. He is pushing in further towards me. Thank God, he hasn’t thought to use his hands. He could snap me instantly.

My feet keep kicking his head; an equal force just about holding him at bay. My thighs are burning and my stomach cramps from holding my legs up. I’m leaning over to the right and push my left hand down on the clutch. My right hand is free now, and I push the gas pedal hard. The engine revs and I can feel the car vibrating. He is almost in the car now and his body weight has trapped my left leg against the side of the vehicle - my right foot is pounding into him. There is a sudden pain in my side from being bent over at such an angle.

I lift my left hand up, and the engine bites, but there is no motion.

The fucking handbrake! The fucking stupid handbrake!

I claw away, trying to find it. Then my hands grip the end, and I push the little button in and feel it drop. The car shoots forward, scraping along the side of the armoured van. The undead is dragged along for a few metres. His massive upper body holds him in the car, then he drops out and is gone.

I keep my hand pressed down, hoping to hell that I don’t crash into something. I try to raise my head, but I can’t stretch high enough, so I wait a few seconds and then pull my hand away. The car splutters, and the engine dies, then it stops. I twist round quickly and look out. I am inches away from a bench, aiming straight at the building line on the right.

I pull myself into the driver’s seat, dragging the axe from underneath me and pushing it into the passenger side. My stomach muscles are in agony, and my thighs are burning. My chest heaves as I try to suck in air. I twist the key off and back on, putting my foot down on the clutch, and I look in the rear view mirror, The undead is already up and running at me, only a few metres away.

The bench is trapping me from going forward. I push the gear stick into reverse and thrust the accelerator down. My left hand is on the top of the passenger seat as I twist my torso in order to see out of the back. The car gathers speed as the undead runs at me and we collide with a massive bang. His huge frame comes to a sudden stop against the momentum of the vehicle, and then he is thrown backwards, as I slam the brakes on.

Fear, adrenalin and rage are within me, and I am out of the car with my axe held in both hands. He is already sitting up, trying to stand. He struggles to get to his feet and then falls back down; his right leg buckles underneath him.

His knee joint must be smashed.

I step forward, before he can get back up, and swing the axe at his head, cleaving his skull, driving down inches into his brain and splitting his cranium open. Grey matter spills out.

I pull the axe back and he slumps over to the side, I raise the axe above my head and drive the blade into his neck, severing the spinal column. The axe drives through the flesh, and his head comes away. I kick it hard, and it shoots off a few feet. I feel sudden pain in my toes from kicking the heavy head.

‘Cunt! You fucking cunt! That fucking hurt.’

I’m hopping on one foot, spinning round.

An undead male comes staggering at me from the left, and another one behind him. They are just a few paces away and I lift the axe up and step backwards. The speed they are moving at is really fast. I am moving quickly backwards as I slam the axe into the first. I aim for his head but miss and strike his neck, splitting it open and sending him away from me; blood pouring out of the new wound.

No time to get in position, The next one is here, and I swing the axe backwards and use the blunt end to crush his skull. He goes down from the blow, and I hit down at him, pulverising his head. The other one is still down. A gaping slash in his neck, and he is twitching, but not getting up.

There are more coming, following the path that I just took. The noise and action must be drawing them. I get back into the car and drive on, squinting through the fractured and filthy windscreen.

Ahead of me is the narrow, older part of the High Street. A large metal drop barrier is used during the evenings to stop vehicles going in, making it pedestrian only. There are numerous cafes with outside seating, and shiny metallic seats complete with small round black tables, desperately trying to bring a European feel to the area. At night the cafes shut, and the bars put their outside seating in place. Some of the nicer venues have those external heaters – tall, stainless steel gas burners – a constant reminder that we live in a cold part of the world.

The barrier is down, and I have to turn right. As I go round the corner, I see a horde of undead ahead of me, gathering in the gloomy dark. There is less street lighting down there and not as many illuminated shop fronts.

The road is blocked, and there is no way I can get through them. Their mass is just too great. The Micra would get a few, but then I would be engulfed and trapped.

They are a few hundred metres away.

I twist round in the street and can see I am still being chased by a few of them: at least five or six. I can’t go back. I must go forward.

The only way now is through the precinct, but the barrier is down.

Out of the car, axe in hand - and I start running into the precinct, keeping to the middle of the road. The shops and cafes are all closed, and doors and windows are barred and bolted; secured against a weekly invasion of drunken youths.

I keep running.

To my right is one of the bars. The seating area looks like a riot has taken place with chairs and tables thrown all over the place. The shiny chairs show darker stains from the events of last night.

The bar has a large, open frontage and the doors are pushed back. No way of quickly securing them.

Glancing back, I see that the small group of undead chasing me have reached the barrier. One of them runs into it and bends over double - his upper body folding over the metal bar - and his legs spin over as he sprawls out.

Then the massive horde are pouring round the corner. More of them run into the barrier, pushed forward by the relentless surge.

‘Oh, shit! Oh, shit!’

I’m off running, flat out, with the axe in my right hand.

I can run faster than them, but they can keep going for longer… and they won’t stop. They are undead, and they don’t have to worry about beats per minute, pulling muscles or the cardio vascular system getting enough oxygen.

‘Fuck it!’ I shout loudly.

More of them ahead of me.

They are some distance away, but they have seen me and are already running.

I slow down and glance back. My sprinting has stretched the gap from the horde, but they keep coming. Desperately looking around, I see a double wooden door off to my right - tall and narrow with one half slightly open.

I scurry over and push through, slamming the door behind me. There are bolts at the top and bottom, and I ram these home.

Within seconds, the doors thump as the horde reaches my point of entry. The doors are thick and strong, but old.

There are two strong metal hooks on the inside of either door, and on the floor is a metal bar. I lift this and place it into the hooks - the bar fits perfectly.

Thumps, bangs and scrapes come from the other side of the doors, but they hold fast.

I am in a small area, with just a flight of wooden stairs that heads upward. The lighting is low and the carpet is dark coloured. The walls are red; giving the stairwell a soft glow.

As my breathing recovers, the sweat starts pours off me, and I use my left hand to mop my face. I have never done this much running.

I start climbing the stairs slowly. The still dripping axe is raised and ready.

There is a small desk at the top of the stairs on the diminutive landing, with a single, empty chair behind it.

To the left is another set of double doors. They look heavy, like fire doors, but are painted black.

I try to use my foot to push one half of the door open a little; the axe ready to hit out at anything that appears, but the door is too heavy. I push harder and have to step forward as I do so. Then the door yields and slowly opens.

The sound of disco music drifts out, getting louder as I push open the door. I pause for a second, then I keep pushing, trying to peer through as the gap widens.

Slowly, I get a view of the inside as I step in; the door resting against my shoulder. I look about, taking it all in, totally stunned.

The room is much bigger than I expected. The inside is dark with chairs and tables in small groups. There is a bar running down the right side, discreet back lighting, glass shelves - no beer taps or optics. Lining the shelves are spirit bottles with old-fashioned metal pouring spouts stuck in the top.

There are small, orange ceiling lights above the seating area.

Ahead is a catwalk with a stage behind it. There are two long metal poles running floor to ceiling on the catwalk, and the back of the stage has a dark red, velvet curtain. The catwalk comes out into the middle of the room, and the seating is arranged round it; there are fixed seats running around the edge of the catwalk.

The disco music is beating on; like retro porn music. There are flashing red lights around the stage, and fixed spotlights shining down onto the metal poles.

This is amazing, but the most stunning thing is the undead on the stage.

An adult female wearing just a thong! Some kind of collar is round her neck with a chain running behind her, through the curtains.

She has seen me and is straining, The collar keeps jerking her back every time she tries to move forward but her massive, fake breasts remain motionless, despite her frantic lunges.

‘What the fuck…?’

I step in and close the door. I am not that close, but I can see that the collar is thick; almost the size of her neck. The chain looks thick too. I’ve never been to a lap dancing place or a strip club before. I didn’t even know this was here.

It looks expensive and the seats all look new and very plush. On my left and at the back of the club there is a raised booth with a fixed microphone on a stand, facing out into the main area.

There is a man lying still and slumped, with his back against the wall of the booth. I edge towards him with the axe raised. He doesn’t look undead; he just looks dead - like a normal dead person.

As I get closer, I see that he is wearing a dark suit with a white shirt underneath. He looks very smart.

A knife is buried into his chest to the hilt. The black handle doesn’t look big, only a few inches long. There is a small blood stain on the front of his white shirt. One knee is raised up and the other leg is extended out. I kick the extended foot, but there is no reaction. I kick again, harder - still no reaction.

I lean forward slowly and use the axe to nudge him on the shoulder. He slumps over onto his side; the knife is stuck in his chest. I gently put my fingers to his neck; no pulse. I lift one of his eyelids… his eyes are lifeless, but at least the white surrounding the iris is still white. I can’t see any other injury on him, and his skin feels very cold. He must have been dead for a while.

It seems strange seeing a dead body. I’ve never seen one before. I’ve seen plenty of undead, and even killed a few of them. I chopped a blokes head off just a few minutes ago, but this is different. A proper dead body – a murder victim.

How senseless is that? The whole world is collapsing. The undead have risen, and someone still has time to commit a murder.

The thought brings me back to my senses. What if the killer is still here?

I spin around, half expecting someone to be standing behind me with a knife aimed at my back.

Someone put that undead stripper into the neck collar or… maybe she was in it before she became an undead.

I move away from the dead man and walk towards the bar. Leaning my chest on the bar top, I can see behind - all is clear.

There is no sign of disturbance in the club. All the tables and chairs are tidy, and the bar top is clear and clean.

This all started late on Friday night, so this place would have been open. Why is it so clean and tidy?

As I look about, my eyes come back to the undead stripper. She is stretched over to the side of the stage now, facing me. I walk over and round the edge of the catwalk, and she follows me, turning as I walk. I go round to the far side and walk closer. She looks no more than early twenties, and I can’t see any injury on her. It might be on her back, but she keeps facing me. She has long, dark hair falling on her shoulders, and her body is very slim, making her breasts look even larger.

I edge closer, watching her. She strains forward, and I can see the collar digging into the skin on her neck. She is making faint noises. I guess she would be groaning, if her throat wasn’t so compressed.

Her slim arms hang limply at her sides, and her eyes are red and bloodshot, but I can’t really see them properly in the dim lighting. She is still wearing make-up around her eyes; heavy, black mascara.

She is standing higher than me on the catwalk, and the chain extending off the ground behind her is taught against her pull.

She looks almost normal.

The disco music, the lights… and I can’t keep my eyes from resting on her breasts. They are huge and look really hard.

I’ve never touched a fake boob before. I wonder what they feel like… my arm extends slowly up, reaching out closer and closer. She is watching me intently; drool hanging down from her mouth.

A massive pair of fake breasts ready to be touched.

My fingertips are inches away. I move closer, until I am almost touching her. As my fingers connect with the cold, dead skin, two things happen at the same time. First, she lashes out with her arms in a desperate lunge to grab at me and, at the same time, a door in the corner of the room opens, flooding the area with bright, white light - and a man steps into the room, pulling his flies up.

I jump backwards, and we stare at each other, as I slowly drop my arm down to my side. My face burns with shame at being caught trying to grope an undead tit.

For what seems like ages, we stare at each other in silence.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asks, his voice slow and controlled.

It’s plainly, bloody obvious what I was doing, but there is no way I’m going to admit it now.

‘I… I, well, I was seeing if she was okay…’ I try to force a natural tone, but I just sound stupid.

‘You were seeing if she was okay? Well, is she?’ His tone is mocking.

‘Nooo… I don’t think she is.’

He shakes his head and walks further into the room

‘Relax, mate…. but hey, they are fucking great, aren’t they?’

‘What are?’

‘The tits. The big fake tits you were groping. They’re fucking amazing and I should know. I fucking paid for them.’

He stops at the other side of the catwalk, staring up at the undead, topless stripper. His clothes look very similar to those worn by the dead man. Smart dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. He plucks at the shirt cuffs under the jacket sleeves, pulling them straight.. I see gold coloured cufflinks. He looks like a London gangster from the movies, with dark hair slicked back, designer stubble and manicured fingers. Yet there is an aura about him; a threatening undertone. It is in his swagger and the sharp movements of his hands. He has a forced natural tone to his voice – he sounds as if he is used to having people listen to him.

Then he looks straight at me, holding eye contact.

‘So… what do you think?’

‘Err… they look great, really nice.’

A look of anger flashes across his face.

‘So, you were looking at her fucking tits then?’

The voice hasn’t raised, but the tone is very threatening. He stares at me, unblinking.

‘No, no, well… I saw them. I wasn’t looking though, I just sort of saw them.’

The anger goes instantly from his face and he softens his tone, laughing.

‘Take it easy, mate. I’m only messing with you. She’s a fucking stripper, and she wants you to look at her.’

Alarm bells are ringing in my head. There is a dead man lying with a knife buried in his chest just a few yards behind me, and an undead stripper tied to a chain on a lap-dancing stage, and this bloke is trying to joke around.

I want to ask him about the dead man, but, for some reason, the thought of mentioning it scares me. I feel awkward. He is staring straight at me, and I can’t think of anything to say. I feel like an idiot – an idiot who is holding a big axe.

He moves over to the end of the bar, lifts a hatch, goes to the shelves, takes a bottle of Whiskey and pours a large shot into a glass.

‘Do you want a drink, mate?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Have a drink with me!’

It’s a command, not a request.

‘Just a Coke then… please.’

He freezes, holding the bottle a few inches from the bar top. The look of anger flashes briefly across his face again.

‘Okay, Coke it is.’

He takes a glass bottle of Coca Cola from a fridge and pops the lid off, then places a small, black napkin on the bar, and finally the Coke bottle on the napkin.

‘So, what’s it like out there?’

He is straight back to being calm and natural, like any bar tender making conversation.

‘Awful, really awful. I got trapped and ran through the precinct, but I got in here and locked the door with that metal bar.’

His mouth turns down at the edges while he nods his head.

‘Good work… quick thinking under pressure. You have good nerves, and an eye for the ladies too. I could use a man like you here. You working?’

‘Err… yes, I have a job.’

‘Oh, shame. Well, have a think about it and let me know. I’m Marcus, by the way.’

He extends his hand over the bar.

I don’t want to shake his hand, I really don’t want to get that close, but I move forward anyway, too worried of the consequences.

I swap the axe to my left hand and lean forward with my right. His grip is very firm, and he squeezes my hand.

‘I’m Howie.’

‘Nice axe, Howie.’

‘Yeah, it’s, err… a good axe.’

I heft the thing up and down as though we are talking about a tennis racquet.

‘You’ve used it then?’

A casual question. He is looking at the blood stains on the metal head, then a dark look flashes across his face

‘I hope you ain’t dripped blood up my fucking stairs. Do you know how much it fucking costs to get blood out of that carpet? I’ll fucking tell you – it costs a bloody arm and a leg. I know ‘cos I have to bleedin’ get it done every week! I keep telling those fucking gorillas not to bleed ‘em on the fucking stairs!’

The darkness stays on his face a few seconds more as he lifts the glass and takes a large gulp. His fingers are white as he grips the glass.

‘Anyway, Howie, drink your Coke before it gets warm. You must be thirsty after all that running about.’

Straight back to calm; he’s a regular Jekyll and Hyde.

I take the bottle and drink some of the liquid. Despite the circumstances, the drink feels nice and cold, and I down it all.

‘Fucking hell, tiger. Take it easy! Here, have another one.’

Marcus puts another bottle on the napkin, and I take it quickly. Too quickly. He flashes a look at me.

‘Sorry, I’m really thirsty.’

He shakes his head, then pulls out a bag of white powder from the inside pocket of his jacket. He empties a small amount on the bar top and then takes something black out of his pocket. A long, thin blade shoots out of the black thing, and he uses it to chop at the powder, creating a thin line. He leans down and pushes a finger into the side of his nose, then snorts the line up. He stands upright quickly and wipes at his nose, then repeats the action with the other side. He seems unfocussed for a few seconds, but he quickly comes to.

‘Do you want some, Howie?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Suit yourself.’

I can’t help myself wondering how she got into the collar. Who bit her? Why did that man get stabbed?

More than anything though, I know that I should quickly leave. Very quickly. The way he keeps saying my name is freaking me out.

‘Is there another way out of here?’

He wipes at his nose again with the back of his hand, then his fingertips flick at the nostrils.

‘Course there fucking is, Howie. Do you think the health and safety lot would let me open without having another exit? Fucking wankers. They’re always in here.’

He pauses for a few seconds, looking at me.

‘It’s out the back… but you don’t want to go yet, do you, Howie?’

Barbed question.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’

He stands nodding for a few seconds, staring at me. Then his mouth purses.

‘Well, I think that’s fucking rude. Giselle is on stage, and you’ve had a grope of her tits. Taken advantage of my good nature with free drinks, and now you want to fucking go? That’s not very nice, is it?’

He walks slowly towards the gap in the bar, wiping his nose, adjusting his tie and cufflinks and making quick movements with his hands.

‘You see what happened to the last cunt who tried to take advantage of me, Howie?’ He motions to the dead man.

‘He tried to take the piss too. Fucking won’t do that again, will he, Howie?’

‘Look, mate, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to find my parents and get out of here. It was very kind of you to give me the drinks.’

‘No, no, no, Howie. You don’t just take a free drink. There ain’t no such thing as free in this world, Howie. You always have to pay.’

As he steps through the hatch, I start moving backwards, away from him.

‘Nothing is free, Howie. Now you’ve had a look at the girl, in my club, which I paid for, had a grope of her fucking tits - which I paid for - and had a drink… which I fucking paid for.’

‘Please, Marcus, I just want to leave.’

‘You ain’t fucking leaving, Howie. Not until you understand that nothing is for fucking free.’

‘Okay, what do you want? I don’t have any money.’

He walks towards me, picking the knife up and holding it down at his side.

‘Mate, what are you doing? Please just let me go.’

‘Howie, Howie, it’s not that I don’t want to let you go. It’s that I can’t. If I let you go, everyone will say that Marcus is a soft touch, that he’s fucking lost it. Respect, Howie, you got to have respect. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Marcus, you don’t have to kill me. The whole world has gone mad. I’ve just been chased by zombies, for God’s sake! Please, just let me go. I won’t…’

‘You won’t what? What won’t you do Howie? Call the police?’ He starts laughing.

‘I don’t think they’ll help you now, Howie. It’s just me and you and our little debt.’

‘What do you want then?’ I ask him.

He stops; a slight smile forming on his mouth.

‘Well, Howie, seeing as you groped her tits, I think you should say sorry. Giselle was always moaning that the punters were fucking rude, trying to grope her tits and arse.’

‘Okay, I’m very sorry. I really didn’t mean to cause any offence - and I apologise.’

He shakes his head.

‘I don’t think that will be enough, Howie. You will have to apologise to her.’

I make a point of looking at the undead stripper, still pulling against the neck collar.

‘I’m really sorry, Giselle. I hope I didn’t offend you. Please accept my apologies.’

After years of practise, calming down irate and angry customers in the supermarket, I surprise myself with how sincere I sound.

He looks at Giselle, then back at me.

‘Hmmm, good apology Howie… but you know what will really say sorry? Really show Giselle that you mean it?’ His voice is very low.

‘What?”

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up

‘A kiss, Howie. A nice kiss to say sorry always works with women. They fucking love it.’

There is a look of excitement in his eyes. The sick bastard is enjoying this.

‘Tell you what, Howie. Seeing as it’s quiet in here tonight. When you’re giving her a kiss, you can have another feel of her tits. How about that? A free grope.’

‘No, no, I don’t think that’s right.’

‘You don’t fucking think that’s right? Who the fuck are you? Trying to stick your fucking dick in her mouth, weren’t you? You fucking pervert! Now its fucking wrong, is it? I say what’s fucking right and wrong in my fucking club, not you.’

I lift the axe a little, just a slight raise. More to re-assure myself that I’m still holding it.

A maniacal grin spreads on his face.

‘Oh, now, Howie… Howie - there’s no need for that. Just go and give Giselle a little kiss, squeeze her tits and you can go.’

‘No. She’s dead. She’s one of them.’

‘Give Giselle… A FUCKING KISS.’

‘No.’

He walks towards me, holding the knife steady in his right hand. The other hand wipes at his nose, then checks his tie, smoothing down the front of his shirt and jacket.

He walks around the edge of the catwalk. I start moving backwards and only have a short distance before I am trapped by the stage. Giselle is straining at her leash, only a few feet away now.

‘Where you gonna go, Howie? The exit is the other side of the stage.’

Giselle turns towards Marcus as he moves closer to me.

As he walks along the side of the catwalk, she follows him, shuffling sideways quietly; her upper body leaning forward.

‘Look at you backing away like a pussy. Big fucking man a minute ago when you were alone with Giselle, weren’t you? Now look at you, Mr. Fucking Pussy!’

The mocking tone makes me stop.

My right hand brushes against the back of a chair, which is amongst the last set of seating before the stage. I think back over the last twenty-four hours and then look down at the slick matter on the axe.

‘About twelve…’

I look up at him, and he stops and stares at me.

‘Twelve what?’

‘First with a hammer, then two with my feet, then a few with a baseball bat. I also set some on fire and burnt a village down…’

I take hold of the back of the chair, and I start to step towards him, dragging the chair behind me.

‘The first one with the axe was huge. I chopped his head off, then some more after that. So, I reckon, Marcus, that I have killed about twelve of them since last night, and I run in here to find shelter and meet a fucking psycho instead, so… you know what you can do, Marcus? You can FUCK OFF.’

I launch the chair at him, swinging my arm from behind me with all of my strength. It would never really hurt him, but his reaction is to step back.

Step back against the edge of the catwalk.

He blocks the chair and laughs, just as Giselle drops down on him and sinks her teeth into the top of his head; her hands clawing at his face.

She bites down hard, blood spurting out and soaking her face, pouring down his head.

He screams and lashes out. The knife is still in his hand and he keeps stabbing the blade at her shoulders. She gets cut again and again but keeps going. He sinks down, slashing at her hands on his face, cutting his own skin with the desperate effort to get her off. His legs buckle, and his weight drops down onto the floor, pulling his scalp out of her teeth with a ripping sound.

He is on the floor, clutching the top of his head, writhing in agony. Giselle is straining forward; a chunk of hairy scalp hanging from her mouth.

I run around the side of the catwalk. There is the toilet door, but no other exit - it must be through the stage.

I climb up and push through the curtain. The back area is dark and only lit by red bulbs. There is a large box with props in it. I see another neck collar attached to a chain, sets of handcuffs, feather boas and riding whips.

I take a set of handcuffs and one of the neck collars with a chain and then head back out to the front, attaching a leather strap at the end of the chain to one of the shiny metal poles on the stage.

Giselle is still trying to reach down to Marcus. Looking at her from behind, I can see a huge chunk of flesh has been bitten out of her once perfect backside.

Once I am at  Marcus’ side, I put one end of the handcuffs through the chain and close the loop. I then lean down, keeping away from Giselle, and grab at Marcus’ wrist, attaching the handcuff and locking it securely on him. He quickly springs to his feet.

‘You fucking cunt – look what you’ve done!’

He comes at me, his face covered in blood. There is a large, open gash on the top of his head.

I move backwards away from him. The chain catches tight and pulls him back. He realises what I’ve done and scrabbles at the handcuff.

‘No! No!’

He keeps pulling at the handcuff, then starts tugging at the chain. He follows the line and sees it is secured to the pole, but only with a leather strap.

‘I’ll cut you up - you little runt.’

He starts towards the stage edge, and Giselle lunges at him again. I move forward and pick up the knife from the floor.

He moves backwards as Giselle comes at him. She can’t reach him, but he can’t reach the pole either.

‘Looks like you’re stuck, mate.’

He spins round to face me.

‘Please, I was only joking. I wouldn’t have done anything to you. Come on, Howie, please, let me go.’

I lift the hatch and nip behind the bar, and, after finding a clean glass, pour a large shot from the bottle he used a few minutes ago.

‘Have a drink with me, Marcus? No? Okay, suit yourself.’

I gulp it down in one mouthful. The liquid burns my throat and makes me cough, and I spit it out on the bar.

Cool, very cool.

Marcus is begging me to let him go. He gets angry again and starts yanking at the chain, pulling at it relentlessly. He finally stops pulling and touches the top of his head. His hand comes away bloody, and he winces with the pain.

I watch as he scrabbles to take out his bag of white powder from the inside of his jacket. One handed he is very clumsy. He tries to open the bag and tip some out onto the back of his handcuffed hand but he drops the bag, and the white powder spills out onto the carpet. He drops down and snorts his nose against the floor. Standing back up, he has white powder stuck round his nose and mouth; it mixes with the blood and turns pink.

‘Howie, you can’t leave me like this… I’ll die.’

I don’t feel guilty. I have just sent a man to his death. A living man. Not an undead but a living, breathing person.

Even if I let Marcus go now, he is infected. How long does it take to turn? The wound might not be fatal, and he might recover. But then I look at Giselle’s arse, and that doesn’t look like a fatal wound either, so the infection must take over the body. One bite must be enough to become infected.

One bite to kill you, and then make you one of the undead.

I leave the bar area and head for the stage, then I stop, and, as a token gesture, I throw the knife over to him.

He drops to the floor, retrieving the knife as I go through the curtain. Ahead of me is a door marked Fire Exit, and a metal safety bar on the inside. I push the bar down and leave the club. Marcus is screaming for me to come back. The door closes behind me, shutting out the noise.

There is a set of concrete steps going down in front of me. They are well lit, with a hand rail on the side.

Behind me is another door, inward opening. I push against the door, but it’s locked.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, there are doors to the left and right and what must be the street door ahead of me. A red fire extinguisher is hooked on the wall. The street door is solid wood, and I have no view of what’s on the other side.

I’ve lost my bearings and can’t work out if the door opens onto the High Street. It must do.

How far up am I from the entrance to the club?

No, it opens out to the rear of the club. I went in the main entrance and turned left into the club, then out the stage door and turned right down the stairs…so, it must be the rear.

So… these other doors must lead into the shops on the High Street?. I can’t remember what shops are in this area. There must be windows in the shops. I would be able to see out to the front and maybe the rear and then work out the safest escape route.

If I open the street door and the undead are there, I might not be able to close it again. But my mind is made up and I try both doors, but they are locked. They don’t look that formidable, so I try to push against one of them, and it yields slightly. I take a step back and slam my shoulder against the door, just like they do on TV. I bounce straight off and my shoulder hurts. Next, I kick at the door, aiming at the middle where the lock would be. The door holds, but it doesn’t feel that strong, and I kick again, harder. The door holds, but I can feel it yielding. Another two hard kicks, and the door bursts open.

I’ve always wanted to do that - kick open a door and burst through with an axe shouting “…Here’s Johnny”.

My great plan backfires as I hear a loud and constant beeping sound. The alarm. Maybe a minute before it starts sounding properly, alerting every undead in town: “Here’s Howie… come and eat him”.

I rush in through a storeroom. There are boxes stacked up and clothes rails with garments hanging off them – the place is foreboding; shadowy and dark.

I go through the eerie storeroom. To the left is an office area, and the alarm panel is illuminated on the wall. I see a ten digit number pad with buttons marked ENTER and RESET.

Shit! There must be a code. I know most places have them written down somewhere. The high call-out engineer costs for resetting the alarm means they nearly always put it somewhere close, so the staff that are either half asleep or half drunk from the night before, can switch it off.

It’s too dark to see anything and I waste vital seconds looking for the light switch, eventually finding it. I then see a desk with a computer and there is a yearly planner on the wall with the staff annual leave marked out. Box files and folders are stacked untidily on shelves, and there are open boxes with new till receipt rolls spilling out of them.

I check on the desk, sifting through bits of paper; the constant beeping sound spurs me on.

I check the desk jotter, but there are just scribbles and mobile phone numbers. I open drawers and find: a calculator, a pack of highlighter pens, a stapler, a hole punch and more crap  - it all goes flying out as I rummage through – but find nothing else.

I check along the shelves, but it’s too late. The alarm sounds with a final, ear piercing shrill, and the interior lights are flashing.

I imagine every undead for miles suddenly standing still and cocking their heads to the noise.

I go back to the alarm panel, staring daggers at it, contemplating smashing the fucking thing with my axe and see a six-digit number, it is there on the panel, written in faint pencil. I key the numbers in and press ENTER, and the alarm ceases instantly.

There is only a low beep that sounds out every few seconds now. The alarm will need to be reset, but I don’t think the alarm company will be alerting the police.

I go back into the storeroom. A door leads to a toilet and then I find the staff room. It is a small room with a cheap table and chairs. There is a small kitchen worktop with a sink, a plastic kettle and an old, two-slice toaster. They make these staff rooms unwelcoming to try and put the staff off spending too much time in them. A two slice toaster - so you can only do enough for yourself and not encourage others to loiter.

I eye the kettle and toaster, and the thought of tea and toast makes me homesick and hungry.

As I turn to leave, a pin-board on the wall catches my eye. The board is full of pictures of young women on nights out. The staff all out for a laugh, pictured in various poses, they are holding drinks and pulling faces. They look young and carefree. I linger and stare. The images might have been taken just a few days ago. Young people with their whole lives ahead of them, working together, going out and drinking. Relationships, music, fashion.

It’s all gone now.

A deep sense of sadness fills me, and I suddenly feel very lonely again. Maybe it’s better to be like Marcus - marbles gone and totally mad; his mind warped to protect himself against the bitter reality.

No! Fuck him. He was a freak.

Leaving the staff room, I decide to check the rest of the store. If it’s safe, I will stay for a little while.

Then I realise that I gave Marcus the knife back. He could follow me down here, if he breaks free.

I go back to the door that I kicked open. The lock is still sticking out, and the frame is splintered. I go back to the office and find a set of keys hanging on a hook under the desk. One of the keys fits the lock, and I unlock the door and close it. Then I lock the door again and test it. It holds, but rattles.

Maybe he will assume that I went out of the back door. The alarm went off, but his club must have been soundproofed, so there is a good chance he didn’t hear it, above the funky, pounding, disco music.

I leave the key in the door, in case I need a rapid exit. Finally, I find the door that leads onto the shop floor.

It’s very dark. There are rows of clothes hanging from rails against the walls and various standing rails on the floor. The shop looks big but I can’t see the windows from here. I know that I’m in New Look. Of all the shops I could have gone into… I get a ladies fashion store, then I remember that they do men’s clothing too.

I move deeper into the store, going very slowly. I crouch down and move between the rails. As I get to the middle of the store, I lie down and look towards the front of the store from under the clothes.

I have spotted large plate glass windows with lights shining on mannequins that are wearing this season’s must have items.

And, pressed against the windows from the street are the undead, many of them.

The alarm has certainly attracted them. They are stacked up, staring inside, shuffling and moving about. I stay completely still. None of them are actually looking at me, or even in my direction.

I decide to wait for a while to see if they will move off, but, after a few minutes, the hard floor starts to make me very uncomfortable, and, despite the warm summer, it feels quite cold.

Moving backwards on my belly, slithering away out of sight, I stay low, until I am sure that the many clothes rails will keep me blocked.

I move over to the side and check down the other end of the store. It appears to lead towards changing rooms and, judging by the size of the store, it must lead to the other door in the stairwell too. So this is all one shop! That makes me feel better.

I go back towards the door of the stock room and stop on the way, seeing a rail of thick, woollen cardigans. They are women’s sizes: size 10 at the front and getting larger as they go back. I have no idea what size I am in women’s clothing - so I take one from the back.

Back in the store room I put on the cardigan, but it’s massive on me, much too big; but it has a nice thick collar. I roll the sleeves up, until my hands are free from the material and then put the collar up. I probably look like a right idiot, but it’s a warm and comforting cardigan.

I head into the nicely dark staff room and fill the kettle. As I switch it on I wonder again how long the electricity will last for. I find a large, chipped mug and put two big teaspoons of sugar in, then a tea bag. The fridge has a two-litre bottle of semi-skimmed milk and there is a loaf of bread on the middle shelf. Who keeps bread in the fridge? The bread is in date, and there is fat free margarine and orange marmalade too.

A few minutes later and I have a steaming mug of sweet tea and two slices of toast. They are gone within seconds. The taste is amazing, and I realise how hungry I am. I keep going, toasting more bread, all then thickly spread with the marmalade, and I have another mug of tea.

Eventually, I sit back, feeling full and content for the first time in ages. No, it’s not ages… this only started on Friday night, and it’s Saturday night now. It feels like weeks.

I’ve already had countless lucky escapes but I have got to be more careful and think things through clearly. I have to get back to my parents and see if they have returned, then head for London to find my sister.

For now though, I will rest a short while and wait for the undead to piss off.

I lean forward and cross my arms on the table top. The thick cardigan is nice to rest my head on.

Just a few minutes, and I will get going.

Just a few minutes…

I wake with a start, wondering where I am and have that slightly sick feeling that you get when you can’t immediately place your surroundings.

I’ve dribbled on the cardigan as I slept. It looks like a slug has crawled across my sleeve, and I wipe at the wet saliva on my cheek. I really need to pee and the slightly too tight jeans are pressing into my bladder, which is very full from the tea I drank.

I head into the staff toilet and take a long piss; my urine is dark.

They had a urine colour chart on the wall of the male staff toilets in the supermarket. If your urine was too dark, it meant you were dehydrated.

Drink more water and stay healthy.

I need to drink more water. I should prepare my journeys now and plan accordingly. I need another bag to carry water in and supplies, and more weapons - definitely more weapons.

I go back out onto the shop floor and, once again, inch forward until I am in the same spot, peeking out between long dresses. The undead have gone. I can’t see any now.

I check my watch. It has just gone 2.30 a.m. I must have dozed off for a couple of hours. I feel better, but my mouth feels furry, and I need to brush my teeth. Again, I chastise myself for not thinking about this before. Washing, eating and getting water – all are important now.

Once satisfied that the front is clear, I move off deeper into the store. The men’s section is tiny in comparison to the main area and is sectioned off by high display walls.

I walk through and I’m completely blocked from the window in this area, so I can move with more ease. I am looking for another pair of jeans – ones that would be more my size - but all I can see are skinny jeans or brown trousers with a massive, saggy arse look.

I need dark clothing that I can move quickly in. I find some black utility trousers; pockets on the sides - like combat trousers. These are fashionable with bits of material hanging off. I find my size and try them on. They have a belt supplied and fit well. I yank off the hanging material strips and loops until they look fairly normal.

My trainers are filthy and are covered in dried blood, so I next head for the shoes section; but they only have thin, plimsoll type fashion shoes; like those nasty black things we had to wear for PE at school. There is one pair of boots, but they are high with big heels and designed to be worn with the sides hanging down. No good.

On to upper garments and I find a thin, long sleeved, black top with a hood.

The bags are no good either… they are old-fashioned, explorer type bags with thin straps. They look great but not practical and no good for running with. Then, changing my mind, I take one of the dark brown explorer bags and find new boxer shorts and socks. I pull the packaging free and stuff several pairs of each into the bag. Then I put another of the same tops in - after pulling off the tags.

Finally, I put a slightly thicker jumper in the bag too. I go back into the staff room and use the small sink to wash my body and change my underwear.

Dressed again, I feel better, cleaner and more prepared. I will need sturdier shoes though. I have had to use my feet several times already to kick at undead, and these flimsy trainers don’t give any protection.

The Tesco supermarket, where I work, isn’t too far away. It’s open 24 hours, so it would have been open when this started on Friday night.

It will surely be infested, but then there is a rear staff door with a keypad entry system. I know the building like the back of my hand, and I should be able to get in and out quickly.

The home delivery vans are parked out the back too, and the keys are in the duty manager’s office. It’s risky, but it must be better than going to a strange place where I don’t know the layout.

All I have to do is get out of here, and I can use the side streets.

The only window facing the rear of the building is in the staff room, and this has frosted glass with bars on the frame. I go through and open the smaller window first, listening until I am sure there are no sounds. The larger window is sealed shut - probably to prevent staff passing goods to people outside.

I can’t hear anything, but the risk is too great. I make my way carefully through the shop floor, moving between the clothes stands, until I am a just a few steps away from the front windows.

The streetlights are still on outside, but I can’t see any undead in front of the store. There are two lady mannequins on a raised plinth in the window display, and I step up to stand between them.

This gives me a better view of the street. To the left there is a massive horde of undead still milling round the door that I went through some time ago. There must be hundreds of them. They look slow and cumbersome now, but I know that they can switch on to fast when they have prey in their sights.

Looking intently at the horde on the left, I fail to see the single male undead shuffling past the window from my right. He is inches away, and I stand stock still, until he slowly passes by.

The front is out of the question; there are simply too many of them. The second that I exit the store, they will see me, and although I can run faster than them, there are clearly more undead up the road stumbling down to join the massive crowd.

The rear exit is the only choice.

In the stairwell, the bag is on my back and I have the axe in hand. I stare intently at the back door, wondering if I should go slowly or burst out.

I decide on the slower option. I can always try and pull the door shut if one of them comes at me. I push the metal bar down gently, keeping my movements very slow and controlled. The door is well used, and is fairly quiet. Pushing the door open, it hinges on the right, and I get a view of the left.

All clear.

Axe in my left hand, and a firm grip on the door handle with my right, I lean forward.

Still no undead.

I’m in a small service road, that runs along the back of the shops.

I take the fire extinguisher and prop the door slightly open. It looks closed, but I know that I can get back in, if I need to.

Down the road, there is a turning to the right that heads away from the town centre.

There is a row of parked cars on the right. I stay to this side, keeping low and using the cars to cover me. It is much darker here, and there is no street lighting.

Commercial units and storage places give way to houses, and then I’m into suburbia, and the area is once again well lit.

The darkness was good to creep along in, but bloody scary; deep shadows everywhere. The streetlights will mean that I am seen by them easier, but they will also help me to see them quicker.

I keep the axe low to avoid the metal glinting from the lights and I keep on through residential streets, that are all quiet. I find the same signs of devastation here: open front doors and dark patches on the pavement.

After a few minutes, I pass a car in the middle of the road that has crashed into the parked vehicles. The windscreen is smashed, and the doors are open. Blood stains are on the road, so I quicken my pace to get past quickly.

Some of the houses have lights on inside that offer the street a warm, inviting glow. I want to think of people sitting inside, watching television and drinking tea, instead of having to deal with this horror.

A main road crosses the end of the residential streets. I can see the Tesco garage on the other side; all in darkness.

The front door has been smashed in, and I can see packets of items littered on the forecourt. The fuel pumps have an automated system for credit cards at night, and the small shop is closed.

After several minutes of watching for any movement, I go over the road and cross the forecourt quickly, reaching the shadows on the other side, without issue.

Over a small wall, and I’m into the supermarket car park: a vast, open space with plastic-roofed trolley bays dotted about.

There are very few cars here. Just a row of some dozen or so parked in the area that the night staff use.

The main building is ahead of me. It is brightly lit. The massive red Tesco sign is like a beacon in the dark night but I can’t see anyone moving about from this distance.

To the right of the building, there is a very high fence which runs around the back, and there is a double-gate entry point for delivery trucks and a single walk-through gate with a keypad for staff to use.

The vehicle gates look closed from here – they are normally controlled by staff monitoring the CCTV cameras in the security office and can be open electronically.

I move right and keep to the edge of the car park, skirting round until I reach the high fencing. At the single gate, I enter the code, and it buzzes to show that the lock is disengaged.

I push the gate and enter the rear compound, stopping to look about and making sure it is clear before I proceed. The gate has the same keypad on the inside, so there is no need to keep it open for a fast exit.

To my left is the side of the main building: sheer and windowless. There are several home delivery trucks parked to the side in bays, facing towards the gates. A wide sweeping access road goes around the rear of the building to the delivery bays. There are wooden benches set aside, used by the staff that smoke or those who want to sit outside during their breaks. I can see from here that the staff access door is closed.

Keeping to the far side, I move forward, until I get a full view of the back of the store. There is a long Tesco truck backed up to the loading platform.

Just as I am about to move off, I see an undead male shuffling by the smoking area; he is too close to the rear staff door.

The lorry in the loading bay means that there will be open doors into the storerooms so the stock can be taken in. I could go that way, but it is a big area. I want to go in the side door so I can get to the security office and use the cameras to look round the store.

There are just as many cameras in the staff and stock rooms as there are on the shop floor – Loss Prevention they call it. But, in reality, they just don’t trust the staff.

If I want to use that side door, I’ll have to deal with him.

Keeping low and to the perimeter, I make my way round the side of the building, then start coming back towards the side door from the other direction, sticking to the dark shadows at the side.

I am still at least thirty metres from him when he spins round, suddenly aware of my presence. There is no pause or delay… he is running at me, gathering speed, despite his jerky motion.

I step away from the building, so I have space around me, moving left and drawing him out into the open.

He is dressed in blue trousers and a blue polo shirt with the Tesco logo and looks to be in his late forties, with a big gut hanging over the top of his trousers. One half of his face looks torn away. I don’t recognise him. He must be the truck driver.

He looks like a truck driver.

I will only get one shot at this before he is upon me. I lift the axe and hold it ready, just as he gets in range. Then I step to the right and swing at his head. The impact sends him careering off, and he sprawls onto the ground. I move in before he can get up and slam the sharp edge into his brain. A sickening crunch and squelch as his skull is burst open, and the soft matter underneath is destroyed.

I pull the axe out and look around me, checking that the noise hasn’t drawn any more.

Satisfied that all is fine for now, I move to the staff door and key in the code. A single click signals that the door is unlocked. The top half of the door is glass, and I can see that the inside area looks clear.

Inside, I move down the corridor to the security office. The door is closed, but not locked. I enter the room and see a several monitors on a desk in front of a keyboard and a joystick; two swivel chairs are in front of the desk.

Bert is sitting in one of the chairs. He is the oldest of the security staff; grey haired and very friendly.

He is leaning back in the chair, and his arms hang down at his sides. Huge pools of blood have formed underneath him, and there is a packing knife in the blood under his right hand.

Bert had rolled his sleeves up, before opening his veins.

This sticks in my mind, as Bert never rolled his sleeves up or loosened his tie; always a stickler for being smart. He would often chastise the younger staff for looking scruffy.

Even at the point of taking his own life, he still took the time to roll them smartly above the elbow. I can see old army style tattoos on his forearms, faded with time.

He was a very proud man, and I feel glad that he decided to choose his own fate, rather than face becoming one of them.

Bert is in the closest chair, and I will have to tread in the pools of blood to get at the monitors. They are angled round so that staff sticking their heads through the door can’t see what is being watched.

I walk gently through the blood to his chair and go to push the chair out of the way. The chair is not on wheels though, and pushing it causes my feet to lose grip and slip from under me. I land heavily on my knees in the pool of blood.

I’m now kneeling down in front of Bert, and my face is inches away from his groin. I go to stand up, but the floor is like ice now; my trainers can’t get a grip, and I have to use the chair to lever myself upright, then twist around and fall into the second seat.

My trouser legs are soaked through, and I can feel the cold liquid on my skin; I only just got these trousers too!

Shaking my head at my own incompetence, I look toward the monitors.

I got on well with Bert, and he once showed me how the system worked and how to move between all of the cameras and have them displayed as a split screen with four, eight or up to thirty-two very small images. The joystick controls the camera movement and focus.

The company invests heavily in state of the art security; a camera in one corner can be zoomed in to read the packaging from an item on a shelf in the far corner.

Starting with the staff area, I commence flicking through the images and I am surprised that there are no undead in the back rooms. I go through the different sections: the canteen, the office areas and the locker rooms are all clear.

In the dry goods stock room, the largest of the storage areas, I can see a large mound on the floor near the far corner. The dry goods room is very dark and it’s hard to see what it is.

I zoom the camera in and can the see that the heap is made from stacked up bodies. There are limbs hanging out from the pile. It’s too dark to see clearly, but there are at least seven or eight bodies, all on top of each other. I move the camera about, but cannot see anything else, no movement. All the rest of the staff area is clear.

I start looking at the shop floor images and, very quickly, I see bodies lying on the floor - lots of bodies. Nearly every aisle has several bodies in the prone position. The live footage is full colour, and the blood is vividly stark against the off-white flooring. Zooming in, I can see that they are all undead, or rather were undead.

Bite injuries are all over them. Men, women and children all scattered about. Many of them have severed jugulars, necks slashed open and appendages cut off.

I go through the cameras on every aisle; starting at the back and working my way towards the front of the store.

In the large central aisle, there is another massive heap of bodies, and bloody drag marks show where they have been pulled along on the floor.

Again, using the powerful zoom, I can see they are all undead. There is a single arm on top of the highest pile, as if it has been chucked up there.

This is the last thing I had expected to see. I knew that the place would be crawling with undead, but I wasn’t expecting them to be dead undead.

The next monitor along has been left focussed on the store entrance. Movement catches my eye, and I see an undead female staggering into the store. She is moving fast, like she has seen prey. I check the list for the camera numbers and watch her path through various feeds.

She moves past the security barriers and towards the customer service desk. I select a camera fixed above the main door and move it to see the service desk area.

There is a man wearing Tesco uniform facing the oncoming undead female. He stands still with his arms hanging by his sides. I try to zoom in closer to see who it is, but the undead blocks my view as she charges at him. The man lifts his right arm, drops down and spins off to the side in one fluid motion, coming to stop with his back to the camera and facing back, towards the service desk. As he comes into view, I see that he has a massive, orange-handled butcher’s knife in his hand. The knife is reversed, and the blade is upright, resting against his forearm… the blade that just sliced across the throat of the undead female who has crashed into the desk and is now on the floor.

I see crimson spurting from her throat area as she spasms, and, within seconds, she is motionless.

The man walks over and looks down at the undead female. He has his back to me, and I still can’t see who it is. The man appears satisfied that she is done for and bends down to pick her leg up by the ankle. He then starts dragging her body towards the central aisle.

I change camera view and focus on the section that he will walk into. There are already several clear, bloody drag marks on the floor. He must have done the same thing, countless times.

As the man comes into view, his head is down; carefully avoiding the slippery wake he has left before.

He lifts his head, and I’m amazed to see that it’s one of the night shelf stackers. I rack my brains trying to remember his name: David… no… Dave. That’s it, Dave. He always corrected me if I called him David.

A small built man with a very wiry frame and short fair hair, cut close to his scalp; maybe a grade four.

He had joined the store about a year ago, on the night shift. He was a very hard worker, quiet and kept to himself. He impressed the managers with his consistent working pace, and they frequently offered him the chance to move onto the day shifts, but he always refused. I remember trying to talk to him on several occasions. He always called me Mr Howie, despite my telling him several times that he could call me just Howie. The store prefers first name’s for the managers, as it tries to promote a friendly one-team approach.

Dave would just stay quiet.

He was never silent in a disrespectful way, he was just a very withdrawn man. We couldn’t even work out his age. He could be anything from late twenties to early forties. There was even a bet running in the canteen on his age. The other night staff were always asking him how old he was. He would just give a little smile and carry on with what he was doing, and he was always doing something.

At meal breaks he would get food and sit by himself, eat and then go back to work. At first we kept telling him that he was entitled to a full hour, but he just carried on. He rarely took tea breaks and would occasionally stop for a drink of water.

After a few weeks, it just became the norm, and nobody paid him any attention, but then nobody took the piss out of him either. There was always banter in the canteen and jokes being played on the shop floor, but never at Dave.

I can’t think of a time that he said more than five words in the same sentence.

Dave dragged the body round to the far side of the heap and pushed it onto the pile.

An arm flopped out and he lifted it up and pushed it back in. It flopped out again, and he pushed it under another body. Neat and tidy.

He then turned and walked back down to the service desk. There, he picked up a long, thin metallic stick and started running the butchers blade up and down it, whilst looking at the door.

On the desk behind him I can see more knives from the meat department, huge cleavers and normal straight-bladed knives. There is even a long metal shaft with a hook at one end and a handle at the other.

Dave just stands watching the door, his knife moving in perfect motion, up and down the sharpening tool.

I leave the security office and make my way onto the shop floor with my axe. The bright lights blind me a little, after the darkness of the back area.

There is piped music playing low, and I head towards the central aisle, passing the heap of bodies. I suddenly become very nervous, and I call out, so he doesn’t think I’m trying to sneak up on him.

‘Dave… it’s Howie, are you there? Is it okay if I come down?’

Dave appears at the end of the aisle ahead of me. The two implements are held down at his sides.

‘Mr Howie, sir.’

I wait in the central aisle, then look at the piled up bodies on the floor. There is a rancid, rotten smell coming from them, and they don’t look real. There’s too many of them to look real.

There was a pile in the dry goods room, plus the ones in the aisles at the back of the store, and now these.

He must have killed at least a hundred of them. The sight of the wounds: red eyes, slack mouths and limbs - all in various states are too much for me and the contents of my stomach heave up. I bend over and vomit on the floor, putting my hand out to steady myself. I keep retching until nothing but bile is coming out. My throat burns, and my eyes are watering. Dave is suddenly next to me, handing me a bottle.

‘Some water.’

I take the bottle and unscrew the cap, taking big gulps to soothe the burning in my throat.

‘Sorry, Mr Howie.’

I look up, fearful that he is apologising before cutting my head off, but he standing there with a very slight, pained expression on his face.

‘…for the bodies.’

He motions to the heaped cadavers.

‘Every time I try to clear them up, more come in.’

That was a long speech for Dave.

He doesn’t look or sound threatening.

In fact, he looks the same as he always does. His shirt is tucked into his blue trousers; his fleece is zipped up, with the collar down. The buttons of his polo shirt are done up. There are just a few blood stains on his hands. He notices me looking at his hands and walks back to the service desk. I follow him there and watch as he takes an antiseptic wipe from a pack; methodically cleaning the blood from his hands.

I don’t know what to say. He sees me looking at the wipes.

‘I paid for them.’

‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry.’

I feel dizzy after the vomiting and sway on my feet, and Dave rushes to my side and helps lower me down onto the ground. I sit down with my head between my knees; the axe at my side.

‘Rest now.’

He goes back to sharpening the knife and watching the door, and then he stops and walks off towards the chilled drinks cabinet by the front. He returns, within seconds, and silently hands me a bottle of Lucozade.

I drink it and, within a few minutes, I start to feel better as the glucose pumps into my system.

‘How long have you been here, Dave?’

He thinks for a second.

‘Eleven months.’

‘No, I know that. I mean how long now?’

He raises his head slightly

‘Friday.’

‘You’ve been here since Friday? Since this started?’

He nods.

‘Why are you here, Dave?’

He pauses his sharpening and stares at me, expressionless. Then he looks down at his uniform and back at me.

‘No, I don’t mean why are you here. You work here. I mean… why are you still here when this is happening?’

He shrugs.

‘Don’t you have family?’

‘No.’

‘A home even? Where do you live?’

‘South Street.’

South Street is in the town centre, right by the High Street. That area would be crawling with undead.

‘No family or relatives?’

He shakes his head and continues with the sharpening. I watch him work. His eyes never leave the front of the store. He stops, and although he remains expressionless, there is a change in his eyes. A set and fixed stare. I twist round but can’t see anything, and so I stand up and look out the front. There are several undead coming across the car park.

Dave calmly puts the sharpener back on the desk, then hovers his hand over the handles of the knives. He selects a smaller, straight bladed, black-handled knife. He reverses both of the knives, so they are upright against his forearms and starts walking towards the entrance doors.

He stops a few feet back from the doors and stands waiting. I heft my axe and go down to stand beside him. He looks at me, then at the ground between us.

‘Too close, Mr Howie.’ He states, matter of factly. .

‘Sorry.’

I take a few steps to the side.

He turns his head back to the undead. They are closer now, and I can see there are four of them, three males and one female - all adults. They are dressed in formal evening wear. The female has a gold coloured gown, and the men are wearing dark suits, and I wonder where they have come from.

They are advancing in a staggered line, with the female at the front. As they get within a few metres of the door, Dave runs out, going straight towards the female. As she leans in for the bite, he side steps and brushes the straight bladed knife against her throat; his forward momentum causing the blade to dig as he draws it across. His right arm is extended and the long, orange-handled knife is held out in front, like a sword.

He then plunges into the neck of the next undead male, pushing it deep.

He spins round with dexterity and draws the knife out, dropping down. Then he uses both knives to thrust upwards at the chest of the next one; repeated stabs into the ribcage as he pushes upwards, forcing the undead back. Then he viciously drives the straight blade into the forehead.

One left, and Dave lets him come on. At the last second he spins round the back of the undead and grips the hair on the back of his head, yanking him. The blade saws at the exposed neck, and I can see blood pumping out.

He lets the body slump to the ground, then looks left and right, turns and scans the rest of the car park.

I am still standing in the entrance area holding my axe, my mouth open.

He was so clinical. Not savage or violent. Well, it was violent, incredibly violent, but not in a demented sense, like I had swung my axe and hoped for the best. He was precise and exact.

Dave checks the area and then walks back to the undead male – the one with the knife sticking out of his forehead. He then leans down and puts his foot on the undead’s face and pulls the knife out quickly. He wipes both blades on the undead’s clothing and starts walking back towards me, but he stops at the female and bends down to grasp her ankle, and he starts pulling her into the store. He nods as he passes me.

‘Mr Howie.’

I go after him as he trails the body up the aisle. Her arms are out behind her. The front of her gown is stained red, and there are bite marks all over her arms.

‘Dave, you don’t have to stack them up.’

He stops and looks back me, then down at the body. He lets go of the leg, which falls to the floor with a thump.

‘Okay.’

He goes back to the desk and uses the wipes to clean his hands and then the bloody blades.

‘Dave, have you got anywhere else to go?’

He pauses, then shakes his head.

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Listen, mate, you can’t stay here. They will keep coming, and you can’t keep stacking them up. They will decay and rot. The electricity won’t last that long either. There are survivors heading to the Forts on the coast. You could go there. Take a delivery truck from the back… ’

He pauses, clearly thinking.

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t drive.’

‘I can show you. It’s really easy.’

‘I don’t have a licence.’

‘Dave, no one will care. There is no police or authority now, and you can do what you want.’

He seems suddenly unsure, like the notion is too much to grasp. He looks left, right and then at me; a quizzical expression on his face that I have never seen before.

He is clearly very worried.

‘Or you could come with me? I have to find my parents and my sister, then I’m going to the Forts.’

I almost curse myself for saying it, but he looked lost and floundering. He could kill me easily without hesitation, but then he hasn’t shown any threat or signs of evil intent yet. In fact he has acted the same as always, and he would be very handy to have nearby. The worried expression is gone from him instantly.

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

That’s it. No hesitation or questions, no wondering about who or where, an instant decision, and he is back to being normal Dave.

‘I need to change my clothes. I’m covered in blood.’

I start to walk over to the clothing section on the far side.

‘Blood?’

‘Not mine. Bert - the security man – slit his wrists in the security office.’

‘Oh.’

‘You could get some more clothes if you wanted to, Dave.’

‘No money.’ He shakes his head.

‘It’s okay. You can just take them.’

He seems unsure again.

‘Err… I’m a manager, Dave. I can sign for them to be given out.’

‘Okay.’ He follows me to the clothes section.

At the clothes section, I drop my bag down and start looking about. Most of the clothing is cheap and brightly coloured. Cheap and not cheerful, as the clothing manager calls it; out of earshot from the higher ups, of course.

‘Take what you need, Dave. Whatever you want… I can sign for it.’

There are cargo-style trousers with the side pockets, but none in black. Only lighter colours and some funky camouflage designs.

‘I’ve been using dark clothes so far, trying to keep hidden in the shadows. What do you reckon, Dave? About right?’

‘Yes, camouflage is the art of concealing personnel or equipment from an enemy by making them appear to be part of the natural surroundings.’

I stop and stare at him. That was the biggest speech I have ever heard him give, and he said it parrot fashion; reeling it off from memory. I go back to casually looking at the trousers.

‘So, were you in the army, Dave?’

‘Yes.’

He has already chosen black jeans and a very dark green top. He takes these and walks to the changing room, closing the door behind him.

The conversation is over.

I choose the same jeans as Dave had selected, and start to get changed. My legs are soaked from the blood that has seeped through.

‘I’m going to get some wipes to clean my legs.’

No response.

I head into the health and beauty section and find the same wipes that Dave used. I clean my legs thoroughly and then put the new jeans on. I put several packs of the wipes into my bag. My trainers are ruined, and I head back to the clothes section and find a pair of plain, sturdy, black boots. The explorer bag is quickly filling up.

Dave comes out, dressed in the dark clothing. He looks awkward out of the Tesco uniform. He selects a leather belt from a stand and hands it to me, before getting another and threading it through his belt loops. I do the same and put the belt on.

Dave then tucks his top into his jeans, but I don’t bother.

‘I need a new bag, mate.’

I indicate the explorer bag, and he nods, before setting off to the sports aisle. I follow him and watch as he takes various bags off the shelf and checks them through. He settles on a Berghaus medium-sized rucksack with side pockets and a tight, elastic mesh at the front. Both have chest and waist straps. He hands me a dark blue one, and he chooses dark green. I transfer my stuff to the new bag.

I watch as he puts the knives into the mesh pocket, blade first. He tests the elasticity and seems satisfied. Leaving the large, orange-handled one in the mesh, he draws the straight bladed knife back out and carries it in his hand.

‘Ready, mate?’

He shakes his head: ‘Food and fluids.’

And he’s off again.

I follow behind as he selects various items in the store: high-energy protein bars; glucose drinks; bottles of water and First Aid kits. Each time he hands me some first and then puts the same in his own bag.

Eventually, the bags are full with supplies - food and fluids as he called them. He seems ready to go, then he stops and looks at me.

‘We should eat now.’

Now he’s off into the aisles, taking cooked chicken from the meat section, then packets of microwavable rice and, finally, tinned vegetables.

I’m following behind him, taking the same things. I want to get going, but he seems to know what he’s doing, and I did promise earlier that I would plan and prepare better. Perhaps he is right. There is no way of telling when the next meal will come, and we should eat now.

We go through to the staff canteen area and Dave takes plates and cutlery from the cupboards. He empties the contents of the packets onto a plate and starts digging in.

‘We could heat them up in the microwave. There’s still power.’

He shrugs and carries on.

A short while later, we are outside in the rear compound, walking towards the home delivery vans: bags on our backs, axe in my hand and Dave is holding the knife down by his side.

We’re both dressed in black and I feel a bit self-conscious, imagining a rock soundtrack playing out.

Yeah, very cool: two supermarket workers getting away in a Tesco home delivery van – one of them is some kind of highly trained killer with possible Autism.

We get into the van and prop both of the bags onto the middle seat.

I check the fuel gauge; glad of the company policy to always return the vehicle full.

We move off towards the double gates and they open on a sensor from the inside - we have to pause for a few seconds to let them swing out.

It’s still dark, but the sun will be up before long. I pull out of the gates and start crossing the car park towards the main road. Dave remains silent, his hands together in his lap, as he stares forward.

‘So… were you in the army for long?’

‘Fourteen years.’

‘Quite a while then. Did you go overseas much?’

‘I’m not allowed to say.’

‘Oh, right, of course. What part of the army were you in?’

‘I’m not allowed to say.’

Bloody hell! It feels rude to keep asking questions. He is obviously a private man, but the silence is uncomfortable, and I feel the need to fill it.

‘I lived in the town too, but those things tried to get in my house, so I had to leave. My parents live the other side of Littleton. I went there on Saturday morning, but they had gone. They left me a note saying they were coming to look for me, so I came back, but I can’t find them. The town is overrun, and I almost got caught a few times.’

Silence.

“My sister lives in London. She called my parents and said that she was locked into her flat. That’s where I’m going, to try and find her. I heard on a radio broadcast that survivors should head to those Victorian Forts on the coast. I’ve already met some other people and told them. That’s where I thought we would go, to the Forts.’

Silence again, and this time I leave it unfilled.

On the motorway, I have to slow down to pass the wreck from Saturday morning. The woman’s body is still there and the male undead corpse is still half out of the upturned car.

Dave looks at the wreckage as we go through.

‘I saw that happen. I was going to my parents, and it flipped over right in front of me. The woman was still alive, but she died while I was helping her.’

Dave looks at me and nods, doesn’t say anything and then looks ahead again.

As daylight rises, we pass the shop where I met the Indian lady and then the estate survivors. The cars are all gone and the shop looks deserted.

I slow down to look through the windows. The shelves all look empty. I guess those people took everything and got away - I hope they made it.

I drive into the estate and stop outside the house. This time I take the keys with me and lock the van up, feeling somewhat safer now that there are two of us.

Dave gets out and follows me to the front door.

My dad’s car is still missing, and I get a horrible sinking feeling that they haven’t been back.

In the dining room, the note is where I left it. No signs of anyone being in the house since I left.

Dave disappears off into the house and comes back after a few minutes.

‘All clear, Mr Howie.’

‘Yeah… thanks, Dave.’

I feel sadness wave over me. They must be gone. Their note said they would come back here after checking at my place. Something has happened.

I think of my parents being undead. An awful, slow, painful death - and then they become them.

They might have been in that horde that chased me into the club during the night, or even been dispatched by Dave in the supermarket.

The thought sickens me and I sit down at the dining table. My parents are gone – dead - or maybe worse. If they indeed were undead, would they attack me if they saw me?

‘Dave, did any of the other staff from work turn into those things?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they try and come for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they show any signs that they recognised you?’

‘No.’

That’s it then. My parents would go for me.

There is a deep pain inside me, and it won’t go away. Memories from childhood flood into my mind. I think of special times that we shared: Christmas and the effort that my parents made when it was our birthdays.

The retirement party we had for my dad who then went back to work a few weeks later. He worked all his life, and, even in retirement - when he should have been relaxing - he wanted to contribute.

The hints they kept dropping me and my sister about marriage and babies; wanting to be grandparents.

The pain is too much.

They have gone, been taken away by those evil things. They tried to come and rescue me, knowing they were going into danger, knowing the risks, but they still tried. They are selfless and valiant people. The pain crushes my heart, but I can’t break down here. This isn’t the time. They were good people, decent loving and nice. The undead have taken them from me. Even if I find my sister... no, when I find my sister, I will have to tell her that they are gone.

There is a vase of flowers on the table, selected and carefully arranged by my mother; showing pride in her home - the home they worked hard for.

They are gone, and the undead have taken them.

A rage starts to build in me. I think of Marcus and his fucked up club. How dare he breathe the same air as my family. He isn’t worthy of anything. Not life, not love.

All around me are the things that they cherished: photos of my sister and I adorn the walls; the ceramic pot I made in school and gave to them as a present is proudly displayed on a shelf - my mother even kept my old clothes in the loft. She was too nice to throw them out.

The rage is building, and the hunger for revenge is consuming me. They are gone. The undead have taken them - taken them away from me.

The cold, hard fury cannot be ignored. This cannot be left. This must be done now.

I go into the kitchen and pull out the knife drawer, slamming it onto the kitchen top. I look up and see a row of knives stuck on a magnetic strip on the wall. They were a retirement gift from my Dad’s place of work: moulded high-tensile stainless steel; bevelled grips with small, black rubber inserts. One of them is a huge cleaver. We joked about Mum using it on Dad if she got fed up with him being at home.

The thought of my parents drives me on, and I take the cleaver and head back out to the van with my axe. Staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, I get into the drivers seat and start the engine; the cleaver on the middle seat.

Dave gets in without a word. He has two more knives from the same set on the wall, and both of them are long and straight bladed.

We stare at each other, then I face ahead and pull away, heading out of the estate and back onto the main road.

One of those fucking things took my parents. I don’t know which one, but I’ll find it. There will be a sign, some kind of aura, an evil presence. Somehow I will find the one that took them, and I will hurt it.

I will kill it. I will kill all of them. I will purge that town and raze it to the fucking ground.

‘Where now?” Dave asks.

‘Boroughfare.’

‘Okay.’

Within minutes, we are back on the motorway; the engine screaming loudly as I ram the gas pedal down as far as it will go. The road is still clear, and I push the van hard. I barely slow down as we fly onto the junction, the main road, the roundabout and then onto the High Street.

The horde is in that town.

The pain is consuming me, and the need for revenge blots out all thought or reason. There is no other way.

I want to see them suffer, burn, be ripped apart and die horrible, painful, second deaths.

I don’t know if they feel pain, but I hope they do. I think of all the bad things I have seen: news reports of families torn apart by violence; offenders getting away free because of a weak legal system - not able to exact revenge because the authorities say that vigilantism is wrong.

But it isn’t wrong. It can never be wrong. They hurt my family. They can’t be arrested or tried in a court. Nobody will come along now and say nice things to calm my rage. Now there is punishment, and I will deliver it, and, if I can’t, then I will die trying.

I stop the van just before the precinct.

The metal barrier is in the distance and I can see the massed, undead beyond it. I press the horn down and keep it held, and the long wail echoes off the buildings. The undead start toward me. It’s daylight again, and they are slow now, shuffling along, barely at walking pace. I want them now. I want them to be here so I can hurt them, but I wait, and I push my anger through that horn; my fist pressing into the middle of the steering wheel. I start to punch it. One fist after the other; rhythmic and constant.

Come on, come to me… come and bite me. I am here, and you can have me. I’m all yours. You took my parents - so take me, and let me join them.

They are moving so slow, but I can wait. I will wait for them. The wait just increases the blind fury within me.

Dave is saying something, but I can’t hear him, and the blood is pounding through my skull.

‘What?’

‘Keep your space. Don’t get drawn in, keep moving. Strike and move. Keep a firm grip on your weapon, aim for the head or neck!’

I stare at him and nod.

‘Right.’

Here they are, pouring round the barrier, coming to me, coming to bite me, coming to eat me. I wait for more of them to get round, then I stop the horn and start revving the engine; foot pushed all the way down. The engine roars. The engine is a warrior too and it wants the blood. It wants to hurt and maim them. It’s shouting at me: “Let me go, Howie - let me at them”.

I put my seat belt on and see Dave doing the same. He looks at me, then back at them. He motions forward his hand and says one word: ‘NOW.’

I lift the clutch up, and the engine surges ahead, it powers forward, and I change the gears, gaining speed. We cannot be stopped. Nothing will stop us. We are coming for them, coming to end them.

The last few seconds before impact seems like slow motion. I see the undead coming forward, spittle and drool hanging from their mouths, dried and crusty blood all over them. Their red, staring eyes; limp arms, hanging down.

I notice a picture that has been stuck on the front of the radio. A young boy smiling, blond hair and white teeth. I remember my family, my sweet loving family. A powerful surge of rage burns through me.

At the last second, time seems to speed up, and we smash through the first rows of undead, slamming into bodies. The speed sends them flying off to the left and right, and their heads get pulverised as they lean forward with their teeth barred. The van bursts them apart, driving us deeper into the crowd.

The van then bounces as we go over bodies, crushing them under the wheels: we destroy many in our path. Then metallic thumps and bangs from the front as they are crushed. Some go spinning off into other undead, knocking them over. I keep my foot pressed down as we plough into the thickest part of the crowd. The front of the van slams them against the barrier, and we stop with a massive crash, jolting us both forward, against our seat belts.

The impact is immense, and it causes pain to my chest and neck. I look ahead and see bodies of undead squashed between the van and the barrier; pressed like fruit. I had no idea that the human body could be compressed so much.

We are at least one metre from the barrier, and there must be twenty undead squished in front of us.

Dave is out of the door. I rip my seatbelt off and burst out too, the axe in my hands. There is devastation all around us.

A large, thick, gory wake behind the van, and bodies scattered everywhere. But there are more on their feet, coming towards me.

Oh, yes, come on my beauties, come to Howie.

As the first one lunges, I remember Dave’s words, ‘…strike and move. Aim for the head or neck…’

I slam the sharp side of the axe into a face, cleaving the skull. I step away and strike again, bringing the axe down over my head, like splitting logs, but instead of a log, I split skulls, bursting them apart - almost cutting heads in half.

I keep moving.

They are slow, and I am fast.

I am death, and I have come for you.

I dart forward and whip the axe at them, heaving away, cracking skulls and destroying them. The axe isn’t sharp and will not slice into their jugular’s, but it has weight, it has anger and fury behind it, and a thirst for revenge - the power compensates for the lack of cutting power. Instead of cutting them, I gouge them open, hacking the flesh apart as the axe is forced through them. More are coming now. I want them to come. I want all of them to come. There are no thoughts now, no rational thinking; just strike and move – move and strike.

I keep going, and the rage that I had before is nothing compared to what it’s like now. It was cold and seething, murderous and ready to plot and plan, and this is unleashed, berserk, abandoned fury let loose; encouraged and allowed to explode.

I twist the axe round and start using the blunt end; swinging out to the left and right, aiming for the side of their heads.

A good impact and they go straight over with a crushed skull. A lesser impact sends them spinning off. If they are not killed outright, they get up and come back. Good, I want them to come back - I want them to suffer.

I have drawn them on towards the rear of the van. Dave is nearby, and I get a fleeting glance of him whirling and spinning. The bloody stainless steel glints as it’s ripped through the air. There are so many bodies on the floor, but not enough, never enough.

I keep on attacking them, moving backwards to draw them on, then darting forward and taking one out.

My hands and arms are covered in blood: they’re slick and wet, and my grip is failing. I can feel the shaft sliding under my hands. I clench the axe handle and step forward. A massive overhead heave and I miss the head and hit the shoulder, forcing the axe down into the collarbone; almost severing the shoulder. I pull the weapon back, but the axe-head is loose, rattling on the end of the shaft. I move back and throw the thing at the nearest undead. The force drives him back into more undead.

‘Eyes on,’ Dave shouts from my left.

I look over and see that he has taken the massive cleaver from the van. He bends down and sends it spinning across the ground at me, aiming for a body lying a few feet away.

I race forward and pick it up, staring at the shiny, massive blade.

‘Grip it with both hands, like a sword,’ he shouts, then turns and starts back into his group.

I take his instructions and grip the large handle with both hands.

Looking at the undead still massing and coming on, I move forward and slash at the closest one. The blade slices through his face like butter; effort hardly needed, but I drive too hard, and the blade cuts down into his chest.

I pull back and remember Dave going for their throats. I look to the next one and push the blade at the neck; the jugular opens and hot blood pours out. I keep going, dancing round them, stabbing and thrusting. I lack the finesse that Dave has, but sheer, blind, psychotic rage spurs me on.

I move backwards. The building line is just behind me, and I look round and see a DIY shop just a few doors up.

Oh, yes. Fucking yes.

I run up, but the doors are locked.

An undead comes at me. I slash at his neck, and, as he bends forward, I go behind him and use his head to propel him forward into the door, smashing the glass pane. Then I pull him back and drive him forward again. The glass explodes and I pull him away. I kick at the frame and use the cleaver to clear away the shards, then I reach in and unlock the door.

It must be bolted on the inside.

I kick at the middle and keep kicking, until the door bursts open. I force my way inside, and the alarm goes off instantly, but it’s a mere distraction to me.

The shop is a Viking wonderland - it sells heavy, sharp things. Weapons are everywhere. I take a sledgehammer and move back towards the door. The cleaver was good, but it doesn’t satisfy my craving for revenge, and I don’t want to be clinical or precise. I want to hack and destroy.

The first undead is coming through the door. I take a huge, overhead swing, and the head explodes, driving the body down into the doorway. I step back as another tries to push in. Again, I heave the hammer overhead and watch as the head explodes, like a melon bursting apart. This body goes down too.

The door is only halfway open, and the two bodies have created a natural barrier. I go back into the shop, perusing weapons. The sledgehammer is good, but it will become very hard work. I select two lump hammers – big, solid, lumps of metal on the end of short handles.

I go back outside, clambering over the bodies. Undead are massing towards me and, with a hammer in each hand, I slam them in the face, like clapping my hands. The effect is amazing. The cheekbones are driven in, and I swipe away, one skull after another, and the rage builds in me again, now that I am back amongst them. Male. Female. Young. Old. I don’t care, I want them to die, and I want to destroy them. The hammers are good, but they are not killing them quickly enough, just knocking them over or off to the side.

Back into the DIY shop, and, in the corner, there is a brightly coloured display stand. A huge sign hangs over the top, offering a free demonstration for tree cutting this Saturday. Tree cutting?

I go over and see a massive chainsaw resting on the display top with a long, fierce looking blade, complete with big teeth. I pick it up and test it; very heavy. There is a switch marked ON/OFF and a long pull cord. I put the switch to ON and pull the cord. The engine roars to life, but the blades remain still.

There are two handles: at front and at back. A lever is at the front, and I pick the chainsaw up and press the lever. The engine increases in pitch, and the blades spin round.

There is a pair of safety glasses next to the counter; I put these on and head out of the store.

An undead is at the entrance. I press the lever again and push the end of the blades into his chest. The blades bite instantly, ripping the ribcage apart, and I force the chainsaw forward a few inches and then back out. There is a gaping, ragged wound in him, and he goes down.

I have to clamber over three bodies now, and, once back out, I can see that more have massed. I move forward with the lever pressed down, keeping the chainsaw at head height, sweeping left and right, cutting through the undead. I drive forward into them, sweeping round in a circle. The magnificent machine powers through them, ripping through bone, tendons, sinews and flesh. The spray-back is immense, and, within seconds, I am covered in bits of body.

I lean my head back and roar, screaming at them to keep coming, and they do, pouring to their deaths, leaning in for the bite – and, as I slice through their exposed necks, their ugly, distorted heads roll off.

I can’t stop. This is it. This is the destruction I have craved, and I don’t see them as people now. They are undead. They are not male or female, not adults or children, but they are something else. A new species; like an evil entity sent to consume us, and I will fight them and destroy them.

The chainsaw doesn’t stop. It keeps hacking and cutting through the crowd. The weight is heavy, and I am sweating, breathing hard, but the exertion is worth it, and the effort is rewarded by the flesh being eaten by the teeth of my spinning blades.

Minutes pass, and, eventually, the chainsaw stops: the fuel spent.

I move backwards and see what has been done. There are bodies and body parts scattered everywhere. The mess is an awesome sight. Not awesome like in a cool movie. It’s awesome like something you can’t otherwise describe.

There is a long trail of broken and destroyed, undead bodies leading from the DIY shop back to the Tesco van. The other side is the same, where Dave has led them down the other half of the pavement.

Exhausted, filthy but somehow satisfied, I walk back into the DIY store and take two new, long-handled axes, then go over to the Tesco van, ignoring the remaining undead. I climb into the driver’s seat and sit slumped, looking down at the gore coating my clothes.

Dave gets into the passenger side. He looks remarkably clean. Some blood splatter on his hands and arms.

He takes a pack of wipes out and starts the cleaning process: hands, arms, face and then weapons. There are a couple of undead on both sides. We both reach out and pull our doors shut. I put the van in neutral and switch the keys off, then back on. Surprisingly, the van starts first time. The bodies have cushioned the van from any major damage.

We sit there with the engine idling over and I take some wipes and go through the cleaning process too.

‘Better?’ he asks.

‘Much better.’

I reverse the van and drive out of town. I have a deep feeling of tiredness, but the anger hasn’t gone away, and it has not been exhausted. It has been quelled for a short time, driven back down inside me, but it will come back, I know that. This fury will never be stopped.

We drive in silence to my parents’ house, and I use the shower, while Dave makes food. Then we swap.

We put our clothes into the washing machine, then into the tumble dryer and Dave checks the house, securing every door and window, drawing curtains and dropping blinds.

He comes back into the kitchen: ‘Sleep now?’

I nod. ‘There are two spare rooms upstairs, so help yourself.’

He disappears, and I hear his footsteps on the ceiling above me.

A few minutes later, I am in the other spare room, collapsing on the bed, drained and exhausted.

The last thing I remember, before sleep pulls me under, is the light disappearing; the electricity has gone off.

DAY THREE

Sunday Afternoon

I am sitting bolt upright in bed, the sweat is pouring off me and I am breathing hard.

I was dreaming, but I can’t remember what about. There was something happening, but it has gone from my mind now. The room is light, so it must still be daytime. The light in here is soft, filtered through curtains, giving the room a warm glow. There are vivid images from earlier when we fought against the horde of undead in Boroughfare’s town centre. There were so many bodies left lying and broken - split apart - limbs and shredded carcasses, innards spilling out onto the pavement, and so much blood.

The blood surprises me; I thought that the undead wouldn’t bleed. If they died and then came back then shouldn’t they still be dead? The heart stops when the body dies… if the heart stops then the blood cannot be pumped round the body and - if the blood cannot be pumped, then why are they bleeding so much?

I saw Dave cutting throats open, severing the artery and the blood was spraying out everywhere.

I lack his finesse and precision, so I didn’t manage to slit that many throats open, more of a blunt trauma man – even if I do say so myself. But the axe was cleaving skulls open and chopping bits off all over the place and the blood was coming out. It looked like blood too, normal red blood; hot and sticky. What else did I use? Oh yeah, the sledgehammer. That was amazing, but really only a one trick weapon, great for an overhead smash into the skull to explode the head, I suppose it would be good for creating space, it could be swung round, but then it’s too heavy and cumbersome and will cause the arms to tire quickly. The axe is lighter.

Then there were the two lump hammers, again they were effective at one on one, or even a couple of them, but against several undead they lack the range. The chainsaw was bloody amazing - really, truly amazing and I regret not bringing it with us, a few people armed with chainsaws could destroy tons of undead, but again they are heavy and too reliant on fuel. If one part breaks or jams it would be rendered useless. No, unless we can find guns then I will stick to the axe for hand combat.

The thought of using the phrase “hand combat” shocks me. I’m a supermarket manager, not a soldier. What do I know about combat or fighting techniques? Dave on the other hand, is not all he seems. He said he was in the Army for fourteen years, but he wouldn’t say anything else about his time in the service. I’ve met loads of ex-service people; quite a lot of them had seen action in the Middle East. Some had physical scars; wounds that were visible - others had scars that weren’t so noticeable. Post traumatic something or other… that’s what they call it. But Dave, he doesn’t betray any feelings or emotions. The only time I have seen him give anything away was last night in the supermarket, when I told him he should get away from there. He clearly had nowhere to go, no family or friends. The thought of taking away his routine must have scared him. He could have run or even closed the doors; every staff member is shown how to close and shut off the automatic doors, in case of emergency. Dave didn’t shut them though; he stayed on the shop floor. He even killed the rest of the staff, as they were turned into undead. I wonder if any of them fought alongside him until they were taken down, maybe Dave didn’t hesitate but killed them instantly.

Routine must be important to him, having someone in a position of perceived authority anyway. Fourteen years of army life must have moulded him. But then, other long-serving army people I have known weren’t like that. He’s only been at the supermarket for twelve months, but even during that time he would follow the same routine; getting to work precisely fifteen minutes before his shift start time and being out and working exactly five minutes before his shift was due.

We got back here early in the morning and it was obvious that my parents hadn’t returned; that’s when the rage came on me. I have never had any kind of feeling even come close to that before. I didn’t even know that people could have such feelings. No, that’s naivety; serial killers and murderers must be driven by emotions like that. But then, the word emotion doesn’t feel right either, that wasn’t an emotion like being sad or happy or like the hurt you feel after the end of a relationship.

What I felt was something else, something deeper, a base state of being, an instinct to exact revenge and hurt those that hurt me - not with words but with action.

Self-reflection is uneasy at the best of times, now it is almost impossible. I have become a serial killer!

No… I mustn’t think like that, they weren’t people. They looked like the people they had been, but the body is just a carrier for the infection, an infection that makes them want to rip open human flesh with their teeth; they are driven to pass that infection on.

This thought process has alarmed me, if they can bleed and what possesses them is an infection, then maybe they will recover. What if it was just a forty-eight hour bug? Jesus, they might recover of their own accord, and I’ve already slain shit loads of them, plus I burnt down a village. What will I say if they all go back to normal? “Oops… sorry about that, didn’t mean to cause genocide. I thought you were all zombies but that was my mistake. Never mind - no harm done”.

Maybe there is a cure, an antidote, or someone who is immune? But even if there is, what can I do? I must assume that this is here to stay. I have to stick with the original plan: find my parents and my sister and get to the Forts.

There is a sudden pain inside me as I realise it’s too late to find my parents; the fact they are gone hasn’t registered or been accepted yet.

With my heart feeling heavy I get out of bed and cross to the window, outside is lovely. It’s mid July and very warm; the air almost looks hazy with the scorching sun. I glance at my watch, it’s almost 3 p.m. I’ve had a few hours of sleep but my body is aching; muscles are hurting from all of the exercise in the last day or so. That fight this morning has left me drained and I just want to rest, sit down and watch old movies, drink tea and do nothing.

I look at the light bulb; the light went out as I fell into bed, the power must have gone off. I flick the switch several times, but get no response. The hallway light is the same. It could just be a fuse. I go downstairs and into the kitchen. Dave is sitting at the counter, drinking what looks like coffee. I cross to the fridge and open the door, but the light doesn’t come on.

‘Powers gone.’

‘How did you make the coffee then?’

‘Gas.’

There is a saucepan on the gas hob, half filled with water. A plastic bottle of milk is resting in the washing-up bowl, which is filled with water and ice cubes. The water in the pan is still very hot. I make coffee and lean against the counter. I feel spaced out, like there is no order of sense to my thoughts.

Dave looks freshly shaven; his clothes tucked in and smart. I look down at myself, suddenly self-conscious that I’m standing here in just boxer shorts. I hardly know this man. We may have commenced war on a massed horde of evil undead together, but still, I shouldn’t be walking round in my underwear in front of him - that just isn’t right.

My clothes are folded neatly on top of the tumble dryer.

‘At least the clothes dried before the power went off then.’

‘Almost, I put them outside.’

‘What in the garden? On the washing line? Bloody hell, Dave! Thank you.’

‘S’okay, Mr Howie.’

‘Dave, you don’t have to call me Mr Howie anymore, Howie is fine.’

‘Okay.’

He won’t call me Howie, I know that.

I take the clothes and go into the lounge to dress. The thought of getting dressed in front of him feels weird. There is a road atlas on the shelf, my Dad loved technology and would always have the latest gadget: new computer, latest phones - but despite all of that he would lecture me that society has become too over-reliant on technology. “… it has its uses and should be enjoyed, but not taken for granted”. I listened but never really took it in. Looking at the atlas now reminds me of what a careful and prepared man he was.

I take the atlas back into the kitchen and onto the counter top. I stand the other side, opposite Dave, and start to flick through the pages, until I find the South East.

Brighton is east of here, London is north; about two hours on a good day. The roads should be clear and we can make good progress into the city. The radio message I heard said London was infested and to stay away. London is very densely populated - there must be millions of people living there - and the infection would have spread like wild fire. It should be easy to get to the city, but getting through the city will be another matter entirely. Bloody hell, we’d need a tank!

‘Dave.’

He looks up at me.

‘Nothing.’

It was a stupid thought. No… maybe not.

‘Where could we get a tank from?’

He doesn’t even flinch.

‘Salisbury.’

‘Where is that?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘Are they hard to drive?’

‘I don’t have a licence.’

‘They must be hard, how about those armoured vehicles?’

‘APC’s.’

‘Yeah, them. They must be like cars to drive.’

He shrugs.

‘Do they have those APC things at Salisbury too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, so we need to get into London to get my sister, but I heard an emergency broadcast that said London is infested and to stay away, so I reckon we should get to Salisbury, nick an APS and get going.’

‘An APC.’

‘What?’

‘You said APS - it’s an APC. Armoured Personnel Carrier.’

‘Oh, right… sorry. We get an APC and try for London. I mean I need to go to London, I didn’t mean to assume that you were coming with me.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Great! So Salisbury is here…’ I said, as I pointed to the area around Salisbury. ‘And we are here. It should take us around two hours to get there, I think, and its 3 p.m. now. It gets dark at about half nine –so if we leave now, we should make it before nightfall.’

‘Okay.’

No questions. No speculation. Not even any doubt, just “okay”.

We start getting ready and I take some plastic carrier bags from a drawer and empty all of the perishable food into them. Then the tinned goods and anything else that can be eaten goes into the bags. I go out to the Tesco van, which looks a mess. The white front end is covered in blood and gore, the passenger side wing mirror is missing… driving back, I didn’t notice that. I open the rear doors and inside is spotless. The delivery manager maintained very high standards; regular spot checks were carried out by the higher ups and any discrepancies were dealt with severely. I put the food into the rear. Dave brings out bedding from the spare rooms and puts it in. He has also found a gas lamp from the garage. Why didn’t I think of things like this? I said that I would plan and be more careful. I chide myself for not thinking of such simple things and, to make amends, I go back in and take some mugs and plates and add them to the pile.

Within minutes, we are ready, and I take my two new axes and get into the cabin. Dave joins me with more knife handles poking out of his rucksack. It looks like he has pretty much taken all of the knives from the magnetic strip in the kitchen.

‘I like knives.’

He must have seen me staring at them.

I start the engine and am about to pull off when I realise that I don’t know my sisters address. Idiot! How can I not know where my sister lives, but then we have mobile phones and email so we stay in constant contact - I never even thought to take her address. I rush back into the house and, by the telephone, is mum’s old address book; I remember this from when I was young - hard backed and brightly coloured with flower depictions. Inside, there is a page for every letter of the alphabet. I flick through, seeing names crossed out and new ones added as people have moved about over the years. The memory stings me and I quickly flick to “S”. There it is, “Sarah – London”. I kiss the book and offer a silent prayer to my mother, still taking care of me - even now. Back outside and into the van, the book goes into my rucksack and then I think better of it, and give it to Dave.

‘Can you look after this please mate, my sister’s address is inside and I can’t afford to lose it, her name is Sarah - her address is under “Sarah, London”, if anything happens to me…’

He takes the book, like I’m passing him a priceless antique, and he brings out a small hand towel from his bag, wraps the book and places it gently into his bag.

It feels wrong to be heading away from my sister. She could be in trouble right now. The note that mum left, said that she was locked in her flat and was safe… but a city like London is anything but safe. A Tesco home delivery van won’t be enough; we need something strong and armoured. If a little coastal town like Boroughfare can amass a few hundred undead then think what a city centre will be like?

And why did they all huddle together like that?

There was a man driving a cash in transit van through the streets when it all started, he lured many of them away from the residential areas but there were far more there than he could cope with.

In Littleton, they all grouped together in the village square - there were no other survivors that I was aware of. Maybe that was the last place they took a survivor down and stayed there, hopeful of another one, or maybe a survivor got away from there and they stayed in the last place of contact, like when I ran through the precinct into the club - they stayed outside those doors for a long time.

But then, in Boroughfare, it looked like more were joining the crowd, there must be something that passes between them, an alert state? So if one senses prey then they all join in, and the signal passes, until they are coming from all around.

This might be something we could use; draw them together and create a safe passage - like the cash in transit driver - but on a bigger scale… a much bigger scale. How would we do that? I don’t know the roads in London well enough to know where to draw them to, we could easily get ourselves trapped or stuck in a far worse situation if we start pissing about, trying to be clever.

They change during the hours of darkness too. If we had gone back to Boroughfare during the night, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. They are easy to kill during the day - slow with very poor reflexes - that’s the best time to move through them. Hide at night and move during daylight. There might not be enough time to get to Sarah today - by the time we have found a suitable vehicle and then got into London it could be late evening. We don’t have satellite navigation, so finding her address in the city will be hard enough. If only I could get a message to her, tell her to wait. Hang on, sat nav might work… the mobile networks are down but do sat nav’s use the same network systems as mobiles? They all work off satellites and something to do with GPS - maybe they are still online?

I go through the radio stations in the van, flicking through all of the preset ones first, and then manually through the frequencies… the message is gone. I didn’t make a note of the frequency setting from the Micra. I check FM, MW and LW but get only static, hissing or just silence.

Before long, we are out into the countryside; fields and meadows passing us on both sides, the empty road ahead stretching off into the distance.

Every once in a while, we pass small dirt tracks that lead to buildings and farms set back from the road.

We avoid the towns and keep to the country roads, checking the map every so often to be sure of the route. There are small clusters of houses nestled into the countryside; an idyllic Home Counties type of setting, worthy of picture postcards.

We both munch our way through the perishable food, eating apples and bananas. I still feel spaced out and achy, but the steady driving and the normal activity of eating has helped to sooth my nerves.

I was chucking the remains and waste out of the window to start with, but then I saw Dave collecting all of his waste in a separate bag. He kept glancing at me as I threw mine out the window, then he pointedly placed the waste bag in the middle of us, a simple action, with one meaning.

‘Sorry mate, I wasn’t thinking. I’m leaving a trail behind us, aren’t I? Others would be able to follow us and know where we have been. I guess you learnt that in the Army?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, so why the waste bag?’

He looks at me, his face devoid of expression but somehow managing to imply that I’m a simple fool.

‘Keep Britain Tidy.’ He turns back to face the front again.

‘Dave, what you said to me before, about keeping a firm grip, strike and move. How do you know that stuff? And the way you use those knives, you must have studied martial arts or something?’

‘No.’

‘Where did you learn it then?’

He pauses for a few seconds, assessing the question.

‘The army.’

‘Wow, why did they teach you all that? I thought it was more about guns and stuff.’

Silence.

‘Dave… the Army has probably fallen. Christ the whole country has probably fallen. Everything has bloody fallen and those undead zombie things are everywhere - we even killed a shit load of them just a few hours ago. I’m sure that it will be okay if you tell me.’

‘I can’t, Mr Howie.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not allowed to say.’

‘What… you are not allowed to say why you can’t tell me? Or are you just not allowed to say anything?’

‘Yes.’

Clear as mud.

We drive in silence, he clearly doesn’t want to talk about his past, but I get the impression that he would tell me if he thought he was allowed. Someone has given him clear instructions of what he can and can’t say and he’s sticking to them.

There is a sudden cramping in my stomach, an urgent message being passed from bowel to brain. I have to go – NOW!

There is an entrance to a lane just up ahead, other than that I will have to shit on the road, the verge on both sides is high and fenced off with big, thorny bushes. The van stops just ahead of the lane and I take a pack of wet wipes from my bag and get out of the cabin.

‘Mr Howie…’

I can’t wait. I lean my head back quickly to see Dave holding an axe handle out to me, I grab the axe and smile before legging it down the side of the van and into the lane entrance.

I go down a short distance, check all around me… all clear. Squatting down at the side of the tarmac, my trousers and boxer shorts round my ankles; there is immediate relief as my bowels open. My stomach keeps cramping as more poo gets spurted out, splattering the verge and tarmac. The smell is disgusting; my stomach must be upset from the extreme lifestyle of the last couple of days, plus the sporadic eating. I guess the copious fruit we just ate hasn’t helped matters either.

Despite the smell, and the thought of taking a crap in broad daylight in a country lane, the feeling of relief is amazing and I’m moaning with the pleasure, I almost sound like one of the undead. I keep groaning and then try to mimic the noises they make.

Do they need to shit? I bet they just poo in their pants. Dirty undead.

A noise behind me and I twist round, the lane goes downhill and the treetops almost meet above the middle of the road, making a tunnel. The lane is much darker. There is another entrance a few metres into the lane that was concealed by the bushes when I first looked.

There is a noise coming from that direction, a movement. I grab at the wipes and start cleaning my arse, unfortunately this takes several wipes - I refuse to pull my trousers up with a dirty bum. I understand that we all have to make sacrifices and change our normal behaviour in this new world, but walking around with a shitty arse isn’t one of mine.

The sound is closer now. Ah… stuff it. I can give my arse a good clean later. I pull my trousers up and tighten the belt. The axe handle is wedged between my knees. A dog emerges out of the entrance, black and white, one of those collie farm dogs. The dog has stopped and is staring at me, half hidden in the shadows. He is crouched low and looks like he is shivering. Poor thing, I wonder when he last had any food. I edge closer and speak in a nice, soft tone.

‘Hello boy, who’s a good boy, or girl? You’re a good doggy.’

I love dogs, always have done. We always had dogs when I was younger, ones from rescue shelters - so we had a good mix of crosses and mongrels. I would love to get one now, but being single and working most nights is no good for a dog.

As I move forward, the entrance comes more into view. The dog gives a soft growl and I stop. There is an undead further up behind the dog: a fat, middle-aged male, he has bushy, grey hair and dark trousers tucked into big, green, rubber boots. He wears a light-coloured, long sleeved shirt and looks like a stereotypical farmer. He just needs one of those long sticks with the crook at the end. I imagine his  wife making apple pies and Sunday roast dinners.

Dave comes round the corner, obviously concerned that I have been gone for too long. I point at the entrance, guessing that he can’t see them from where he is. He comes down further and joins me, then starts forward, as soon as he sees the undead; knives ready and reversed in his hands.

‘I don’t think the dog will let you near him, mate.’

He looks down at the collie; the dog pulls his lips back and shows a row of large, sharp teeth. The undead farmer is shuffling slowly towards us.

‘Lets try and get him out of that lane, his farm must be close.’

Dave looks at me.

‘Shotguns!’

He nods and walks a bit closer to the dog, who crouches lower and growls more. Dave stops and waits for the undead to make his way out of the entrance. The dog keeps glancing at his master, then moves position, edging closer to Dave who backs away, just a little at a time.

I go to the far left of the entrance, the dog goes to follow me, but Dave stamps his foot and brings the dogs attention back to him. This has got to be the slowest moving undead yet…he is inching along at a snails pace.

I drop the axe head onto the raised verge and lean on the handle. Despite the horrible circumstances, the lane is pleasant and quiet. Sunlight dapples through the canopy; causing shadows to dance across the surface of the road. It feels like it is getting hotter and there is no wind; the air is very close.

The dog is panting; his big, pink tongue hangs out of the side of his mouth. I go back to the van and open the rear doors. I take one of the bottles of water and a mug, and, back in the lane, I fill the mug with water, placing it a few feet in front of the dog. We keep backing away, leading the farmer from the entrance and trying to get the dog close to the mug.

Eventually, after what seems like hours, the farmer has come out of the lane far enough for us to get round. We both pull back further to create more space between us. The dog takes advantage of us moving away and laps at the water in the mug, his eyes never leaving our position. We both watch until the dog has its nose pressed into the mug, trying to get at the bottom. Then the mug is knocked over and a tiny trickle spills out onto the road, soaking into the hot surface. We move round and then behind the farmer and we are safely into the smaller lane. The earthen ground is rutted with wheel marks; compacted and dry in the hot weather.

Within minutes, I am wiping sweat out from my eyes. We are steadily moving uphill, high hedges on both sides prevent any view of the surroundings.

The lane ends at a metal five-bar gate, which is wedged open. A rusty cattle grid lies just beyond the gate; dark metal poles evenly spaced, weeds growing up between them.

The gate leads onto a long driveway going downhill a few hundred metres to some buildings; some of them are sheds and barns; long and low with corrugated roofs.

There is plant machinery dotted about, things that farmer’s attach to tractors - I guess. One of the buildings looks like a normal house.

Our raised position means that we can see the fields beyond the buildings. We both wait and stare at the view.

Finally, Dave looks at me and nods and we go through the gate and onto the driveway. There is a herd of black and white cows standing at the gate in a field adjacent to the buildings. As we get closer, I can see that the udders look full. I had heard that cows will get so used to the routine of milking they will wait at the gate. I also heard that cows explode if they don’t get milked - so I watch them as we pass, ready to duck, in case of bovine explosion.

The cows haven’t been bitten and the dog was okay too. The farmer would have access to all types of animals, but they look unharmed.

I had thought of using rotting flesh, or an animal carcass to lure them away in London, but it appears that the undead only crave human flesh. If we are going to use meat as a trap, then it has to be human meat - and alive too.

I force the thought away, disgusted that I’m even thinking of it.

We are in the central area of all the buildings now; the farmhouse is surrounded by a low stone wall that matches the impressive building.

There is a front door in the middle of the building. We circle the house, looking for other entry points or any signs of movement. The windows all have heavy net curtains inside, in order to prevent the farmhands looking in the house, I guess.

The front door is dark wood and inward opening. I slowly push the handle down and the door opens a fraction. I then look at Dave, nod and then slowly start to step forward. The axe bangs noisily on the lower half of the door, which remains closed. I look at Dave, with an apologetic grimace.

‘Sorry… it’s a stable door.’ I reach in and unlock the bottom half of the door and we proceed.

The floor is made from flagstones and there is a flight of exposed wooden stairs ahead of us.

Dave taps me on the shoulder and motions for me to stay still; he moves off to the right into a doorway and is gone from view for a few seconds. He returns and gives me a thumbs up signal, then motions with his hand towards the door on the left. He goes first, easing each foot down, treading carefully.

He gets to the door, pushes it open and leans his head in. Without looking at me, he takes both knives in his left hand and raises his right to the side of his head.

He makes a fist and then extends two fingers, giving me the V. He makes a fist again and then extends one finger, pointing it to the room, then a fist and again he extends a finger and points into the room - more off to the side this time. Then he makes a flat hand and runs it across his throat, next he extends all his fingers out straight and reverses his hand so that the palm is facing towards the door, then more palms and fingers are waved about.

I have no idea what this all means.

I think he is telling me that there is someone in there… the rest leaves me clueless.

He looks back at me and I shrug my shoulders, and, again, even though his face wears the usual devoid of expression look, I could swear he is wondering why he got stuck with me. He then points two fingers directly at his own eyes and motions for me to look. He eases back and I peek inside; there are two undead in the room.

Ah… so that’s what he meant, two of them. Then the hand across the throat must have implied they are dead - no undead. Oh, I get it, anyway. I don’t know what the rest of the waving and pointing was about and make a mental note to ask him later… mind you, he will probably say nothing, again.

One of undead is a fat woman, a really fat woman. She must be the farmer’s wife; all jolly and large, wearing a white apron over a flowery dress. The other undead is an adult male, wearing dirty and stained overalls tucked into rubber boots.

They are standing side by side with their backs to the door, facing out of the window. The farmer’s wife has a huge chunk torn out of her meaty upper arm; dried blood is splattered all down her dress.

There are blood stains on the male, but I can’t see any injury from here. They’re in the kitchen area, with a large dining table at one end, and are positioned in front of the sink. There is another closed door opposite me; there must be more rooms beyond it as the house extends further than the size of this room.

I ease back and gently pull the door closed. Dave motions with his head for me to follow him and he starts climbing the stairs. I climb up behind him, looking back at the kitchen door to make sure that I closed it. Dave has stopped and I walk into the back of him, my head nudging his backside.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

He stays still for a second, doesn’t look back, and then carries on going up. I wait for a gap to form between us then start to follow him again. There is a corridor at the top, leading left and right - all of the doors are closed.

Dave motions for me to stay put, then goes left, gingerly working his way down the corridor, I watch how he walks, each foot is swung slow and purposefully; the heel going down first in an almost exaggerated manner, then he slowly moves forward and puts his weight onto the front foot then repeats the movement, in complete silence. At the first door, he stops and listens, craning his head, and then leans in closer, until his ear is almost touching the door, his mouth open.

He eases the door open, steps inside and is back out within seconds. He repeats the action until all of the rooms on that end are clear. Then he creeps back to me and motions for me to move forward; I think he wants me to check my end.

I start forward a few steps, copying his movement and putting my heels down first. It seems to take ages to work my way down. At the first door I stop and listen, but I can’t hear anything above my heart hammering away in my chest.

I lean into the first door, still can’t hear anything. I take hold of the handle and twist it back, the handle squeaks really loudly and I stop twisting. I look back at Dave who nods for me to carry on. I keep twisting the handle - which sounds like it’s screaming in protest. The door suddenly gives and I push it open too fast, almost tripping in and banging the axe against the frame.

This time I don’t look back. I’m too embarrassed to face him. I know that his face will be blank, but he still manages to convey a message through that vacant gaze. I peer into the room - it’s all clear.

I move off down the corridor, treading carefully and trying to show that I can do this too.

At the next door, I grasp the handle and hold my breath as I twist.

Silence.

I breathe a sigh of relief and start to push the door open, which creaks loudly on the hinges.

For fuck’s sake this is a conspiracy, how did he get all of the silent handles and doors?

I keep pushing slowly, the hinges creak and groan. I stop, pushing slowly is making it worse, if I push it open quickly the hinges won’t grate so much. I heave with force, to a cacophony of metallic screams. At least the room is clear.

The final door is facing the corridor and again I take hold of the handle and push the door.

It opens into a large bathroom: white tiles, white bath and white shower curtain round the bath, nice and bright - apart from the large pool of blood on the floor.

There is an undead female standing in the middle of the pool of blood, she is dressed in a white nightdress.

She is fat, incredibly fat, quite possibly one of the fattest people that I have ever seen… she must be the farmers daughter.

The white nightdress has thin sleeves, which only serve to accentuate the rolls of fat on her upper arms. She has very long, dark hair and there is a wooden-handled hairbrush tangled in her flowing locks.

She slowly turns round to face me and I see the red, bloodshot eyes. At first I am puzzled as I can’t see a wound on her, but there is blood everywhere and it’s also soaked into the lower part of her nightdress. Her wrist has been bitten deeply, flesh torn away and there’s a gaping hole. The injury must have opened an artery.

I look back at Dave and raise my hand to the side of my head, making a fist. He nods, then I extend one finger and point into the room, again he nods. Then I puff out my cheeks, hold my arms out and waddle slightly on the spot, while motioning to the door behind me - he just stares at me.

I keep waddling on the spot holding my arms out and pretending to rub my big belly. Dave looks so serious and, after the tension of creeping down the corridor, I let go and start giggling like a schoolboy. Then I pretend to brush my hair and extend one finger and point it into my pretend hair. Within seconds, I am trying to stifle my laughter but the undead farmer’s daughter starts waddling towards the door and I back away.

She is taller than me and the girth of her is amazing; puffed cheeks making her mouth look small and pouty.

I back off down the corridor, still trying to stop myself laughing. She makes it to the doorway and gets stuck face on; too fat to get through. She keeps pushing forward though, grunting and straining against the effort.

That’s it; I’m gone. Tears of laughter are falling down my face and I’m leaning against the wall. All of the stress of the last few days have built up and the sight of the fat, undead, unable to walk through the door has finished me off.

I try to be quiet at first, but knowing that we have to be silent makes it worse and I can’t stop myself from howling. Within minutes, my stomach is hurting, I manage to get myself under control, then look back at her, she has wedged herself into the doorway now, her stomach is pushing through, but her shoulders and arms can’t fit and she is sort of leaning back and trying to get through, belly first. I’m off again, sliding down the wall onto the floor, the laughing is hurting, but I can’t stop. I try to look at Dave but the tears have misted my eyes, I imagine him standing there, stony faced.

It takes many minutes, but eventually I get myself under control and get back up. Dave is standing there, impassive as ever, but I swear there is a glint in his eye.

We make our way down the stairs and stare at the kitchen door; there was no sign of a gun cabinet anywhere upstairs. The only place left to check is the kitchen and the room on the other side.

‘What do you reckon? We could lead them out again.’

Dave nods and I check my watch.

‘It’s gone 5 p.m. already. Shit! We really have to get going.’

‘Okay.’

He walks straight into the kitchen, disappearing round the door. Two loud thumps follow within seconds. I walk in and see both undead on the floor. The farmer’s wife is almost decapitated; the white spinal column showing through her severed neck. Dave reaches over and pulls the male undead on top of the farmer’s wife, showing his OCD for tidiness.

The humour is fully gone from me now.

The brutal yet reserved nature of this man is staggering. His mind must be so straight forward when he is completing a task, whether it’s filling shelves at Tesco or severing the head of a zombie farmer’s wife.

Dave has positioned the bodies now, so that the blood flow from the farmer’s wife soaks into the male undead, who, in turn, is dripping his blood onto her dress.

The door leads into the utility area which houses an old, stained kitchen top with a deep, white ceramic sink, dirty pairs of rubber boots and there are also overalls hanging from rails. There are two washing machines, labelled: HOUSE and FARM.

There is a back door to the right, to the left is the promised bounty: a large, metal cabinet fixed on the wall; complete with massive padlock hanging from a clasp. The padlock has a thick, metal loop, and the clasp has multiple strong rivets securing the cabinet.

Dave joins me and I point at the cabinet.

‘I bet the farmer has the key in his pocket.’

We start searching the area, checking drawers and the pockets of the overalls, we find keys, but none of them fit the padlock. I pull at the padlock, in the vain hope that he left it unlocked. The padlock is at head height. I take a step back and reverse the axe, so that the blunt end will be used.

‘Watch out, mate.’

Five minutes later and I’m out of breath, the metal casing is dented and buckled, but the padlock is holding fast. I try wedging the blade of the axe into the gap of the cabinet door, but I can’t get enough leverage.

‘Fucking thing! Any suggestions, mate?’

I look round but Dave is gone. The back door is open and I walk over to look out. Dave is walking back towards the farmhouse, holding a sledgehammer and a metal spike with a flat end.

He holds the flat end between the gap of the padlock and clasp, then hands me the sledgehammer. The spike isn’t that big; if I miss I could break his arm or crush his hand.

‘Let’s swap.’

We move places and I hold the spike. The area is confined and I have to stand close to the cabinet. I want to move back and extend my arm, but it’s too cramped. Dave swings the hammer and hits the spike with expert precision. It jams in and starts to buckle the clasp out. A few more hits and the clasp comes away. I pull my arm back and rub my hands together… he didn’t hit me, but the vibration still sent shockwaves up my arm.

Dave opens the cabinet door: there are three long shotguns, easily recognisable with two barrels and big, brown bases. There is also a long camouflage bag in the cabinet. Dave takes this out and lays it on the work surface. A long zip runs the length of the bag; Dave tugs this down and pulls out a long wood and metal rifle. The barrel looks very slim, compared to the shotguns. There is a bolt sticking out of the metal frame, above the trigger.

There is a separate compartment in the bag and Dave takes out a scope and another bag containing oils and what look like cleaning materials.

‘What is it?’

‘Lee Enfield point three, zero three, bolt action rifle.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Yes.’

Within seconds, the gun is separated into parts; Dave’s hands working like machines.

He checks the separate sections and then puts it back together. Then he pulls the bolt back several times and listens to the sound. Satisfied, he turns to the shotguns and takes them out of the cabinet, laying them on the worktop.

Two of them have barrels side by side, the other one also has two barrels but one on top of the other; they are heavy and feel alien to hold.

I push the wooden end of one into my shoulder and look down the barrel. There are two triggers, one in front of the other. I guess it’s one trigger for each barrel.

There is a lever where the metal barrel meets the wooden bit. I push this over and the shotgun bends in the middle. I remember that shotguns have cartridges, not bullets. The cartridges must just slot in the holes; close the barrel and pull the triggers. I’ve seen it done on television and movies and it looks simple enough.

There are boxes of bright, red cartridges in the cabinet. They are marked 12 Gauge. I’ve heard of that but don’t know what it means, something to do with the size of the shell? Or the little pieces inside?

Dave has found a shoulder strap for the rifle and has fitted it on, checking the length and making adjustments, until he seems satisfied. I guess he has chosen the rifle then, after my debacle in the corridor upstairs he probably wouldn’t trust me with a paintball gun.

He next takes a box of shiny, brass bullets, picks up the shotgun with the two barrels on top of each other and heads out of the back door. I take the other two shotguns and boxes of the shiny, red cartridges and follow him out into the bright sunshine.

He stops in the middle of the central yard area, outbuildings are on both sides, and there is a large open-sided barn ahead of us, with a field on the other side. I watch as Dave holds the rifle and looks down the sights, aiming into the empty barn; he pulls the trigger and listens to the noise - I’m sure they call it dry firing.

Dave takes a strip of bullets; all stuck together in a line, and presses them into a hole in the top of the gun, then he raises it to his shoulder and pulls the bolt back and forth once. He aims into the barn and fires, the sound is really loud and I was expecting him to be jerked back from the recoil, but he hardly seemed to move. He quickly slides the bolt and a shiny bullet case springs out, he fires again and repeats the action, until the bullets are all gone. The sudden percussive bang sounds out into the quietness of the farm. He lowers the rifle, so that it’s pointing into the ground and turns round to face me.

‘You try.’

I take the rifle and he shows me how to pull the bolt back and push the strip of bullets in, then how to use the bolt to get the first bullet ready. He pushes the butt of the rifle into my shoulder and extends my left hand, so it is holding the rifle on the wooden frame underneath the barrel. He then aligns my finger to the trigger and steps back.

‘Squeeze gently.’

I pull the trigger; the recoil feels awful, jerking my shoulder back with a violent push. I have no idea where I am aiming for. I do the bolt thing and try again, repeating the action.

The recoil frightens me and I feel myself bracing in readiness. I end up closing my eyes. I fire three times and hand the rifle back, trying to do what he did and point the rifle down to the ground.

‘I’m no good at it mate, you use it. We’ll just waste bullets if I keep trying.’

He nods and picks up one of the shotguns, breaks it and pushes a red cartridge into each hole, slamming the barrel closed.

He steps forward and again raises the gun into his shoulder. His finger pulls the first trigger then drops back and pulls the second one. Both times, there is a loud bang, but he hardly moves from the recoil. I pickup another shotgun and copy his actions; breaking the gun, pushing the red cartridge in and snapping it closed.

I brace my feet and fire. The first blast feels almighty and slams me backwards - I’m more prepared for the second barrel and the recoil doesn’t feel so bad.

I turn round and see Dave coming back out of the house, carrying more boxes of shotgun cartridges.

There are enough for me to keep practising with and so I keep going: breaking; reloading; snapping back; fire; fire and repeat. Soon, my ears are ringing from the noise and the ground is littered with spent casings.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and see Dave pointing off to the side. There is a male undead coming out of one of the outbuildings, drawn by the noise and action. He is also fat, but this one clearly works and has big, meaty shoulders and arms.

I look at Dave: ‘I thought farmers led healthy lives!’

He just shrugs and takes the rifle back out of the bag; pushes in another strip of bullets and raises it to his shoulder, aiming at the fat undead. He fires and the undead is thrown backwards, hitting the side of the buildings and slumping down. There is a small hole in the front of his forehead but the back of his head is spread across the peeling boards; brain and bits of flesh dripping onto the undead’s face.

‘Shit! I’ve never seen that before.’

I’ve just watched a man being shot in the head, my heart is racing and I feel weird. We have killed countless with hand weapons but nothing like this.

It was so easy; he just lifted the gun and pulled the trigger. For the first time in my life, I realise why firearms are so talked about; their power is staggering. I’ve watched hundreds of war films and seen news reports of war footage, but I guess that I became desensitised over the years. It was just make believe or footage from somewhere far away. The sheer brutality of it; point and shoot and you make someone die. I’m suddenly very uncomfortable here and I want to leave, I want to be back in the safety of the van and moving away.

I pick up the two shotguns with the side-by-side barrels, and then try to carry the boxes of cartridges and the axe, but there is too much. The rifle goes in a back with a strap, but then Dave has the other shotgun and more boxes of ammunition - plus the knives. I don’t want to lose anything or put anything down, the axe is a brilliant weapon but the shotguns are too good to lose. I have another axe in the van but there is something stopping me from putting it down, I want both of my axes. Dave sees my dilemma and puts the rifle strap over his shoulder and the knives into his belt, and then takes one of the shotguns from me. Loaded down with weapons we head back down the lane, stopping halfway, so that I can hop into the bushes and open my bowels again.

We are both hot by the time we get back to the van. Dave looks a little rosy in the cheeks but I’m melting and sweat is coming off me in buckets. We put two of the shotguns in the rear; the other one and the rifle go in the cabin with us.

I start the engine and pull away. The van has air conditioning and, within minutes, we are enjoying icy cold air, drying our sweat. I want to eat, but my stomach is still gurgling away, so I just drink lots of water instead.

The shotguns are heavy and cumbersome, the rifle is okay and Dave handles it beautifully, but I won’t be fast enough to keep breaking it open and loading if we get stuck in a group of fast moving undead - there must be a way to carry a shotgun and the axe at the same time. I think of ways to adapt the bag so I can hold one of them, but they are both too long and will fall out.

I imagine somehow fitting the axe head to the end of the shotgun, so I can fire, then reverse it and chop them. I wonder if anyone has invented one. I could have patented it and made a fortune selling it to the crazy survivalists who kept going on about the end of the world.

Mind you… there weren’t so crazy were they? Are they feeling self-righteous and pious, walking round their communes, patting each other on the back? Maybe one of them even started it? A mad scientist, a fundamentalist - end of world theorist - doing it on purpose to prove they were right… cleansing the Earth of all the sin, while they sit back and gloat at the genocide they have created.

Fucking fundamentalists.

They’re just mentalists, no funda about it.

We are in a town, I was too busy thinking of my new shotgunaxe invention to realise we were out of the country; I was just following the road.

The town is big and looks a bit grimy and, according to the map, it must be Portsmouth.

I’ve been here a few times; the old part of Portsmouth, with the historic ships, is nice but the rest just looks horrible with old, grey buildings and graffiti everywhere.

We used to come shopping here and I’ve been for a few nights out with friends and everyone seemed so aggressive and angry: blokes with tattoos and earrings; barely clad women with scraped back hair, big-hooped bangles and mouths like sailors. Portsmouth is a just a small city in the Home Counties and I could never understand why they all tried talking like mockney Londoners; walking about with bandy swaggers.

We keep to the outskirts and use the outer roads to head towards Salisbury. I should have been paying better attention and avoided the city area. We are on a wide road with crappy looking shops on either side; the metal shuttering on some of them has already been forced open or wrenched off. There are windows smashed and debris litters the place. There are people here too, going in and out of the smashed windows, taking armfuls of gear and walking into the next one.

As we move further into the city, we see more signs of civil breakdown. There are bodies scattered, lying in the road, also abandoned and burnt out cars and vans. It looks like a riot has taken place.

Some of the bodies are clearly undead, some are not so obvious - and a few look like normal people.

A scattering of the vehicles we pass are still smouldering with thick, black smoke. The hot summer air stinks of burning rubber and chemicals.

Dave takes the rifle and pushes in a fresh string of bullets then rams the bolt and breaks the shotgun, loading in two cartridges. I now wish that I had brought the other shotgun in the cabin.

Places like Portsmouth were always on the brink of civil collapse anyway; hard places full of hard people, and god only knows what they will be like now.

Dave pulls his Tesco fleece out of the bag and puts it on, it’s roasting weather and I can’t understand why he’s doing that. He zips it and then loads more of the ammunition clips into the pockets of the fleece. Next, he takes an empty plastic bag and puts shotgun cartridges into it; he leans over and threads the handles through my belt, tying them off. He makes a small, hand-sized hole in the top of the bag. I look down at the bag and feel for the hole with my left hand.

We stay silent and look at the carnage around us. We are going much slower now; the road is littered with bodies and objects. There is no sign of any people now; it is just quiet and empty.

I’m cursing myself for coming this way. There is a concrete footbridge going over the road ahead of us; the debris is stacked either side of the road forming a narrow gap.

As we pass into the shadow of the bridge, the top comes alive with people leaning down over the barrier: rocks and stones are launched down, thudding into the bonnet. I accelerate and push through the tiny gap and I can hear the sides being scraped by objects as we force the van through. Loud bangs and thumps sound all round the van and I put my foot down, coming out the other side. A few more objects are thrown but bounce away - thankfully, the windscreen is intact.

I can see young children jeering and waving their arms in the air, as we leave the bridge behind us.

We need to stay on the main road to go round the city but there is a barricade ahead of us, vehicles have been parked end on end, then more stuff has been piled on top of the vehicles: large refuse wheelie bins; sofas; beds; cabinets and all manner of furniture.

The barricade is overhead height and there is no gap through. In front of the barricade is a huge crowd of undead; there must thousands. They stretch back well away from the actual barricade and are spilling out round the sides.

The only choice is to go left, which takes us more into the city centre, even that will be a squeeze though - there is barely enough room between the edge of the crowd and the building line.

I bring the van to a stop. We are trapped between going back under the bridge and risking the missiles, or going ahead through that lot. The van is strong and they are slow moving undead but if they mass in front of us there will be no way through, and too many to go over. I look back at the bridge and see children spilling down both sides and onto the pavement; they are running towards the van, more missiles in their hands.

‘Shit! Look at that lot! Fucking kids.’

Dave leans forward to peer into the wing mirror on his side, then he grabs the shotgun and is out of the van, moving off to the side.

‘You can’t shoot kids…’ I yell after him.

He raises the shotgun up and aims towards them. If he fires he could kill a child and alert that horde to our presence.

He stays still, holding the shotgun into his shoulder. I watch the youths slow down, as they get closer, calling out to each other and pointing at Dave. Then, the momentum is gone and they turn round and run back towards the bridge.

Where are their parents? Why are they out in this, they should be behind that barricade. Someone has built it and I can only guess there is a safe place behind it.

‘Dave, there are doors in the building up from the barricade, maybe we can get through?’

He shakes his head at me.

‘We’ll lose the vehicle and the weapons.’

‘We can’t stay here, we’ll have to try and get through them quickly.’

A door opens from a house just a short distance up from the barricade, there is a small, clear area round the door, just a few metres before the closest undead.

A woman is being pushed out, there are men holding her arms and pushing her from behind, she is screaming and struggling violently, she gets thrown out and sprawls on the ground, then she leaps up and runs back at the door as it closes.

I can hear her screaming and pounding on the door from here, the closest undead have noticed and are heading towards her. She has no weapons or any way to fight them off.

‘Fucking hell, she’ll get torn apart.’

She is thrashing her arms at the door, screaming and begging to be let back in. I don’t know what she’s done but that is wrong, just plain wrong.

‘We can’t just leave her.’

I put more cartridges into the plastic bag and grab the shotgun. As I get out of the van, I break the shotgun as I walk over, but Dave has already loaded it. I slam the barrel shut and raise the gun to my shoulder.

‘Dave, you go for her, I’ll draw them away… oy… over here. Come over here…!’

I keep bellowing out as Dave loops round behind me, to the right.

‘Just don’t shoot me, Mr Howie.’

As if I would.

I can’t move left as the massed horde are in that direction and are starting to turn this way.

Dave has gone right, so I must keep going forward.

Shit! How far away do I have to be before I can shoot them? A shotgun has pellets and they spread, if I shoot now I could hit her.

I stop, unsure of what to do.

‘Come right, shoot into the crowd.’

I move round, following a narrower path than Dave. I keep heading forward but off to the right; some of the undead closest to her are drawing away, heading towards my direction.

I’m yelling at the girl to stop shouting and be quiet, but she doesn’t hear me. There are still a few near to her, getting closer. She is still banging on the door and screaming, which is drawing their attention.

‘STOP SCREAMING. STAY QUIET!’

A parade square voice from Dave. I look over, amazed that such a quiet man can produce such a noise.

It does the job though; she turns quickly and looks to Dave, then me.

I shout over to her: ‘Stay still and be quiet, let me draw them off.’

She looks terrified and I don’t blame her really. Now, I’m calling out again, and trying to draw them off. Most have followed my voice, but a few are still shuffling ever closer to her, fixed on their prey.

The woman is off to my extreme right; several of the undead have staggered out in front of me, only a few metres away. The rest of the horde is behind them.

‘Now… Mr Howie.’

I pull the first trigger and watch as the first undead is blown away, then I move the barrel slightly and pull the second trigger - an undead is taken off it’s feet, hammering back into more behind it.

I repeat the action that I learnt before: lever; break; cartridges out; cartridges in; closed; raise and fire.

I don’t notice the recoil this time, or the noise. I just see bits of undead body flying off as the pellets strike them at such close range; the effect is devastating.

I move back and keep drawing them away from the woman, but an undead is suddenly at my right. I reverse the shotgun and slam the butt into his face and he staggers back, as Dave steps behind him and slices through his jugular with a knife. The rifle is on his back, hanging from the strap.

I repeat the action over and again, clearing space and blowing holes in zombie, undead bodies.

The horde has reacted to the sound and is turning towards us.

I glance right and can see Dave spinning through the remaining undead who are almost at the woman; his knife slicing necks, severing arteries and spraying bright red blood across the pavement. I reload and notice that the cartridges are the same colour as the blood.

I keep firing into the crowd.

An undead goes down just as I fire; the pellets spread out and knock several undead over behind him.

Beautiful.

Dave is at the woman now and is saying something to her, but she seems frozen to the spot, looking down at the bloody bodies lying at her feet.

I start over to their location, treading carefully over the bodies, then the door opens and a man reaches out and grabs the woman by the hair, pulling her back in.

Dave lunges forward as the door is pushed closed, he wedges himself into the gap and forces his way through. The door slams shut behind him.

Shit.

‘Dave, where are you… what is going on?’

Some of the horde are getting closer and I reload and fire at them, sending them spinning away. I get to the door and use the butt to hammer at it:

‘Dave! Open up!’

A woman screams from inside, then I hear muffled thuds and male voices yelling. It goes quiet and the door opens.

The room looks like it was a front room; it has been stripped of furniture. There are several adult males lying on the ground with their throats cut, large pools of blood already forming.

‘What the fuck?’

‘They tried to grab me.’

‘Jesus, are they all dead?’

He calmly looks around at the bodies.

‘Yes.’

The woman is cowering at the far end of the room, her hands covering her face. Another door opens and she runs out of the room we are in, the door slams behind her, leaving us alone, with several dead bodies.

‘Jesus… Dave, did you have to kill all of them?’

‘They kept coming at me.’

The horde are only metres away now.

‘Fuck it, lets go.’

We start moving back to the van, just as it starts reversing away from us.

‘Fuck! I left the keys in it.’

The van stops and I can hear the engine being re-started, the little fuckers are trying to steal it and have stalled it. Thieving little shits.

We run forward and I’m shouting for them to stop. The van starts pulling back again. There are kids on the bridge, waving and cheering.

Dave stops and raises the rifle. In one fluid movement, he fires at the van and my heart misses a beat, thinking he has shot a child - a thieving little shit, but still a child.

The front drivers’ side tyre blows out and the van drops down a little. He then slams the bolt and shoots again - the passenger side tyre deflates. The van then stops and three children get out and start running away.

Dave immediately raises the rifle and takes aim.

‘NO!’

He pauses for a second and drops the rifle down, then looks back at me.

‘They’re just kids…’

‘Okay.’

Fuck, this man is cold; I swear he would have shot them as they ran away. The front tyres are blown out and the van is resting lower.

‘Grab the stuff, we’ll have to run for it.’

We won’t get more than a few yards in the van with both tyres gone. Cartridges and ammo are shoved into the rucksacks. Dave goes round to the rear as I pull my rucksack on, fastening the waist and chest straps. The axe is there but I can’t carry it and two shotguns. I take the axe and drop the shaft down between my back and the bag. The large metal head catches on the top of the bag and holds steady. I tighten the chest straps, drawing it closer to my body. It might be cumbersome but it’s better than leaving it here.

Dave is back with the other two shotguns; the rifle is strapped to his back, over the rucksack. He breaks both shotguns, shoves cartridges into the holes and slams them closed. We move round to the front of the van; the immense gathering of undead are nearly all turned and shuffling in our direction.

If we go back, we’ll get brained by rocks and missiles from the bridge.

To the right, there is a row of shops and stores already looted and smashed up. The windows are all smashed out and the doors are hanging off. We run towards them, sprinting as fast as we can with our heavy loads. As we reach the first door, Dave stops and turns back to the crowd.

‘You check. I’ll hold.’

I run through a hair salon; big chairs facing cracked mirrors, combs and brushes are on the floor. A small sink has been smashed off the wall and is lying cracked in two parts.

In the rear rooms, there is a back door made from solid wood. I pull the bolts back and try to heave it open but it has been locked with a key and will take too long to break through.

‘No good.’

I run out and into the next one. Dave moves down and takes a kneeling position in the doorway, shotgun aimed into the horde. The store is a Blockbusters and the shelves are completely stripped, which strikes me as odd; the DVD’s aren’t in the display boxes but they have taken the discs from behind the counter too.

A mental image strikes me of some feral kids, sitting in a room, matching the discs to their cases.

The back door is open, hanging on one hinge; someone has taken the time and effort to batter it open.

‘In here, Dave.’

He comes through, trying to close the front door behind him but it’s too badly damaged and won’t shut. He grabs at the heavy shelves, trying to drag them to the doorway but they are fixed to the ground and don’t budge.

He gives up and joins me at the back. This area is the same as the front with litter and debris everywhere; a small road leading left and right.

The back of a factory building is across the road, presenting a solid brick wall all down the road.

We head left and keep moving.

We follow the road as it bends to the right into a residential area of small terraced houses - a cheap rental area - already rough and grotty anyway, it is looking even worse now.

There are small streets leading off to the left, they must loop round the back of the barricade and, seeing as Dave has just killed several of them, I think we should try and avoid it.

We keep going, until we have passed several of the side streets, then we turn left and head down one of them. We get about halfway down and hear a loud bang from behind us. Dave instantly drops down and gets behind the back of a parked car. I look around to see a group of men running in our direction, one of them is holding something in his hand, another loud bang and I see his arm is jerked up. I drop down and get behind the car with Dave.

‘Fuck, they’ve got guns! Fucking handguns! Where did they get them from?’

Dave leans the shotgun against the back of the car and pulls the rifle round, he chambers a bullet and raises the rifle to his shoulder as he stands up; I can see the group through the car windows.

Dave fires and the lead man with the handgun is jerked backwards and drops to the ground, the others scatter into the road, dodging behind parked cars.

Dave pulls the bolt and steps out into the road, the rifle darting back and forth, as he scans the area.

They are shouting to each other with loud, panicked voices. The shooting man is still down, unmoving.

Dave starts walking back towards their direction. A head pops up and Dave fires. I see the head explode from here; blood and matter spraying out as he is flung backwards against another car. His body slumps down.

Dave rams the bolt and keeps moving, his movements are fast, but controlled; the rifle looks steady in his hands.

‘Go down the other side.’

Dave motions with his left hand towards the first man we shot, indicating for me to head down the side we just came up.

I put one of the shotguns next to the one Dave left and start moving down.

My chest is heaving and I can feel my hands shaking, I try to copy his stance and keep the shotgun raised to my shoulder, but I keep low.

‘I’LL KILL YOU ALL…’ Dave bellows out, in that drill sergeant voice again.

‘I’LL KILL YOUR FAMILIES - YOUR WIVES AND YOUR CHILDREN.’

They starburst out and start running back, shouting to each other. Dave drops one, shooting him in the back and he sprawls out on the ground.

‘Please, please don’t shoot,’ asks a pleading voice in front of me.

I look down and see a young man cowering in the gap between two cars, he is on his knees and his hands are covering the back of his dropped down head. He keeps looking up at me; tears falling down his cheeks.

‘Please mate, please don’t kill me.’

Dave is there, standing behind him, the rifle aimed at his head.

‘Are you armed?’ Dave demands from the cowering man.

‘Please don’t shoot, please.’ His voice is begging and pleading.

Dave kicks him hard in the back, knocking him forward on the ground.

‘ARE YOU ARMED?’

‘No, no I’m not. I swear.’

‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’

‘Please, please.’

Dave kicks him, again.

‘DO IT NOW! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD, INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’

The man responds, quickly putting his hands to the back of his head.

‘STAND UP… SLOWLY’

‘Oh fuck… please don’t. Please don’t.’

He slowly stands up; he’s just a skinny kid, maybe eighteen years old. There are tattoos up his arms and on his neck; the obligatory earring hanging from his ear. Dave looks at me and nods firmly towards the boy. I shrug my shoulders, not understanding what he wants me to do.

‘Would you search him please, Mr Howie.’

‘Oh right… of course.’

Dave steps forward and pushes the end of the rifle into the boys neck, which sets him off whimpering again. He squeezes his eyes shut and stands quivering.

I step forward and start patting him down, he is only wearing tracksuit bottoms and a tee-shirt and I’m finished in seconds.

‘Check the waistband please, Mr Howie.’

I run my fingers round the waistband.

‘He’s clear,’ I try to sound military, but just feel silly.

‘MOVE.’

Dave pushes him in the back, over to the side of the pavement. The boy turns and Dave shoves him hard against the wall and then nods at me.

‘All yours, Mr Howie.’

All mine? What am I supposed to do with him?

‘Er… where are you from?’

‘What?’ He stammers, still terrified.

‘I said… where are you from?’

‘Carter Street.’

‘Is that where the barricade is?’

‘Yes. Please don’t kill me… I didn’t want to come but they made me.’

‘Who made you?’

‘My Dad - that’s his brother, my uncle.’

‘Who is?’

The boy nods at the body on the ground, the one that Dave shot first.

‘That’s your uncle?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who’s your Dad?’

‘John Jones?’

He says it like it means something.

‘Who is he?’

‘Everyone knows him, he runs the area, he’s the boss.’ The boy’s tones grow more confident.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Everyone knows him… even the police leave him alone.’

‘And you’re his son?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So he sent you after us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos of what you did…’

He is staring at me now - the confidence is coming back.

‘What did we do?’

‘You killed his mates, no one does that.’

‘His mates? Oh you mean the men in that room? We were trying to help that woman, why was she pushed out?’

‘She didn’t do as she was told. Dad said we got to keep a firm grip of ‘em.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jim Jones, ain’t it.’

‘What wouldn’t she do, Jim?’

‘Fucking bitch, thieved.’

‘I’m sorry… what?’

‘The fucking bitch thieved, she stole from my Dad - didn’t she?’

‘What did she steal?’

‘Milk.’

‘Milk? Why didn’t she have her own milk?’

‘We got everything in the house, Dad said we need to ration it.’

‘So you took everyone’s food and put it in your house?’

‘Yeah, fucking right.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos the greedy fuckers will have the lot.’

‘Why did she steal milk? Why not something else?’

I can already guess why she took milk, but I want him to say it.

‘Dunno’

‘Why did she take the milk?’

‘I dunno.’ The words are drawn out and sullen.

‘Yes, you do, Jim Jones. You do know why… so tell me why she took the milk?’

I can feel anger building in me; the arrogance and cocky attitude is winding me up. I can just imagine this little shit bullying his way through life, knowing his Dad is the local big man.

‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’

‘Jim, I will ask you once more, why did she take the milk?’

My voice is very low and sounds hoarse.

‘I fucking said that I don’t fucking know.’ He is defiant and staring at me hard.

I slap him across the face with my left hand, hard and stinging. Then, I swap the shotgun to my left hand and use my right to take a fistful of his hair and pull his head back.

‘You listen to me, you little cunt. I don’t fucking care who your dad is. Right now, there is me and him and that’s it!’

He is squirming in my grip, staring rebelliously at me. I can see anger flashing in his eyes and I head butt him square in the face, driving my forehead into his nose. It was an instinctive reaction, fury erupting in me from his arrogant and cocky manner. He drops down and puts his hands to his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. I wrench his head up again.

My own forehead really stings, I had no idea it hurt that much when you head butt someone. I want to rub it, but don’t want to do it in front of him.

‘Why did she take the milk?’

‘Her kids… she took it for her kids.’

‘You forced a mother out into that lot, because she took milk for her kids? You tell me now, why? Why did you do that?’

‘Dad said to…’

‘Did you help?’

‘No, no I swear I didn’t.’

‘You are fucking lying to me. Your dad is the big man, so - you’re the big man too. You fucking helped, didn’t you?’

‘No, no I didn’t.’

‘Lie again and see what happens.’

‘I had to…l Dad told me to.’

‘What happened when she went back in? You killed her, didn’t you?’

‘They did, not me. I swear it wasn’t me that did it…’

‘Take this.’ I hand the shotgun to Dave and he steps forward and takes it, no emotion on his face.

‘You fucking little cunt.’ I punch the boy in the face, hard to the side of his cheek. I rain blows into him, fists pounding his head, he drops down and I kick him several times in the stomach and ribs. I step back, breathing hard. The fury is taking over.

‘Get up.’

He staggers to his feet; his face is bloodied and bruised. I take the shotgun back from Dave.

‘You are going to lead us out of here, do you understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Its yes - not yeah.’

‘Okay, yes.’

‘Now walk.’

I push him forward, down the street, and he staggers, then gains his composure and starts walking slowly.

‘Take your clothes off,’ Dave says to the boy.

‘What?’

‘Take your clothes off.’

I look at Dave, confused at the strange order.

‘It’s hard to run away when you’re naked.’

‘Okay, you heard him - strip off.’

‘No, please… please don’t do that.’

Dave shoves the rifle into his face, pushing him hard against the wall.

‘Now.’

‘Okay, okay.’

The boy starts stripping, taking his shirt off first, then his shoes and trousers. He is wearing filthy white boxer shorts, his skinny legs poking out of the bottom.

‘Please, I won’t run, I swear.’

‘Off. Now.’

He slowly bends down and pulls his boxer shorts off, covering his privates with his hands.

‘Nice skid marks, Jim Jones. Did your dad tell you to do them too - try wiping your arse next time - you filthy little shit.’

A few days ago this act would have sickened me, if someone explained this situation to me in the staff canteen I would deny that it was right and say no person should ever be treated like that - that we have law and order and everyone is entitled to respect and dignity.

Not now.

‘Hang on, Mr Howie.’

Dave runs back to the body lying on the pavement, I see him pick the gun up and pull the top bit back, then a magazine pops out of the bottom. He checks inside, then takes the gun apart, flinging bits in different directions. He puts one piece in his pocket then runs back.

‘It was empty.’

We start walking down the road. Jim is walking with his hands over his bollocks, but Dave makes him put his hands back on his head. He looks pathetic, just a skinny kid; black tribal tattoos stand out on his pale skin. We reach the end of the road and Jim turns left.

‘Where are we going, Jim?’

‘You said you wanted to get out didn’t you? Please, I’ll tell you the way - just let me go home.’

‘You want to go home… do you, Jim?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What?’

‘I mean yes. Yes, please… Mr Howie.’

Fuck it, now he’s calling me that too.

‘Okay, take us to the barricade at this end.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but do as you’re told or we’ll kill you.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

We keep walking on; the houses have suffered more here. Nearly every one of them has smashed windows and doors ripped off.

‘Did you take all of the food from here too?’

‘Dad sent the boys out and told ‘em to bring it all back, so we could make sure everyone had enough.’

‘Regular saint, your dad.’

There are houses on both sides of the street, the barricade starts coming into view, blocking off the junction on the left.

It’s piled high here too, the same method with the vehicles parked end to end; they found more vans for this end though and have stuffed the furniture between the gaps. The barricade forms from the end of the last house, right across the junction to the end of the next house, sealing off Carter Street.

There are only a handful of undead gathered at the barricade at this end, but as we get closer we see lots of bodies on the ground, laying all round the end of the barricade and out into the road.

‘Who killed them, Jim?’

‘We did.’

‘What with?’

‘I dunno, anything we could find.’

‘Got any more guns in there?’

He pauses.

‘No.’

A look passes between Dave and I.

‘So, what are the rules in your street?’

‘What rules?’

‘There must be rules; can people leave if they want to?’

‘Yeah, course they can.’

Dave rams the bolt on the rifle and pushes it into the back of Jim’s head, he staggers forward.

‘Don’t lie Jim, he will kill you, trust me. He won’t think twice about it.’

That’s probably very true, from what I’ve seen so far, he wouldn’t even blink.

‘Okay, okay - they can’t leave, but dad said it was for their own benefit as they would just get eaten by the zombies and then the zombies would get inside.’

‘How would they get inside?’

‘I dunno… Dad said they would.’

‘So how does your dad stop people getting out?’

‘He’s got the boys watching both ends.’

‘How do you get in from this end?’

‘Through the houses.’

‘And I suppose the boys have got the end houses to stay in?’

‘Yeah.’

Dave prods him again.

‘Sorry, yes… Mr Howie.’

We stop about a hundred metres down from the end of the barricade. There is a brick wall to a front garden on the other side of the road. I look at Dave and motion towards it. He looks over and then nods. Jim is pushed over the road and we all go behind the wall, which is only waist height, but gives us some cover.

‘Get over that wall and crouch down on your knees. Keep your hands on your head.’

I push at Jim; he does as he is told and clambers over and then gets down onto his knees.

I lean one shotgun against the wall and press the other end to the back of his head. Dave has crouched down and is using the wall to lean on, with the rifle aimed over the road.

‘John Jones!’ I shout out, but my voice cracks.

‘Dave… you call.’

‘JOHN JONES.’

His voice is startling, and I imagine it booming out across a parade square, terrifying new recruits.

‘JOHN JONES! COME OUT OR WE’LL KILL THE BOY.’

The undead gathered by the barricade start turning and moving towards us.

Within seconds, a side door to one of the houses on the left of the barricade opens up. There are faces looking out of windows at both ends.

A burly man comes out of the door and walks towards us. He looks confident, his thick arms swinging as he walks.

The undead are coming across the road, getting closer to Jim. I can hear him whimper from here.

The closest undead is an adult male, he looks like this breed; thick arms and torso, tattoos on his arms. Half his face is missing, bitten off, and the skin is shredded down to the bone, exposing teeth through holes in his cheek. Drool is hanging down from his mouth and also coming out of the hole.

‘Fuck! Oh fuck!’

Jim is trying to squirm backwards, but the shotgun is pressed to the back of his head. I watch the undead coming. John Jones stops in the middle of the road, arms hanging down at his sides.

Two of the undead veer off from coming in our direction and start towards him. He watches them without expression, then steps forward and slams his fist into the closest undead face, sending him reeling backwards. He grabs the next one by the throat and drags him onto the floor, then stamps down repeatedly on his face and neck.

The undead he punched is laid out on the ground, trying to roll over.

John Jones stops stamping and walks back towards us, one meaty arm raised and pointing at me: ‘IF YOU TOUCH MY BOY…’

I raise the shotgun and fire at the undead just a few steps away from Jim. Jim drops down screaming and the undead is blown back; blood spraying out from where his head used to be. If he wants to show force we can both play at that game.

I drop the gun back down to Jim and push the barrel into the back of his head.

‘Don’t fucking move.’

‘Dad, do something.’

‘Shut up, Jimmy. Easy now boys… what’s the problem?’

‘You killed that woman.’

‘Yes I did. Is that your problem? I killed her and I will kill others, if I have to. There’s plenty of people in there, they need protection and the food won’t last forever. There’s kids and families… who’s gonna feed ‘em and look out for ‘em… you?’

‘She only took some milk.’

‘Is that what Jimmy told you? He’s a fuckwit, he ain’t all there. Kids these days, they’re different in the head.’

He taps the side of his head, as though to demonstrate the point. His tone is calm and very natural, easy going - like you are talking to your best mate; the charm oozes off him.

‘Now listen gents, fair enough, you thought we done wrong, fair play to ya. I appreciate ya keeping to ya principles, I admire that in a man but that woman was a smack head, and she kept thieving from us. We told her to stop but she wouldn’t listen. I gotta whole street to take care off and well… it might look hard to you boys but there’s gotta be order. Now, do me a favour boys and let the lad go.’

He sounds so reasonable, so calm and genuine.

‘Between me and you gents, I don’t much care for the little shit, but he’s mine. You know what women are like, he can’t do no wrong in her eyes and she’ll give me hell if anything happens to ‘im.’

‘I’ll tell you what John, I’ll let him go, but only if you tell everyone in there that they are free to go, if they want to.’

‘Sure, sure I’ll do that. They can go anytime they want. But where to? Have you seen what’s going on? They won’t last five minutes out here. They ain’t like us; they ain’t survivors. Those things will tear ‘em apart… you must have seen what they’re like at night - they change.’

‘Yeah… we’ve seen.’

‘Well… there you go, I’m only protecting ‘em till help arrives, just for now until the law gets a grip of it - you boys can see that can’t you?’

Fuck me, he sounds so normal. I imagined some tyrant with a harem and armed bandits surrounding him. Fair enough, he was shouting when he came out, but I am holding a gun to his son’s head. Mind you, the way he dealt with those two undead…

‘So, let me take the boy in. I’ll give him a good hiding for the trouble he’s caused you gents, then you can be on your way. Or… I’ll tell ya what, why don’t you join us? We got food and plenty of booze…’

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. ‘And we got some nice looking birds in there too, if you know what I mean gents, couple of young lads like you - well they’ll be all over ya.’

‘No, you tell those people they can leave if they want to.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or we’ll kill young Jimmy here.’

‘You’ll kill him will ya? Go on then, one less mouth to feed - if I’m honest.’

‘Jimmy, you tell your dad what we did to his brother and his mates.’

‘They shot him dad, they shot Uncle Jamie.’

John, Jimmy, Jamie - talk about inbred families.

John Jones’ face flushes red, his fists start clenching and he breathes hard. Then he stares straight at me, and, although I’m the one holding the gun, I can see the power in the man and why his son said he was the boss.

‘You killed my bruvver? You fucking cunts.’

He takes a step forward and Dave shoots him in the leg. He drops down to the ground, writhing and clutching at his leg.

‘DAD!’ Jimmy screams out.

‘Jimmy, you run in there and you tell those people they can leave if they want to, you do that now or we’ll finish your old man, you got it?’

‘You shot my dad!’ Jimmy scuttles over to his father, his bare arse poking up into the sky as he bends down to him.

‘Jimmy, you listen to me. We’ll kill him if you don’t get in there now and tell them.’

Jimmy runs off, heading towards the door, then another man comes out and grabs Jimmy, leading him back inside.

An undead female is getting close to John. He rolls over, sees her coming and starts trying to crawl away. I take aim and fire at her, the pellets striking her sacrum and tearing her to pieces. I break the shotgun and remove the empty cartridges, then two more are slotted in.

There is a lot of blood pouring out of John’s leg - he is grabbing at the wound, trying to stem the blood flow.

A window smashes off to the right and a shot rings out, we both drop down instinctively, pellets strike the wall and pavement in front of us… another shotgun.

Dave pops up and fires a shot at the window and I see faces drop down, out of view.

Another shot from somewhere in the barricade, this one strikes the wall with a loud ricochet, not a shotgun this time.

‘Any ideas?’ I ask Dave.

‘Shoot back?’

I stand up and fire both barrels into the barricade; someone screams out in pain.

‘Good shot, Mr Howie.’

‘Cheers Dave, but it is more luck than judgement.’

I shake my head, looking at the shotgun in my hand, the other two are leaning against the wall and then I see Dave crouching down, holding a rifle.

A loud crack and splinters of brick chip off near my head; whoever is firing from the window is using the rifle now and is getting better with their aiming.

Another shot and more brick splinters.

‘Bloody hell… he’s getting closer.’

Dave lays down on the ground and starts wriggling along the base of the wall, towards the entrance.

I look up at the wall above me to see an undead leaning over; his mouth is inches away from the top of my head. I drop down onto my back and push the barrel of the shotgun into his face and fire. His head explodes and his body is flung up into the air and out of view.

‘Fuck me.’

I want to lift up and see over the wall, but another shot ricocheting inches above me keeps me down.

Dave has positioned himself against the wall and is slowly edging out to get a view of the window.

The axe is still wedged behind my bag; the hard metal head is digging painfully into my back.

‘Mr Howie… can you draw him out please?’

‘What?’

‘Can you draw him out please?

‘How…? What do I do?

‘Give him something to shoot at.’

‘What!?’

‘I can’t get a shot, I need him to have something to look for.’

‘Oh… fucking hell! Okay, hang on.’

I take the other shotgun that Dave was using - the one with the barrels on top of each other - and start to raise it up to the wall until the barrel is poking out of the top. Two shots ring out, one of them from the window, which hits the barrel and sends it flying out of my hands; the other shot is a split second after the first and comes from Dave.

‘Got him.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

I reach over and pull the shotgun back towards me, the barrel is dented, rendering the thing useless.

‘He broke your shotgun.’

‘You used my shotgun?’

‘Err… yeah - he broke it.’

‘Right.’

He almost sounds annoyed as he shuffles back and takes it from me, inspecting the damaged barrels.

He breaks the gun open and takes the cartridges out. He then dissembles the gun, breaking it into pieces and taking out a small, thin, piece of metal, putting it into his pocket.

‘Sorry about your gun, Dave.’

‘It was a good gun.’

‘We still have two more, you can have one of these, if you want.’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Honestly mate, I really don’t mind. I shouldn’t have used it.’

‘Its okay, Mr Howie.’

‘I feel bad now… shit! I’m sorry, mate.’

He looks genuinely upset, his face is impassive as ever, but just the slightest change in his manner portrays his feelings.

‘Honestly, Dave, have one of these. I can’t carry both of them anyway, just take it for now, until we get you another one.’

He slowly raises his head and looks at me, then at the shotgun lying by the wall.

‘Really mate, go on, take it.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Howie?’

I pass the shotgun along, so that the wooden end is just in front of him.

‘Honestly, please have it - I want you to.’

He takes the gun and pulls it towards him.

‘Thanks, Mr Howie. I’ll look after it.’

‘It’s all yours, mate.’

He busies himself for the next couple of minutes, reloading the rifle first and then he looks at me, before starting on the shotgun.

‘Where now, Mr Howie?’

‘I don’t know, we should get going, but I feel terrible leaving those people in there. Mind you, I suppose they are getting some kind of help and protection, or at least they were until you shot him in the leg, talking of which…’

I pop my head up and look over the wall, then straight back down again.

‘Or rather until you shot him in the leg and he got eaten by a zombie…’

‘Oh…’

We both raise up and look over the wall.

John Jones is dead, he had crawled most of the way back to the door but the undead got him; two of them are bent on him now, one on his already injured leg, the other on his face.

‘He’s almost at the door, why didn’t they come out and rescue him? They could have got him in while we were pinned down.’

‘I guess they didn’t want to, Mr Howie.’

‘Hmmm… I guess you are right.’

The door opens and Jimmy gets launched out, still naked. He looks even more battered and bruised now, blood is pouring from his face and there are clear, distinct, welt marks on his back.

Behind Jimmy, another boy, of roughly the same age, also gets pushed out.

Several men come out behind them, holding long sticks; one of them has a samurai sword.

They start pushing the two boys away, beating them with the sticks; hard strikes across the legs and back.

The boys are screaming out, begging them to stop. Another man then steps out of the doorway, holding a rifle in one hand.

He looks at the boys being beaten and says something to the men, they stop and all step away from the boys. The man with the rifle looks over and starts walking towards us.

Dave is over the wall instantly, rifle up and aimed. The man stops and raises his hands up to his sides, then looks at the rifle and seems to realise what he’s doing, he turns back and hands the rifle to one of the other men then starts walking towards us again, arms up and palms facing us, a clear gesture to show that he isn’t threatening.

He veers around John Jones and the undead who have got to their feet now and have started toward him. Several of the other men are on them instantly, beating them with the sticks, the man with the sword chops down into an undead’s neck, almost severing the head - the undead goes down and he strikes again, taking the head off, which rolls away on the pavement.

‘It’s all right, I’m not armed.’

The leader spits down onto John Jones and carries on walking towards us, stopping a few metres from Dave.

I start to climb over the wall but the axe handle hanging from my back gets caught and, in trying to keep my balance, I fall backwards. I quickly get back up and walk round the wall; out through the entrance.

I still have the shotgun, but the barrel is lowered. Dave is standing with the rifle aimed at the man in front of him.

‘Easy, Dave.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Dave lowers the rifle, but keeps his hands in the same position, and I have no doubt that it would take him less than a second to shoot the man, who keeps glancing at the weapon, clearly thinking the same thing.

‘So you are Mr Howie? I’m John.’

Another John? Carter Street clearly has no imagination when it comes to names.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not related to that prick,’ he motions towards John Jones, then looks to the group of males gazing down at him.

‘Derek, you’d better finish him off, before he turns into one of them.’

The man with the sword nods and thrusts the blade into the throat of John Jones, then hacks away, ripping the flesh open. More of the men start beating the corpse; they are clearly angry and are whacking the shit out of him.

‘As you can see, he wasn’t well liked around here.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was always a nasty bastard, throwing his weight around, all the little shits looked up to him though and he had a following - so nobody could really do anything about it.’

‘What about the police.’

‘They were just as scared of him.’

‘His boys must still be in there, what about them?’

‘I think your man here did most of them round the other side, he went nuts and sent more after you, but only a couple of those came back. I’ve never seen him so angry; it was bloody great. We took care of the other couple when you lot were shooting each other, and them two there of course…’ He nods towards Jimmy and the other boy; they have moved off down the road and have stopped a few houses down; Jimmy covering his privates with his hands.

‘That Jimmy is an evil little shit, untouchable ‘cos of his dad.’

‘Who is the other one? Don’t tell me, James? John? Jamie?’

He smiles,

‘Close… it’s Jack.’

‘So… what will you do now?’

Another commotion at the door stops him from replying  - a group of women have got hold of another woman with bleached blond hair and orange looking skin and are forcing her out of the door; she is fighting back at them, thrashing and kicking. They have a tight grip of her arms, but she is screaming abuse and pulling them about.

A large built woman breaks away and marches up to the men that are standing over John Jones’ inert body.

‘Give me that stick, Terry.’

She walks up to one of the men and holds her hand out.

‘Love, no I can’t.’

He looks at the other men, clearly embarrassed.

‘TERRY, GIVE ME THAT BLOODY STICK.’

The other men look away or at the ground.

Terry hands the stick to her and the woman snatches it and marches back to the thrashing woman, pulling the stick back and striking at the back of her legs; she goes down to the ground. The other women start kicking at her; blows hitting her stomach and back. The woman starts trying to fight her way back up but is beaten back down and eventually curls up into a little ball.

The women are screaming at her, spitting down. One of them grabs her hair and yanks her head back, then starts slapping her in the face. Jimmy and Jack start running up, but the men move closer, brandishing the sticks and then they stop still - both of them are crying and putting their hands over their faces, taking steps forward, then backing off again.

‘That’s the wife - she was the worst one. Trust me, she had this coming for a long time.’

I look at the man and he grimaces at the beating the woman is taking. The large built lady drops the stick and grabs at the woman’s feet, then starts pulling her shoes off, the other women grasp the idea and, within seconds, the woman is stripped bare; her scrawny body is orange all over.

John takes a step forward and shouts:  ‘That’s enough, leave her be now.’

The large built woman spins round and screams back at John: ‘No, you know what she put us through, just cos of her old man. She’s a nasty bitch - so you stay out of this.’

John raises his hands and takes a step back. The large woman is furious; spittle shoots from her mouth as she screams, then she goes back and pulls the woman onto her feet by her hair.

‘YOU CAN FUCKING BEG, GET DOWN AND BEG NOW.’

The woman drops to her knees and crawls around, sobbing and begging at the women’s feet.

‘Look at those saggy tits, no wonder he kept trying to shag us.’

They all start cackling; joining in with the humiliation.

She’s clutching at their feet but they kick her away, laughing at her. The large woman grabs her hair again and drags her towards the two boys.

‘TAKE YOUR FUCKIN’ MOTHER AND FUCK OFF.’

The boys gather the woman up and start walking her away, hobbling and limping from the beating they’ve all had.

John turns back to me, as the women start heading back inside.

‘Anyway, Jimmy said what you told him to say. We can leave here if we want to – so we’ll be going – but were to? Where are you from?’

‘Boroughfare, it’s near Brighton.’

‘Yeah, I know it. Is it the same as here?’

‘Everywhere is. I heard a radio broadcast saying that London has gone.’

‘Yeah, we heard about that. John Jones said someone told him.’

He doesn’t mention the other part of the radio message.

‘What about the Forts?’ I ask.

‘What Forts?’

‘The radio message said for survivors to head for the Forts on the coast.’

‘That fucking shit! He told us the message said that the cities had gone and we had to wait for help. The fucking wanker… is that where you are going?’

‘Eventually, I’ve got to find my sister, then we’ll be heading down.’

‘Where is she?’

‘London.’

‘You said that London was gone.’

‘My sister contacted my parents - just before the phones stopped working – and she said that she was locked in her flat.’

‘Shit! Well, I was going to ask you to stay with us - we could do with the extra protection - and we’ve got plenty of food - John saw to that.’

‘Thanks mate, but I can’t.’

‘Well lads, if you change your mind? I guess we’ll stick here for today and see about them Forts tomorrow. Did they say which ones?’

‘No, but I guess any of them will do the job.’

‘I might see if we can send someone out to check first.’

‘Good idea.’

We all shake hands, awkwardly.

‘Right… well, I’ll let you boys get on then.’

‘One more thing mate, sorry… but how do we get out of here?’

‘To London…? Well, that’s easy enough...’

‘No, er, we got to run another errand first, something else we got to take care off. We’re heading towards Salisbury.’

He raises both his eyebrows and nods knowingly.

‘Ah Salisbury – yeah, I understand. Don’t worry - I won’t say anything. You need to head for Southampton.’

‘Is there another way, without going through the towns?’

‘Yeah, head north on the London road, then work your way over - but it’ll take much longer.’

He gives directions to a junction, then explains that we have to decide; north through the countryside or west to Southampton which will be much quicker - but will keep us in the towns.

Dave shoulders the rifle and takes the shotgun in his hands. My shotgun is loaded and ready and I can feel the weight of the axe hanging from my back.

We turn from the barricade and walk away.

‘It will be dark soon, Mr Howie.’

We are walking through quiet, suburban streets; the signs of devastation are all around us. It look likes a war zone with bodies lying everywhere. I can hear flies and insects buzzing round them; slowly infesting the corpses with disease.

A few more days and this will be a very dangerous place, not just with the undead but also from the risk of decaying bodies festering in the baking summer sun.

We have walked in silence for sometime; the area is oppressing me.

Portsmouth certainly put up a good fight, judging by the number of scattered bodies. If they had been victims of the undead they would have turned by now, they must be either undead that have been put down, or people that have been killed - but we don’t get close enough to look.

In some places, we have to step over the corpses as the ground is too thickly littered with them to go round.

Coming here has sucked the spirit out of me.

Up until now I had a purpose, a plan and somewhere to go. We still have that plan but the last few hours have taken their toll. Seeing real people being killed, not undead, but real, normal people has left me feeling empty. The world is crumbling at such an alarming rate, everything we know has been taken away and men still want to hurt each other.

I’m not some naïve dreamer and I know what people are capable off, but seeing it happen and the speed at which it took place has left me appalled.

There is a great feeling of shame inside me. Shame that we had to do what we did. Shame that I beat Jimmy and made him walk naked back to the barricade; I was no better than them.

The clear lines of distinction between right and wrong have merged. John Jones was an evil psychopath - of that there is no doubt – but, in his mind, he was providing protection - maybe he felt that he was doing the right thing.

He wasn’t a James Bond baddie - stroking a cat and laughing evilly - he was violent and nasty but he had the sense to build that barricade and gather food and he offered protection to people who couldn’t defend themselves.

I guess this was how the world was in times gone by, the strong protecting the weak, but at a cost. The end result was that we took John Jones out but the people that replaced him could be worse, far worse.

They will get a taste for power and it will corrupt them.

At the supermarket, it was common for shop workers to be promoted and enter into the management team. Some of them were hungry for it and people could see that they were different, most of the lads always said they wouldn’t change, they would represent the floor workers and do what they could to make it better for them: better hours, better pay, more breaks.

For the first few days they would keep the banter going and sit with the floor workers, but, within a short time, they changed.

The money was only slightly better, but just wearing a shirt and tie marked them out and, before long, the gap was there - evident and clear to see.

I know because I did it, I tried to keep in with the lads, stay as one of them and I swore to myself I wouldn’t change - but I did. I made myself get out on the floor with them.

When I didn’t have my own duties I would be working alongside them, but then familiarity breeds contempt and some would try to take advantage, which was uncomfortable at times.

I remember the general manager taking me to one side, just after I was promoted, and telling me to keep a healthy distance from them.

The buildings are pressing in on me; there is hardly any sound.

The hot fetid air is choking me and I feel overwhelmed.

Sun rays shimmer and dance, just above the ground. I glance around and it feels like the dark windows are watching us. This city was active, rough and violent but it had life; a vibrant life, full of people of all colours and backgrounds, now it’s empty and sullen.

It’s only been a couple of days… what will it be like in a week, a month or a year?

Stick to the plan Howie - get your sister and get to the Forts. The Forts are strong and safe and will be full of good people: soldiers, policemen, doctors and nurses - there will be structure and order.

‘I said it will be dark soon, Mr Howie.’

He snaps me back to reality. I look at Dave, his quiet demeanour and manner, no chitchat or witty banter. He shows no signs that it affected him or had any impact - that was then, this is now.

Despite everything that’s happened, he still calls me Mr Howie, and shows deference towards me.

I already owe my life to him, several times over.

I stop walking and stand, staring at him.

‘Dave, why are you here with me?’

‘To get your sister, Mr Howie.’

‘No, I mean why did you come? Why go through all of this with me, just because of my sister. You didn’t have to come, you could walk away anytime you want.’

‘I work for you, Mr Howie.’

‘No, Dave. You worked for Tesco and that’s gone, it doesn’t exist anymore - you can do whatever you want now.’

‘Okay.’

‘So why come with me? Why do all of this?’ My voice is rising. ‘What about back there? You killed loads of people, Dave. You slit their throats and shot them, you shot them as they ran away - doesn’t that bother you?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Why? How can it not bother you?’

‘They would have killed us – killed you.’

‘But it’s only because you were with me that it happened in the first place, if you hadn’t come with me you wouldn’t have had to kill those people.’

‘Okay.’

‘No… it’s not okay, Dave.’ Exasperated, I’m ranting at him. ‘None of this is okay, and it’ll never be okay - never again. We stripped a man naked and beat him. We killed people, Dave. We took their lives away.’

He stares back at me, his face still devoid of expression.

‘Some men got like this in the service.’

‘Got what?’

‘Got like this after combat, it’s normal.’

‘Normal? Fuck me, don’t you have it?’

‘No.’

‘Why ever not?’

He shrugs and looks down at the ground.

‘I’m thick, Mr Howie.’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m thick, too stupid.’

‘What? You aren’t thick.’

‘I know I am. I’m not like other people. I’ve always been like it; they always said I was.’

‘Who?’

‘In the service.’

‘They said you were thick, in the army?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dave… you are not thick. I’ve never seen anyone do what you have done. You have such amazing skills!

‘Really, Mr Howie?’

‘Seriously, Dave. I don’t know who trained you or what they trained you for, but it’s incredible.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

‘Okay, look mate, I’m sorry for sounding off. I shouldn’t have. It’s just… it’s fucking mental.’

He nods, then goes back to scanning round, eventually looking up at the sky.

‘Will be dark soon, we should find shelter.’

‘It’s just gone 8 p.m., I think we should find a vehicle and get out of the city first, there’s some side roads up there, they must lead to houses, maybe we can find some car keys in one of them.’

A few minutes later and we are away from the big city buildings and into side streets again, it feels less oppressive here, these streets could be quiet at any time, so it doesn’t feel so unnatural; obviously the smashed in windows, burnt out cars and bodies lying everywhere are a little different to normal, but this is Portsmouth.

We keep going, moving away from the epicentre of the mass civil unrest, there are still signs of devastation here, but less so. Another few streets over and we find some houses that look quite normal, with just the front doors open.

‘There’s a lot of undamaged cars here, Dave. I reckon most people try and park outside their own house - so what do you fancy? Sports car? Van? Something executive perhaps? Or shall we go for a four-wheel drive?

‘I don’t mind, Mr Howie.’

‘Oh, but sir must have a choice! Sir must choose from one of our exciting range.’

Silence.

‘How about the colour sir? What colour would you like your vehicle to be? Metallic paint and alloys may incur an additional fee…’

‘How about that one?’

Dave points to a very old, beaten up, Skoda Fabia.

‘You really can’t drive, can you?’

‘No.’

I move on quickly and see a Range Rover parked up ahead, an older version, but still a good, robust vehicle.

‘Now that is more like it, what do you reckon?’

Dave looks back at the Skoda, then at the Range Rover and shrugs.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘You really have no taste Dave, no taste at all.’

I try to keep the tone light, to make up for my outburst a short while ago. There’s something about Dave that makes me want to keep my head and wits about me, I feel a bit embarrassed about having a go at him, especially after what he said about being stupid.

‘Lets try in here,’

We move up to the front door of the house next to the parked Range Rover. The door is shut and locked… I knock several times.

‘Hello, anyone there? We’re not zombies… we promise.’

Silence from within, the door is UPVC double-glazed, strong and flexible and it will take some battering to get open.

The house is terraced and there is no obvious way of getting to the rear. I step back and aim a kick at the central panel, there is a loud thump, and the door rattles, but remains undamaged. I lean the shotgun against the house and start aiming hard kicks, one after the other. Within minutes, I am breathing hard.

‘Mr, Howie.’

‘Hang on, mate.’

I keep kicking at the door; it starts to give, but refuses to budge. The flexible material absorbs most of the energy from my kicks, rendering me pretty much useless. After several more kicks I give up and bend over, panting.

‘It’s no good mate, we’ll have to use the axe or find another house.’

‘What about this?’

Dave is quietly holding a key in his hand. I straighten up and look at him.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Under that gnome.’

‘Oh, good. You could have told me though.’

‘I tried to.’

Again, I swear there is a glimmer in his eye.

‘Shall we then?’

He steps up and unlocks the door, pushes it open and waits with the shotgun raised at waist height. He stands still and listens for several minutes. I know what’s coming… yep; here he goes, waving his hands around, twirling and pointing.

‘Dave, if there are zombies, just say.’

He turns round to me.

‘I was saying to stay here and I’ll check downstairs.’

‘Okay mate, we really have to practise these hand signals though. I’ll wait here then.’

He enters and starts checking each room, which takes seconds as the house is tiny;  just two rooms downstairs, a lounge and a kitchen - dining room at the back. He comes back to the front door.

‘Would you like me to check upstairs, old chap?’

‘Err…well…’

‘Tell you what, why don’t I stay at the door and you check it.’

‘Okay.’

He’s up the stairs within seconds and I’m not surprised after my bumbling performance at the farm house. I hear him banging about and then he’s back down.

‘All clear.’

‘I wonder where they went to then?’

‘Who?’

‘The people that live here.’

‘They’re upstairs.’

‘You said that it was clear.’

‘It is.’

‘Then who is upstairs?’

‘The people that live here - I guess.’

‘Are they zombies?’

‘No.’

‘Then why haven’t they said anything or come down?’

‘They can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘Shit…’

I run up the stairs into the bedroom and see an old couple in the bed, they are covered in the blankets, the woman is snuggled into the man, her head resting on his chest. They both have dried vomit stains round their mouths; there are two empty bottles of pills next to the bed.

I stare at them for a few minutes, they look so peaceful and serene and it breaks my heart to see this; an old couple who made the choice to see the end in peace. Together in death, as in life.

There is a photograph of young children clutched in the woman’s hand - they must be her grandchildren. I choke up and feel tears stinging my eyes. Suddenly, feeling like an intruder, I leave the room and gently pull the door closed.

There are coats hanging in the hallway, I check through the pockets and find a set of car keys, a Range Rover fob on them.

We lock the door and put the key back under the gnome, then I think better of it and put the key back into the door lock and leave it there. The house is secure and it might just save someone else’s life. I feel bad for the old couple, but the living will need it more than them now.

Then an idea strikes me and I go back into the house and find some plain paper and a thick marker pen in a bureau in the lounge. I write the words “SAFE HOUSE” in big letters and stick the paper to the front door.

The Range Rover is lovely to drive, the Tesco van was bigger but this feels sturdier, more robust and capable - plus it’s dark green, which might help when we are out of the city.

We backtrack through the side streets, until we are back in town; it wastes a few minutes but at least this way we can stick to the directions that John gave us.

‘Shit! The fucking tank is almost empty! Trust us to pick the only car with no petrol!’

I check my watch.

‘It’s almost 9 p.m. now mate, we’ve got less than hour before its dark. Keep looking for a fuel station.’

‘Oh… fuck it - there’s no power - the bloody pumps won’t work without power!’

‘We can siphon it.’

‘Do you know how to do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dave… you’re a bloody genius.’

I check the fuel gauge, it’s on the right, so the filling cap will be on the right too. I pull the Range Rover up alongside a row of parked vehicles and cruise along, until we see one with a cap on my side.

‘We need a tube… and a jerry can.’

‘Oh… my fucking days - this just gets better and better, where can we get a tube from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It will take too long, we need to find another vehicle.’ I look at the sky.

‘And we need to be quick - keep your eyes open.’

‘For a fuel station?’

‘No, Dave - for a car we can use.’

‘Okay.’

We drive away, looking left and right. All the vehicles in the area are either locked up tight or smashed to bits - some have been burnt out.

The panic is rising in me, I remember the howling from the undead as night fell and then seeing them switch to fast moving, evil fuckers. I really don’t want to be here when that happens. Although having said that, we haven't seen any undead for a while now.

‘Stop! Go back, Mr Howie.’

‘What? What did you see?’

I select reverse and pull the car back, adjacent to a junction on the left.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Down there.’

He points down the road and I look at the row of vehicles, until I see a large vehicle in the middle of the road; a recovery truck with an orange light bar on the top. The back of the truck is lowered down to the ground like a ramp. I turn in and drive towards it.

‘Dave, you beauty - well done, mate.’

The recovery truck has a double cab and the words “POLICE RECOVERY” written on the side. I look to the row of vehicles and see a police car parked up, the recovery truck positioned ready to start winching it onto the back.

The police car is an old Ford Focus and has seen better days. It must have broken down on Friday night and they called for it to be recovered; just as the world went nuts.

‘Mr, Howie.’

We are both out of the Range Rover, Dave is up front, looking in the cab, while I stare at the police car. I walk round to the front. Dave is now looking intently at an undead policeman: black trousers, black shirt and bright yellow body armour. His belt is full of hanging things; leather pouches are all round his waist. The body armour has a walkie-talkie radio clipped on the front, his hands are ravaged down to the bone and there is blood all over his face and across the yellow body armour.

He must have been on the ground, on his back, and punching up at them; his knuckles have taken most of the damage and I imagine him laid out, with undead leaning down into him; punching up repeatedly until they bit into his fists. Poor bastard. He is shuffling over towards us. There is a can of mace or pepper spray hanging from a lanyard attached to his belt.

‘Dave… you get what we need and I’ll take care of him.’

I wait for him to get a little closer, then move away a few steps, leading him on, teasing him with my tasty flesh. I keep him busy, while Dave hunts round for whatever we need.

‘Got it!’

He comes out of the cab of the truck, holding a length of pipe and a green, plastic fuel can. He takes this round to the police car and opens the fuel cap, sticks the bendy pipe in and starts sucking on the end, then suddenly spits out a mouthful of liquid and shoves the end of the pipe into the jerry can on the floor.

I keep dancing around the undead copper; leading him a few steps one way, then back in another direction. I shouldn’t leave him here, he could get someone else if we leave him, but I don’t want to risk making too much noise now. I run back to the car and draw the axe out from the back seat and then go over to the undead policeman.

Dave finishes filling the can and attaches a black spout to the hole. He then up-ends the can and starts pouring fuel into the Range Rover.

‘All done, Mr Howie.’

‘Right you are, Dave. I’ll just sort this one out.’

I step forward and chop down into his head, which bursts apart; bone and flesh spewing out as he falls to the floor. I wipe the axe on his trousers and walk back to the Range Rover.

As I’m putting the axe on the back seat, I look at the green fuel can on the ground, then at the open fuel cap on the police car and one word stops me in my tracks: DIESEL.

I run round the back of the Range Rover, hoping and praying that it has a letter D somewhere in the model type: TDCi, TDC… fucking anything, please.

Nothing on the back, I open the fuel cap and my heart sinks: PETROL ONLY.

I shout out to Dave: ‘We’ve put diesel into the car and it only takes petrol. Fucking hell! Quick, check the recovery truck… are the keys in the ignition?’

Dave runs off and sticks his head into the drivers side.

‘No.’

‘Bollocks! Fuck it, we’ll have to run. Get the stuff quick - we’ll have to go on foot.’

‘Why?’

‘You put diesel in the car and it only takes petrol.’

‘Oh, is that bad?’

‘Yes, mate, it won’t run - it’s fucked.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Howie.’

He looks distraught, the same look of panic and confusion that he had in the supermarket when I told him he should go home.

‘Don’t worry, it’s my fault - I should have checked.’

‘No… I’m so sorry,’

‘Dave, honestly, it’s okay - it’s really okay. Christ, look how many times I’ve fucked up!’

I put my bag on and drop the axe down, before tightening the straps. Next, I break the shotgun and check that it’s loaded and ready.

Within seconds, Dave is kitted up; the rifle on his back and the shotgun in his hands. We start off back the way we came, but, within a few steps, we stop.

There are several undead shuffling down the road towards us. They must have come out of the buildings on the side, I look over and see more of them slowly emerging.

‘Fuck it! Back this way, come on.’

We start running down the road and around the recovery truck and the now dead undead policeman.   The light is fading fast and we need to find somewhere quickly, so we keep running; there are loads of bodies here, all piled up on the pavements - like someone has shoved them out of the road.

‘Dave, we can’t hide here - they will see where we’ve gone and surround us. Let’s keep running, until we lose them, then find somewhere to hole up.’ I’m gasping for breath and speaking is hard.

‘Okay.’

The fit bastard is hardly out of breath yet.

We run down a straight road towards a T-junction; the buildings on both sides prevent us from seeing any further than a few metres in either direction.

The running causes the axe to slip down; it catches between my legs and trips me over, sending me sprawling forward. As I fall, I clench my grip on the shotgun and pull the trigger. A deafening bang and I shoot out into the side of a parked car; loud metallic ricochets as the pellets strike the vehicle.

‘Mr Howie, are you alright?’

Dave runs back and helps me to my feet; my trousers are torn at the knees, which are both scuffed and bleeding.

‘Sorry mate, I shot that car.’

‘Keep your hand away from the trigger, until you need it, Mr Howie.’

‘Yeah, good advice mate.’

I wince as I get up, my knees both hurt and I have grazed my left hand. I take the axe in one hand and the shotgun in the other and we keep running, although a little bit slower now.

We reach the end of the road and ahead of us there is one long, grey building running both directions. Off to the left, blocking the road entirely, is a massive crowd of undead - they are a couple of hundred metres up the road, but there are loads of them. They seem to all face towards the grey building, but the crowd is too dense for me to see what they are looking for.

We look right, the road ends at a set of very high blue metal gates that are topped with rolls of razor wire and have sharp spikes at the pinnacle. We look round, desperately trying to see an avenue of escape.

‘We’ll have to go back and enter one of the houses.’

Some of the undead in the crowd must have heard the gunshot and have started in our direction already, with more peeling away towards us.

The last tendrils of light fade and the shadows drop; daylight has gone and night is upon us. The crowd stop, as one, and we look back up the road; there are undead behind us now blocking our escape route. We go towards the blue gates and try pushing and pulling them but they are locked fast - we might be able to climb up, but the razor wire at the top will cut us to pieces.

Dave drops down onto one knee and shrugs his bag off, then he opens the main compartment and takes out a plastic bag full of rifle ammunition and lays it on the ground. Next, he fills his pockets with shotgun shells, then puts the bag back on.

This is it then, no way back… and no way forward. I look up at the horde as they stand stock still, take my cartridge shell bag and fill it up, then tie it off on my belt, the way Dave did; the hole ready for my hand to dip into.

I look back up, the horde stops swaying and all raise their heads at the same time; looking toward the sky. They are in deep shadows now, the power has gone and the street lighting won’t come on now - or ever again, probably.

The undead off to the right are doing the same. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then they howl as one. They make one long, continuous, drawn out, blood chilling roar - the noise is immense and my throat goes dry, my hands are shaking and I’m glad that I’m not using that rifle; I’d probably miss all of them.

I can feel my knees weakening. I heard this first last night; the zombie howl, but I only had one undead in front of me then, now there are hundreds with the same, deep, guttural bellow.

I look to Dave but he doesn’t flinch. He shows the same impassive look, his hands are steady and he has no sign of nerves. I take comfort from his courage.

‘Dave, I just want to say… what the fuck is that?’

He looks at me in puzzlement, but I’m looking over his shoulder at the light on in the window behind him. There is a light on… in a building with power. Then, the light goes out and the window goes black like the rest.

‘That light went on and off - there’s someone in there.’

I look deeper into the shadows and see a door secreted in the corner, there is a concrete ramp leading up to it and it’s recessed in a small porch area; it was hidden from view before and now only seen because we are up against the gates.

‘Fuck me! There’s a door.’

I race over and start banging and shouting, the door is metal and I use the flat of my fists to rain hammer blows down on it.

The roaring stops as hundreds of undead cease howling at the same time, then they begin to stare directly at us; the spasmodic head lolling is gone, they are the evil, fast, undead once more.

The closest undead is focused on Dave; the red eyes holding his gaze.

Dave raises the rifle and gets his position ready. There is a long pause, then the undead takes a staggering step forward and Dave shoots him in the face, blowing him backwards.

Dave slams the bolt and fires again and again.

I keep hammering at the door, yelling and kicking.

The rifle cracks are so quick together, only the slightest of pauses while Dave reloads, then he repeatedly fires. The speed and accuracy is awesome, almost every bullet strikes a head.

They are moving now, gathering speed and coming straight at us. Dave pauses to lift the shotgun that was resting against his leg, and blasts both barrels at the front of the crowd. From this distance, the pellets spread and there is a ripple effect as bodies are slammed backwards into the dense crowd. The effect is marginal; for every one he drops, more are coming; filling the gaps.

I give up hammering at the door and start back towards him, ready to stand by his side; we’ll go down together.

A buzzing sound behind me, on and off, urgent and loud. I glance back and the buzzer keeps sounding, then there is a clicking noise coming from the door.

‘Dave we’re in… come on!’

He glances back at me, as I push the door open and bright light floods the area. Dave grabs the shotgun and runs over.

‘My axe…’

It’s still leaning against the gates. I run forward and grab it and they are almost on me now. I race back and lunge through the open door. Dave is already inside and slams the door shut, as I clear the entrance, but the undead are already on the other side, trying to push in.

Dave braces against the door, I join him and we fight to push the door closed; finally getting it home with an audible click.

We are in a brightly lit, small room.

There is a wooden bench on one side, fixed to the ground with big bolts. At one end of the room is a small cubicle with a heavy looking door made of thick metal bars and there is a sheet of thick plastic fixed on the outside.

There is another solid metal door at the end of the room - like the one we just came through.

Frayed and peeling posters are on the walls, telling people to take their offences into consideration and that they are entitled to legal advice.

One of the posters is massive and appears to have the same paragraph in many different languages.

One last sign catches my eye:

“OFFICERS SHOULD WAIT UNTIL THE CHARGE ROOM IS CLEAR, BEFORE TAKING THE DETAINED PERSON THROUGH.”

A hatch opens in the door at the end and a small face peeks out.

‘Oh… thank god - thank you so much.’

‘Are you infected?’ asks a female voice, high pitched and squeaky - but authoritative.

‘What? No, no of course not.’

‘You are bleeding.’

‘I fell over and grazed my knees. I promise you we are not infected - we haven’t been bitten or scratched… nothing.’

The hatch closes and we hear muffled voices, it opens after a few seconds.

‘We need to make sure you are not infected, strip off.’

‘Strip off? Now hang on a minute, you can see we’re okay.’

‘I’m not arguing with you. Strip off or get out.’

Dave and I look at each other - he shrugs and drops the bag from his shoulders, taking the Tesco fleece off.

‘Now… hang on a minute - this is a police station right? You are meant to protect us.’

‘Listen to me, you are bleeding and you are both armed - you won’t get through this door and I can easily unlock the outer door and let them in.’

I drop my bag too and start pulling my top off.

Dave is sitting on the bench, taking his boots off. I join him and we carry on in silence until we are both clad only in our boxer shorts.

I glance at Dave, he is small built, but his body is hard with lean muscle; he hasn’t got an ounce of fat on him and his thigh muscles look solid.

I look down at my wobbly stomach and un-toned body in embarrassment; actually it looks like my tummy has gone down a bit in the last couple of days, probably through lack of food. I’m not fat, just not lean or defined.

We both stand in our boxer shorts and a face looks out and over our bodies; then the hatch closes and again we hear muffled voices.

‘Pants off now.’

She’s back speaking through the hatch again.

‘What?’

‘We have to be sure you are not bitten, so pants off!’

Quietly seething, but with no choice, I take my boxer shorts off and step out of them, covering my privates with my hands. Dave stands with his arms at his sides and eyes fixed ahead.

‘Drop your hands and turn round.’

I take my hands away and copy Dave by staring at a spot on the wall. We both shuffle round, keeping our gazes up. Back facing her, she has a lingering look at Dave, before barking her next order: ‘Get dressed.’

The hatch is slammed shut and we look at each other and get dressed.

‘They won’t let us in with the weapons, Mr Howie.’

‘Shit! Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s see what happens.’

After we get dressed, the hatch re-opens and the woman looks out, her face pinched and stern.

‘Well done. Now… if you want to come in, you will have to leave those weapons there.’

Dave was right.

‘Do we get them back later?’

She pauses for a minute, before answering.

‘We’ll see about that… right… put the guns over by that far wall and stand in front of the door. And the bags too…’

A minute later, we are standing as directed, in front of the door with all of our kit stacked up in the corner. Dave keeps glancing back at the weapons.

‘Right, hands on your heads and we’ll open the door. I want you to step in, but keep your hands on your heads, right?’

‘Okay.’

We both put our hands up on the top of our heads, there is a buzzing sound and the door is pulled open.

The room inside looks long and narrow but, as I step in, I realise that the wall to my right is in fact a very high desk, with a larger space behind it.

The walls are bare concrete, painted a very pale cream colour, the floor is also bare - apart from two painted feet, at the bottom of a long ruler, measuring up to seven feet.

There are monitors attached to the wall, showing CCTV images and I can see the horde of undead cramming up to the back door; other images show corridors and exit doors within the building. One of the images is of a man lying down on a bench, the room he’s in looks like a larger version of the room we were just in. A very young looking policeman is facing us, aiming a bright yellow, plastic thing.

‘Don’t move or you’ll be tasered.’ The boy policeman barks at us, his face is set and I can tell he is trying to look tough, but his hands are shaking.

‘Okay mate, no problem.’

The woman that spoke to us through the hatch has retreated behind the desk, just her head pokes over the top. She looks to be in her late thirties, her face is pinched and there are lines round her mouth where she keeps pursing her lips. She looks different and I realise that she isn’t wearing any make-up, which is very odd in this day and age; her face is quite harsh and she looks mean.

‘Right, you are going to be searched, while PC Jenkins covers you with the taser.’

‘Okay, miss.’

‘It’s not miss, it’s Sergeant!’ She says, clearly annoyed.

‘Okay, sorry…err… Sergeant.’

A silence descends while PC Jenkins and the Sergeant stare at us, then at each other, then back to us.

Dave and I look at each other and he shrugs.

‘Um…who is searching us?’

‘PC Jenkins will be searching you.’

‘I can’t Sarge… I’ve got the taser.’

‘Right. Where’s Ted?’

‘He went to the toilet, Sarge.’

‘What about Steven? STEVEN!’

She yells out and a very thin man with large, thick glasses appears at the doorway. He is dressed in a blue shirt, unlike PC Jenkins and the sergeant who are both in black shirts.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’ Steven asks.

‘Search the prisoners…I mean these men please, while PC Jenkins covers you with the taser.’

‘Me Sergeant? I’m just a PCSO - I can’t search people…’ he looks terrified.

‘It’s not a request, Steven - and you can search persons under the supervision of a uniformed police officer.’

‘Why don’t I take the taser and let Tom search them?’

‘He can’t take the taser - he’s not had the training.’

PC Jenkins looks alarmed.

‘Oh… but I can search people though, can I?’

‘Well yeah, it’s completely different – it takes training and skill to use a taser - it’s not a toy.’

‘Enough! Thank you. Tom will cover with the taser and Steven will search them,’ the Sergeant barks out and they both fall quiet.

Steven moves forward and stops in front of me, I smile at him, feeling sorry for the position he is in -  he’s clearly scared.

‘Steven, you’re in the way,’ PC Jenkins says.

‘What?’ Steven turns and sees the taser pointing at him - realising that he has blocked PC Jenkins’ aim.

‘Oh, sorry, move over mate,’ Steven asks Dave to move over so he and I can step to the side.

We start shuffling around, and Dave bumps into me, then tries to move and again bumps into me.

‘No, you need to move that way,’ Steven says to Dave.

‘Oh, this way,’ Dave moves the wrong way and steps in front of Steven.

‘Steven, get out of the way,’ PC Jenkins says.

‘I’m trying,’ Steven is getting flustered at Dave, as he keeps stepping the wrong way, and I start to get the impression that Dave is doing it on purpose.

‘Sorry, sir, I’ll move,’ again Dave gets it wrong and Steven looks red in the face, the space is confined and PC Jenkins is berating Steven for blocking his aim.

‘Steven… move out of the bloody way.’

‘Mate, you’re in the way - can you just move please,’ Steven snaps at Dave.

I don’t know why Steven doesn’t just search Dave first - as he’s the closest now, but he’s blustering about and not thinking straight.

‘Steven - will you get a grip and search these men,’ the Sergeant yells at him.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll go this way then,’ Dave steps round Steven so he is behind him and is standing between PC Jenkins and Steven.

‘For god’s sake, this is just stupid,’ PC Jenkins rubs his head.

Dave spins and snatches the taser with one hand and pushes PC Jenkins in the chest with the other. PC Jenkins gets knocked backwards; leaving the taser in Dave’s hand. Dave steps back, so he is at the end of the desk, he then points the taser at the Sergeant, then at Steven and finally back to PC Jenkins, who is leaning against the wall with a look of horror on his face.

‘Now just you wait…’ The Sergeant starts to yell at Dave in her squeaky voice.

‘SIT DOWN AND DON’T MOVE.’ The parade square voice from Dave.

The Sergeant quietens immediately and sinks back onto her high chair and I imagine her feet dangling down, not touching the floor.

I smile, just a small twitch of the lips as I stare at Dave in admiration.

‘Bloody hell mate! Well done.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

Dave continues moving his aim from one to the other, showing them that he has a clear shot. Steven is standing in front of me, frozen in terror.

No one speaks for a few seconds.

‘…’ello, ‘ello, what’s going on here then?’

An older man walks in: late fifties, thick set and bald with weathered features. He has a rolled up newspaper under his arm and is holding two disposable cups of hot liquid. He stops and looks at each of the people in the room.

‘Oh dear… tut tut - well this seems a bit of a pickle, don’t it? Excuse me mate, these cups are scalding hot, it’s these cheap cardboard things, they burn your bloody fingers off.’

He steps round Dave and goes behind the desk, putting both the cups down and blowing on his fingers.

‘Tea’s there, Debbie,’ he doesn’t even look at the Sergeant who is frozen. The new man is also wearing a black shirt, but he has the initials D.O. on the sleeves. Finally, he looks at Dave, then at me.

‘So? What’s it like out there? Still hot ‘n’ horrible is it?’

‘Er… yeah - you could say that.’

‘Well - it had to happen, didn’t it. So which one of you has the army voice? I heard it all the way down the block and I thought - there’s a voice from the services if ever I heard one. It took me back a few years - I can tell you.’

‘It was him!’ I point at Dave, almost feeling like a schoolboy, dropping my mate in it.

‘It was you was it? What were you in?’

‘I can’t say.’

I bloody knew he would say that.

‘Ah, I get it,’ he taps his nose and winks knowingly at Dave, then looks at the taser with distaste.

‘You got that off young Jenkins didn’t you? I kept telling him not to keep waving it about! Did he listen though? No, he didn’t. They never do these young ‘uns. Mind you, we never needed ‘em in my day.’

‘Oh… you’re a policeman, too?’ I ask him.

‘No, no, not anymore. I did my time and got out.’ He points to the initials on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Detention Officer now. Five years army, then twenty-five in the job and I thought to myself… Ted it’s time to get out, but I keep coming back, like an old fool.’

The old timer is calm, keeping us chatting, but I can see that he is appraising Dave and I constantly; years of hard situations and having to rely on his wits have left him sharp and the experience is oozing off of him.

‘Ted? I’m Howie and this is Dave - it’s very nice to meet you.’

I step up to the desk and extend my hand, it’s awkward, but Ted stands up and leans over, my hand is dwarfed as his giant fist closes round mine.

‘You too, Howie. Nice to see someone still has manners.’

Ted turns to Dave and offers his hand.

‘Dave… I think we can put it down now.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Howie?’ Dave says, as he eyes PC Jenkins suspiciously.

‘Yes mate, I’m sure they won’t do anything silly - will you?’ I look at PC Jenkins.

‘No…’ he stammers, still scared.

Dave lowers the taser and puts his hand out to Ted, they shake hands very briefly and then Dave pulls back and wipes his hand on his trousers.

‘I did wash them, you know.’

Dave looks at his hand, then back at Ted.

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Ah, I’m only joking - I didn’t wash them really.’

Dave goes back to wiping and Ted laughs out loud; a nice, deep, hearty laugh.

‘Ah… you Special Forces boys are all the same - trained killers I’ll grant you - but funny buggers though.’

PC Jenkins’ mouth drops open at the mention of Special Forces. He stares at Dave with a keen interest.

‘Bloody hell, are you SF? I knew you were SF the way you took that taser off me. Wow! Two SF in here. So are you on operations then? I knew they would send the SF in.’

‘We aren’t Special Forces! We’re just trying to get somewhere and got caught out, that’s all.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Salisbury.’

I knew it was a mistake the second it came out of my mouth.

‘Salisbury Barracks! Wow, that’s so cool! Is that where the HQ is?’

‘What? No! Look we aren’t Special Forces.’

‘So… why are you going to Salisbury?’

What can I say? I can’t tell them we’re going to steal a tank. We’ll just sound even more suspicious – but, thankfully, Ted steps in.

‘That’s enough young Jenkins - you leave it alone with all the questions.’

‘Dave… I think we can give the officer his taser back.’

Dave looks at me, then at PC Jenkins, he checks again to make sure I’m not going to change my mind and slowly hands it over; turning it, so that the handle is facing PC Jenkins, who takes it and looks at Dave like a puppy.

‘You can keep it - if you want.’

‘PC Jenkins, that is the property of the constabulary and not yours to give away,’ the Sergeant is back with us, feeling confident again, now that Ted is here and Dave has handed the weapon over.

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ He looks crestfallen, chastised in front of his new hero.

‘Can we get our weapons back now?’ Dave looks to Ted, not at the Sergeant.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem, will it… Sergeant?’

Ted defers to the sergeant, but has made it clear what he thinks - she looks trapped and scared.

‘Look, Sergeant. I promise you that we are not psycho’s or anything - we just got caught out, you’ve seen what’s happening out there. The weapons can stay there if you’re sure we’re safe in here…’

Ted steps in again. ‘Oh, this nick is safe. It’s built to handle terror suspects, so the security is very enhanced. The only way in to this part of the building is through the big gates or that outer door. The interior door is solid and can only be opened from this side.’

‘Okay, then we’ll leave them there, for now.’

‘Tell you what gents, why don’t I take you to the canteen for a brew - that all right with you, Debbie?’

‘Well, it’s time for the emergency strategy meeting anyway and you two can come.’

She gets up and walks out from behind the desk. Stepping down from the raised area, she looks tiny - shorter than Dave by inches, but with the same, wiry frame. She walks out of the room and down the corridor - Dave follows her with his eyes.

‘I’ll show you the way, after me,’ Ted goes out next, followed by Steven and PC Jenkins.

Finally Dave and I leave the room and start down the corridor. I lean in to whisper to him: ‘I don’t like her much.’ The bossy attitude has annoyed me, he looks at me and pauses, before answering quietly.

‘I do’.

The corridor is long and we pass cell doors on both sides; every few metres we have to turn sharp left or right.

‘It’s designed that like on purpose, stops anyone being able to shoot all the way down the corridor, and it disorientates anyone trying to escape.’

Ted gives us a commentary, until we reach a solid, metal door.

‘Are we leaving this area? I thought you said it was specially fortified in here?’

‘It’s okay, the whole building is safe - we keep checking it.’

The Sergeant opens the door with a key and steps out; Steven follows her, then PC Jenkins.

‘Tom, where are you going?’

‘To the meeting, Sarge.’

‘Tom, you know you have to stay here.’

‘But, Sarge…’

‘No buts, stay here to let us back in and watch the prisoner.’

‘But that’s not fair, why can’t he do it?’ PC Jenkins points to Steven.

‘Don’t drag me into this, I’m not trained to look after a prisoner.’

PC Jenkins stares at Ted, who steps up and looks down his nose at PC Jenkins.

‘Something on your mind, lad?’

‘No, I’ll stay…’ He sighs and steps back in, holding the door open for Dave and I to step through.

Ted chuckles as the door closes.

‘Keen as mustard and just about as bright too.’

‘Did he say prisoner?’

‘Oh yes, one of our locals.’

‘But, with all this going on, why don’t you just let him go?’

Ted chuckles again.

‘Old Harry? He don’t want to go anywhere - he’s homeless. He spends more time in here than at the shelters. Every time it gets too cold or too hot he breaks something and waits to be arrested, bless him.’

‘Bloody hell, does he know what’s going on out there?’

‘What him? He’s madder than a bucket of frogs, we tried telling him but he just gibbers on… nah, he’s alright - wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘So… why is he in a cell then?’

‘He always has the same cell - gets very strange if someone else is in there. The door is open and he can do what he wants, he can’t get out or open a window - so he’s quite safe.’

We go up a flight of stairs and Dave is keenly looking about, taking in all of the exits and windows, checking and re-checking constantly, and also glancing at the Sergeant’s small behind.

Then we head along a carpeted corridor, passing several dark and empty offices on the way, full of blank monitor screens and office swivel chairs.

‘Where do you get the power from? The grid went out everywhere else.’

‘There’s a generator in the basement, we have to be able to run the cell block in the event of a terrorist attack - we turned everything else off, so we don’t use too much juice.’

The Sergeant ahead of us opens a door into a large conference room and switches the lights on; the room is flooded with bright, fluorescent light. She then turns a few of them off, leaving just one strip on.

I feel better now that we are with the organised authorities, they must have contingency plans and regular updates from the government and they might be able to help find my sister.

The Sergeant is odd, but I guess she is just the Desk Sergeant, or whatever they call them. We enter the room and the Sergeant indicates for us to be seated at the large, oval desk. Then she goes to one end and sits down. There are weighty hardback files and manuals in front of her.

‘Steven, can you make everyone a drink please.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

He goes to the end of the room and opens two cupboard doors, the bottom section has a kettle and plain white mugs, the top section has boxes of tea bags, a catering size pack of instant coffee and boxes of sugar sachets and milk cartons.

Within minutes, we both have a steaming mug of tea in front of us: milk and sugar sachets are put down next to the mugs. We busy ourselves putting milk in, while waiting for the rest to arrive.

A few minutes later, we hear voices and I look to the door, waiting to see the senior officers and constables file in, but only two people enter: two young ladies -  one with a blue shirt on and one with a black. I realise now that the blue shirts are for the Police Community Support Officers and the black shirts for the proper officers.

The two newcomers both sit down and I realise that Steven has already made them drinks; there are no more drinks made - no one else is coming.

‘Where is everyone else?’

‘Err… thank you. We’ll come to you in a minute, there is an order to these meetings you know,’ the Sergeant gives me a withering look.

Ted just sits back and drinks his tea.

‘Right, everyone’s here, then let us begin. The time is now 22.07 hours and I am opening the emergency strategy meeting. As the senior officer I will chair the meeting and PC Trixey will take the minutes.’

I look to the new female officer, blonde hair pulled back into a bun, she looks very young but very serious, and is studiously holding a pen over some writing paper.

‘PC Trixey - please record that we have two members of the Armed Forces with us.’

‘We are not Armed Forces - we are normal people.’

‘Yes okay, I understand. PC Trixey will note that we have two members of the public as observers - just note down, separately, that they are Armed Forces - obviously they can’t officially be here in this meeting.’

She makes quote marks with her fingers as she says the word “officially”.

‘For god’s sake - we are not in the bloody army!’

‘Er… thank you… Mr… what?

‘It’s, Howie.’ I rub my temples.

‘Thank you, Mr Howie, but please stop interrupting the proceedings.’

Bloody hell, why is everyone calling me, Mr Howie?

‘Now, for the record, also present is PCSO Steven Taylor, PCSO Jane Downton, Detention Officer Ted Harding, PC Terri Trixey and…’ she looks at Dave.

‘Dave…’ he offers.

‘Dave, what?’

‘Just, Dave.’

‘Oh…of course… Terri mark that down will you, obviously they can’t give their full names, for security reasons. Now… onto proceedings. PC Trixey will just go over the minutes from the last meeting.’

PC Trixey flicks to some previous notes made on the same writing paper, then she clears her throat.

‘The last emergency strategy meeting was held today at twenty-hundred hours,’ she looks up and glances round at everyone.

‘Er… the same people were present at the previous meeting with the exception of our two “members of the public” here.’ She does the quote things with her fingers too.

‘Now, at the last meeting it was required for a full inventory of supplies to be done. There was an issue with PC Jenkins walking into the female officer’s shower room and consideration to be given to the fuel supply for the generator.’

‘Thank you, PC Trixey. First I would like to say that, in relation to agenda item two, I have spoken with PC Jenkins, who assures me it was an accident and promises that it won’t happen again.’

‘Fucking pervert!’

‘Yes… thank you PCSO Downton. I have dealt with the matter and made it clear that disciplinary procedures will be instigated if it happens again. Now… in relation to item number one, who undertook the assessment of the supplies?’

‘You said that you would ask Tom,’ says PC Trixey.

‘Ah yes, of course I did… well he isn’t here, so we can find out later. What about the fuel for the generator? Who did we task with that one?’

‘It was Tom, again.’

‘Right, well we can find that out later too… onto new items. We need to establish a cleaning rota, any volunteers to draft one for approval?’

‘I can do that.’

‘Thank you, Steven. Please draft the cleaning rota and submit to me for approval - once it has been approved it will be posted in the canteen. Now we also need a sleeping rota - a schedule so that we make sure we don’t all sleep at the same time - like last night.’

‘I can do that, too.’

‘Thank you Steven. Please draft the schedule and submit it to me for approval - once it has been approved it will be posted in the canteen.’

‘Tom should go first - he slept all bloody night.’

‘Yes, thank you PCSO Downton, good point. Steven, make sure that Tom goes down for the first night.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Right, well, that just about covers everything. Questions from the floor? Steven, do you have anything?’

‘Er… just one thing Sergeant… Tom keeps eating all of the lasagnes from the prisoners’ food cupboard. He knows I can’t eat the curry and I don’t like the all day breakfast.’

‘Thank you Steven. I will speak to Tom and request that he does not eat all of the lasagnes. PCSO Downton?’

‘Nothing from me, just keep that pervert out of the showers.’

‘Yes, I’ve already covered that. Listen Jane, if this is really bothering you, then you can take out a grievance against PC Jenkins, just submit a report to me for approval and I will deal with it.’

‘Okay, thanks, Sarge.’

‘PC Trixey?’

‘Yes I have a point to raise. At a previous meeting a decision was taken to limit each person to a five minute shower each. Now, while I accept that the water supply and power are important, I feel this is victimisation and prejudice. Female officers have longer hair and it takes more time to wash and rinse out, therefore I request that the showering time for female officers be extended to ten minutes.’

‘Good point, PC Trixey. I am in favour of this. It is true that female officers generally have longer hair and need more time for adequate cleaning. I pass the notion and this will be effective immediately. Please note that down PC Trixey.’

‘Noted, Sarge.’

‘I hope that isn’t just female police officers. I have longer hair too and I don’t wish to be discriminated against just because I am a community support officer.’

‘Very true, PCSO Downton - and a good point raised. Please amend the notes to show that all female employees are entitled to the extended shower period. DO Harding?’

‘No, nothing to raise thank you.’

‘Thank you DO Harding. And now the observers… Dave do you have any points?’

‘When can we get our weapons back?’

‘Ah right… a good point for discussion.’

I interrupt, exploding in fury.

‘Now… just hang on a minute, what shower of shit is this? What the fuck are you lot going on about? Showers, cleaning rota? What the…’

‘Stop right there, Mr Howie. I will not allow the use of profane or abusive language within this building.’

‘I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!’ I say as I slam my hand down hard on the table and they all jump, with the exception of Dave and Ted - who are both drinking their tea.

‘Where are the senior officers? Where are the Inspectors and Superintendents? Where are the bloody policemen?’

‘Er… excuse me - the term is police officer actually - not policemen,’ PC Trixey says, glaring at me.

‘I don’t fucking care what the term is, and forgive me for not being politically fucking correct. Miss or whoever the hell you are… but what are you all going to do about that lot out there? There are thousands of zombies running round and eating people. Other people are killing each other too. Where are the police…MEN and the riot squad and the armed officers? Why aren’t they here patrolling and putting that lot down? What about the government? What have they said to you? Have you had updates or been told anything?’ I glare at the sergeant.

‘No, we haven’t been told anything,’ she says softly.

‘Nothing? No updates?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘What about your radios? You must be able to speak to each other?’

‘They went down with the phones - they work off mobile phone networks.’

‘Fuck me! What about the old radios that use radio frequencies?’

‘Oh… we sent those back when we got the new ones.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I rub my temples again. ‘You must have secure phone networks, some hot line to your head quarters?’

‘This isn’t the movies Mr Howie, we don’t have anything like that.’

‘Email? You have power… what about emails? Oh… they won’t work without phone lines. Policemen then? Where are they all, and the senior officers?’

‘They’ve gone…’

‘Gone where? Be specific.’

‘It was a Friday night, we had a duty inspector but he left when the troubles started, some of the officers were out patrolling and just never came back, those that did, left to be with their families.’

‘What about your armed officers?’

‘We didn’t have any on, we don’t have enough as it is, the next division was covering our sector.’

‘So this is it? The glorious British police reduced to a couple of community support officers, two infant coppers and you?’

I don’t mention Ted, out of respect, he doesn’t seem to notice but carries on drinking the tea - that tea cup must be bloody deep.

‘Yes, this is it.’

‘Shit! So why are you here? Why didn’t you leave to be with your families?’

‘We don’t have anyone. Steven and Jane are both single. Terri and Tom are new and got posted away from where they grew up. I’m not married and… I have no family.’

‘What about you Ted?’ I soften my tone.

‘Me? Oh no, I’m quite happy here. The wife took my kids to Australia years ago. The job’s been my family ever since.’

I lean forward and rest my head in my hands, looking down at the desk. The realisation hits me that there is no hope for the authorities to get a grip on this.

‘We lost the plot a few years ago, I’d say.’

I look at Ted and he looks deep in thought as he speaks.

‘We used to be good at this sort of thing. Oh… we were shit at the community policing and yeah, we did isolate people - but we nicked more then than we do now, and we were good at major incidents. We always trained and undertook exercises to prepare, but now it’s all done from a desk. Us old dinosaurs tried telling them about the new radios but they didn’t listen. These young ‘uns get more training in diversity than they do in crime or major incidents now.’

I sit back, rubbing at my chin - which is fast becoming stubbly.

‘I guess you couldn’t have done much anyway - it spread so fast. I was just hoping that there would be some plan or something amazing, you know? Hold on… help is coming - that sort of thing.’

He shakes his head: ‘Nope.’

‘So what will you do? Just wait here?’

Silence - no one wants to answer me.

I look at Dave, but he is devoid of expression, as usual.

‘Armoury? You must have one… with weapons… firearms?’

The Sergeant shakes her head.

‘No, we used to, but they centralised it and all the firearms officer’s have to go to the divisional HQ to arm up.’

I shake my head slowly, dumbfounded at the turn of events and looking at the desperate people around me, clinging on to a world that has already disappeared, trying to use grievance procedures and make cleaning rotas. Maybe it’s better than John Jones and his way, but it’s sad, very sad.

‘So you have no weapons, no communication, no direction - what will you do?’

‘We do have weapons,’ PC Trixey, buts in.

Dave looks at her: ‘Where? What are they?’

‘In the evidence room, we seized a load of stuff a few days ago.’

‘What are they?’ I ask her.

‘There’s quite a few air rifles.’

Dave sits back, suddenly uninterested.

‘And some bullets.’

‘What kind?’

‘I don’t know? They all look the same to me.’

‘Can we see?’ I ask the Sergeant.

‘Terri will show you.’

‘Dave, do you want to go?’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

He gets up and follows PC Trixey out of the room. The sergeant then asks Steven and Jane to leave us in private for a few minutes, and, as soon as the door closes, she turns to me.

‘I know things are bad, I’m not stupid but they have nowhere to go, none of us do, but we’re safe here, the building is strong and we can wait it out. We have plenty of food and water.’

Ted nods.

‘It must seem strange to you, but they won’t last five minutes out there, so we keep on - it gives them hope. Anyway, what have you seen out there, what do you know?’

I recount to them what we had seen so far - I leave out the bit about the undead stripper and Marcus, I guess they wouldn’t be that interested.

I also tell them about John Jones and the Carter Street barricade, then about the radio message and the Forts. They both lean forward and listen intently about the message - asking probing questions. I answer all of the questions as best I can, which doesn’t take long, seeing as I don’t know much.

Finally, I tell them of my plan to head to London for my sister.

At the end of my speech, they both sit back, thinking through what I have told them.

‘Well, we can’t do anything tonight, Debbie. But those Forts sound good - they’ll need a good Sergeant.’

‘And an experienced officer, Ted,’ she replies.

‘How will you get there?’ I ask them.

‘There’s an old riot van in the yard outside, we can put the grille down to cover the windscreen and plough through,’ Ted answers.

‘Sounds good, mind you - you are safe here.’

‘Yes… but we need to be with other people. We can get back in with the keys and the building is secure,’ the Sergeant says.

‘What about you?’ Ted asks.

‘We have to push on, we’ll join you later when I’ve found my sister. I think we should bed down for tonight and get going in the morning - when they are slow again.’

They look at each other and nod.

Twenty minutes later, we are all seated in the canteen - PC Jenkins has joined us too.

‘What about Harry?’ I ask.

‘He’s alright, fast asleep on his bed, besides he can’t go anywhere,’ PC Jenkins replies, but looks to the Sergeant for confirmation.

‘He’ll be fine for a few minutes, Tom.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

The atmosphere has changed. Ted and the Sergeant told them about the Forts and they seem charged up and happier.

Dave brought our weapons and bags from the cellblock and is examining boxes of ammunition from the evidence room.

Tom is next to Dave, watching his every move and asking questions about the Special Forces; Dave just keeps replying that he can’t say anything, which only seems to excite Tom more.

Ted is sitting back, chatting to the Sergeant. Steven is cooking, well… I say cooking - he is microwaving food from the prisoners’ cupboard: sealed packets of lasagne, curry and all day breakfast.

It feels nice to be amongst normal people again.

It’s only been two days, but it feels like weeks. I sit back and watch them, smiling to myself, hopeful.

I felt jaded and deeply forlorn after the barricade incident, but seeing these people chatting and joking, I don’t know, it just feels nice.

Later, Dave and I have prisoner mattresses and blankets brought to us; old rough things, but thick and cosy. We make beds up on the canteen floor. PC Jenkins is given the good news about keeping watch for the first night, much to his disgust - and they all leave the room; him and Steven bickering.

The door closes behind them and the room is in darkness, only a sliver of moonlight comes in through the window.

Tomorrow we go to Salisbury, find an armoured vehicle and head for London. But the ways things have been going I can only imagine what lies in store for us.

I look over at Dave, who is already asleep - we’ve been lucky so far… but how long will it last?

DAY FOUR

___________________________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The night passed as Dave and I slept deeply. The prisoner’s mattresses are thin and worn but have been doubled up to provide greater comfort. The blankets are rough wool, but the weather is hot and cover isn’t needed for warmth, only for comfort.

Dave has been a tower of strength to me and has saved my life countless times but I am too caught up with all that is going on to thank him properly. I was fascinated though about why he is so quiet and immodest; why he does not boast about his fighting skills and finally, one day, he opened up to me about his training. I am writing these facts here – but, of course, due to the secrecy of the Special Forces training, I am not at liberty to divulge everything that he experienced.

I want to also state here that I am going to start writing in the third person sometimes – as that is the only way I can make sense of it all; it makes it feel less real that way.

Dave told me later that he couldn’t remember much about life before the army, it was a confusing mess of memories and images; all muddled up in his mind.

His first few weeks in the army had been the same; messy and uncoordinated. He could run and shoot and do all the things that were required of him, but his interactions with the other recruits were very difficult. They were young lads pumped up with testosterone and fuelled by the need to constantly impress and show off and they just confused him; they took the piss and made jokes.

Then they started unarmed defence tactics and it changed everything.

The recruits were lectured about the need for unarmed combat tactics, and famous stories and accounts of weapons jamming and going hand to hand were explained to them.

The instructors drummed into them that this wasn’t Kung-Fu or Karate and it wasn’t meant to be pretty. They said that the only way to suppress your enemy, was to use a massive display of violence. They were, after all, infantry and not ninja’s.

They were shown basic blocking techniques, then take-downs: simple strikes and moves that used the most force to cause maximum damage with the minimum of effort.

Dave watched and learnt, he was told what to do and he did it. Being the smallest of the intake he was an obvious target and the instructors yelled at him more than the others, which only caused to isolate him more from the group. This though was normal for Dave.

Each week they were put through the training, and drilled until they were proficient. It was physical and it was simple. Dave learnt the techniques and worked with each partner in a methodical manner; they had been told not to cause injury to each other so Dave never did. It was also drummed into them that they were brothers in arms and you never hurt or inflict injury on your own kind.

They were put through their paces and told repeatedly that there would be an assessment at the end that they each had to pass, before they could go on to the next stage. The assessment was a new training exercise being trialled.

Some of the regiments still did milling; recruits were fitted with large boxing gloves and set at one another for a minute and were not allowed to stop or rest until either one of them was down or the minute ended. The milling was popular and the army were willing to trial a new method of assessing the skills they had learnt in the unarmed combat training.

Assessment time arrived and all of the recruits were led into a gym with rubber matting on the floor. They were in PT kit and sat in a square, around the mats. The normal instructors were present, along with various army staff officers and regimental representatives who had come to see how effective the new trial was. The recruits were told that normal rules of engagement were suspended. They were to attack one another and use any and all of the skills they had been taught - for thirty seconds. The victor would stay on, until he was beaten, and they would keep going, until everyone had been assessed. They could not stop until either one of them was down or the time ran out.

If the time ran out and they were both still standing, then the senior officer present would decide who the victor was - or if they should go again.

The victor could choose who the next opponent was.

The idea was to see if the recruits would revert to type and just whack at each other with hay makers, or if the training had been effective and they would use the skills they had learnt. The instructors and army understood that injuries were inevitable, but this was the army and men had to be trained in the most effective way possible.

The first two recruits were selected at random and duly took their positions in the square. The bell was rung and they went for each other, some of the skills were apparent but they held back too much. The constant warning of not causing injury during training had run deep and the bout went the full thirty seconds, with both of them still standing. They were made to go again and were screamed at for not using full force. The time started up, and again they went for it, but were still holding back.

The clock was stopped and they were told clearly that each and every recruit would stay there until the bout was done to the satisfaction of the instructors; each time they held back they would lose a day’s R&R and be confined to barracks.

This did the trick and when the fight started again the men went for it properly, battering and striking at each other; using the skills they had been taught, along with natural instinct to punch out wildly. The first man went down and the other recruit was on him, pummelling his face and body with blows, the bout ended and the victor declared. He was pumped up and ready, full of confidence at being allowed to use full force violence. He was told to choose his next opponent and started looking round at the faces.

The recruits were looking at Dave, laughing and calling out his name, eager to see the smallest guy get beaten up. The victor played to his crowd and selected Dave.

Within seconds, they were facing each other and again both were told not to hold back. The instructor faced each of them in turn and explicitly told them to use full force.

Dave had learnt that in the army you did as you were told.

The bout started and was over within ten seconds, with Dave’s opponent having both his arms broken in two places and a fractured skull.

The stunned silence that followed, was only shattered by the instructor declaring Dave the victor and telling him to select his next opponent. Naturally, they didn’t know the severity of the injuries at that time or perhaps they would have ended it there.

The next opponent was a simple decision for Dave, who just pointed to the far left. He was taught to read and write from left to right, so that was his natural instinct when choosing anyone or anything.

Again, the clock was started and this time it was over in less than ten seconds, his opponent had both knee joints dislocated.

By this time, some of the officers were looking at each other with concern and the instructors were talking to each other in hushed tones. Then the instructors deferred to the senior officer present who told them to carry on. He watched Dave intently.

Two minutes later the assessment was ended to the great relief of the remaining recruits.

All of the recruits that were left were transferred to other training barracks overnight, the instructors were removed from duty and the whole episode was covered up within hours.

Those officers that were present for the assessment were each spoken to separately and offered promotion - if they signed a form, declaring they were not anywhere near the training centre on that date.

The families of the two recruits that Dave had killed were told that their sons died during a training exercise and were compensated heavily for their losses.

The senior officer present, who had allowed the assessment to continue, took Dave with him and the rest of his training was given by the Special Forces regiment that he represented.

Dave was told that he must never talk about his life, or about his training - or any part of his army career.

And Dave had learnt that, in the army, you did as you were told.

Years later, his life took another turn and he went out into civvy street, very quickly finding a niche for himself in the UK’s favourite supermarket. At Tesco, Dave became a loyal employee. He worked tirelessly and never gave anyone any trouble and then the fateful day came, not so long ago now… when the first infected person staggered through the supermarket’s doors.  The uniformed security man rushed forward to help the man, thinking that he was the victim of a horrific and violent assault. But he was not. He was one of the undead and he took the security man down within seconds; biting into the guard’s neck and passing the infection on.

The infection entered the security man’s blood stream and, within minutes, he too was transformed.

The infection needed to survive and the only way for it to do so, was to continuously find more hosts. The infection shut down all non-essential parts of the body: pain receivers, nerve endings and thought processes were shut down; the major organs functioned to an extent – remaining to complete one task - the finding of more hosts.

The infection knew that the quickest way to do this was to bite the host and use the saliva to enter the bloodstream.

The infection evolved and learnt to make the host drool, pouring that diseased fluid out from the mouth.

The security man died within minutes.

Death was quick and painless.

The adrenalin coursing through his system masked the agony at first and then the infection took over, numbing him completely. The loss of blood was too great for the body to cope with and the heart slowed until it stopped. Then, within minutes, it started again - the infection giving life back to something that was dead, making it undead.

By the time the security man rose to his feet and looked about, he had an all-consuming need for human flesh.

The first undead that had entered the supermarket went on a spree: biting and gouging people, in an orgy of blood and gore.

Dave was at the back of the store, checking that the stock he had just filled was lined up and facing forward perfectly. There was something good about filling a shelf. It was neglected and empty before he got to it and he fixed it, made it full again and made it tidy.

The undead staggered up the central aisle, seeking more flesh. The ones it had already bitten were no good now, the satisfaction of biting into them was gone, just the urge - the ever increasing urge.

Dave paused, looking at his next untidy, section.

The undead reached the end of the aisle and stopped to look at Dave.

Dave gazed at the undead who then pulled his lips back, baring its teeth; the ragged flesh from its neck flapping open. Then the undead fixed its red, bloodshot eyes on Dave, charging at him.

And Dave carried on with his work, making things tidy, cleaning up the never-ending onslaught of undead’s as they pillaged Tesco that night.

For that was Dave’s job – and he took great pleasure in following orders.

_____________________________________________________________________

Monday Morning

‘Mr Howie.’

A voice pulls me from my sleep, I can’t seem to respond though.

‘Mr Howie.’

There it is again, but I can’t grasp a hold of it. The voice is near, yet far away. My sleep is heavy and I feel like I’m wading through thick liquid, trying to grasp at a lifeline that is being inched away from my hands.

‘Mr Howie… wake up!’

I’m being rocked now. I’m on a boat and the waves are gently nudging the sides and making me roll.

‘OI! WAKE UP!’

I open my eyes to see Dave kneeling by my side, his hand on my shoulder. Ted is standing over me, smiling down.

‘That did it, he’s awake now - here get this down your neck.’

Ted hands me a steaming mug of hot liquid that smells like coffee. I sit up and take the mug. My head is fuggy and I drink the coffee in silence. It is strong and bitter and tastes like shit.

My mouth feels furry and horrible and the coffee just adds to the awful mix, but the caffeine kicks in within a few minutes and I start to feel more awake.

‘There’s some cleaning kit for you both, it’s the stuff the prisoners use. It’s not great, but it’ll do the job.’

I look over and see two sets of things on a table. I raise my mug in thanks to Ted.

‘The shower room is just down the corridor, help yourself and grab some scoff, I’ll be back up in a bit, we’re getting ready to go downstairs.’ He turns and leaves.

Dave is sitting at one of the tables, drinking from a mug. It’s daylight now; the bright sun is already streaming through the window.

‘Looks like a nice day again,’ I say to Dave, who just nods quietly.

‘So what have we got there?’

Dave rummages through the pile closest to us: ‘Towels, disposable toothbrush, disposable safety razor, disposable cloth and soap.’

‘Is the soap disposable too?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Oh.’

I stand up slowly, stretching my weary body. Despite the solid sleep I feel exhausted. My mind is refreshed but my body has taken more punishment in the last couple of days than in the last ten years.

‘Oh my god, I ache from head to toe, do you?’

‘No.’

I shake my head. Of course he doesn’t, the man is a machine. Maybe he is a cyborg: a secret military robot like Robocop? Yeah, that explains it. Dave is a robot soldier cyborg.

No, he’s just fit and I’m not.

I take one of the disposable toothbrushes, it’s sealed in a plastic bag and there is a plunger behind the bristles that pushes the paste through.

‘We could do with a few more of these, they look quite cool.’

I sit down at the table, opposite Dave, and lean back in my chair; the bottom of the mug resting on my chest.

‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘Salisbury,’ Dave says and looks up at me.

‘You still up for it then?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know that I keep going on about it mate, but this is my issue. I won’t be offended if you want to go with them to the Forts.’

‘No, I’ll go with you.’

‘Ha… you know I’d get my arse chewed up within the first five minutes of being on my own.’

‘Yes.’

‘You cheeky bastard… that’s it isn’t it? You don’t think I’m capable?’

‘Yes.’

His face is impassive, but that mischievous glint is back in his eye.

‘Well, personally, I think I’ve done all the hard work so far and it’s damn time you started pulling your own weight - I’m not going to keep carrying you.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

‘Good… well I’m glad we got that straightened out. I am going for a shower.’

He gets up to follow me, taking one of the bundles.

‘Dave, I think I can shower safely on my own, I won’t drown.’

‘Okay.’

He keeps following me and I stare at him as he passes me.

‘There’s more than one shower, Mr Howie.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked.’

Of course he did, I bet he could describe the layout of the whole building by now and the contents of every room too.

Ten minutes later and I’m standing under a stream of hot water and it feels nice. The sharp spray is needling at my sore muscles. I remember that they said that shower time is restricted to five minutes for males, but seeing as they are all leaving today, I don’t think it will be too much of an issue if I take just a few extra minutes. I’ve brought my disposable toothbrush in with me and I’m scrubbing at my teeth, the paste went within the first few minutes but I keep brushing, until my teeth feel squeaky clean. I use the bristles of the brush to scrub at my tongue and it comes away brown from the strong coffee I just drank. The soap is shit too and barely lathers up. But then it is meant for the prisoners. It’s funny, but everyone thinks that prisoners get the best of everything: good food, good bedding and all paid for by the tax payer. But this stuff is really cheap and shitty.

Last night was crazy, we got ourselves into a bad situation and it can’t happen again. Getting trapped like that was unacceptable. It was pure luck that we were at the back of the police station. All it would have taken is for the people inside to have been away from the door or not looking at the camera and we would have been just another couple of zombies. We have to plan ahead now, plan the route and get to somewhere safe, well before the sun sets. They are too dangerous when it gets dark. From now on we will move and fight during the day and hide at night, that’s it, no deviations. It’s already Monday and my sister will be panicking and might be thinking that no one is coming for her.

Two days of solid running and fighting seem like a week to me, so it will be far worse for her, trapped alone in her apartment, with no idea of what’s going on.

Dave has finished and is gone by the time I get out of the shower and dry myself off. I get dressed and go back to the canteen. Sergeant Hopewell, Ted and Dave are sat, talking at one of the tables. Well Sergeant Hopewell and Ted are talking, Dave is just listening.

‘Morning sunshine, feeling better?’ Sergeant Hopewell says to me.

‘Yeah, much better, thanks.’

‘Good, right, let’s go over the plan. According to your information, the authorities are urging people to head to the Forts… the Victorian Forts on the coast. Correct so far?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right, well we know there are lots of them but we don’t know which ones will be in use. We know that some of them have not been maintained, so they will be in a very bad state of repair, but are still possibly defensible. Correct?’

‘Er… yeah, I think so.’

‘Good, so we also know that some of them have been maintained and kept in use by historical societies, as tourist attractions. These may or may not be suitable, depending on the level of work done by the societies… correct?’

‘Well, yes, that makes sense… I guess.’

‘So… we don’t know which ones are in use, or how many there are, or if they are full or will take us. But we have an old riot van outside and, as long as we can get out of here, we have a chance of finding them – or at least trying to.’

‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘Good, right… now are you sure that you and Dave don’t want to come with us?’

‘I can’t come, but Dave is more than welcome to join you.’

She looks at Dave, who just shakes his head.

‘I thought so, now listen, we don’t have much of a plan - except to get out of here and go and look for them. But… if all else fails - we will use this place as a fall back. If the Forts are no good, then we will come back here and wait.’

‘Okay, so we will try for my sister and then the Forts, if something goes wrong with that plan, we’ll aim for here too. How do we get in if you are not here?’

‘Hmmm… there’s only one key to the main door and we’ll be taking that with us. We can’t really leave it anywhere, because of the risk of someone else finding it. Also, we risk the place getting over run by that lot,’ She jerks her head toward the window.

Ted interrupts: ‘The building has a flat roof, if you can get on the top, then you can drop down onto the internal prisoner courtyard mesh and get in one of these windows, we’ll leave it unlocked.’

‘That’s great, we’ll just need a massive ladder then…’

‘Sorry son, that’s the best we can do… we can’t risk leaving it unlocked and letting any Tom, Dick and zombie in here, can we?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Don’t worry, son.’

Ted looks at the Sergeant: ‘Okay, next we need to get out of here. That lot are blocking the gates - so we need a diversion...’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Well… yes actually,’ the Sergeant offers. ‘The yard behind the gates keeps all of the marked vehicles - most of them were out on patrol or were taken by the lads to get away. But we have the detective’s car pool in a car park on the other side of the building… if someone can get to one of those cars, they could draw those things away from the gates.’

They both lean forward, looking hopefully at Dave and I.

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The undead horde gathered outside the metal gates, spilling out into the road and down the side of the police station. The bodies are pressed tightly together, pushing towards the last place their prey was seen.

Hundreds of pairs of arms hang down limply, as the undead twitch around and knock into each other in the confined space.

Hundreds of zombie heads roll back and forth, left and right. The shuffling steps are slow and cumbersome, feet dragging along the ground. Some of them lurch and spasm as they move, with their drooling saliva flinging off to coat those around it.

More have arrived during the night, drawn by the sounds and smells of their kin. The skin is starting to decay now; white people are becoming greyer and those with darker skin are becoming lighter.

The heat bearing down on the undead flesh has increased the rate of decay and their flesh is hanging off.

Flies and insects are drawn to the rancid stench of rotting meat and have laid eggs in the open wounds - before long they will hatch and tiny white maggots will start to consume the flesh around them. Each life form has a desire to live and will strive for survival. The flies will lay the eggs, the maggots will consume the body and the infection inside the undead bodies knows this - it knows that there is a limited lifespan on these feeble, host bodies.

The infection has already had to evolve and adapt and it is rapidly learning new ways to harness the body and find more hosts.

During the night, an undead fell to the floor, the body was too broken to keep upright, so the infection ceased the use of its legs. The body can still see, but it can’t move and the infection knows this host body will crumble away, before long. The prone body is facing a house’s driveway.

Within minutes, a small flap at the bottom of the front door opens and a diminutive cat walks out, sniffs the air and starts cleaning itself; its lithe body almost bent double as it reaches around to lick its behind. The cat then walks down the garden path and stops when it sees the body. With effortless grace, the cat jumps up onto the garden wall and looks down at the body.

The infection looks through the undead’s eyes and watches the cat jump down from the wall and approach the body, making a soft noise as it gets closer. The cat has been without people for days now and although it can find food and water, it misses the rubs and strokes that people give it. The cat can lean its body against objects, but it’s not the same, so it approaches the prone body and uses the soft voice it learnt, knowing that most people will react to this pleasant noise and rub its neck.

The infection watches as the cat stretches out and licks at the open wound on the nose of the host body. The infection drives the body forward and slams the head down onto the cat. The undead’s teeth are open and ready, biting down into the feline’s fur. The cat squeals loudly and lashes out with sharp claws raking the face, then it squirms and drags itself out from under the head, bounding away a few steps, then falls over, as it realises the wound is too great. The cat licks at the ragged wound on its back a few times, then lies still. The breathing becomes laboured and time between breaths get longer, until the cat gives one last sigh and dies.

The infection’s primary function is to survive and it must evolve more to do this.

The infection learnt that the dead body can be brought back to a thing akin to life. The cells can be made to start the heart and move the blood around, it learnt how to make more blood quickly so that wounds and injuries don’t drain the liquid away. Then it learnt to congeal faster and seal off the arteries to those wounds and divert the precious blood away from the leak.

The infection can make the cells replenish some of the organs and parts of the body needed to make it keep working. It learnt how to eat the fat away from the body so that it can have energy, in order to survive and find more hosts. The infection knows that a single host body is not enough; they are weak and too easily overcome.

So, it has learnt to use the remaining senses to draw these bodies together. The infection forces the host to look for their kind.

Now the infection has learnt that the smell being given off by the rotting flesh can be used as a scent marker and has diverted energy into the nasal passages and allowed the hosts to smell each other.

The infection has also quickly learnt that pushing the body too much will destroy it faster, so it draws them together to create a super organism. The infection slows the rate of energy during the day and works to preserve the body and leave some small functions, in order to move towards the prey; knowing it can use the weight of numbers to make up for the lack of pace.

But at night it can change the host - it can also urge the body on, and make them faster.

At night it can drive that energy into the muscles and make them work so they can hunt. It learnt to make them hunt as a pack. It forces the host body to use its vocal cords and drive air out, so that it generates a loud roar. The infection resonates through that noise and bids others towards its furore.

The infection also learnt that the smell of fear is greater at night and the sound it generates only makes the prey more fearful and, therefore, easier to find.

But this isn’t enough, the infection has consumed many of the bodies and they are already becoming harder to find; the prey has learnt to hide and stay away during the night.

The infection needs to evolve faster and harness more energy, but these bodies are decaying far too quickly. The infection can slow this rate of decay down and keep these bodies working longer. But that means they will have to move slower, and if they move slower the prey can get away.

The infection courses through the bodies, examining the cells and the functions.

The infection realises that all things in these host bodies are controlled by the brain. At first, the infection pushed signals out hard and fast and too close together, desperately whipping at the body to make it move faster and not understanding the massive, yet intensely subtle, levels of cohesion this host body needs, in order to work well. The result was that the body twitched and jerked, going into spasm if the signals were too strong, and was then too hard to control.

The infection knows it must understand this brain and learn how to control the electrical impulses.

The horde presses tighter and tighter now.

Some of the bodies are crushed and fall to the ground, to be trodden under hundreds of undead feet.

They twitch and they spasm and the constant jerks thrust the undead first one way, then another, so that rippling waves are seen as they barge into each other. There is no cohesion, just a press of decaying bodies, all being pushed forward with the hunger for flesh.

In the middle of the horde, one of them moves.

It lifts its head and looks.

The infection has learnt to keep the head still, so it can see. The infection tests the electrical pulses, then it slows them down and stops them. The body goes still and the head drops. The infection sends one concentrated signal and the head lifts again. The infection controls those pulses and the head slowly moves to look first left and then right. Then the infection stops those impulses and the head drops again.

The infection sends out more defined signals in another direction and gets a reaction, then the infection puts those signals together.

The undead lifts its head at the same time as it clenches both hands into fists, then it lets them go and makes them do it again.

The infection has learnt to make only one undead in the middle of many hundreds look forward while making fists… but it’s a start.

In a quiet street, in the south of England, there are flies buzzing around a dead cat that is lying next to a deceased man.

The cat has been savaged deeply on its back and the blood is still wet and glistening.

The dead cat looks inert and lifeless, but deep inside, the infection has penetrated each cell and has learnt the functions of this small body.

The dead cat comes back to a half-life, as the heart starts again and the eyes open; red and bloodshot.

They are the eyes of the undead.

We are led down through the police station and emerge outside, in the rear yard. Our bags and weapons are with us, primed and ready; Dave told me that he cleaned and oiled them with a gun cleaning kit he took from the rifle bag.

The old riot van has been brought forward and is facing the metal gates. On the other side there are many hundreds of undead staring in. I was looking for a reaction when we first came out, but they just keep groaning and pressing forward. The ones at the very front are pinned against the gates, and their faces are warped as they are pushed on to the metal bars.

The police personnel have already loaded the van with some equipment: riot shields and long batons. PC Tom Jenkins has found some old riot armour and a dark blue crash helmet with a plastic visor. He has leg and arm guards on, in addition to the crash helmet; the plastic visor is pushed up away from his face and I can see that he is sweating heavily.

PC Terri Trixey and Jane Downton, the community support officer, keep looking over at him, tutting and shaking their heads.

‘You look like a bloody idiot, Tom,’ says Terri, with a sneer.

‘It’s the correct PPE in times of civil unrest, you should have some on too.’

‘What’s PPE?’ I ask them.

‘Personal Protective Equipment,’ Terri answers and then looks at the massed undead.

‘Will those gates hold them? That must be a hell of a weight pushing in.’

‘They are built to withstand vehicle impact, they won’t budge, unless we want them to,’ Ted replies as he walks up to stand beside me, looking out at the gates.

‘There’s probably a few of our boys in there, I hope to god this lot don’t recognise any of ‘em.’

I look at the concerned expression on Ted’s face; the old timer must have seen many things in his day, even so, this must be shocking to him - but he doesn’t show it.

‘So, we get to one of the unmarked cars, and lead them away from here and that gives you a chance to get out. What are you going to do if we don’t draw them all away?’

‘We can force our way through a few, those vans are old but they’ve been well maintained and still have plenty of power.’

‘It’s a pity we can’t thin them out a bit though,’ I say to Dave, as he joins us.

Dave walks over to the police kit that is waiting to be placed in the van and picks up a long black baton; he walks over to the gates and runs the end of the baton along the bars. He examines the gates and the hinges, then takes the baton and starts pushing at the undead through the gaps.

I walk over to join him and, despite what Ted said about the gates being very strong, I feel very nervous being this close.

‘Bloody hell, they stink,’ I put my hand over my nose; the putrid stench of rotting meat is disgusting. I can’t help but look at them, the injuries are festering in this heat and their skin looks grey and ashen and is blackening around the bite marks.

Hundreds of pairs of bloodshot eyes stare back at us, watching every move we make. Drool and saliva hang down from their slack mouths. The closest ones pull their lips back, readying for the bite. Dave is pushing at them with the baton and I watch as he strains and pushes harder.

‘Mate, they are jammed in there.’

He moves up and down, pressing against them at various stages.

I look round and see an old-fashioned diesel fuel pump in one corner.

‘We could burn a few of them.’

Dave looks at the fuel pump, then at the undead, and then back to the building.

‘The station would probably go up too.’

‘Yeah… I guess. Any other ideas?’

He taps at the metal gates again and then looks over to Ted.

‘Where is the generator?’

‘In that room… why?’ Ted points to an open door, across the yard.

‘Have you got a maintenance room?’

‘In the same room, but again, why?’

Dave doesn’t answer but walks off, tapping the baton against the side of his leg. He disappears into the doorway and Ted looks at me.

‘Funny bugger your mate, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, but bloody good to have around though - you kind of get used to him.’

‘Tom bloody Jenkins! Stop putting shit into that van, just pile it up and let me do the loading,’ Ted bellows out at Tom, much to the amusement of Steven, the other community support officer.

‘And you can stop bloody smirking Steven. Now the pair of you, get in there and start bringing the food out.’

Steven looks down, embarrassed, and Tom starts a smirk. Then they both begin walking back into the building, as Ted shouts after them: ‘And make sure that Old Harry gets a wash, he ain’t coming in this van if he stinks like one of them,’ Ted jerks a thumb at the undead behind him.

‘You taking Harry with you, then?’ I ask Ted.

‘Yeah… well, we can’t just leave him can we? Mind you, he probably wouldn’t mind - he treats the place like his bloody home anyway.’

Old Harry is one of the local homeless people, that breaks windows or causes minor damage to get arrested when the weather gets too hot or cold. Since the outbreak, he has been living in his favourite cell, with the door left open - so he can wander around freely.

Where the hell has Dave gone? I wander over to the door and see Dave inside, pulling black electrical cable from a large reel. He takes the ends and splits the rubber covers back, exposing the bare wires.

‘Do you need a hand, mate?’

‘Yes, please, Mr Howie.’

He hands me one of the reels.

‘Can you feed that wire out, until it reaches the gates.’

‘Okay, but why?’

He has taken the end to the generator and starts fiddling about with the electrical output socket.

I shrug and do as I am asked, walking backwards and feeding the wire from the reel as I go. When I reach the gates, I get the idea and start to chuckle.

‘Do you want me to cut the wire?’ I shout back to Dave.

‘No thanks, Mr Howie.’

He comes out and walks over with a small set of pliers and some electrical tape. He then cuts the wire and tapes some of the bare wires to the gate. Then he goes back and reels out another length of wire and repeats the action, until there are two thick, black leads taped to the gates; snaking on the ground back into the generator room.

Ted comes out of the van and follows the wires with his eyes.

‘Bloody hell, you’re going to fry ‘em.’

‘Don’t touch the gates,’ Dave says as he goes back into the generator room.

I move back, away from the gates, and see Ted doing the same.

Tom and Steven come out of the police station, followed by Terri and Jane. They all stare at the wires then at Ted and I.

‘What’s that for?’ Asks Terri as Dave shouts ‘READY?’

‘Go for it,’ Ted shouts back

Dave does something inside the room which causes the generator to increase in pitch from the gentle chugging it was doing before.

I watch the gates in sickening anticipation.

‘NOW,’ Dave shouts.

I see a spark come off the gates and the first load of undead pressed against the bars are convulsing violently.

‘STOP!’ Ted shouts and Dave pulls the power, the first row of undead all slide down to the floor and are instantly replaced by the next row.

‘Well… it’s good, but it’ll take all bloody day,’ I say to Ted.

‘Oh, no, it won’t.’

He pulls the end of a hose from the wall and walks over the gates: ‘Someone turn the water on, please.’

Tom and Steven both dart for the tap and squabble about, trying to get there first.

‘STOP PISSING ABOUT AND TURN THAT BLOODY TAP ON,’ Ted shouts and shakes his head, then turns back to the undead, muttering under his breath.

The tap comes on and a jet of water sprays out of the end.

‘Turn it on full.’

The flow increases, until the end of the hose is almost rigid from the force of water.

Ted aims low and starts flooding the bottom of the gates. There is a slight decline going back into the road and the water pours across the ground, soaking the tarmac under the feet of the undead.

Dave appears in the doorway and looks at what Ted is doing. He nods and waits for a few minutes, until the ground is soaked, and pools of water are forming.

Tom and Steven are now standing by Ted, watching him.

‘Can I do it please, Ted?’ Tom asks.

Ted looks at Tom and hands the hose over, shaking his head again. He walks back towards me, rolling his eyes, as Tom starts laughing with glee.

‘Here, have a drink, you dirty shits,’ Tom shouts as he starts spraying the water directly at the rows of undead pushing against the gate.

The sudden impact of the water elicits a huge groan and a new surge develops as they strain forwards.

‘Come on and get it.’

I can see their heads thrash about as the water powers into them.

‘Let me try,’ Steven says to Tom.

‘No… Ted said that I could do it.’

‘No, he didn’t. He didn’t say that… let me have a go.’

‘No.’

‘Ted!’ Steven looks back at Ted with a forlorn expression.

Ted shakes his head again, like an exasperated grandparent with two squabbling grandchildren.

‘You wouldn’t think they were bloody police officers would you, just a pair of bloody kids, more like,’ he mutters to me.

Steven is trying to pull the hose from Tom, who is holding on to it for dear life.

‘Let me have a go, Tom.’

‘Piss off, Steven. Go and support your bloody community or something.’

‘Okay, fair enough,’ Steven lets go and Tom snatches the hose away with a triumphant look on his face.

‘It’s okay, Tom. Just happy to watch mate - make sure you get all of them though.’

‘I will.’

‘Tom, over there, you missed a load on that far side, that’s it, you spray and I’ll tell you where to aim. Now… this lot here - no that lot,’ Steven steps in to point at a group of undead to one side and Tom aims off, just as Steven snatches the hose and shoulder barges Tom to the side.

Tom staggers off, leaving Steven holding the hose and smirking.

Both Ted and I burst out laughing and then I look back at Dave who is still in the doorway.

‘I think he learnt that one from you, Dave,’ I say to him.

He just shrugs and carries on watching.

‘Steven… give it back! That ain’t fair,’ Tom whines and tries to pull the hose back, but Steven directs the aim at Tom’s feet, making him jump backwards.

‘Don’t get that bloody water in here, you idiot,’ Ted yells at him.

‘Yeah, Steven… don’t get it in here, what are you… bloody stupid or something?’ Tom joins in, chiding Steven.

A massive puddle has formed on the ground under the gates, seeping backwards onto the floor underneath the massive crowd.

‘That’s enough, lads,’ Ted turns the water off and starts pulling the hose back in, taking away the temptation for them to start again.

‘Try again, Dave,’ Ted calls over to him.

Dave nods and goes back into the generator room.

‘READY?’ Dave calls out.

‘GO FOR IT,’ Ted shouts back.

The generator increases in pitch again.

‘NOW!’ Dave shouts.

The effect is amazing, the electrified fencing arcs down into the water and the horde of undead look like they are dancing on the spot; the undulations within the crowd are dynamic as they twitch and spasm uncontrollably. The ones at the very front are pinned against the gates and their skin is starting to smoke from being pressed against the metal railings.

‘KEEP GOING,’ Ted shouts.

I hear retching behind me and look round to see Terri bent over, vomiting on the ground. Jane is rubbing her back, but she too looks nauseous.

Tom looks at Terri and he immediately starts throwing up.

‘Steven - get them inside please,’ Ted says.

‘What? Why should I miss the fun,’ Steven is smiling at the damage being caused to the still contorting undead.

Jane helps Terri to go inside and Tom staggers after them, still retching.

‘Pussy,’ Steven says, as Tom passes.

‘Piss off, Steven,’ Tom retorts, in between a mouthful of vomit spewing out.

Several of the undead have smoke coming from their faces. One of them bursts into flames and then fire starts spreading along the entire front row.

‘Shit, look at that.’

I’ve already set several undead on fire, so the flames don’t bother me, but the fact that they are alight from being electrocuted is still quite shocking.

There are gaps forming in the crowd where some of the undead are dropping down. The current being passed through them all, prevents the rest from filling the spaces. More undead behind the first row are on fire now and the smell of roasting meat is wafting over to us - it’s making me start to feel bilious too.

‘We’d better watch that the fire doesn’t spread too much, Ted.’

‘STOP,’ Ted shouts out and Dave powers off the generator.

As soon as the current ends, the entire front of the crowd fall down as one, leaving a wide, open space. The ones on fire at the very front just slide down the gates, leaving burnt and smouldering flesh charred on the bars.

The ground is packed with smoking bodies now, some of them are still twitching and convulsing. I raise my eyebrows at Ted, who just looks at me.

‘That worked well then,’ he says.

Dave comes out and looks at the hundreds of bodies lying on the ground, and the horde behind them still trying to push forward. The front rows are tripping over the bodies and they are then trampled down. A natural barricade of zombie bodies forms and prevents the rear from getting any closer.

Dave nods once and looks back at me: ‘Ready, Mr Howie?’

Tom has walked us over to the door on the other side of the police station. We look out from a window and see a small parking area with several plain cars.

‘Are they all Ford Focus’s?’

‘Yeah, sorry, Mr Howie. That’s all the force will buy.’

‘Oh well, which one shall we go for?’

‘Try that blue one there, it’s the newest and probably the least damaged.’

We’ve already said goodbye to the rest of the officers, we now have to say our farewells to Ted, who I will greatly miss.

Both Dave and I have our bags on; my axe is wedged between my bag and my back.

‘Right Ted, well… it was good to meet you, mate.’  I extend my hand, but Ted looks nervous and avoids eye contact.

‘What’s up, mate? I ask him.

‘I want to come with you,’ he blurts out.

I look at Dave who gives a very subtle shake of his head.

‘Ted… we’d love to have you with us. Dave and I were just saying earlier how great it would be if you could come along.’ Ted looks up, full of hope.

‘But, we can’t mate. We’ve seen how much you help the others and how much they rely on you, so it wouldn’t be fair. It would be selfish of us to take you away from them,’ I give a pained expression. ‘And… I know that you are going to protect your team and make sure that they stay safe.’

He looks hurt, at first, but nods, he knows that his last chance to be an action hero has faded.

‘So… listen Dave… we can’t take Ted away from his team, they need him. We’ll just have to struggle on, just the two of us - damn shame though…’ I cut in fast, before Dave can say anything else.

‘Ted, it’s been a pleasure to meet you, mate. Good luck with getting to the Forts safely.’

‘Yeah, of course, thanks and… I’ll  hold that Fort and wait for you both as well.’

‘Yes mate – you will be like a forward reconnaissance advanced recce pathfinder…’

I pat him on the shoulder, looking him dead in the eye as I speak.

Then…

‘Shall we, Dave?’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Ted unlocks the door and Dave and I walk out. I hear the door being closed behind us.

‘What’s a forward reconnaissance advanced recce pathfinder, Mr Howie?’

‘Well… if you need me to keep explaining these military terms to you Dave, I am going to get fed up pretty quickly.’

The area is clear of undead as they are all gathered round the corner, by the metal gates.

‘But seriously, don’t they exist?’ I ask Dave.

‘What?’

‘Forward reconnaissance advanced recce pathfinders?’

‘No.’

‘Well… okay – but… at least I can drive.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

We get to the blue Focus and load our kit onto the back seat.

Dave goes to get into the front and then changes his mind and gets in the back. He takes both shotguns and the rifle and props them up, so they are aiming to the roof. He then winds down both rear windows. I get into the front and look at all of the mess in the foot wells: chocolate bar wrappers and empty cans of soda.

‘Messy pigs… oops, no, I didn’t mean to say pigs… sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ I scan around, afraid that one of them might have heard me, but we are safely alone.

I start the car and back out of the parking space then drive towards the corner of the building. As we nudge out into the road we both look left down at the horde. The mass electrocution has definitely thinned them out, but there’s still a lot left. I turn right, then stop and position the rear view mirror so that I can see them.

‘Have they spied us, Dave?’

‘No.’

The horde are all still facing towards the gates with their backs to us. I sound the horn and a feeble, warbling noise sounds out.

‘Anything?’

‘A couple have turned, that’s it though.’

‘Okay, plan B, then.’

I get out of the car and take my shotgun from the back seat, then open my bag and get a few more cartridges ready. Dave watches me, then gets out and does the same.

‘Dave, give ‘em a nice, big shout mate.’

‘OI,’ Dave bellows at them in his drill sergeant voice, we get more of a reaction now, as they slowly turn and face our direction.

I fire the shotgun from the hip, emptying both barrels into the crowd. Several go down from the spread of the pellets.

Dave fires next and more fall backwards into the undead behind them. We both reload and fire again.

Most of the horde is facing us now, but there is still a big section at the front that is pushing towards the gates.

‘The van won’t be able to get through that many.’

Dave puts the shotgun back into the car and pulls out two, long, straight-bladed knives from his bag. He reverses the grip so that the blades are upright against his forearms. I feel a rush of excitement as adrenalin starts to surge through my system. I reload my shotgun and put it back into the car, then draw my axe. The heavy metal head feels good. We both look at each other and then turn and walk towards the horde.

‘Strike and move, Mr Howie.’

‘Yep, got it.’

Dave steps off to the right and I keep left, we walk for a few seconds until we are just over halfway to them, then we both stop. Dave, holding the knives down at his sides, faces forward; my axe is held in my right hand - also at my side.

In the silence we stand and wait.

This horde almost finished us last night; we were inches away from death when we were saved. They were fast and switched on then, but now they are slow and we can get some payback.

I think of my parents and start to feel the rage building up inside of me again, it’s been suppressed for a little while but I can release it now. I can unlock the cage that surrounds my heart.

The closest undead have almost reached us now, those that turned first had a few steps head start from the horde. They can taste the bite and I can see their lips being pulled back. I fix my eyes on the closest one, an adult male with half his face already torn away. Shuffling towards me, his head is rolling, but his red eyes watch me.

I step to the side and launch the axe at his head, the blade bites into the side of his skull, bursting the head open. He goes down and I attack the next one with an over head smash, cleaving the skull in two.

I pick my targets and let the rage do the rest.

Strike and move.

I lash out, cracking undead skulls open; blood and brain matter spraying out. I move away and step backwards, to keep my distance.

The main horde is close now but there is enough space between them for me to move in and destroy them, one by one.

The blood lust is upon me, the glory of battle is surging through my veins and I unleash hell with my axe; smashing bones, cleaving skulls and bursting their skulls apart.

Another one to my right, I back swing and he is knocked away, then I slash to my left and drive the axe blade down into a shoulder bone. Then another one in front of me and I uppercut the blunt back end of the axe head and obliterate his jaw, sending shards of bone into his brain.

They keep coming and they keep dropping.

Strike and move.

We draw back slowly towards the car and they keep coming after us. They are too close now and we have no view, beyond the first few, to see if the riot van can get out. But I don’t care, this is what I want, this destruction of the undead.

I keep hacking away with the axe, the shuffling bodies are slow and as long as I keep moving back, they can’t bite me.

I glance over and see Dave moving amongst them, like a ballet dancer. His arms swirl as he spins and pulls the blades across undead necks. Arterial blood from the slit throats sprays high into the air as the bodies fall to the ground.

He punches out with the knives, puncturing lungs and breaking ribs with his blows and more fall down.

Watching him is like watching a master at work. The effortless movements are mesmerising, but I am brought back to reality by an undead face lunging at me.

I slam my forehead into his nose and use the bottom of the axe handle to bat him away from me.

The last time I head butted someone it hurt like hell, but I don’t feel any pain now and I go back to making war with my axe.

I strike out at several more, watching them fall and die again. Then, suddenly, there is space around me and I look for the next victim.

A single, undead male is watching me. In my bloodlust and fury I fail to take in that his head doesn’t roll and he is standing as a normal man would stand; head upright and eyes front.

I charge at him, pulling the axe back. I’m staring at his neck and I visualise the axe going through his spine and his head spinning away, into the horde.

I get to within striking range and, roaring, swing the axe towards him.

His hand raises and grabs the handle, stopping the swing in mid-flight. We stare at each other, eyes locked. His hand is touching mine. I try to pull the axe away, but his grip is awesome and he doesn’t move. He hasn’t pulled his lips back or bared his teeth. He stares at me with those red eyes. There is intelligence within his face that terrifies me and roots me to the spot.

I’m pulling back, trying to wrench the axe from him and, in my panic, I don’t think to just let go of it. His one arm is strong enough to drag me towards his mouth where his teeth are now bared. Just as reason gets hold of me and I let go of the axe, a knife spins past my head and embeds into the side of his skull.

Then Dave is there, pulling his head back and slicing his throat open. Dave drives him down onto the ground and pulls the other knife out.

‘GO.’

Dave looks at me and we both start running back to the car. Within a few steps, we are there and I get into the driver’s seat and look in the rear view mirror. We have left a trail of bodies behind us and I can see the horde are coming our way now, the gates are open and the riot van has gone. At least they got away safely.

_____________________________________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection watched from hundreds of pairs of eyes as the two uninfected made loud bangs and many host bodies fell.

The infection saw the fresh bodies and wanted them. The undead turned and started towards them, being urged by the absolute craving to bite flesh. The infection has learnt that most will run away, driven by fear. But some don’t run. They stand and fight and a very few will come towards the host bodies. The infection knows that there are few of them left now and it is only a matter of time before they are all consumed.

As the host bodies went towards the uninfected, one stood still and watched.

He stood with his head upright, hands clenching at his sides. The horde shuffled past and he watched as his kin were struck down by the two uninfected. The smaller uninfected had no smell of fear about him and his heart rate stayed normal. The larger one had a mixed smell, one of absolute rage mixed with adrenalin and fear - but they came on and they took down his kin. He watched as they got closer, fighting and dispatching bodies with ease. Then the larger one saw him and they watched each other. The infection saw the larger one charge forward and raise the implement he had used to kill so many host bodies. The infection sent signals as the larger one swung the implement and made the host body hold the axe.

Then it sent more signals to that arm, making it stay still, locking the muscles out. The infection could feel the vibration through the host body as the uninfected pulled at the axe. The infection sent more signals to the host body and made the muscles contract, drawing the axe closer. The infection felt the muscle struggle to contract, so it sent more signals and more energy to that arm. The uninfected got closer and it made the host body pull its lips back and have the teeth ready to pass the deadly saliva into this new host.

Then something happened and, instantly, it couldn’t send the signals anymore, the brain had shut down and the infection wasn’t able to control the heart - or the muscles. The infection felt as if a wound was created in the host body and the precious life blood was released, then the host body fell down and the infection lost control.

As the host body shut down, the one remaining sense detected a change in the larger, uninfected, one.

It smelled fear.

The undead cat slowly gets to its feet and walks a few paces, with shaky legs and the tail twitching furiously.

Within a few minutes, it gains more control, becoming steadier on its feet, until it is moving almost normally. It stops and lies down and then rolls onto its back with its legs straight up in the air. Then, it twitches several times and spins round back onto its feet. The front legs rise up and the cat tries walking, just on its back legs, but the balance goes and the cat falls over. The cat tries this several more times then gives up and sticks to using four legs. Then the cat runs and leaps into the air but lands awkwardly with legs splayed out. It tries again by running and then leaping but it lands too heavily on its back legs and, again, ends up spread eagled. It keeps trying, running down the quiet and deserted street, jumping into the air, until it has mastered the landing.

The cat reaches a wall and looks up. From down here the wall looks high, but it knows that it must be able to jump up. The cat takes some backwards steps, while staring fixed at the top of the garden wall. The cat then lowers itself down to the ground and prepares for the jump. It leaps high and sails through the air, the powerful hind legs propelling it faster than it intended. The cat hits the wall and slides down into a heap at the bottom, the tail still twitching like crazy.

It gets back up and again walks backwards, while staring at the top of the wall. More height is needed, so the cat lowers down and again pushes off with its powerful back legs. The power was much better, but far too much and the cat flies over the top of the wall - with a strangled miaow - and crashes into a bush on the other side.

It drags itself out of the bush, but a long, thorny stick gets caught in the tail fur. The cat turns round to pull it off, but every time it turns, the stick pulls away. The cat speeds up, desperately trying to catch the stick that is stuck to its tail, spinning round and round in the front garden of the quiet and deserted street.

The cat finally catches the stick, but the spinning has made it dizzy and it staggers about drunkenly until it falls onto one side. When the dizzy feeling passes, the cat gets up and looks back at the wall with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. It positions itself better this time and launches into the air and gets to the top of the wall, but the power needed was slightly too much and its bottom drops down the other side - but it digs in the claws that it just found in its front legs and manages to pull back up.

Once it is stable, the cat raises one front paw and watches as the claws slide out and then retract back in. Then, it swaps legs and watches the claws of the other paw. Next, it lifts both front legs to watch them at the same, but the sudden loss of stability from the front legs causes the cat to tumble and slide back down the wall into the front garden again.

The cat leaps back up and learns to settle its weight down, the tail plays a part in the stability of this animal and it fights to control the twitching.

Within a short time, the cat detects movement from below. There are dead bodies littering the street and one of them is nearby. The smell coming from it is very strong. The cat watches as there is movement from half way down the dead body. The body is lying on its back, the face staring up at the sky. There is movement from under the clothes and the cat watches, as a small, black rat face pushes out from between the buttons of the shirt and pauses, sniffing about.

The rat has been gorging on the insides of the body and has made a hole to get outside and rest in the warm. There has never been this much food before and the rat is bloated and fat from the feasting.

The rat pulls itself out from the gnawed skin and sits on the top of the cadaver. The black body glistens in the sun from the juices inside the stomach cavity.

The cat watches the rat while a primeval instinct from its once living, small cat brain screams out. The cat allows the instinct to take over and, within seconds, the cat has launched off the wall and pounced onto the fat rat. The claws came out mid-flight and are ready for the strike. At the point of impact, the cat sank those sharp claws into the big, fat, rat belly and then bites into the neck. Hot rat blood spurts out over the cats face. The cat wants to eat the rat but that isn’t the purpose now.

The primary purpose is to survive and the cat complies, passing the deadly infection through the bloodstream and into the rat’s body.

‘Did you see that zombie?’

‘Which one?’

‘The one that sat down reading the newspaper… ? Which bloody one do you think, Dave?

‘Oh! That one.’

‘It caught the axe! It bloody caught the axe as I was trying to chop its head off… they can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘What do you mean why not? They just can’t. They are slow and stupid, they can’t suddenly start using their hands and catching things and... did you see its face?’

‘No.’

‘It was weird, it looked at me… it actually looked at me.’

‘They were all looking.’

‘No, I mean that it was holding its head up and really studying me. There was a sort of intelligence there, or something.’

‘Oh.’

‘If they start doing things like that, then this mess just got a whole lot worse… what if they all start doing it.’

‘What? Catching axes?’

‘Not just that - using their hands and thinking.’

‘They’ll be like us, I guess.’

‘Fuck me! This is bad - very bad. Did you see any of the others do anything weird, like that?’

‘Other than come back to life and try to eat the living, no I didn’t.’

I look over at Dave, surprised at the long answer and the sudden use of sarcasm. He glances back at me and suddenly looks a bit nervous.

‘Sorry, Mr Howie.’

‘What for?’

‘Being flippant.’

‘You don’t have to apologise mate, you can say whatever you want.’

‘Okay.’

‘So, anyway, maybe it was just a freak zombie, like a professor or something - or a soldier, like you, or a martial arts expert.’

‘Could be.’

‘But his strength though – that was immense.  If they all get like that one, then we’re completely fucked.’

We drive in silence.

Dave gets the wipes out and goes through his cleaning process. First the weapons and then he cleans his knives and my axe. Next he hands me some of the anti-bacterial cleansing wipes and I disinfect my hands and clean my face. The used wipes go into an empty bag on the back seat.

We use the road atlas that I took from my parent’s house and work a route north out of the city and, before too long, we leave the urban area behind us. It feels nice to be out of the decaying city.

The heat of the day is upon us now and we are both sweltering. These cheap police cars don’t have air conditioning and the blower just sends more hot air into the car.

‘Have you been to Salisbury before, mate?’ I ask Dave.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Big.’

‘No, I mean the army place, what’s that like?’

‘Big.’

Ask a question… get an answer…

‘Okay, is the base easy to find?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought you had been there?’

‘Just once. It was dark and… I was in the back of a truck.’

‘Fair enough. So they train tanks there then?’

He looks at me, the same impassive expression, but with another glint in his eye.

‘No… they don’t train tanks.’

‘You know what I mean, do they train people to drive tanks?’

‘Yes… and other things.’

‘The APS things?’

‘APCs - Armoured Personnel Carriers.’

‘Yeah, them, sorry.’

‘They have barracks and mock-up towns, so that the infantry can train too.’

‘Oh right, so there might be soldiers and army people there?’

‘Yes.’

Shit, I didn’t think this through… as normal! I’m sure the army will let us just walk in and borrow one of their vehicles, or they might just shoot us instead! I was rushing and panicking after I realised my parents weren’t coming back and not thinking straight.

‘Right, so if we can’t get one, we’ll just have to head straight for London and hope for the best.’

‘Okay.’

‘I mean, it’s only been a couple of days. It’s Monday now and it only started on Friday. My sister will be safe enough, I’m sure she will. She’s just got to stay locked in and wait.’

Dave points ahead to a group of people that are standing in the driveway of a house. We are on a country road and passing a row of nice, old cottages to the right; a small, country church is on the left hand side. The group of people are at the far end of the row of houses. As we get closer, I can see they are not people, not anymore.

‘Fuck it, more of them, we’ll get past them,’ I start to increase the speed, but Dave waves his arm at me.

‘Slow down, Mr Howie.’

He is leaning forward, staring intently at them. I slow the car down.

‘What is it? Do you see something?’ I ask him, concerned at his request.

‘I want to see if they have changed.’

That makes sense, that last one catching my axe was very worrying. I slow down, but stick to the far side of the road. I drop the gears down and get prepared to pull away. There are only a handful of undead here, most of them look very old and infirm; grey hair and grey skin spattered with dried blood and festering injuries.

One of them is a vicar or priest and is wearing a dark shirt with a white dog-collar. We slow down to watch them. The heat is intense and the vehicle engine is the only noise I can hear. The undead are staring out into the road, already looking in our direction.

I thought they would be watching the house and that maybe someone was inside. A sign board outside the house gives it away; the house is the vicarage and I guess it would be the focal point for a small hamlet like this.

The undead start shuffling as soon as we pull up. We both watch their movements, but nothing appears to have changed.

‘They look normal.’

Then I realise what I’ve just said.

‘Well, they look like the other zombies we’ve met in the day; none of them look particularly clever.’

Dave opens the door and steps out.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Hang on Mr Howie.’

He walks round the car and towards the small group. His knives are in his hands. He looks round and then picks up a small stone from the side of the road. He then throws the stone at the vicar’s head, striking him in the face. Dave turns, shrugs at me and picks up one more stone and throws it at another of the undead.

They don’t react but just keep shuffling forward as Dave throws stones and pebbles at their heads.

I examine each of the undead in turn; the arms are hanging limp at their sides and the heads are rolling about. The eyes are still red and bloodshot and their movement is slow and awkward. Drool is hanging down from their mouths and the front of their clothing is soaked from the dripping saliva.

Dave moves forward, until he is only a couple of footsteps steps away from the vicar. The vicar, in turn shows a bit more excitement and I see his lips pulling back, he lunges forward for the bite but Dave side steps him and the vicar stumbles and falls to the ground.

Another one lunges at Dave, but again he darts out of the way and I watch as the undead body staggers,  loses its balance and goes down.

Dave continues his routine and watches as they fall.

For the first few minutes, I watch intently for any signs of different behaviour from them, but there’s nothing new.

I hear some of them groaning and they almost sound disappointed when they miss him. I start smiling at the absurdity of it; Dave baiting them and waiting for them to surge at him, then jumping back and watching them stumble. It’s like an old comedy programme and I start chuckling.

Then Dave positions himself, so he has two undead coming at him, one from the front and one from behind. He turns so he can see both of them and waits until the very last second as they both lunge at him with their upper bodies. Dave simply steps back and they head butt each other with a loud thump, fall to the ground and get tangled in each other’s arms and legs.

I burst out laughing and watch as Dave moves round, so that another one can come for him, but he smartly gets out of the way and the undead trips on the two bodies and lands on top of them.

I’m almost pissing myself now; I can’t stop laughing at Dave making the zombies fall into the pile.

Within a couple of minutes, all but one are tangled in a heap on the floor; groaning with frustration as they each try to get up and keep knocking each other down.

The remaining undead slowly inches towards Dave, who moves backwards and steps over a pair of legs sticking out of the heap. The undead trips and falls into them and I’m out of the car applauding Dave and laughing loudly.

‘Bloody well done, mate, that was brilliant.’

Dave turns and looks at me and does something I have very rarely seen him do. He smiles.

We leave the tangled heap of undead and keep driving, heading west, towards Salisbury. The atmosphere between us is nice and relaxed. Seeing Dave smile like that was heart warming, he is so serious all of the time and to see him play a joke and have fun reassures me that he is human and not a cyborg soldier, killing machine.

It’s still early and the day is stretched out in front of us. The road we are on, takes us into another village; a few houses either side pass us by, then more houses - until there are buildings on both sides. The road signs indicate a lower speed limit and there are warning signs for children and the elderly, then another one saying: ‘Please Drive Carefully Through Our Village’.

Rural England is sleepy and pretty but full of more rules and laws than cities:  Don’t park here. Use the litter bins. No skateboarding. No cycling. Stick to the footpath only. No ball games…

I love the countryside and these small places, but they are more like communist settlements than idyllic havens.

‘There they are Dave, all mustering in the village square, I wonder why they always stick together like that?’

‘Safety in numbers, Mr Howie.’

‘Yeah, probably… how many is that? I reckon about twenty or so?’

He scans the small crowd for a few seconds, his lips counting silently.

‘Almost, there’s twenty-two.’

‘I’ll slow down so we can have another look at them.’

The square is set back from the road and there is a small collection of shops bordering the village green. None of the undead are looking anywhere in particular, they are just shuffling around and dribbling on each other.

As our car comes into view, they turn and start heading towards us.

‘I know that it’s only a small village, but there’s more than twenty people living here... where are they all?’ I ask Dave

‘Locked in their houses - or dead, probably.’

‘Hmmm… maybe more people heard that broadcast and have headed down to the Forts. If that broadcast was made from London to the whole south coast - even if only  a few people heard it - they will pass the message on, just like we have, and there could be loads of people heading down there.’

‘Could be.’

‘What about food and supplies? I know that we told some people to take what they can, but that won’t last long.’

I stop the car, so that we can watch the undead. Again, they look like the normal, slow, daytime zombies.

‘I can’t see any with their heads up, can you?’

‘No.’

We both look round, checking the windows of houses, doorways and any place an intelligent zombie could hide and watch.

‘We were fighting for quite a while before that one reacted and even then he just stood there watching. He didn’t actually attack us. Maybe it takes a few minutes of action, before they get bright.’

I wait until the nearest undead are almost at the back of the car, then I drive forward a few metres. They follow behind the car and I keep pulling forward every time they get within touching distance.

Before long, they are strung out in a line and I remember the armoured van that went past my house on Friday night and led them all away; saving my life, in the process. I wander what happened to that man and I hope that he made it somewhere safe.

‘Shall I give ‘em a little knock and see if that does anything?’

‘Okay.’

I wait until they are within a few steps of the back of the car and reverse into them with a loud bang. A few get knocked down and I drive forward a few metres again, watching for any reaction.

‘See anything?’

‘No, nothing different.’

‘Me neither, let’s give ‘em a few more tries...’ The road ahead is clear so I know that we can get away, if one of them suddenly starts running at us.

‘Still no reaction. It must have been a one off then, just a freak thing.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t sound convinced, Dave? Oh… what’s that down there?’

We both look down the road and see where the carriageway narrows into one lane and goes over, what looks like, a bridge.

‘Is that a river?’

‘I don’t know.’

I drive down, leaving the undead shambling behind us. There is a wide river ahead of us. The water looks cool and inviting in this oppressive heat. Just before the bridge, there is a landing platform for boats and ladders; up the side of the bank, on a raised section.

‘That must be a movable bridge… look, it’s too low down to let anything other than a small boat get through… and that must be the winch that opens it.’

I point to a large, metal wheel that looks well used. It has cogs that drive another set of wheels that, in turn, attach to cables that run under the ground.

‘Right, it’s my turn for some zombie fun,’ I look back at the undead, still coming down the road behind us, and it looks like there are more than the original twenty-two.  More are coming out of houses and joining the procession. I drive over the bridge and park the car on the other side.

‘Dave, would you mind being the bait, please, mate?

He looks at me for a second, before shrugging his shoulders and getting out of the car. He then walks over to the edge, where the road meets the bridge, and stands facing the oncoming group.

I move over to the large, metal wheel and take hold of the metal handle that sticks up. I start pushing it and am glad that the wheel moves with ease.

The reaction is instant as the wheels turn the cogs and I guess some clever machinery happens somewhere and the bridge starts moving. The two sections move away in opposite directions, creating a gap in the middle. Both sections stay horizontal though, which surprises me, as I thought they might lift up. I turn the wheel back the other way and the bridge closes again.

Dave looks over at me, and I give him a big grin and the thumbs up. He nods back.

‘Say when, Dave.’

‘Okay.’

We wait for a few minutes as the undead do their slow shuffle down the road. The sun feels nice and it’s lovely to sit here and rest in the silence for a few minutes.

The first of the undead reach the end of the bridge and start to cross. Dave walks onto the bridge heading straight for them and then he stops a few steps back from the middle.

The undead must be excited, having some fresh meat waiting for them!

I wait until they are a few steps back from the middle and, just as Dave gives me a thumbs up, I start moving the wheel. The bridge starts to separate and the gap forms between the two sections. From my position it looks quite funny as Dave and the undead swing away from each other.

The undead keep moving forward and the first one falls off the edge and into the river with a splash.

I burst out laughing and wind the wheel a bit more, making the gap bigger. More of them fall off and land in the water. The first one is floating past me, which I wasn’t expecting; I thought the flow would be the other way if the winch was this side. There must be another winch the other side, so that boats can travel up and down river.

I watch the undead float past me. They don’t panic or flap about, but just bob along silently. As the first one passes, I watch it sink down under the water. I turn the wheel more and stare as they keep walking off the end, like zombie lemmings. Then the wheel is turned too much and they stop at the side of the bridge, facing towards Dave. I wait for a few minutes, until more of them have built up and there is a nice little crowd formed, all staring hungrily at Dave.

I slowly turn the wheel back the other way and watch the gap get smaller; they hold their position, just staring across at Dave. Then, as the two ends are just about touch, they all start shuffling as one and I spin the wheel back, increasing the gap.

The massed undead all fall off the end, splashing water up the sides of the bank. They land on each other and some sink down, as others are pulled along by the current.

I laugh and wave at them as they go by and they still turn their heads and try to move towards me as they pass. Within a few minutes, they are all gone and our fun ends.

I wheel the bridge back together, just in case someone needs a quick exit, and head back to the car.

‘None of them were too bright, were they?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Right, time to stop pissing about and get to Salisbury.’

_____________________________________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The cat has learnt to keep to the top of the walls and posts and watch the dead bodies. Already it has caught several large, black rats and passed the infection on to them; leaping down as they emerge from gorging on the dead and sinking its teeth into their slimy flesh, then letting go, so the rat can run away, squealing to safety.

The infection learnt to allow the instinct to take over the brain and functions, so the cat moves with agility, but then the infection learnt to take that control back, so the cat doesn’t consume the new host.

The infection has found this small brain much easier to control as the instincts are so intrinsically built in.

The human hosts don’t have those instincts to kill and move faster. They are stronger and more powerful and can last longer than most animals, but the infection understands their brains are far more complex to fathom.

The cat readies itself, sinking lower and fixing its bloodshot eyes on the sleek, black body below, as the rat emerges from a drain cover and sniffs the air, then starts forward. The smell of rotting flesh is too much to resist, and more rats slowly climb up from the sewer system and creep out into the road; drawn by the decaying bodies that are slowly cooking in the hot sun.

The cat is held back and watches as more of the black, sleek, long-tailed creatures slink across the road.

The first few rats ate from the bottom of the bodies and worked their way up through the meat and out into the top, where they would be caught by the cat. But the smell has seeped out as the bodies decompose and the juices spill onto the road.

It’s said that in modern cities people are never more than a few metres away from a rat at any one time. Rats can survive in almost any environment and now they can do more than just survive.

They can feast.

The cat watches as a few rats emerge, then more and more of them, until the road surface is blocked by writhing, shiny, black bodies. The rats disregard the safety of going under the bodies and instead they just eat the first thing they reach. Before long, a feeding frenzy begins and the rats are squeaking as they fight to get at the bodies.

The cat watches intensely as these small animals squabble fiercely to get at the meat. The dead bodies almost look alive from movement under clothes and the twitching of limbs, as hundreds of rodent teeth sink in and pull at the flesh.

The infection sends signals to flood the cat’s mouth with saliva and, within seconds, the cat is drooling; appearing hungry to get at the squirming rats below.

The first rats to be bitten, run away, heading back into the cool, dark, sewers and pipes. The other rats all smelt the blood on the first rat’s coat and started following the scent.

Some followed the trail that led out into the road, where more bodies lay ready to be eaten. Some of the rats followed the injured one, detecting the weakness and being drawn by the smell of blood.

The infection took control of that first rat quickly and allowed the instinct to flee to be all consuming.  While the infection stopped the blood flow from the wound, the rat made its way deeper into the underground network of tunnels; the superhighways of the rat world.

The first rat got to a large sewer pipe and stopped. The lack of people flushing toilets and using showers has made the sewers drier than ever, and the scents within this enclosed network are drawing rats from all around.

The advancing rats detect that there are many of them going for the kill and they rush forward, desperate not to miss out on the chance of a meal.

The first infected rat sits still; twitching its whiskers and waiting for the onslaught. The infection uses the acute hearing and smell of the rat and picks up that many more are coming and it too floods the rat’s mouth with saliva.

As the first attacking rat comes on, the infected rat leaps and bites into it. Then it keeps leaping and jumping at the other bodies, biting and gnashing its big front teeth; working to draw blood from as many of them as possible. The action sparks a frenzy, as the rats are whipped up by the smell of fresh blood and the infected rat is overwhelmed and consumed.

The infection passes into many more of the rodents and they, in turn, are made to nip at each other and draw blood. The action and reaction causes the infection to spread faster than it ever has done, as the rat population is quickly taken over.

Back on the street, and the cat is still drooling saliva over its front paws. The road is just a seething black cloth now; undulating and rippling as the rats feast and gorge.

The cat knows that if it attacks now it will be destroyed, there are too many of them and, despite its superior agility and strength, it doesn’t stand a chance.

The infection knows this, but is prepared for the sacrifice of this one tiny animal.

The cat launches off the wall with a loud miaow and lands in the middle of the writhing bodies. The instruction from the infection is clear and cannot be denied. The cat bites down, grabs a rat body and tosses its head, launching the rat through the air. The cat grabs another and keeps going; biting down and tossing them aside as the infection is passed on.

The rats squeal, they know they are many and this cat can be taken down. They act as one and surge forward, biting into the cat’s legs and body, taking the infection on voluntarily. The cat jumps and leaps and shakes them off, while still savagely biting into them and tossing the still wriggling body away. The injured rats land amongst their own kind, but the frenzy means that anything bleeding is fair game and they are consumed by more rats.

The infection has learnt to take instant control of this small body and sends the signals down from the tiny brain: bite but don’t kill.

Minutes later, the cat is bleeding heavily from bite wounds all over its body; the infection works to congeal the blood flow and the cat carries on biting into the black bodies. The rats, in turn, are now heavily infected. Some are still trying to get to the dead bodies to feast; others are surging after the cat and many more of them are biting into each other.

Rats that are heading towards the food are surprised at the sudden strange behaviour of being bitten by one of their own - and they try to move away quickly, but the infection takes hold and they too start lashing out.

The cat still bites out as its pulled down and hundreds of mouths begin feasting on its still living body.

Even in the final throws of death, the cat bites out, then its head sinks down and it rests, in peace, as the infection is unable to push the animal any further.

_____________________________________________________________________

2nd Lieutenant Officer in Training of the Territorial Army, Charles Galloway-Gibbs, stood and looked at the men that were facing him.

Four months ago, he joined the British Army Intelligence Corps and is still at basic training, at Sandhurst, the army officer training centre.

A glittering and wealthy career in investment banking was in front of him and he joined the Territorial Army for the uniform and prestige of being a British Army Officer. He chose the Intelligence Corp as he had been advised that it was the least likely unit to have to face combat and he does not like the thought of combat.

He is happy to wear the uniform and have lowly soldiers salute him - and all of the other perks, but not any combat.

He was looking forward to the officer’s day at the gentlemen’s club too, just so he could wear the uniform and act very secretive about his part-time role. He could just imagine the awestruck stares and jealous looks from the other men: “He’s in army intelligence, can’t say much about it of course”.

And the women, of course, well the uniform will only make it easier to get them into bed.

But now, life has suddenly changed, and he is the only Officer left in the British Army.

Well… at Sandhurst, that is.

He is also facing a scared troop of trainee soldiers, in a classroom.

‘So… let me get this right chaps, you are all in basic training, is that right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He gets a chorus of responses from the dozen nervous faces in front of him.

‘So… none of you have done weapon training or combat training or… anything like that?  He asks.

They shake heads and look down at the tables in front of them. They are in a building used for Army Education and Administration.

2nd Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs stands in front of the classroom’s rudimentary chalkboard and looks at the men in front of him.

Most of them are young, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, and they are all part of a new government scheme to take unemployed young people and provide them with skills, training and experience in the part-time Territorial Army - in exchange for enhanced government benefits.

‘Exactly what… stage are you at, then?’

They all start talking at once and Charles lifts his hand to silence them.

‘Wait, just one please… you!’

He points at a stern faced man that is seated alone, near the front. He has short, brown hair and a surprisingly round head.

‘You! Yes you! Tell me what stage you are at, please.’

‘Sir! We are all new joiners, Sir! We have been to assessment and selection and completed very basic training at our regional depots and we are here to undertake our first two-week, basic training camp, Sir.’

‘Right, I see. And none of you have had weapons training?’ Charles directs the question to the same man.

‘No, Sir!’

‘Well… what have you learnt then?’

‘Sir! Basic skills like marching and admin work… rank structure and that kind of thing - but just at weekends, Sir!’

‘I see… and how did you all end up in here?’

The spokesman glances round at the others, hoping that someone else can do the talking… but they are clearly happy for him to continue, and all look away as he turns to them.

‘Sir, we only got here on Friday afternoon and we were just starting orientation and getting to know each other. They took us out into the training ground to show us around… and…’ His voice tails off.

‘And what? Speak up man!’

‘Well… that’s when it happened, Sir! We were looking round the urban village training area - there was an exercise going on - and they wanted us to be the civilians for the exercise.’

‘Keep going please,’ Charles says.

‘Sir, it all went fucking mad. Blokes were running shooting and biting each other - we thought it was part of the exercise at first - you know, like fake injuries and stuff - but they were fucking real…’

‘Watch your language in front of an officer.’

‘Sir! Sorry, Sir.’

‘Well… what happened next?’

‘Sir, we waited for a bit, none of us knew what to do, but it got worse and someone shouted at us to leg it - so we did.’

‘Just the twelve of you?’

‘No sir - there was about thirty of us, I think.’ The man looks round and some of the others nod in agreement.

‘Thirty? Well where are the rest then?’

‘I don’t think they made it, Sir. It was fuc… err… it was dark and confusing and none of us knew where to go,’

‘I told you to stop swearing.’

‘Sir! Sorry.’

‘So that was Friday night and now it’s Monday - so what the bloody hell have you been doing since then?’

The man looks round again, clearly more uncomfortable with the harsh question being thrown at him by the officer with a posh voice.

‘We ran, Sir… but the training area is massive. We went into the plain where they do the tank training, there’s loads of hills and valleys and we just hid.’

‘You hid? What for two whole days?’

‘No, Sir. We hid on Friday night and kept moving on Saturday and then hid again in the night, we could hear them all around us and we lost another few to those… those things.’

‘So, you let your comrades fall behind you, did you? You left your brothers in arms to the enemy, while you all ran away?’

Charles knows that he would have run too, but he feels braver now that there are more men round him and he can see the fear and exhaustion in them.

None of them answer, some hang their heads in shame. One or two of them give slight sobbing noises.

‘Are you bloody crying?’ Charles shouts at them. ‘The British Army doesn’t cry, now bloody grow up!’ He sneers at them and turns back to the unofficial spokesman.

‘And how did you get back here, then?’

‘We found the road that led back here and managed to get inside.’ His voice has now taken on a hard edge.

Charles swallows nervously, at the tone of the man, and changes tack.

‘Well, yes, I appreciate you all did your best - that’s what the army is all about isn’t it? Doing your best? But please don’t forget that you are speaking to an officer.’

’Yes… Sir.’

‘How did you get in here with all of that lot surrounding the outside?’

‘They’re slow in the day. They don’t move that quick and we just legged it through ‘em.’

‘And, in doing so soldier, you have brought them all directly outside; very smart, very smart indeed.’

‘Sir, how come you were hiding in here? Where’s everyone else?’ One of the men from the back shouts out.

There’s a hushed and silent few seconds, while the gathered men realise what he has just said.

Charles stares at the man, with what he hopes is a hard look, and walks slowly towards him. When he speaks he hopes it is with a steely edge.

‘Hiding Private? Did you just say I was hiding?’

‘Er… well…’

‘Officers don’t hide, Private. I am an officer in the Army Intelligence Corps and I was gathering intel. That’s what we call it you see, intel. I was doing so, when you lot burst in here.’

‘Oh…’

‘And if you ever say I or another officer was hiding again… I’ll have you up on a court martial, do you understand, Private..?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Tucker, Sir… Roy Tucker.’

‘Do you understand me, Private Tucker?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now are any of you aware if there are any further survivors out there?’

They all shake their heads.

Charles looks at the men. He hasn’t told them that he too is still being taught; he hasn’t done weapons or combat training yet, either.

‘Right well, you lot look a mess and you also smell, so go and get cleaned up.’ He waves dismissively at them, buying time, so he can think of what to do.

He runs his hand down his slicked, hair and tries to think what a proper officer would do, then realises that they are all still staring at him.

‘I thought I just told you to go and get cleaned up.’

‘Sir… what’s happening?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Is this everywhere?’

‘ Is my family okay?’

‘Where are the rest of the army?’

Questions get thrown at him, from the desperate men who have spent the last two days running away from zombie soldiers.

‘How the hell would I know?’ he answers back.

The man at the front stares at him.

‘You said that you are army intelligence, Sir - and that you had to report back.’

‘Well… that is right…’ Charles realises they want answers and if he is going to lead these men and survive this disaster, he must tell them something.

‘I’m sure you are all very worried, but the army will get a grip on this and will all be here very soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, we must survive.’

‘So… you’ve not heard anything then, Sir?’ Charles looks irritated by  the man in the front.

‘Not at this time…Private… but would you like me to report back to you, when I do? His icy tone silences the man, who looks away.

‘Now, I don’t know what’s going on out there. I can’t reach anyone or make contact with anyone at this time. The phones are down and the radios too, that includes landlines and mobile phones. We have no choice, but to sit it out and wait for help.’

‘Help? Sir? Why don’t we get the guns and fight our way out?’

‘Guns… Private? Where are they kept now? They are not in here… ’

‘In the armoury, Sir.’

Charles panics, desperately thinking of a way not to look inept in front of these common men.

‘I am not stationed here and I do not know the layout. I too arrived on Friday for an exercise, so I do not know where the armoury is,’ he says stiffly, expecting them to tell him - but they all remain silent.

Charles stares at them.

‘So? Where is it?’ He asks.

They shrug their shoulders and shake their heads, looking to each other.

‘So… none of us know where it is – and unless any of you want to go floundering around outside with them, then I suggest we sit tight here,’ he recovers the patronising tone.

‘We could try, Sir. They’re slow now and we might be able to find it.’

The same man from the front just won’t leave it - he looks tough though, and Charles falls back on his superior breeding and culture.

‘And what will you do when you get there, Pivate? Do you think that the army just leaves its guns in an unlocked room, where just about anyone can get at them? No, they will be locked and secure, so unless you have the key or the combination or a bloody big battering ram - then we will sit here and wait.’

‘But, Sir…’

‘Private… I have had enough of your questions. This is bordering on insubordination. What is your name and rank, Private?’

The man stares back, before answering.

‘Private… Sir.’

‘Don’t be bloody cheeky with me soldier. You are on a charge, the minute we get out of here – now… give me your name.’

‘Simon Blowers, Sir.’

‘Right, Blowers, I don’t want to hear another word out of you. I will let this pass, for now, as you are new recruits, but if it happens again, you will be on a charge, understood?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right, go and get cleaned up - you’re all a disgrace to the army in that state, and where are your uniforms?’

‘We were being civilians in the exercise Sir, so we had to wear our normal clothes.’

‘And your uniforms are where exactly?’

‘In the barracks, Sir.’

‘Right, well, you’ll just have to do the best you can, until we get rescued… I mean… until we get re-enforcements.’

Charles walks out of the room and up the stairs of the small admin building.

He goes into an office and slumps down at a desk, rubbing his temples and thinking furiously.

Maybe I should have just told them the truth? Told them I’m new too but no, that would be embarrassing and then someone else will try and take charge, like that bloody Blowers chap, and I’m not taking bloody orders from a common soldier. I’ll just wait until help arrives with more officers, then I’ll be amongst my own kind and someone else can sort this mess out.

Charles thinks about the event that’s happening.

He was in the officer’s mess when it all started. An alarm sounded and everyone went running off, leaving him alone. He ran too, just so it looked good, but he didn’t know where he was going, so darted in this block and hid in one of the dark offices.

It could have been a terrorist attack or something worse - and he didn’t want to get involved in anything dangerous, so he sat tight and waited.

When he heard voices, he started to sneak out, back to his quarters, when he saw the first undead soldiers. He didn’t know that they were undead at the time; they just looked like men with awful injuries. He watched from the shadows of the admin building as they ran at the other soldiers and bit into their faces and necks, killing them.

Charles had never seen anything so violent; his private school and expensive university kept him sheltered from such things.

As more men ran into the fray, Charles crept backwards, deeper into the shadows, until he turn and ran inside, cowering under the desk; wishing he was anywhere else but there.

During the night, he heard gunshots and screams and men running around, it sounded like a war was going on, and he felt stupid for joining the army and stupid for trying to be like his father - who had also been an officer in the Territorial Army.

At times, he would creep out and look through the windows at the undead soldiers in their blood soaked camouflage clothing. After seeing them close to the building he went back under the desk and hid.

By Saturday, he had tried every phone in the building, but they were all down. He discovered an old transistor radio and tuned quickly through the frequencies, but got nothing.

Charles would periodically look out, keeping low and taking quick furtive glances, but the scene didn’t get better. In fact it got worse, as the weekend went by and more undead gathered and staggered about, near to the buildings.

He found some food in a small kitchen area and ate through packets of biscuits and then found some chocolate bars and crisps. He thought about saving them for later, in case he was still trapped, but he ate the lot instead and then felt bad for not keeping them.

At least he had coffee, until the power went off.

Then he was alone and in the dark, just listening to the terrifying roars outside as night fell and then he heard the bangs and groans.

He retreated back under the desk and hugged his knees, crying and sobbing in fear.

Then, this morning, the raw recruits burst in - he though it was the cavalry coming to his rescue and he had a story prepared… he had tried to fight, but had been knocked out and only just come round - but they turned out to be brand new soldiers too.

But still, at least, he has some men to protect him and keep him safe: cannon fodder, that’s what Daddy always called them.

The trainee recruits sit still and silent for a few minutes after the officer leaves, stunned at the cold arrogance and patronising sneer of the man.

They joined the army for many different reasons, but being attacked by zombies wasn’t one of them. Since the outbreak began, they had had time to discuss the event and come up with reasons and theories, but none of them knew the extent of the virus, until they got back to the main compound and saw the massive horde.

There were zombie soldiers, in a collection of desert and jungle camouflage uniforms; covered in blood from severe injuries.

During Saturday and Sunday, they kept their distance from the undead; running and hiding amongst the hills of the tank training ground. The land is military property and is heavily protected from the public, so none of them knew the direction they should go in, or the way back to barracks. It was by luck that they found the road and followed it to the buildings. Thirty of them started the orientation on Friday evening; thirty new recruits from different regiments and units all over the south coast. There was a feeling of nervous excitement as they met each other and filed into the briefing tent. The regional training centres were exciting, but this was Salisbury and it was huge.

The army buildings looked clean, freshly painted and surrounded a large, drill square; the roads and paths were straight and everything was well ordered. The grass was cut to regulation length and all of the marker stones were painted a crisp and clean white.

Men and women walked about, dressed like soldiers; real soldiers, wearing proper army clothes. They watched as soldiers saluted passing officers and everyone seemed to march and walk smartly. They were amazed at how many people were here, and just as they were led from the drill square into the briefing tent they saw soldiers with real guns standing about, smoking and laughing; faces painted green or black.

There were so many of them and more arriving by the minute. Several of the units were dressed in brown camouflage, instead of the jungle green; looking tanned and leaner than the others.

‘Just returned from Afghan or Iraq probably,’ Simon Blowers said as they stood round.

‘How do you know?’ asked Roy Tucker.

Blowers stared at him, before answering: ‘They are wearing brown desert BDU’s and they are tanned, so they have been somewhere hot and sunny….like a desert.’

The others laughed at this and started making fun of Tucker, the way men do when they are together and feel insecure about their surroundings.

‘Why are there so many soldiers here, all tooled up?’ asked Alex Cooke.

They start talking and throwing ideas in, everyone trying to be heard at the same time.

‘Must be an exercise,’ said Blowers.

‘What are those guns, are they the SA80’s?’ asks Tucker again, who instantly gets bombarded with more jokes,

‘Fuck me, Tucker… you’re bright ain’t ya? What do you think the British Army would be carrying?’

‘Well… I don’t know, do I?’ Tucker replies with an innocent look.

‘What unit are you joining, Tucker?’

‘Catering corps. I’m want to be a chef.’

They burst out laughing and the jokes fly thick and fast. Someone pokes his podgy belly:

‘Bloody hell, mate. You gonna leave any grub for the army?’

More laughs and someone from the back calls out: “Tucker, you fat fucker”.

Roy Tucker has been called this all his life, through school and college and at work in the council office, and although the jibes sting, he laughs along and joins in the banter.

‘Fuck you, at least I’ll be warm and fed while you lot run around being Rambo’s.’

The men relax into easy banter and excited conversation, until a man with stripes on his sleeves walks in and shouts for them to be quiet. As soon as they hush, an officer walks to the front and addresses the group.

‘Welcome to Salisbury, gentlemen. You are at the start of your first two week basic training camp. You should have all received your uniforms and basic kit from your regional training centres. If you are missing anything, or something doesn’t fit, we can get that sorted first thing tomorrow.

‘Now, normally the first night here would be orientation - and then a few drinks in the mess to get to know one another. But we have a night exercise taking place and your arrival fits in nicely.’

He gives a wicked grin and the men look at him with excitement.

‘As I’m sure you know, we have tank training and armoured vehicle training at this centre and the mechanised infantry, regular infantry and various other regiments train alongside them. This gives us invaluable operational training, prior to deployment. Tonight we have a very large exercise taking place and we are going to use you as civilians in the urban village training zone. You will be fully briefed as to what exactly is expected from you, but, let me say this… this is a remarkable opportunity for you to see the British Army in action. There will be simulated fighting, firing and explosions, so I can imagine it will be a long and boring night for you… so just try and stay awake please.’

The men laugh and start whispering in excited tones, until the Sergeant shouts for quiet.

‘Now, you will have to excuse me, as I am needed elsewhere, but we will get a chance to meet again tomorrow, when we begin your basic training. Just one more thing, after the exercise - please do try and get some sleep, trust me, you will need the rest!’

The officer leaves and the Sergeant takes over, giving the brief for the night exercise. The men are told to stay in the houses and do exactly as they are told.

‘They won’t be using live rounds, so there’s no risk of getting shot - but it will be dark and there will be lots going on - so if you walk around on your own there is a real risk of injury. Do as you are told and enjoy the spectacle. We do not allow mobile cccccccc you trying to take pictures and using flashes, so all of your phones and cameras will be left here. If any of you are caught with a phone, you will be discharged with immediate effect.’

The trainee recruits were led away and, after a short time of waiting in the drill square, they were collected by old army trucks and moved down into the training area. The trucks were enclosed in the back, so that the men had no idea of the direction or distance they were travelling in.

None of them minded this though, and all were laughing and talking about their good fortune; being involved in an actual exercise.

Within a couple of hours, they were placed into small groups in the houses of the urban village training zone and told to stand around or to sit on the furniture and wait for further instruction.

The sense of excitement was palpable and, within a short time, they could hear shots and loud explosions coming from the dark grounds all around them. Then, loud engines and heavy vehicles passed through the streets, men were running behind them and taking position. They were firing weapons and the bright flashes from the ends of the barrels were startling in the dark. The soldiers started at one end of the street and worked their way down, house by house. There were soldiers firing back at them and massive mock battles took place with smoke grenades and explosions. The soldiers worked the house clearance and found the trainee recruits. The recruits were made to kneel down at first and plastic cuffs were applied to their wrists, behind their backs. Then they were led outside and, after some time, the cuffs were removed and they were led to the end of the street into a “safe area”. They waited as more of the trainee recruits were brought down until all thirty of them were there. Then the soldiers all moved out and the vehicles went away.

Officers and instructors spoke to the recruits and told them that they would have a “hot debrief”. The recruits all tried to look serious, like they knew what was going on. They were asked to declare any injuries and if they were happy to continue, and then they were led back into the houses ready unit, to train house clearance.

Then the shooting and explosions started again and the recruits waited with anticipation for the soldiers to come and get them. There was more shouting this time though and the men seemed to be yelling in confusion.

The recruits heard soldiers shouting the work “medic” and screaming at each other. The trainee soldiers took this to be part of the exercise and watched as a soldier fell down in the street, clutching at a fake wound to his neck. Soldiers rushed to him and then the injured one jumped up and started attacking them. They fought back and battered him down, but not before he bit into a few of them.

A few of the recruits were too taken with the whole spectacle to understand that something was going wrong; too many years spent watching action and horror movies.

But, Simon Blowers stood in his assigned house, looking out at the fighting and knew that something was wrong. Simon had joined the exalted Royal Marines a few years ago but a bad leg injury held him back and he had to leave before getting even a few weeks into his basic training. Since then, he had absorbed anything to do with army life and had a greater understanding of the processes within the services.

He watched as soldiers ran around outside; some attacking each other. They were running past his assigned house, further into the street, and Simon knew they shouldn’t advance until the houses had been cleared.

Shortly after the mayhem started, he could see mass hand to hand fighting taking place. Soldiers were killing each other and biting into flesh. Then, one of them burst into the house he was in. Simon watched as the soldier came towards him, fresh blood dripping from a ragged bite wound in his neck.

‘Mate… are you all right?’ Simon said to the soldier, backing away as the man advanced straight at him.

Simon kept backing away and shouting out to the soldier and then he saw the red, bloodshot eyes and yelled out. The other recruits came downstairs; they had been watching the exercise from an upstairs window. They stopped and stared in horror as Simon frantically tried to dodge the badly injured soldier.

‘Blowers, what the fuck, mate?’

‘Fucking help me then, don’t just stand there.’

‘What’s he doing, is he all right? Oi, mate, are you okay?’

The undead soldier turned at the new voices and advanced towards them.

Alex Cooke was the furthest away, a fact that saved his life, as the undead lurched at the nearest recruit and sank his teeth into his face, pulling him to the ground.

‘Fuck, fuck what’s he fucking doing?’ Cooke screamed at Blowers.

Blowers darted forward and kicked at the soldiers head, making him fall down. The soldier immediately tried to get up and rolled over, his face pressing against the arse cheeks of the recruit he toppled. The undead soldier then buried his face into the soft flesh and bite down; eliciting more screams from the recruit.

‘You dirty fuck, don’t bite his arse! He is biting his fucking arse.’

Cooke stands, in shock, as Blowers kicks down at the head and keeps kicking, until the undead lies motionless. Blowers then bends down and tries to pull the other recruit out from under the body.

‘He’s fucking dead.’ Blowers looks up to Cooke.

They both gaze out of the windows and at the carnage taking place outside.

‘I’m out of here,’ Cooke starts to run, followed by Blowers.

They both run to the end, dodging round fighting soldiers and bodies on the ground.

Shots and loud explosions were still sounding out, as the soldiers tried desperately to fight back against the increasing number of undead. The other recruits were at the safe zone, watching with fear; some of them were crying.

‘What do we do?’ Tucker cries out, having just seen Blowers running towards them.

‘Fucking leg it now… get out of here, quickly,’ a soldier runs towards them, waving at them to run but an undead grabs him from the side and pulls him down onto the ground, biting into his face. Then more undead dive into him, biting and gnashing as the soldier screams at the recruits.

‘RUN, FUCKING RUN.’

The recruits start moving away, then, as one, they turn and run into the darkness. They run along the road for a few minutes, then see more fighting and zombie soldiers ahead of them.

‘Off the road quick… this way,’ Blowers heads into the darkness of the plains.

They keep running for several minutes and then slow down to a jog, until the noise of the fighting and the screams are left behind.

They take cover behind a low hill, then sit on the ground, heavily panting.

‘What the fuck was that?’ asked trainee recruit, Roland McKinney. He was addressing his question to Julian Talley, who was sitting next to him.

‘I don’t fucking  know.’

‘Is that part of the exercise?’ asked Tucker.

‘No, it fucking isn’t, you thick cunt,’ Darren Smith shouts at him, clearly panicking.

‘What do we do?’ voices McKinney.

‘Let’s just wait here and keep low,’ replied Blowers.

They try to get their breath back, terrified and sweating in the hot dark night.

A loud engine roars above them and a long metal barrel comes into view, followed by a huge army tank that rises up on the hill behind them. The tank teeters on the top and starts down straight towards them. They scatter off in different directions, but one is too slow; tripping over and getting caught under the tracks. He is pulverised instantly; his body bursting apart.

The recruits scream as the tank goes over their friend. Then they see a man sticking out of the hole in the top of the tank; another man is pinning him over the edge of the hole and biting into the back of his neck.

The tank roars past them and keeps going toward the village.

‘Did you fucking see that?’ Cooke screams out.

‘We need to keep going,’ Blowers shouts, in response.

A few rush towards the broken body that is left from the tank assault.

‘He’s gone, leave him, we need to go… now,’ Blowers shouts out and starts running further into the plains.

The others respond, hastening to catch up with him.

‘Where are we going?’ Cooke shouts to Blowers.

‘I don’t fucking know, just keep running.’

‘Which way is the compound?’ Talley shouts, but none of them know and they just keep running.

After ten minutes, they see lights and head towards them.

There is a base set up there with some more tanks that are stationary. Camouflage netting is stretched over a field table; maps and papers on the table top. The recruits see movement between the lights and run forward, shouting and screaming for help. Then they see people running towards them and Blowers and Cooke, at the front, notice the oncoming soldiers’ red eyes.

‘Fuck,’ they both shout and run left and right.

The oncoming, undead soldiers run into the group and take down the nearest recruits who scream and beg for help as they are bitten and savaged.

Talley and McKinney run towards a recruit who is being pinned down. He is thrashing against an undead that is gorging on his face. They both kick and punch at the zombie who falls away. Then they help the injured recruit to his feet and start running away from the lights.

They get away and stop to rest in the dark, still hearing the screams from behind them.

Soon, they are joined by more of the trainees as they lower the injured man down onto the ground. They feel for a pulse and check for a breath, from the inert body.

‘He’s fucking dead,’ Talley cries out.

McKinney drops down and starts doing chest compressions.

‘Someone, get some air into him,’ McKinney shouts at the watching men, after a few minutes of pumping his chest. A recruit drops down and uses his sleeve to wipe the blood away from the man’s mouth, then leans over and starts blowing air into his lungs. The injured man surges upright and the man giving the kiss of life thrashes at him, as his lips are savaged by the newly made zombie.

McKinney jumps back and they all start kicking at the man they were trying to save just moments ago. He refuses to budge and keeps sinking his teeth further into the man’s face.

‘Fuck this,’ McKinney says, before running away and the rest follow him, going deeper into the plains of the tank training ground.

As that first night progresses, they lose several more of their new colleagues, as zombies lurch out of the darkness and take them down.

The plains are dark as they have no ambient light; the ground is rutted and undulating from years of accommodating the immensely heavy vehicles.

On one occasion, the ground dropped down in front of them and they fell into a small group of undead that were stooped over a freshly killed body. One of the terrified recruits tripped over the body and fell down with a yell and the zombies were on him instantly, devouring his exposed skin.

By Saturday morning, they were exhausted, filthy and very, very  lost. They tried resting in amongst the hills and Blowers posted lookout’s to keep watch. The men were told to shout out when an undead appeared in the grounds and they would all run off again and drop down when they couldn’t run anymore.

During the afternoon, they found a prone body. They looked around, but couldn’t see any of the zombies, so they approached the body and saw that it was a zombie; groaning and twitching, but unable to get up or move. The back of its neck was severely injured and there was blood all down the camouflage clothes.

‘He’s got a water bottle on his belt,’ Cooke said, looking at the body.

‘Fuck! We need to drink… someone go and get it,’ Darren Smith said, turning to look at the group, his eyes settling on Tucker.

‘Why me?’ Tucker asked, guessing that he had been chosen.

‘You’re in the catering corps, so you’re in charge of supplies,’ Talley said to him.

Tucker looked around at the faces, hoping for a reprieve. But, with none coming, he slowly edged forward to the body.

‘Come up from behind him,’ Blowers called out.

‘Yeah, I bet you’ve done that before,’ Cooke shouts and a few of them snigger.

Tucker reaches the body, gingerly stretches out and pulls the bottle from the undead’s belt. Then, standing up and grinning, he holds the bottle high.

‘Tucker watch out,’ Talley shouts as the undead rolls quickly towards Tuckers feet.

Tucker staggers backwards and trips, going down onto his arse, before scrabbling up with a whimper and running back to the men.

As Tucker unscrewed the bottle’s cap and took a sip, the rest of the men watched intently; making sure that he only took a sip, before handing the bottle onto the next man.

Talley was the last to drink.

‘Is there any left, Talley?’ Blowers asked him.

‘Yeah, not much though, we’ll save it for later - that okay with everyone?’

They all looked longingly at the bottle, but nod in agreement.

The day is blisteringly hot and the sun is beating down on the plain. The men find no shade and they sweat freely; rapidly losing water and dehydrating.

As night falls on Saturday they hear what sounds like wolves howling into the night sky. The sound comes from all around them and chills them to the bone and so they get up and run again. The undead zombie soldiers chase them relentlessly through the hills and valleys and it’s only when one recruit falls down and is set upon, that the others can get away.

They keep going throughout the night, until they can go no further and exhaustion makes them fall down.

They stay safe for a few hours, until one of them screams out as his neck is bitten by his friend - the others run off and again lose the undead in the gloom of the night.

By Sunday morning, they need sleep and so they nestle between a small collection of low hills; lookouts posted and rotated every hour.

That afternoon they spot the undead again in the distance and have to keep moving.

The thirty that started off are picked off one by one until, by Sunday night, there are just twelve remaining.

As the sun came up on Monday morning, they saw the road in the distance and followed alongside it, still keeping low and using the hills to put spotters on and check the skyline.

They have learnt more survival instincts in these two days than they ever would have during the two week training camp.

Eventually, after trudging for many miles, they see the compound buildings in the distance and work their way over.

They get closer and see the hundreds of undead shuffling between the buildings; most of them are grouped in the drill square and move aimlessly about.

The trainee recruits watch and look for gaps, talking amongst themselves about the change in behaviour from the night time. They slowly creep forward and see a chance to get into a building, by the near side of the drill square. In single file, they inch forward, closer and closer, until they can see the door.

Then, as one, they burst out and sprint the final distance, legs burning and lungs heaving for that last final stretch. As they reach the door, the closest undead turn and start shuffling towards them. The last recruit gets through the door and slams it shut, just as the whole horde from the drill square start moving across. Within minutes, the building is surrounded and they are standing around a cold water tap in the toilet room, quenching their raging thirst and then collapsing down onto the floor.

2nd Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs comes down the stairs, holding his head and clutching the handrail, stopping when he sees the filthy men dressed in civilian clothing… before long, they are all in the classroom.

We stand and look at the lowered metal bar stretched across the road and the small sentry hut next to it.

It has taken us several hours to find the road to the army training centre, but, after many wrong turns, and avoiding small groups of undead, we found it.

‘Is this it?’ I look at Dave.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘It doesn’t look like much…’ I was expecting something more high-tech than this. ‘It looks like something from World War Two.’

‘It probably is.’

‘Bloody hell, on the movies they have big electric gates and cameras and stuff.’

Dave just looks at me silently for a few minutes and I shrug back at him.

The metal bar stretches across the road and the guard hut is just a small, wooden built structure with glass windows and a large doorway.

‘So… where’s the guard?’ I ask Dave.

‘Should be there,’ he points at the empty hut.

We walk closer, leaving the unmarked police car on the road. Dave had told me not to bring a weapon out and he made sure to leave his knives in the car. We approach the hut and check inside - but it’s definitely empty. There is a high wire fence, topped with razor wire running off in both directions and I can see buildings in the distance.

‘So where’s the switch for this thing? I ask Dave, as I mooch about in the hut, then start examining the end of the metal bar.

Dave walks over and pushes the heavy end down and the smaller end lifts up with ease.

‘It’s manual.’

‘Oh, right. Well… are we driving in or walking? I personally think driving - so that we can get away if something horrible happens, which it invariably will. It seems to happen every half a bloody hour!’

‘Okay, we’ll drive.’

We go back to the car and drive through, then decide to leave the barrier up, so that we can make a fast escape, if we need to.

‘So… why is there just a single barrier there, it doesn’t look that secure.’

‘There’s always two guards at every entrance.’

‘Armed guards?’

‘Yes.’

We drive down the road and, after a few minutes, the buildings come into view. There are basic structures set around a massive drill square and, beyond the buildings, there is another road going into a vast, open area.

‘Are those the plains, over there?’

‘I think so.’

‘So… that must be where they do the tank training.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Well - I don’t see any big vehicles here, so they must be somewhere else, out there maybe. SHIT!!! Look at that….’

I stop the car and we both look down to the drill square and the hundreds of undead gathered round a single building.

The undead are all facing into the building, indicating there must be survivors inside or that’s the place they saw a survivor.

‘I fucking knew it, what did I say? Every half hour something horrible happens. Fuck me, are they all soldiers?’

The entire undead massed horde are roughly dressed the same way - in green and brown camouflaged army uniform, of sorts. Some are wearing what looks to be battle dress with helmets on and twigs and branches stuck in the top. I reel back, amazed at the sight.

‘That’s a fucking army, that is - a fucking zombie army of the undead,’ I turn to look at Dave who is leaning forward and staring intently at the scene in front of us. None of the undead has seen us yet; we are still a way off from them.

‘I can’t see another way round Dave, the road just goes straight through them all.’

‘Look,’ Dave points at the building being surrounded by the undead, a window opens and a person leans out, waving something white at us.

I get out and wave back; both my arms high up in the air.

‘Dave, we’ll have to do something, we can’t just leave them there.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Dave gets out and we both stand and look at the scene in front of us.

‘Dave, do you know Morse code?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘We could use the car headlights to signal to them, would that work?’

‘Yes.’

I pull the car round, so that the front of the car is facing towards the building and then show Dave how to operate the high beam on the headlights.

It’s daylight and very sunny, so hopefully the undead won’t see us; they’re all facing the other way anyway.

‘Got the idea, mate?’

‘I think so.’

He gets into the driver’s seat and starts pulling at the headlight stick; quick on and off - then a longer on.

‘Okay, all yours, now, Dave – keep going.’

‘Okay.’

He pauses for a few seconds, then looks up at me.

‘What do you want me to say?’

‘I…  I don’t know… oh… ask them how many there are in there?’

‘Okay,’ Dave starts pulling at the light stork and I watch the light flicker on and off, then I look back to the building and watch as the man with the white thing goes back inside.

‘Sir, there’s people over there, Sir… where are you?’

‘I am right here thank you, Private Cooke – now, what are you shouting about?’

‘Sir, there’s a car just come down the road, they’ve seen us.’

‘How did they see us, Private Cooke?’

‘Simon waved a hand towel at them, through the window.’

‘That’s very clever of Private Blowers, isn’t it… now, let’s have a look shall we?’

Blowers comes out of the upstairs room and shouts down to the 2nd Lieutenant.

‘Sir, they are signalling us. I think it’s Morse code - they’re using the car headlights.’

2nd Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs goes into the room and watches out of the open window, trying not to look down at the hungry, zombie faces staring up at him.

‘Yes, I think you’re right Private Blowers. It does appear that they are trying to signal to us.’

‘Well… what are they saying, Sir?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know?’

‘You’re army intelligence Sir, every intelligence officer is trained in Morse code.’

Galloway-Gibbs panics, thinking furiously.

He can’t admit that he doesn’t know Morse code, or they’ll find out he isn’t trained or even fully commissioned yet.

‘Yes, of course – well, some are, but not all of us though. Things have changed and evolved Private Blowers and umm… Morse code training is a specialist training skill that only a few get these days. I put in for it, of course, but you know what the army’s like, bloody waiting lists eh?’

‘Right… Sir, well how do we signal back?’

‘I’m in intelligence, Private Blowers, not a train signalman - use your imagination.’

‘I found this, Sir.’

Galloway-Gibbs turns to see Private Talley, holding a torch out in front of him.

‘He doesn’t know Morse code, Talley,’ Blowers tells him.

‘Oh…’ Talley lowers the torch and goes back out of the room.

‘DOES ANYONE KNOW MORSE CODE?’ Talley booms out into the hallway.

More of the men appear from rooms, looking sleepy and dishevelled.

‘What? Why?’ Darren Smith asks.

‘There’s a car up on the road, it’s using the headlights to signal to us, does anyone know Morse code?’

‘The officer will - he’s in intelligence. I thought they all got trained,’ Smith answers.

‘No, apparently not,’ Talley looks down as Tucker walks into the open hallway and looks up at him.

‘I used to do it at Scouts,’ Tucker offers.

‘Tucker, well done mate - come and have a go.’

‘It was years ago, though. I don’t remember it,’ He stammers, suddenly nervous.

‘Just try, Tucker,’ Smith shouts to him.

Tucker climbs the stairs and enters the room, behind Talley.

‘Tucker said he used to do Morse code in the Scouts, Sir.’

‘Well done, Private Tucker… where’s that torch?’ Talley hands the torch to Tucker who goes over to the window and looks out at the car’s flashing lights.

‘Errr… bloody hell, hang on,’ Tucker looks into the lens of the flashlight and presses the on button, then reels back from the retina burn of the bright light.

‘Tucker, you fucking idiot - shine it at them, not yourself,’ Talley shouts at him.

‘I was making sure that it works,’ Tucker replies, then points the flashlight at the car and starts pressing the light on and off, rapidly.

‘So, what’s he saying, Private Tucker?’ The officer asks.

‘I don’t know yet, Sir. I’m asking him to start the message again.’

The car lights go off for a few seconds, then start blinking with short and longer bursts.

Tucker’s mouth moves as he tries to keep up with the letters being signalled to him.

‘Shit, I lost it - I need a pen and paper.’

‘Private Talley, go and get Private Tucker something to write with please.’

Talley shoots out of the room, calling for pen and paper, and returns, within seconds, armed with several pens and pads, from a nearby office.

‘Here you are mate.’

‘No, I’ll call out the letters and you write them down.’

‘Okay mate, ready when you are.’

Tucker flashes back to the car, asking them to start again.

The car lights go out and then, after the seconds of pause, they start flashing and Tucker calls the letters out.

‘H… O…. W… M… A… N…. Y – oh, what does that spell?  He looks at Talley.

‘How many?’ Talley responds.

‘How many what?’ Galloway-Gibbs demands from Tucker.

‘I don’t know, Sir - that’s all he sent.’

‘How many of us - probably,’ Blowers says, without looking round.

‘Yes, thank you, Private Blowers, I am sure we could have worked that out for ourselves. Well Tucker - answer the man and make sure you tell him there’s an officer here as well.’

‘Can’t I just tell him there are thirteen of us, Sir?’

‘No, Private Tucker, you cannot. They need to know an officer of the British Army is in this building - so tell them.’

The officer stares at Tucker, just as Talley and Blowers shrug their shoulders. Tucker turns back to the window and starts flashing the torch again.

‘He says thirteen and something else - but I can’t make it out, Mr Howie.’

‘Okay, so there are thirteen of them in there? Wow, that’s a lot - why are they hiding and not fighting their way out?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘There’s a lot of zombies, but still, thirteen of them and especially if they are soldiers. Right we need a plan,’ I look at Dave.

‘We could lead them away.’

‘No mate, it’s already late and it will take bloody hours to lure away a group like that, it would be nice to get through them and get one of those APS vehicles - and then come back.’

‘APC.’

‘Yeah… that’s what I meant - but we can’t get through them without a fight.’

I sense Dave looking at me. I think I have just used his favourite word and his ears pricked up; like a child being offered sweets. I can’t help feeling the urge too though. That feeling of battle is amazing - in the last two days I have become addicted to it. I start to smile and feel the adrenalin coursing through my system.

‘Well, Dave - a fight it is then.’

There it is again, that small smile on his face - it lights him up. How can I say no to such a nice man?

‘Are we driving down or walking, Dave?’

‘Walk, then we can drop them as we go.’

‘Good idea chum, walking it is then – now, do I take the axe or not: axe or shotgun, axe or shotgun,’ I weigh both of them in my hands, trying to decide.

‘Take both, Mr Howie.’

‘You think so?’

‘You’ll need it when we get close, you won’t have time to reload.’

‘Fair point mate, both then.’

I put the bag onto my back and tighten the straps, then drop the axe down, so that the head is resting on the top of the bag and the handle is hanging down.

‘Don’t trip up this time, Mr Howie.’

‘I won’t, mate.’

‘And if you do, try to shoot them this time.’

‘Okay, mate.’

I take the plastic carrier bag that Dave fashioned into a shotgun cartridge holder and loop it through my belt, then I fill it with shotgun cartridges.

‘Are you taking the rifle or the other shotgun, Dave?’

‘The rifle, Mr Howie… and the knives.’

‘I thought you might.’

Dave puts the Tesco fleece on and loads up the pockets with ammunition strips for the Lee Enfield .303 rifle.

‘Mr Howie, can I use your bag to put some ammunition in and my knives?’

‘Of course mate, no problem.’

Dave goes behind me and I feel as he rummages about in the side pockets and puts ammunition in them. I turn my head as he slides his two favourite straight-bladed knives into the elastic mesh at the front of the bag.

‘Ready, mate?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie. Just stay to my left please, so I can reload from your bag.’

‘Okay, got it.’

We both take a long drink of water and then start walking down, towards the horde.

‘What the bloody hell are they doing? Are they mad?’ 2nd Lieutenant Charles Galloway-Gibbs shouts out in surprise, as the two men leave the car and walk towards them.

‘There’s only two of them, they will be slaughtered,’ he says, more to himself than the other men.

‘They’re armed though, Sir.’

‘What, with one gun each? Against hundreds of those things down there, they must be bloody mad.’

At least they are trying, Blowers thinks to himself.

The road is set higher than the parade square and the building beyond and so we have to walk down a slope. I can’t help smiling at the absurdity of it. Two of us against an actual army of zombies, armed with one rifle, one shotgun, two knives and one axe. Fuck me, we must be mad. I chuckle to myself and Dave looks across.

‘Are you okay, Mr Howie?’

‘Oh, yes, mate, never felt better. Let’s start picking them off and then we can move left and spread them out a bit over that big car park and give those blokes inside a chance to break out.’

‘It’s a parade square.’

‘What is?’

‘That big car park, it’s a parade square.’

‘Oh, okay - we can spread them out over the parade square then… you picky bugger.’

We both stop and Dave raises the rifle, then scans along the horde from left to right and then back to the middle. He looks down at the shotgun in my hands.

‘Just a bit closer.’

‘Okay mate, say when.’

We walk for another few seconds, until Dave judges the distance is effective for the shotgun, then we both stop again and he looks at me.

‘Ready, Mr Howie?’

‘I always ask that?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘That’s okay mate. Ready, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

I raise the shotgun to my shoulder and fire both barrels into the crowd. As soon as the first barrel opens up, Dave is firing the rifle. I watch several of the undead drop from the spread of the shotgun pellets.

I reload quickly and fire into them again. Dave is firing rapidly, aiming his shots and picking them off one by one. I take a second between reloading to watch his shots, and, even from this range, nearly all of them are head shots.

Dave fires and pulls the bolt back, then fires again - the action repeated over and over as shiny brass shells are expended and launched out of the breech.

The undead have started to turn now and are shuffling towards us.

I keep loading and firing and, at this range, I am dropping several with each shot. I don’t expect to kill them, but at least they are knocked over, which will thin them out a bit.

We move forward slowly, firing and reloading; Dave pulling the strips of bullets from his pockets and slotting them down into the rifle, then pulling the bolt and firing.

As we get closer, I can see just how many there are: several hundred of them.

We are whittling away at them and more drop with each shot. I can see the effect of the shotgun now that we are closer; they are torn apart and flung backwards by the power of it.

‘MOVE LEFT,’ Dave shouts out and we both start stepping left as we fire.

The horde reacts and starts to follow us. The plan works slowly and they begin stringing out from the densely packed crowd.

We keep firing and dropping them from the front, bodies are laying all about and we are doing good work, but, for every one we drop, several more shuffle into view.

After several minutes, Dave pats his pockets and shouts.

‘AMMUNITION.’

I drop down with one knee in the ground and keep firing, as Dave gropes in the bag and pulls out more clips.

He pushes more shotgun cartridges into my belt bag.

‘Thanks, mate.’

We maintain this position for a few minutes, with me kneeling down and Dave standing to my right. They are much closer now and the shotgun pellets have less distance and are therefore less spread out, but the effect at this range is devastating and they are hammered backwards, with bits of undead body flying off.

The undead dropped at the front create an obstacle for those following and many trip over the bodies, which creates more gaps between them, as they struggle to get back up.

‘No sign of any super zombies then?’ I say to Dave, as we both reload.

‘Not yet, Mr Howie.’

And then we are back, firing and firing into them and watching as undead zombie soldiers are mown down by the rifle and the shotgun.

Heads explode, as the bullets enter their foreheads, and rip out the back of the skull; showering the closest zombies with bits of grey matter. Deadly shards of bones from the skulls fly off too and are embedded into more undead brains and flesh.

‘I’M ALMOST OUT, DAVE.’

‘MOVE BACK.’

We step more to the left, creating distance from the slow moving horde. I drop down again and Dave rummages through the bag and hands me more cartridges.

‘THAT’S IT.’

I pick my shots, aiming into the densest part of the crowd, trying to use the full effect of the shotgun. Within seconds though, the ammunition is gone.

‘I’M OUT.’

Dave fires a few more times, then loops the rifle strap over his shoulder and neck, so that it is secure on his back. He runs round to the back of me as I release the chest and waist clips and Dave pulls the bag down and hands me the axe.

‘Leave the shotgun here with the bag, we’ll come back for it,’ I say to Dave, as I take the axe from him.

Dave draws the knives from the front of the bag and we start moving back to the right, following the path we have just taken. The horde is slow to react and I can see that they are strung out, coming away from the building. We have killed many of them and more are wriggling on the ground, tangled with the bodies they have tripped over.

We keep moving, until the building is in front of us. The men inside are all staring out of the windows.

‘Ready, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘LET’S HAVE IT THEN.’

We both roar out and charge forward into the undead, the axe is raised and ready and I just see Dave lean forward with his arms out behind him then leap and spin through the air, driving the knives into the back of an undead soldier neck.

The heat of battle is upon me once again and I chop down at my first undead soldier and the axe slices through his skull. I pull back and move forward again; swinging out and chopping zombies down, as they lunge forward at me.

‘COME ON,’ I roar at them. ‘COME TO ME, YOU FUCKERS.’

I lash out, left and right, cleaving a path through the bodies.

Blood sprays out and I am soaked by the spray back.

Dave is twirling and dancing through them, flowing like water and slicing the blades across jugulars and stabbing through the necks and into the spinal columns. I see two come at him, one from the front and one from behind. Dave drops down onto his back and sticks the blades up into their heads, driving the knives into their brains. Then he is up and on to the next one. My aiming is getting better with the axe and I use less power and more skill now; judging the blow and conserving energy, but still the axe destroys them - the sharp blade rips flesh apart, and the blunt end smashes their skulls in.

‘Fucking look at them go… Jesus, fucking Christ,’ Blowers is up on his feet, staring at the two men who have just shot down many of the zombie soldiers while drawing them away from the building.

‘Fuck me, look at the small bloke with those knives, have you ever seen anything like that?’ Talley yells out, equally excited.

‘Fuck this, I’m going to join in and get some,’ Blowers starts for the door but 2nd Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs blocks his path.

‘Private Blowers, you will stand down - they have hundreds to get through yet and they will not make it.’

‘They are bloody trying though Sir and we could help. That lot are all facing the other way - we can attack from the rear, Sir’ Blowers screams out, desperate to join the fight.

‘Do not question my orders Private, now do as you are told.’

Blowers was only in the Royal Marines for a very short time, but he met officers and they didn’t talk to people like this. His face hardens and he stares at the officer. Blowers observes the officer swallow nervously while still maintaining that superior sneer.

‘Sir, with all due respect, you can fuck off.’ Blowers pushes past the stunned officer, shoving him out of the way.

Talley and the others quickly follow. Tucker tries to push past and looks at the officer.

‘Sorry Sir, excuse me Sir,’ Tucker squeezes through and runs down the stairs with his mates.

‘Grab anything you can use,’ Blowers yells at them and grabs at a long metal pole used for opening the top windows.

The men rush round, finding anything that can be used as a weapon: wooden chairs, a coat stand and a couple of them turn the classroom tables over and pull the thick wooden legs off.

Tucker tries to find something and comes back with a spatula from the kitchen.

Blowers shakes his head and looks at the assembled men.

‘We only met a few days ago, but this lot of fuckers have killed our mates and those two blokes are fighting to get to us. We are going to go out there and fuck them up, got it?’ The men nod; faces stern and ready.

Then they pull the doors open and pour out into the battle, roaring with the charge.

I keep killing them and they keep coming.

We are slowly beating a path towards the building line, but the undead are dense here and the battle gets harder. I keep having to move backwards, in order to create space. Dave is now just a couple of steps behind me and we are almost fighting back to back, slowly getting surrounded.

‘I’M THINKING THIS MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BAD IDEA, DAVE.’

‘SWAP PLACES, MR HOWIE.’

We spin round, so that Dave is facing towards the building and I can cover his back with the range of the axe.

‘STAY WITH ME,’ Dave roars and starts slashing his way through. Zombies are dropping down like flies from the amazing speed of his arms.

He roars and shouts as he attacks them.

I swing the axe out, battering them away and moving backwards to keep up with Dave. The progress is better now; we are making headway.

More undead soldiers lurch at me and I drive the axe down on them, then swing back out and knock more down; desperate to get space. Dave is still going: slashing left, right and forward and the body count keeps going up, as his arms whirl through the air, his face slick with blood.

Then I hear loud shouting and I glance round to see men bursting out of the building holding a collection of weapons - one fat lad has a spatula in his hand.

They charge into the back of the undead horde and we fight with renewed energy as both sides slaughter a path to each other.

I scream out and join Dave at the front, lashing out with the axe; battering and cleaving the bodies.

Dave is screaming and slashing them down and, within seconds, we get to the men.

‘GO INSIDE,’ Dave bellows at them and they react instantly to his drill sergeant voice, falling back and running into the doorway.

One lad stays, fighting and battering at the zombies with a metal pole, screaming abuse and lashing out.

I run up behind him and grab the back of his shirt and start pulling him back.

‘MOVE BACK, GET INSIDE,’ I scream at him and he allows me to pull him back inside the building and slam the door shut.

We all slump down on the floor, gasping for breath. Even Dave looks flustered for once and he is sweating heavily as his chest heaves. I lean back against a wall and slide down, the axe resting by the side of me. The men recover quicker than us, but then we did a lot more fighting than them.

‘Good work, lads,’ I say to them. ‘Thanks for the help.’

The eager faces look at me and the fat lad rushes off and comes back a few seconds later with a large glass of water - he hands it to Dave.

‘Mr Howie, first.’ Dave pants and gestures towards me.

The guy’s look at me keenly and I note that they are all in normal clothes and not army uniform.

‘Thanks, Dave,’ I take the water and down it in one, then hand the glass back and the lad rushes off to get more.

‘Bring two glasses this time, Tucker,’ one of the men shouts as he disappears into the kitchen.

He comes back with two glasses of water, and we sit and drink, trying to get our breathing back under control.

I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and my arm comes away all bloody.

‘That was fucking, amazing,’ One of the men says to me, then they all join in, offering thanks and praise to both of us.

I hold my hand up.

‘Really, it’s nothing - just trying to help.’

‘That wasn’t nothing… you killed loads of them. That was fucking awesome.’

‘Well… we were starting to struggle at the end there, eh, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Glad you came out when you did,’ I catch the glances again as they hear Dave call me Mr Howie.

Not again, and I try to intercept before the name sticks.

‘I’m Howie and this is Dave.’

We get a chorus of responses and one of the men stands up in front of me and offers his hand, the same lad I had pulled away.

‘Thank you, Mr Howie.’

I shake his hand.

Fuck it, I bloody knew that would happen again, but I’m too exhausted to argue. I’ll tell them later.

‘I’m Blowers, Simon Blowers,’ he repeats the action with Dave and I watch with amusement as Dave gives a very quick handshake then wipes his hand down his trousers.

I get to my feet and offer my hand to the next one, and I keep going, knowing they will respond and then offer to shake Dave’s hand.

I smile as he stares at me and then wipes his hand between each shake.

‘And who exactly are you, gentlemen?’ A posh man comes down from the stairs and I look up to see him: tall with slicked back hair, he is wearing a smart, green uniform. Not the camouflage dress of the soldiers outside.

‘Hello, I’m Howie, nice to meet you.’ I walk towards him with my hand outstretched.

He gets to the bottom of the steps and looks down at my blood soaked hand with disdain.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, mate,’ I wipe my hand down the back of my trousers and offer it again.

He accepts, with a very limp grip.

‘Lieutenant Charles Galloway-Gibbs of the British Army Intelligence Corps,’ he drops my hand and I can see that he is itching to wipe his, but too well mannered to do it in front of me.

‘Now, I asked you a question, who are you?’

I stare back at him, quizzically.

‘I just told you, I’m Howie and this is Dave.’

‘Where are you from?’ He speaks slowly; with a patronising sneer.

‘I’m from Boroughfare, why?’

‘I mean what regiment are you from?’

‘I’m not from a regiment.’

This bloke is a prick and has irritated me already. The flush of battle is still on me and I can’t help but get bridled by his rude manner.

‘You are not from a regiment? Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?’

‘We’ve come to steal an APS…’

‘APC,’ Dave calls out, from behind me.

‘We’ve come to steal an APC and then we saw you lot in here so we thought we’d help.’

Dave joins me and stands smartly in front of the officer, then, surprisingly, he salutes.

‘Sir!’ Dave states, crisply.

The officer looks at Dave and turns to me.

‘Not from a regiment?’

‘No, I just told you that, I’m from Boroughfare.’

‘He looks like a soldier to me.’ The officer gestures to Dave.

‘He was... I’m not.’ I speak slowly, angry at the incredibly rude manner of the man.

I turn my back on him and look to the men who are standing around the hallway, all of them watching me with interest.

‘So there are thirteen of you? Is that right?’ They nod at me, and I can see them glancing back at the officer.

Fuck him, I’m not in the army and I don’t have to be polite to him.

‘So - are you all soldiers, then?’

‘Kind of,’ Simon Blowers replies. ‘We’ve just joined the TA. We only arrived on Friday for our first two-week camp.’

‘Do not turn your back on me, I was talking to you.’ The officer speaks from behind me.

‘You were speaking rudely to me, that’s what you were doing, mate - and after what we just did…’

‘Do not call me, mate. I am an officer in the British Army and you do not call me… that word!’

I spin round. At any other time I might have been able to swallow it and remain polite, but the adrenalin is still in me and I lose my temper and jab my finger into his chest, driving him back into the classroom.

‘You are fucking rude, that’s what you are… MATE… now me and Dave here have just fought through a shit load of zombie soldiers to try and help you and all you can do is sneer and patronise me.’

The officer looks scared, but he shouts back me, his face flushing red.

‘DO NOT TOUCH ME! I AM AN OFFICER, YOU MEN,’ he points at the men in the hallway. ‘ARREST HIM, NOW, HE HAS ASSAULTED AN OFFICER.’

The men just stare at each other; looks of amazement on their faces.

‘IF YOU DO NOT ARREST HIM NOW… I WILL HAVE YOU ALL SHOT WHEN THE REST OF THE ARMY ARRIVES.’

A couple of them step forward, clearly scared by the threat.

Dave gently steps in front of them and shakes his head.

‘There is no army, there’s nothing out there. Every city, town and village we’ve been through has fallen. Those things are everywhere, the whole country and the whole of Europe is gone, there’s no army, no police… nothing.’

The men stare in horror at me.

‘What did you think was going on? That this was just here in this place? No lads, I’m sorry - but it’s all gone.’

A few of them reel back, clearly thinking of families and friends, their homes and loved ones.

Even the officer goes quiet and stares off into space, and then he looks at me and speaks softly.

‘How do you know this?’

‘I watched it happen. The whole of Europe got infected within a few hours, god knows how it happened so fast, but it did - and now it’s here. There are a few survivors, but not many.’

A tear falls down his cheek and he slumps down into one of the classroom chairs and starts sobbing loudly into his hands.

I pull the door closed and turn back to face the gathered men. A few of them are crying quietly and some have slumped down against the walls. The ones at the front don’t show a reaction though, and I note the hard looks on their faces; especially from the one called Blowers.

There is a long silence and then I look over at Dave, who has assumed his usual devoid expression look.

He is covered in blood and bits of body; I step over and pick a small chunk of grey matter and white bone from his shoulder. Then it gets stuck to my fingers and I try to shake it off, but the bloody thing won’t go and I flick at it with my other hand, but it gets stuck to that next; like a sticky bogey. I keep shaking my hand, but it won’t budge and I have to start waving my hand vigorously.

‘Get the fuck off my hand,’ I keep shaking and spinning round, then try to wipe it with the other hand and it again gets stuck.

‘Oh… for fuck’s sake,’ I look up and remember where I am.

Twelve faces are watching me in silence and even Dave has turned and is looking at me.

‘Sticky bit of brain won’t come off…’ I hold my hand up to show them, then drop my hand down and wipe it on the back of my trousers.

‘Er…mis there a bathroom? I could really do with getting cleaned up a bit.’

Blowers steps forward.

‘Follow me, Sir. I’ll show you where it is.’

‘Cheers mate… you coming, Dave? You look like a right, bloody mess too.’

A few minutes later, Dave and I are standing at washbasins, scrubbing our hands clean.

Blowers went back downstairs and said he would wait with the others. I wait a couple of minutes and close the door.

‘Who is that officer? What did he say he was?

‘He said he is a Leftenant from Army Intelligence.’

‘What’s a Leftenant?’

‘It’s a Lootenant, like the Americans have - it’s spelt the same, we just pronounce it differently.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘Is a Lieutenant a high up rank?’

‘He is a second Lieutenant, which means he’s just joined. He hasn’t got the full marks on his uniform yet, so he must be an OIT.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Officer in Training.’

‘So, he’s a newbie too, just like the rest of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s still a pompous, fucking, dick.’

Dave stays quiet, I guess his former life means he won’t badmouth an officer. I hold back from saying anymore ,so I don’t offend him. Dave left his bag in the car, and mine is out there too, amongst the undead army; so instead of his normal ritual of antiseptic cleansing wipes he is making do with army soap and water.

We scrub and clean the blood from our hands and faces. The front of my shirt is sticky and I take it off to rinse under the taps. The water runs pink and I catch my reflection in the mirror where the blood has soaked through onto my upper body.

I use paper towels from a dispenser and try to clean it off as best as possible. Dave copies me and starts rinsing out his clothes too, first the Tesco fleece, then his underneath top. We wring them out and spin them round in the bathroom, water flying off; we soak the ceiling from the spray.

‘They had windows open up here, didn’t they?’ I walk out and head across the landing to the rooms where they were leaning out to signal us.

The weather is still gloriously warm and we drape our tops over the windowsills to dry out.

We slump down into the chairs in the room and I pick up the bit of paper they used to decipher Dave’s Morse code, I show him and he nods back.

‘Is that smoke?’ I sniff the air and start to get up.

‘Dave, can you smell smoke?’ He nods and we both start down the stairs.

The smell of smoke is strong now and we can hear voices coming from one of the rooms.

I push the door open and find another classroom, much like the other one. The lads all stare round, looking guilty. They have pushed the tables and chairs back and started a small fire in the middle on the concrete floor. A large pan of water is resting on a metal frame rigged up over the flames. The lads stare at Dave and I, standing there, topless.

‘Tucker rigged this up, Sir - we thought you might fancy a brew.’

One of them points at the fat lad that ran out with the spatula, then got us the water.

‘Bloody hell, well done mate - that’s brilliant - where did you learn that?’

Tucker swells with pride and a big smile spreads over his face; the other lads visibly relax and start smiling at each other.

‘In the Scout’s, Sir. I used the metal frames from the chairs and just bent them up a bit. I won’t get in trouble for that, will I?’

‘What… for breaking a couple of chairs? You should be more worried about replacing that spatula if I were you,’ some of the lads start laughing and the atmosphere slowly changes.

‘What the bloody hell were you gonna do with a spatula, Tucker?’ One of them calls out and then more join in, until Tucker pulls the spatula from his back pocket and waves it at them, jokingly.

‘I’ve still got it - so watch out.’ Tucker swipes at the closest lad and hits him with the flat part of the metal  head.

‘Oi, sorry chef.’

I feel a bit awkward without my top on, I know it’s all lads, but still. Dave must have sensed my discomfort, because he nipped away, then came back with two lightweight green, camouflage jackets.

‘Ah, well done, Dave,’ I shrug the coat on and do the zip half up. Dave’s pulls his on and pulls the zip all the way to the top.

‘Where did you find them?’ One of the lads asks, Cooke I think his name is. ‘We looked everywhere for kit.’

‘Kit gets nicked, if it isn’t hidden,’ Dave answers.

Within a few minutes, we are all seated and Dave and I get the first steaming mugs of black tea; Tucker apologising profusely for not having any milk.

‘It’s fine mate, don’t worry,’ I take an appreciative sip of the tea to show my gratitude and almost scald my mouth in the process.

‘So lads, fill us in on what happened here.’

Blowers starts off, but soon the others join in.

‘Thirty of you to start with? Bloody hell, that’s awful. I’m really sorry for your loss.’

‘What about you, Sir? What happened out there?’

I explain about how the event started and then spread across Europe. I tell them what I heard about the Forts and London being infested. Then about travelling through Portsmouth and how horrific the devastation was. A few of them look down and start crying again when I mention Portsmouth, and I realise too late that they must be from there.

‘Sorry lads, it’s better you know the truth though.’

After a long pause, only broken by Dave taking repeated loud sips from his tea, Cooke looks over.

‘So… what happens now?’

‘Now? What do you mean?’

‘Well… what do we do now?’

‘Lads, I’m not here to tell you what to do. We came to steal an AP…C… so that we can get through London - we’ll get that and then be off.’

‘Why are you going to London?’ One of them asks.

‘For my sister, she left a message, just as the outbreak started; she’s locked herself in her flat so I’m going to get her and then head to the Forts.’

Dave coughs.

‘Sorry, we are going to get her and head to the Forts.’

‘How are you going to get one, Sir. They’re all down on the plains for the exercise.’

‘Well… I guess we’ll go down there then, we’ve come this far…’

‘Sir, there are hundreds of ‘em down there. These ones here were just waiting their turn for the exercise, there’s shit loads more down there, far more,’ Blowers says.

I look at Dave, who carries on sipping his tea.

‘What do you think, mate? I reckon it’s worth it.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

‘Mind you, we’ve got no ammunition left, so it’s down to the axe and the knives again. It’ll be a hard one, but there’s still a few hours of light left.’

‘Okay.’

A few of the lads watch us intently, some open-mouthed.

‘Fucking hang on a minute,’ s sudden realisation hits me. ‘This is the army, there must be loads of guns and things.’

‘In the armoury.’

‘Fuck it, let’s go and get them then.’ I’m all excited and raring to go again.

‘You can’t, Sir - the armoury is fully locked up,’ Cooke says.

‘Oh is it, well we can just unlock it then… somehow.’

‘Locked?’ Dave asks Cooke.

‘The Lieutenant told us.’

‘It’s not locked,’ Dave says.

‘How do you know? I ask him.

‘There was an exercise on, it wouldn’t be locked. They would need to be ready for re-supply.’

‘Ha! Even better then, right, where is it?’ I ask the lads, but they just stare back blankly and a few of them shrug their shoulders.

‘Oh, yeah - I forgot, you’re all new. Dave, do you know where it is?’

‘No, but it won’t be hard to find, Mr Howie.’

‘Okay, good. We’ve got a plan. Shall we?’ I ask Dave.

‘What about us, Sir? What should we do?’ I look round at the expectant faces. They have no idea where they are or where to go, I don’t want to lose valuable time but I understand that they must be terrified.

‘Listen lads, it’s up to you what you do. I know that you’ve learnt the difference between the zombies in the day and night, well… my advice is to avoid them at all costs during the hours of darkness. But, during the day, they become slow and they can be attacked, like that lot out there. We wouldn’t have done that during the night, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Having said that, we were fighting a load this morning and one of them grabbed my axe when I was going for him. He wasn’t like the others, he looked more switched on. Maybe he was a one off, but it’s something to keep in mind. Now, if you want to go back to your homes and families, then go for it, but remember what I said. It’s a horrible, brutal thing to say, but there are very few survivors. And it’s already been a few days, so… well it’s up to you. But, we are all going to need weapons and we are safer fighting together, so I think we should all go for the armoury and then you must go where you want from there.’

Most of them nod and I can see that they are in agreement. It makes sense if we stick together and fight our way through that lot.

‘Those of you who are up for it, we’ll meet you in the hallway in a couple of minutes, grab some weapons.’ I look at Tucker. ‘Maybe something a bit better than a spatula though, mate.’

I leave the room and head back up the stairs.

My top is not quite dry and the material clings to my skin as I put it on. Dave comes in and gets his on too.

‘I quite like this jacket, shall we keep them?’

He nods and we put them back on, over the damp shirts. I walk out into the hallway and go down through the corridor, opening doors, until I find the officer at a desk, his head resting in his hands.

‘Err… are you all right?’

He looks up; his slicked back hair isn’t so slicked back now; it sticks up in a mess. He is not saying anything.

‘We’re going for the armoury and then we’ll try finding one of those big vehicles. You coming?’

He still doesn’t reply, but just keeps on staring.

‘Listen mate, I know this is all a shock, but you’re still an officer and those lads could do with some leadership. Why don’t you come with us?’

Still no reply.

‘Well… what are you going to do then? Just sit here and wait? Mate, nobody is coming. If there is any army left they will be holed up somewhere trying to survive, like everyone else. Okay, look, I don’t have time to waste, if you are coming then we’ll be going in about two minutes.’

I leave the door open and walk away.

Dave is waiting for me at the top of the stairs and I shake my head at him. He nods back and we both go down. All of the recruits are there, armed with an assortment of weapons; mainly wooden table legs. They all look up expectantly as Dave and I walk down to them. We stop and stare back.

‘Listen lads, they are slow now but don’t stand and fight them. We just need to get through, that’s all. Once we are in the open, we can move much quicker than them, just watch out for any weirdo super zombies doing crossword puzzles.’

A couple of them smile back and I hear a few sniggers. Nervous excitement is running through them.

Dave starts to talk: ‘Strike and move… keep moving and keep a firm grip of your weapon. Strike and move. Do you understand me?’ Dave barks at them and I’m surprised at the harsh tone of his voice.

He moves into the crowd and shows them how to grip the clubs with both hands.

‘Strike down onto the head. Your objective is to get through them, so only strike when you need to - but do not hesitate. They lunge quickly at the last second. Do not let them get their mouths anywhere near you. Do you understand?’ He moves between them, raising the clubs and adjusting their grips, a few mutter back at him.

‘STRIKE AND MOVE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ His voice booms into the confined room and some of them jump from the sudden noise. More of them respond though and shout: ‘YES SIR’.

‘I AM NOT A SIR, HE IS A SIR,’ and he points to me. ‘I AM DAVE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

‘YES… DAVE.’

‘WHAT?’

‘YES… DAVE!’ They scream out.

‘Good,’ Dave says and comes back to my side.

The men are pumped up and ready, I whisper over to Dave: ‘I’m not, Sir! I’m just Howie… but everyone calls me Mr bloody Howie already, ‘cause of you.’

‘Yes… Mr Howie.’ That glint is in his eye again.

‘Right, where’s my axe?’

‘Here… Sir,’ Blowers hands it to me, and it’s been cleaned too.

‘Thanks mate, now… which way are we going Dave?’

‘The drill square first.’

‘Got it. Do you want to lead?’

He hesitates for a second, which I take full advantage of.

‘Too late, I’m closest to the door so I’m going first.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

I look round at the nervous faces and realise just how much I’ve changed in a few short days. I look at Dave and smile.

‘Ready, Dave?’

He smiles back: ‘Yes.’

I wrench the door open and charge out into the packed zombie bodies; screaming and roaring with adrenalin.

Dave is right behind me and launches himself straight into them; going off to one side and whirling his knives at their throats. I swing out and smash zombie skulls with my glorious axe.

The third battle today and I still feel the fury and rage within me as I destroy them one by one. The bodies are packed in here, but the axe and Dave’s knives soon clear some space and we fight out.

I hear more roars behind me as the recruits spill out of the building; charging into the packed horde. The wooden clubs are smacking them down, and undead bodies are falling to the ground all around us. This feels amazing, having so many fighting together - fighting as one - as a team toward a common goal.

The glory of battle surges through me and I give a fresh roar and plough further into them. The recruits respond and I can hear screams and guttural roars from all around me as we take them down.

Dave is spinning and dropping more bodies than any of the rest of us, but we surge forward and the zombies are beaten back by the sheer ferocity of the attack.

Fourteen of us charge in and fourteen of us batter and beat them; killing and destroying anything in our path.

This is one of the best feelings I have ever had. We are unstoppable. We are an army come to wreak vengeance on the zombie soldiers.

Within seconds, I am coated in blood again as the decaying grey faces loom up in front of me, waiting for me to cleave their skulls open. Three of them come from my left, all in a row. I pull the axe back and give a mighty heave, driving the blunt end into the closest one. He barrels into the next one and they all stagger down, only to be clubbed by recruits coming behind me. I glance back and watch the young men fighting. Some of them are clearly filled with the roar of the battle and are madly clubbing the zombies down. A few of the recruits look petrified though and are clutching the clubs to their chests and trying to stay away from the zombies. One of them is crying and whimpering; visibly shaking from head to toe. A zombie solider lurches at him, I shout a warning but it’s too late and he goes down.

Dave and I both run back towards him and attack the zombie, but all in vain. The zombie has bitten into the recruit’s neck and blood is spraying out over the ground. Another one of the young lads rushes to his side and tries to pull him up, as Dave goes back into the battle.

‘IT’S TOO LATE, KEEP GOING.’ I shout at him, he stares blindly at me and I push him forward into the gap created by Dave and the recruits who have fought their way to the front.

We burst out of the horde and suddenly there is space in front of us. Those out first, turn and fight to the sides; driving the zombie soldiers back, until all of the recruits are through and we run to the drill square.

It was a short but very intense battle and nearly all of them are breathing hard.

The last two days must have drained them; they must be close to exhaustion - they certainly look worn down.

We keep pushing them over to the far side of the drill square and let them flop down on the ground, to recover for a few minutes, as Dave scans the buildings around the area. I’m bent over with my left hand resting on my knee, the still dripping axe in my right. There are so many undead bodies on the ground now.

I look round to the recruits. Blowers and Cooke are jubilant and high-fiving some of the others. Even Tucker looks pumped up and is joking. A few of them are silent though; silent and terrified. I can see the fear in them.

It’s strange how the instinct for survival differs between people. Some, like the officer, will hide or go into shock, unable to process what they have lost and what’s going on around them. Others will follow the pack and, even though they don’t want to fight, the fear of being left alone, makes them move. Then there are those that will fight, even when they are terrified; they can see what must be done and will do it, because they have to.

Then there are: Blowers, Cooke, Smith, Talley, McKinney and Tucker. Taken into a fight, out of necessity, and they relish every second of it. I can see it on their faces now; as they re-live the battle and joke about how the heads exploded and the brains came out.

Some of the others are looking up to them and trying to joke along too, but I can see the conflicting emotions in them. They look at Blowers and Cooke and laugh, but then they glance at each other, for re-assurance. They have just killed what had been people; soldiers. What they want to be. What they now are.

I look back up at the car and realise what Dave and I did. Examining my own feelings now, I know that, as soon as I saw them, I wanted to be in there, hurting them and breaking them apart. We probably could have found a way around them, but I was glad that we hacked through, instead. What does that say about me?

That anger and fury I felt when I discovered my parents must have been killed, woke something inside me; I don’t know if it will ever go away now.

I realise that Dave has joined me, while I was deep in thought.

‘You okay, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘We probably could have found a way round them, don’t you think?’

‘Probably.’

‘But we didn’t.’

‘No.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

‘What?’

‘The killing? The fighting?’

He pauses for a second and looks me in the eye.

‘Do you, Mr Howie?’

There it is. I have been honest to myself, but can I be honest to another human being and say I do enjoy it?

We hold eye contact and I know that I don’t need to answer. I don’t need him to answer either. I start to smile at him.

‘Let’s get them guns, mate.’

He smiles back and turns back to scanning the buildings.

‘Weapons.’

‘What?’

‘We don’t call it a gun, we call it a weapon.’

‘You’re a picky bugger, Dave – so… which building is it?’

‘That one,’ he points to the left. There are a row of buildings facing the parade square. They are bigger than the ones on the side, where we rescued the recruits. Dave points at a large building in the middle of them.

‘How do you know?’

‘The armoury is always central, so that everyone can get to it quickly.’

The undead soldiers are shuffling over towards us, but our route is clear.

‘Right lads, you ready? We need to move,’ I turn and shout to the recruits, who slowly stand up and stretch their weary muscles. They look ready to drop and it’s clear they need food and rest and very soon.

‘These lads are fucked, mate,’ I say to Dave.

‘They need rest.’

‘We don’t have time to rest, Dave.’

‘I know that, Mr Howie.’

‘RIGHT. LET’S MOVE IT.’

They respond immediately to Dave’s drill sergeant voice booming at them, moving listlessly towards the buildings.

Dave was right and we were able to gain entry by simply forcing an external door. I can’t help but wander why the soldiers didn’t take weapons from here, if they thought they were under attack. But then, the undead and injured were their colleagues and mates, so I guess they just simply didn’t think of it as an attack.

The building leads into a hallway with a long counter and a wall behind it. From the set-up, I guess the soldiers line up at the counter and are issued with their weapon.

There is a set of closed double doors behind the counter and it takes Dave seconds to vault the counter, push the doors open and disappear inside. Some of the lads are quick to get over. By the time I get through the doors, I can hear whistles of appreciation and surprise.

The room inside is massive and takes up the rest of the length of the building. There are metal shelves running down both sides and, apart from the first half of one side, they are stacked with guns. The guns look identical and are racked stock down; the trigger guard facing out.

The recruits spread out, along the end of the room, just looking at the awesome display.

Dave is already down at the far end, going through boxes and opening doors to cabinets.

I walk down the length of the room, staring at the guns to either side. At the end, I see that Dave has opened a metal cabinet, there are rows of black handles sticking out and I only realise that they are handguns when Dave pulls one out and slides the top back.

‘The GPMG are gone, must be out in the field for the exercise,’ Dave says to me.

‘The what?’

‘The General Purpose Machine Gun. They must have taken it out,’

‘Is that one of the big things with a tripod or something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, well… we clearly don’t have enough guns here…’ I glance back along the shelves and stare at the impressive sight.

‘Dave, how long will it take to show us how to use them?’

Dave pauses and looks back at the recruits and seems to be thinking deeply. Eventually he turns back to me.

‘To learn how to fire the SA80 will only take a short time, but they need to know about the moving parts and how to clear the weapon, if it jams, and how to clean it, that takes longer to explain. But that only shows them how to use the weapon, and not any basic techniques.’

‘Okay, mate – well… it’s just gone 2 p.m. now, it gets dark at about 9.30 p.m., so we need to be in one of those big vehicles by that time - at the very least. How long do you need?’

‘Depends on them. Some will pick it up quickly, some won’t.’ I nod and turn to the recruits.

I probably know less than they do, but at least they had an interest when they joined up. I’ve never even seen an Army machine gun in real life. I need to learn too, but I also need to be moving and I feel frustrated at the delay. But, if Dave can run us through some basic skills now, it will make all the difference when we do have to go back out there. Especially, if it goes wrong again.

Which it will.

It always bloody does.

‘Right, listen up lads,’ I shout over to them and they drift down to gather round me.

‘Dave is going to run through basic weapon techniques, we need to learn this if we are going to survive out there. It will be fast learning and we don’t have time to keep stopping if you don’t keep up. You don’t have to do this and it’s up to you if you stay or go.’ They stare back at me; a couple at the back keep turning round to look at the door,  casting nervous glances at each other.

‘Lads, honestly, you can go if you want to, but your chances of survival are far greater if you learn this. We are going to do it now.’

They look completely exhausted and ready to drop. I start to feel guilty, as I know I’m pushing them for my own need. There is no way they are going to take this in, after what they have been through.

‘You lot look worn out. Do you want to rest for a couple of hours and then go through it?’

‘I’m okay, Sir - I want to do it now,’ Blowers says to me.

‘Me too,’ Cooke affirms and then a few more of the hardcore group nod and join in.

The quiet ones at the back just stay silent. The two who were glancing at the door are whispering quietly to each other.

‘Okay, if you want to do it now then go over to Dave, I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Apart from the two whisperers, they all go over to Dave. I approach the two and they look at me, sheepishly.

‘Lads, what’s up? You keep looking back at door.’ They gaze at each other and then one of them plucks up enough courage to speak.

‘Sir, we just want to go home. We don’t live that far away.’

‘You two know each other, then?’

‘Not before meeting here - we live in the same area and we want to go home and see our families.’

‘That’s fine, you can leave whenever you want. I know you had a nasty time on the plains but I’ve seen what it’s like out there and, trust me, it isn’t pretty.’ They both stare back at me. They look like children but then, they are really. Just boys.

‘This is going to sound brutal, but your families might not have survived or they could be gone from there, thinking you are safe with the army. Make your own decisions, but do so knowing what you are walking into and what to expect. If you want to go, carry on and I wish you luck, but I really have to get moving.’

I go back to the group, it’s obvious what the two lads are thinking and the group remain quiet for a minute, chatting to each other in low voices.

‘Sir?’ I turn round and the two lads have taken a couple of steps towards us. I know they have decided to go, otherwise they would have walked over to us.

‘Okay, lads, that’s fine. Stay safe and keep moving. Do everything you can to avoid them and make sure you find somewhere safe, at least an hour before nightfall.’

They both nod and then stand still, unsure of how to say goodbye.

‘If all else fails, head to the Forts on the coast. Good luck.’

‘Yeah, good luck,’ Cooke walks over and offers his hand to them; they shake and the rest of the recruits go over and also shake hands. Eventually, the two lads break away and leave, closing the door behind them.

An uneasy silence follows.

Nine left, and a couple of those don’t look too confident either.

‘Right, you lot ready?’ I call over and they walk back, gathering round Dave.

For the next few hours, Dave drills them relentlessly.

First he handed them a rifle each and made them sit round him. He showed them the basics of how the weapons fire then how to load and reload the magazine, pull the bolt and make the weapon ready. He showed them the safety switch and how to make the rifle single shot only or fully automatic. Before moving on he repeated the actions and made them do it together, then individually. He then stripped the weapon down and re-assembled it very quickly and then made them do it with him as he stripped his down.

Well, I say he made them do it, I was doing it too, but, for some reason, Dave didn’t make me do it in front of the others, either an assumption that I would understand or out of the strange respect he seems to hold for me. I kept up though and understood the basics within a short time.

Dave then ran through weapon cleaning drills.

His way of only saying the bare minimum was highly effective; no confusing jargon or rambling on, like most teachers do. Dave was succinct and to the point. His expressionless face also served well as, at no point, did he appear to be frustrated or disappointed when they got it wrong and he had to go back to the beginning and start again.

Blowers was very proficient and, from the way he handled the weapon, I suspect he must have had previous experience; he assisted with showing the others when they struggled.

Dave watched him, at first, but didn’t say a word, and, after a time, he must have concluded that Blowers knew what he was doing and left him to it.

Finally, he made them put the weapon back together, load a magazine and unload it, take the safety off, select single shot then fully automatic - then remove the magazine and put the safety back on.

Dave made each of them do it one by one; most of them got something wrong with the re-assembling, but Blowers went to each of them and talked them through how to do it properly.

After watching Blowers for several minutes, curiosity got the better of me and I asked him why he was so proficient.

‘I joined the Royal Marines a couple of years ago but got kicked out through injury, I was only in a few weeks but we did loads of weapon drills and some basic manoeuvres.’

The others seemed to know this already and didn’t pay any attention as he explained all to me.

After doing the rifle drills, Dave had them all gather at the end of the room and explained that he would show them a very basic fire and manoeuvre method. He got Blowers out front with him and spoke quietly to him for a minute. Blowers nodded and stood just behind Dave. Dave then took a few steps forward and dropped to one knee, aimed and dry fired. He then shouted ‘MAGAZINE’ and started to change his rifle magazine, at which point Blowers ran in front of Dave, but off to the side, and also dropped to one knee and started dry firing.

He too shouted ‘MAGAZINE’ and Dave went in front as he swapped his magazine over.

Dave dropped down and they repeated the actions, until they reached the far wall, at which point they both turned and started walking back.

The recruits cheered and applauded, Blowers looked down and blushed and Dave just walked back without expression.

I must admit, they made it look easy.

Dave explained about the danger of having someone in front of you when you have a live weapon and emphasised the point of moving to the side, so you are not directly in front of the man who is changing his magazine behind you.

Dave then made them do it with him, one by one, and they took turns to move a few steps, drop down and fire then shout ‘MAGAZINE’ as the next one moved forward.

Then Dave and Blowers each took a recruit and went through the drill, four of them moving up and down the room. Then they had two recruits each, with two firing and one changing magazine’s.

Finally, Dave told them all to pair off and practise with their chosen partner. Within minutes, the room was a confusing jumble of noise with loud teenage voices bellowing MAGAZINE and then cursing when another pair strayed in front of them.

‘How many are coming with us, Mr Howie?’ Dave asked, after walking over to me.

‘I don’t know, are any of them coming?’ I reply.

‘Well, it would be good to know, so I can split us into teams, ready for when we move.’

‘Okay mate, I’ll get their attention and ask ‘em.’

I shout out for them to come over; Blowers and Cooke are working together and don’t hear at first until Dave bellows at them.

They gather round with red faces; breathing hard from the exertion.

‘FINGERS OFF TRIGGERS!’ Dave shouts in his drill sergeant voice. ‘When at rest, the safety is on and your finger is on the guard like this.’

They respond, switching the safety and making a show of holding their fingers over the guards. I watch Blowers and can see that he had already done it and was resting in the correct manner.

‘Right lads,’ I begin. ‘In a short time, Dave and I are going down onto the plains to find something big and nasty that will get us through London. We need to know if any of you want to join us. This is a personal thing, it has nothing to do with any of you, but you are more than welcome and we want to know now if you are coming?’

They nod back at me, then start whispering to each other.

One of the recruit’s shouts out: ‘Sir, if I come with you, will you drop me off after?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Sir, me and Blowers are in,’ Cooke says, after a short discussion with Blowers.

‘What about your families?’ I ask them.

‘We don’t really have any Sir, to be honest, we ain’t really got anything to go back to.’

‘Okay, if you’re sure - it would be great to have you with us,’ I look to Dave for confirmation and he gives a discreet nod.

‘So… you’re going to London and then to the Forts?’ McKinney asks.

‘Yes, mate,’ I answer.

‘Okay, I reckon it’s safer with you two, you’ve travelled this far and stayed alive. I’m in until the Forts - if that’s okay.’

‘Of course, it is.’ I look to the rest and see McKinney’s words have obviously struck a chord, as they go silent and absorb what he just said.

‘Well, they’ve got this far, haven’t they? They must be doing something right. I’ve got family at home too, but if everyone is going to the Forts, then the best chance of seeing them again is going there.’ McKinney shrugs his shoulders and looks down at his weapon. Five seconds later, and they have all agreed to go.

Dave then splits them into two “firing teams”. The first is Dave, Roland McKinney, Darren Smith, Roy Tucker and Nicholas Hewitt.

‘We are team Alpha, the rest of you are team Bravo and Blowers is the team leader for Bravo.’

‘Oh you wanker,’ Cooke turns to Blowers. ‘I haven’t got to take orders from you, have I?’

‘Oh yes, my pretty boy, you will do as you are told,’ Blowers says, in a very camp voice which sets them all off laughing.

Dave speaks to me quietly and I nod and go to back out to the counter at the front of the building. I find a pen and some paper and go back into the room.

‘Lads, I need to take your names down… just in case something happens and we find your families later.’

I write down the names that I know. The last three I never learnt were: Alan Booker, Jamie Reese and Curtis Graves.

The lads then offer me the names of the ones that died on the plains, the one that we lost fighting our way out and the two that left before we started drilling.

Finally, I check my watch; it’s almost 5 p.m. If we leave at 6 p.m. we will still have three hours of daylight, but I don’t know how far it is or where the vehicles will be.

‘Have any of you got any idea where we will find an APS…?’

‘APC!’ Dave and Blowers chorus at me.

Bollocks! Now there are two of them doing it.

‘Yeah, okay… well, did you see any of them?’

‘There was a Saxon near the urban area, Mr Howie. I don’t know if it’s still there though,’ Blowers offers.

‘A Saxon? Now I’m sure I saw a programme on TV about them, big things with massive wheels, big machine gun on the top?’

‘Yes.’ Dave answers.

‘Right, we go for that then. How far is it to the urban village?’

‘I don’t know. We were taken by truck and it was quite a long drive, must be a few miles at least.’

‘I was going to give you an hours rest, but now I’m thinking we should get going. We don’t want to be out in the dark with those things running about, especially after what you said you went through on those plains. Do you think you can manage it?’ I direct my question to the group.

They do look exhausted and I feel like a right bastard for making them move again, but this has to be done now.

Blowers, Cooke and McKinney nod back and call out that they are ready, I get the impression they are making the others go along with it and they all start nodding, within a few seconds.

Dave then comes over to me and speaks quietly:  ‘Mr Howie, we need to find the stores building. They need belts to hold the magazines and some water bottles would be good too.’

‘Okay, if you say so, mate. It’ll give ‘em a chance to rest too.’

‘Right, the plan is that Dave, Blowers and I are going to find the stores building… so you get the chance to practise shooting some zombie mother fuckers while we make a run for it.’

A few of them look up, excited at the prospect.

‘You each have spare magazines, do not go forward, just line up outside and practise single shot only, aim for the head,’ Dave instructs them.

We lead back out to the front and over the counter, I don’t know why we didn’t use the side door but I guess this makes it more dramatic.

Dave and Blowers each have their assault rifles ready. Mine is strapped to my back and I have my axe. Dave did stare at me when I picked it up.

‘Never leave home without it,’ I said to him and he just looked at it again.

‘So, you’re not taking knives then?’ I said.

He looked sheepish and gave a small smile.

‘Ah, I bloody thought so.’

We go to the main door and realise that the horde are now all gathered directly at the front, blocking our exit.

We end up using the side door and lead the recruits back to the front, coming out just to the side of the horde. Dave tells them to fire from an angle, so they do not shoot the buildings. They make ready but hesitate, clearly none of them want to be the first to shoot. Dave raises his assault rifle and fires several shots into the crowd, getting head shots with each one.

‘Fuck me, good shot!’ Cooke says.

Blowers then fires a few shots, aiming for the head too.

‘Pick your shots and take your time,’ Dave gives them a final instruction before we move.

We leave the recruits behind us and the sounds of individual rifle shots; they are calling to each other and offering encouragement or comments as they hit or miss. We walk out onto the parade square and look back.

The recruits are spread out in a row and are firing into the densely packed crowd. The undead zombie soldiers are shuffling and turning round slowly, moving towards the recruits with their slow gait. Every now and then I see a head explode in pink mist as the bullet hits the mark; immediately followed by cheering.

Smith runs out of bullets first and shouts MAGAZINE loudly.

I look at Dave and see him watching them closely. Smith then drops down onto one knee and changes the magazine quickly. He remains on one knee, as he continues to fire into the crowd. The rest follow suit, shouting MAGAZINE and dropping down to change.

We then move off and Dave identifies the stores building. I have no idea how, as they all look the same to me. Within minutes, we are in a similar structured building, over the counter and into the stores room.

‘What do we need?’ Blowers asks me and Dave.

‘Belts, magazine holders and water bottles,’ Dave responds.

The room is roughly the same size as the armoury, but there are shelves and units everywhere. There is typical army order here and it doesn’t take long to find a big, cardboard box to put all of the belts and other things into. Dave also grabs a load of green camouflage jackets and changes the one he is wearing, that is too big, into one that fits better.

Blowers comes into view from the end of a unit, holding an army style long sleeve tee-shirt: ‘Are these any good? Might be too hot in those jackets.’ He asks.

‘Ah, now, that’s what we need. Here Dave - these look handy.’ I have found a section just for rucksacks.

Half are the normal green colour but the other half are sandy in hue. We fill a couple of the bags with the belts, bottles and ammunition pouches and more with jackets and tee-shirts. Then we put the empty bags into the used ones, so we have less to carry.

‘Fuck it, this is silly. Let’s just get the lads up here to grab what they need,’ I say to Dave.

I run back outside and over towards the armoury building.

My jaw drops as I get closer and see the mound of dead zombies piled and spread out of the front of the building. There are only a handful left now and the lads are taking their time to aim carefully for the exclusive head shot.

I call out and get their attention.. As they start running to me, I go back into the stores.

‘Dave, I’ve got some bad news, mate.’

‘What is it, Mr Howie?’ He stops and stares at me.

‘The lads haven’t really left any zombies for you to kill, sorry.’

‘They’ve done them all?’

‘Pretty much.’

The lads come running through, puffing and panting and bragging about how many they dropped.

Cooke and McKinney are the first through and are breathing hard, clearly having raced the last stretch of ground.

We dump all of the kit outside and the lads rummage through to get the right sized tops and jackets.

Dave and Blowers then come out with black and desert coloured boots in their hands, hanging from their laces. Dave hands me a pair of desert boots, then a pair of tan coloured heavyweight trousers with pockets on the sides.

‘There’s only a few of them, Mr Howie. The rest are normal greens.’

‘Thanks Dave.’

I join the lads in getting changed into army kit: boots and tops - most of them change into army trousers too, but the green ones.

I note that Dave and Blowers are both in the tan trousers too; a hierarchy is developing already, just in this little group and I understand that maybe it needs to be done, but I wonder if people will ever change.

Dave and Blowers go back to the armoury and bring back boxes of ammunition, which they separate and hand out to the recruits.

Eventually, I look over to them – and see, not raw recruits, but soldiers. All of them are chatting, with assault rifles resting across the crooks of their arms, like they saw Dave and Blowers doing. The belts are loaded and the bottles filled from a cold tap inside the stores building. The visual effect is striking and they suddenly look tougher and harder. Even Tucker looks a bit less soft, but not that much.

‘Mr Howie and I will take point, the rest of you in two lines, evenly spaced out behind us, covering the flanks.’ Dave gives his instructions.

We are a small, untrained, group of eleven - headed by a supermarket shelf stacker and a night manager.

And we are moving off into the plains, towards the undead army.

_____________________________________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection sweeps through the rats, devastating the rodent population within hours. The infection takes over the small bodies and drives them on; urging them forward to surge out of the sewers and drains and into the streets.

The streets and roads are an undulating carpet of sleek black bodies and thousands upon thousands of red, blood shot eyes.

Survivors try to flee, before they are engulfed by the tidal wave. The rats are given the same clear instruction; bite, but don’t kill.

The rats number in the tens of thousands and with each being given the same instruction to bite, they soon devastate many potential host bodies. The infection evolves and strives to control this super organism; reign them in. Many potential host bodies are so horrifically bitten and injured that even the infection struggled to bring them back. The infection takes greater control and soon the rats are controlled as one and more and more hosts are found.

Hosts that fortified their homes from outside attack; that played the long game and eeked out their supplies, were suddenly attacked from within, as thousands of wet rats surged from the toilets and drains, overwhelming them within minutes. Small dogs, still surviving from the initial outbreak, were in heaven at first, as the rats poured into their homes and the plucky, brave, little dogs fought with a warriors courage - killing hundreds of the zombie rodents, before finally being brought down. Even then, they fought to the last, proud to be laying their lives down in honour of their owners.

The sudden end of mankind and the cessation of the gases and fumes pumped into the atmosphere, had an instant effect. The unusually hot summer became scorching and people that ran and hid in cars and trucks soon found themselves suffering high temperatures, even in the relatively mild climate of northern Europe, but they were too afraid to open their doors against the never ending wave of rats pouring round and over them.

Rats can eat through anything, given time, and the infection saw through the rats eyes and watched the survivors screaming in terror.

The infection knows that these small bodies have a very limited life span and it will push them faster and harder then any other host, simply to make them work as a super organism - to take over as many larger hosts as possible.

A young couple on their way to the Forts, managed to lock themselves into their car as the rats stormed out in the open. They sat clutching their new born baby and watched, in horrified silence, as the rats swept past them; praying they will be spared. The sound of rat claws skittering over the back of the car and then over the top, was almost too much to bear. Then the child started whimpering loudly and the mother panicked and started trying to undo her top; aiming to soothe her baby by breastfeeding.

The only noise left now is the swishing of the rats bodies along the sides of the vehicle. The rats on the front of the car turn and watch the couple, through the windscreen; fixing their red, beady eyes onto the frozen parents.

The rats start gnawing at the rubber seals of the windows and, before long,  there are hundreds of sharp, yellow teeth setting to work - slowly eating their way into the car. They are driven by the infection, which can smell the fear of the hosts inside.

_____________________________________________________________________

We walk at a constant, brisk pace and I am sweating freely.

The recruits are spread out evenly behind us in two lines, which took some cajoling and berating from Blowers at first, but Dave bellowed at the top of his voice and they fell silent, apart from Cooke, muttering to Blowers behind me.

‘Why do you get the Gucci brown trousers?’

‘Cos, I’m a section leader, that’s why.’

‘No, you’re a team leader for this today, not for always - it’s not a promotion in the field.’

‘Fuck off, Cookey.’

‘You fuck off, Blowers, with your super brown trousers.’

‘Ha, go and iron your nice green BDU’s mate.’

‘You’re a cock, Blowers.’

‘Sorry, what did you say Cookey? Did you say that you like cock?’

‘You know what I said.’

‘You said that you like cock, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s a modern world...’

‘Get fucked, I didn’t say anything like that.’

‘Yes you did, you said that you like cock, you like zombie cock’

‘Blowers, you wanker… I’m gonna have a negligent discharge in a minute and shoot you.’

Blowers bursts out laughing.

‘A negligent discharge?! What… in your pants?’ Have you seen a hot zombie or something then?’

‘You fucking twat.’

‘Watch out lads, Cookey is going to bum some zombies.’

Everyone starts laughing at Cooke, who yells abuse at them all for a few minutes, then joins in with the laughing.

I walk on smiling at the easy banter behind me.

‘Don’t they call this tabbing or something?’ I ask Dave.

‘Yes, Mr Howie’

‘Why not just walking?’

‘The Romans did it first. A soldier has to show he can march to a place with weight, that’s called a loaded march. The word tab comes from Tactical Advance to Battle.’

‘Oh.’

‘Dave, did you enjoy showing those recruits what to do?’

‘Enjoy? I don’t understand Mr Howie.’

‘Well, you were good at it. Did you ever teach when you were in the army?’

‘No, not really. Well there were times when I had to tell units what to do, so we could achieve our objective - but that’s it.’

‘What about that voice? You sound like a proper drill sergeant.’

‘When they knew I could shout loudly, they taught me what to say to the enemy, to make them scared. Scared men make mistakes.’

‘Bloody hell, I think I had better start calling you, Mr Dave from now on.’

‘No, Mr Howie’ Dave suddenly spoke in a very serious tone.

‘I was joking, Dave, but mate, I don’t know any more then they do, and I know less than Blowers. I guess I don’t feel right taking the position of leader.’

Dave goes from constant scanning of the area to looking at me.

‘I can show them how to shoot and strip weapons and kill those things, but I don’t understand people. I don’t see the difference in any of them. I don’t understand characters and personalities or when people are upset. I just don’t get that kind of thing.’

‘People are just people, Dave. Insecure and scared like the rest of us. People are easy to understand really.’

‘Not to me.’

‘Well, people have base needs, like needing to eat and drink - take any of those needs away and people die very easily. But then you have base emotions too, things like: love, hate, greed, lust and jealousy. They are incredibly powerful emotions that drive people to do the most amazing things. And if you mix a few of them together with other, maybe less impacting emotions, like insecurity or distress, then you can have issues, real issues. If you look at history and the evil dictators, I bet all of them had a mixture of those issues going on. Plus, when you couple that with the immediate family around you, then the people, society and community you grow up in and the cultural beliefs that are drummed into people when they are young – well, it can make for a deadly recipe. Fascinating, but deadly.

‘Look at this around us know. Something like this could have been caused by an evil tyrant addicted to power, or a belief that his god is the right one, so everyone else must suffer and die. Or it could just as easily be a scientist working in a lab somewhere. Safe and secure and the most rational person you could ever meet. One day he gets home to find out his wife is cheating and he is consumed with anger and jealousy and bang, he takes the whole world out, for one seemingly small act that would otherwise be a private episode in someone’s life.

‘In fact, I’ve heard theories that Adolf Hitler grew up surrounded by wealthy Jews, when his family was relatively poor, and so maybe that sparked his intense hatred. A chemical imbalance that sits dormant and then explodes from one random act. Then there is the old cliché of power corrupts. We only have to look at every government that has ever come to power to know that exists. And then of course, there is communism, what a fantastic notion that everything should be owned by everyone and shared equally. But, at a certain point, there will be some bugger stood there thinking he is doing more work than others, so therefore he is entitled to more then they have. He gets a bit more and then he always wants more, and if they don’t give it to him, he will take it.

‘That’s why revolutions never really work. You can take a whole bunch of people that have conflicting beliefs, but they unite against a common enemy and work together to bring that enemy down… say, the ruling government. But that just leaves a void, and someone has to fill that void. Someone has to work out the tax rate, fix the roads and make sure that the hospitals are working and then, of course, we have security and food to eat. And with the best will in the world, you take a bunch of people and put them in a room together to work out the best for everyone and they will spend most of the time bickering and arguing. Someone will come out on top and you are back to the saying of power corrupts again.

‘Then the others get resentful and jealous and it never really ends, hence the name, revolution.’

It’s gone very quiet around me and I look back to see all of the recruits staring at me with interest.

‘That’s why you’re in charge, Mr Howie’. Dave says, simply.

Two hours later and we are deep into the rolling plains.

The roadway leads directly through the plains, as far as I can tell. To both sides there is just wide sweeping, gently rolling hills. The land is very dry from the scorching summer and I can see deep track marks from the tanks and heavy vehicles all around us. It must have been hell trying to cross this land, especially in the dark and I find a new respect for the recruits. I can’t imagine most regular troops being able to do that, but then they are young and learn from hard living in hard times.

We have only stopped once for a rest, and that was called by me when I glanced back and saw the exhaustion on their faces. We took ten minutes to drink water and eat high-energy snack bars that were purloined from a box that Tucker found in the stores building. He must have sneaked them into his backpack when everyone else was putting boots on and making sure they looked like commandos. When he broke them out and handed them round, he was a hero for five minutes and I could see him grinning with the respect they gave him. After the ten minutes, we were back on and not one of them moaned.

They have hardly slept or taken on decent food since Friday and they are still going; grim determination and a fear of being left alone is driving them on.

‘EYES ON,’ Dave calls from my side.

I snap out of my reverie and look up. Ahead of us the road sweeps round to the right and we can just make out the top of a church spire. The atmosphere charges instantly and I can feel the recruits tensing up and watching left and right, as we make our way forward.

There is a low embankment to both sides and I wave the recruits into the right side to take cover.

‘Rest for a minute, but stay sharp,’ Dave tells them as we shrug off our backpacks and start belly crawling out to the middle of the road and then slowly forward, until the bend opens up and we can see down into the village.

There are houses on both sides of the village; old brick built things that have seen far better days but have clearly been patched up here and there, to keep them usable for training. The road goes down to a crossroads and there is a big church on the right.

There is a makeshift area, encased by a circle of sandbags, just before the village and on the right side; I guess this must be the safe area the recruits were sent to when they were “captured”.

The plains roll out far on both sides of the village, it looks like there was once a thicket of vegetation off to the left side, but it’s been cut down to open the area up.

From our position, we can just make out the edge of another circular sandbag area, situated in the corner between the row of houses ahead of us and the houses on the road, to the right of us.

‘That’s a fucking lot of zombies,’ I say to Dave, as I look in awe at the largest gathering of undead I have seen yet.

The exercise must have been immense, as there are zombie soldiers packed into the village centre.

From the start of the building line and down past the crossroads there are zombie soldiers shuffling and rolling their heads. The distance is too great to see detail, but I can imagine the drooling mouths and the red bloodshot eyes; their horrific injuries drying and festering in the high heat and swarms of flies and insects buzzing in amongst them. The heat coming from them must be intense, as there is a haze just above them.

‘Oh yes, that’s a lot of fucking zombies,’ I repeat to myself in shock at the sight.

Dave stays silent, assessing the area in front of us.

‘Fuck the guns mate, let’s just go for it with the axe and the knives,’ I say to Dave.

He turns to me and gives a small smile.

‘I’m joking, you fucking psycho… although it would be bloody good fun.’

‘See in the middle of the crossroads?’ Dave points and I follow the straight line he is pointing out and just make out the top of something slap bang in the middle of the intersection.

‘What’s that?’ I ask Dave.

‘The Saxon.’

‘Shit, it’s completely surrounded. How the fuck are we going to get to that? It will be dark before we even get close to leading them away, and we really don’t want to be out here when that lot turn all werewolf on us.’ A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of the noise they make.

We snake our way over to the group who are huddled into the side of the road.

‘How is it?’ Cooke whispers, as soon as we get close enough.

‘Bad, very bad, there must well over a thousand of them. What the hell are so many soldiers doing here?’

Nobody answers and even Dave just shakes his head.

‘Is it normal for so many soldiers to be in one place like this for a training exercise?’ I ask again.

‘Sometimes, but it’s quite rare. It takes some logistics to get regiments and units into one place.’ Dave answers, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

I nod back at him then glance round the recruits.

‘The A…P…C… is in the middle of the crossroads. There might be more than one of them, but after what you told me about the size of the plains we would be safer if we just try to get this one. Agreed?’

They nod back at me.

‘Right, so me and Dave have previously used the “lead them away” tactic which would be perfect if we had time. But, a group that size would take hours to move away, especially when they are slow like now, but, on the other hand, we don’t want to be anywhere near them when it gets dark. Agreed?’

More nods.

‘So, we have to attack them. The disadvantages are that they are stacked very deep around that APC and it’s getting late. The advantages are stacked in our favour though. They are slow moving and packed together and we have machine guns and lots of ammunition,’ I look to Dave. ‘Do we have enough ammunition for a crowd that size?’

‘I’m not sure, we all bought spare magazines but they don’t die unless they are head shots or the body is so severely injured that they cannot physically move.’

‘Bollocks. I wish we had one of those big machine guns, what did you call it, a GPMG?’

‘Yes.’

‘We could really do with one right now…’

‘Sir, there was one being used,’ Blowers cuts in. ‘It was on the corner of the crossroads.’

‘What?’

‘Erm… it was behind a load of sandbags.’

‘Yeah… I saw the edge of the sandbags, are you sure that was it though?’

‘Sir, the sound is unmistakable.’

‘Dave, is that right?’

‘Yes, the sound is unique, especially if Blowers heard them before, when he did his Royal Marines training.’ Dave answers.

‘Did you hear one before, Blowers?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, bloody loads of times.’ He says, excited.

‘Ah, fucking hang on, do they use real bullets during these exercises, Dave?’

‘No, Mr Howie. Only very few exercises use live rounds. The GMPG won’t be loaded now.’

‘Will there be real bullets near it that we can use?’

‘No, back in the armoury.’ Dave says.

‘Bollocks. Right, that’s fucked then, unless there’s a vehicle round here we can use to send someone back quickly, other than the Saxon thing that is. Lads, did any of you see another vehicle anywhere?’

Lots of shaking heads.

‘No, Sir - it was dark and we were in the houses all the time.’ McKinney says.

Then I see one of the quiet lads looking at me thoughtfully.

‘Go on mate… Curtis is it?’

‘Yes, Sir. Curtis Graves’. He answers softly.

‘Okay, Curtis - did you see one?’

‘Er… there was a Land Rover just down from the crossroads, Sir. My Dad had one and I recognised it.’

‘Great! Nice one Curtis, that’s brilliant. Now where did you last see it?’

‘Off that way,’ Graves waves towards the village and over to the left.

‘Okay mate, so on the left side of the village as we look at it from this road here?’

‘Yep, er… I mean yes, S… Sir.’

‘Come with me mate.’ I say to Graves and we both belly shuffle out into the middle of the road.

‘Fucking hell,’ Graves says, when he sees the almighty undead horde.

‘Yeah, I know… right? Oh well, fuck ‘em, we’ll get through them somehow. Now try to describe exactly where you saw it last?’

A sudden noise and groaning comes from behind us and we look round to see an undead sliding down the embankment, directly into the recruits. They burst away and Dave immediately dives in and starts striking the head with the butt of his rifle. Some of the other lads join in and the zombie groans as he is pummelled by several rifle butts at the same time.

Dave then whips out one of his knives and slices it across the throat of the zombie soldier, a spray of crimson starts spurting out and Dave rolls the undead over so the blood goes into the ground. Once he is done he looks back at me and gives a thumbs up.

‘Fuck me, Dave - can’t you go more than five minutes?’ I whisper over to him, he just shrugs and gives a small smile.

‘Now, Curtis, sorry mate - where was it?’

‘That’s all right, Sir. It was to the left of the crossroads and down a bit.’ He indicates with a wave of his arm.

‘Okay, let’s get back.’

We belly shuffle back to the group and I shake my head reproachfully at Dave, as I look at the undead lying in a pool of blood.

‘Dave, I think you and I should go for the Land Rover, the rest of you stay put.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave nods and starts getting ready.

‘Blowers, you’re in charge, until we get back. If you hear us firing, then start shooting those fuckers and move slowly back up the road, okay?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Blowers grins and nudges Cooke.

‘Hear that Cookey, you can’t start bumming them, until we hear shooting.’

‘Fuck off, Blowers,’ Cooke grins back at him.

Dave puts his rifle on his back and takes his two straight-bladed knives in his hands. I reluctantly leave my beloved axe and just take the rifle.

‘Tucker, look after my axe mate, please don’t lose it,’ I ask him, as I prepare to go.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Tucker swells with pride and clutches the axe protectively with both hands.

‘Ready, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

We move off, keeping low.

We cross the road and get over the embankment, then down the other side. We move at a fast pace but bent over and aim far left, behind the row of houses. We quickly pass the sandbag safe area then move further left, so we are well away from the road.

Up close, I can see the houses are not really well-maintained at all, and none of them have glass in the windows; just empty holes with shutters held open. The garden fences to the rear gardens have been relatively well kept, and I guess this adds realism to the place.

Within minutes, we are past the houses and nearing the road, coming into the crossroads from the left. The undead are still densely packed and we have to go quite far down the row of houses, before we see a sufficient gap to move forwards. We get to the back of one of the properties and start inching forward, until we can lean out and peek down the road. The Land Rover is parked to the side of the road furthest away from us. There are zombie soldiers shuffling and groaning near it, but the gaps between them look fairly decent.

‘I reckon we can make that Dave, you up for it?’

‘Yes.’

We dart out and start sprinting down and across the road, dodging round zombie soldiers who immediately turn and start moving towards us.

The rancid stench of rotting meat is disgusting and I can see their skin already looks to be decomposing. I don’t engage the zombies this time, but stick with dodging round and through them, until I reach the vehicle. Dave, on the other hand, can’t help himself and has already slit a few throats by the time we get to the car. We clamber into the front and I thank god as I see the key still in the ignition. The diesel engine splutters loudly, and, apart from the low groans of the undead, the area was quite silent.

The noise immediately gets a reaction and more of them start moving towards us. I turn the wheel hard, surprised at how much force is needed and I realise these vehicles don’t have power assisted steering. I have to roll forward and then back a few times, until I am facing the other way; knocking over a few zombies in the process.

Once we are turned round, I drive off and keep going down the road, until the row of houses ends. Then I turn left and drive onto the plains and head back towards the area we left the recruits.

‘Well mate, I think they know we are here now,’ I say to Dave who just nods back at me.

I drive round the backs of the houses and then past the sandbag safe area and onto the road. The recruits must have heard the engine and are moving out into the middle of the road as we come round the corner. I stop the vehicle, but leave the engine running and jump out.

‘Curtis, can you drive, mate? Did you ever drive your Dad’s Land Rover?’

‘Yeah, loads of times,’ He replies and starts moving over to me.

‘Right, you and Dave get back to the armoury and get the ammunition for that GMPG…’

‘GPMG,’ Dave calls out.

‘Yeah, that thing. You and Dave get the ammo, we’ll start shooting the fuckers from here, got it?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Graves gets into the driver’s seat as I yell one last instruction at him.

‘Curtis, we won’t be able to hold them for long - so be quick.’

The Land Rover roars off, leaving me with the recruits.

‘Well lads, they know we are here. I reckon we should spread out in a line and start shooting them, you up for it?’

‘Sir, can I put one on the top of each embankment, to watch the flanks and the rear?’ Blowers asks.

‘Good thinking mate, yeah, do that.’

‘Cookey, you take the right flank, Smith you take the left flank, keep a good look out and make sure you keep checking behind us.’ Blowers gives a clear instruction and they both start scrambling up.

The horde are all facing our way now and look immense, even from this distance. The army uniform seems to amplify their numbers and make them look even more sinister.

‘Fuck it, some still have their NATO helmets on,’ Smith shouts down from the top of the embankment.

‘Well, there ain’t much we can do about that is there?’ I respond. ‘Apart from shooting them in the knees.’

A few of the lads snigger and I can sense the nervous excitement.

I move out to the centre of the road and drop my bag down at my side, then the axe that I retrieved from Tucker. I open the top and make sure there are spare magazines at hand. The lads start spreading to both sides, until we are evenly spaced across the width of the road.

‘Lads, pick your shots and try to make each one count.’ Blowers calls out.

I ready my rifle, raise it up to my shoulder and look down the sights on the barrel. The horde are still some distance away and headshots will be bloody impossible from here, but, from previous experience, I know we will slow them down, if we drop the ones at the front and create an obstacle to those behind.

I call out my instructions and then lower my sights a little, until I aiming into the hundreds of pairs of legs shuffling towards us.

I fire first and instantly see a zombie soldier get spun back into the few behind him, he goes down and the next one trips over him.

‘Just like that!’ I call out, to a few cheers.

The shots start ringing out and I watch as zombies are dropped and fall to the ground; most of them carry on moving, but soon we have created a natural obstacle for the horde. However, the sheer press of bodies from behind just surges them forward, over their fallen zombie comrades.

We press on, and I can hear a clear gap between shots as the lads try hard to pick their shots. We work in silence and many zombie soldiers are shot down. As they get closer, we can pick out individual details and see the horrific injuries they have already sustained. I raise my aim and start trying to shoot in the general head area. I know that if I miss the one I am aiming for I will most likely still get one or two behind it.

‘MAGAZINE’ I yell out, as I start changing the ammunition for my assault rifle, doing as Dave showed us all.

I take a quick glance about and look at the grim faces of the young recruits concentrating and firing their weapons. Cookey and Smith are up top and also firing away, down into the horde.

‘Cookey, Smith, keep checking the sides and the rear,’ I call out to them, trying to make myself heard over the gunshots.

I see them respond and both stop firing, to look off into the plains and check behind them.

I reload, take aim and start firing again. The horde are incessant and, despite the large numbers we are dropping, they just keep coming at us. I am concerned at how close they are, remembering the super zombie and suddenly become very wary, in case they start charging at us.

‘MOVE BACK LADS. MOVE BACK,’ I shout out and hear Blowers repeating my words further down the line.

We all stop firing and start shuffling backwards, either carrying or dragging our kit bags with us. We have to stop as we reach the apex of the bend in the road, otherwise we wouldn’t get a good view of them. Within a few seconds, we are all back to firing and dropping more and more zombies. I can see the effects of the shots now and watch as heads burst apart and pink matter sprays up; torso shots hit home, fresh blood pumps out onto their clothing.

The heads of the zombies are rolling and their gait is still awkward and stiff legged. I watch them closely for any sign of normality, but they are too densely packed to see beyond the first couple of rows.

Again, after a few minutes, we are forced to move back again.

But the bend in the road means we won’t get a clear view, if we move back any further.

‘UP ON THE BANKS,’ I shout out.

There is confusion as they all start moving towards the same bank.

‘TEAM ALPHA ON THE LEFT AND BRAVO ON THE RIGHT,’ I shout again and they run towards the appropriate side and clamber up.

I go right and climb up too.

The small height difference means we can shoot down into them and probably will get better head shots.

The undead army are spilling out, away from the road on both sides. I look down the road and my heart sinks as I see they are still stacked right back, past the crossroads.

I bloody hope Dave hurries up.

We keep firing and every so often we have to move back and it doesn’t take long before they are on the stretch of road between the banks and also out onto the sides.

We are forced to move back further and further up the road and, despite inflicting massive casualties, they don’t show any sign of stopping.

The light is starting to fade and I can see that my ammunition is getting very low. There are several magazines left in the bag but, at this rate, they won’t last long and I start to feel very concerned that we will be trapped in the darkness with low or depleted ammunition.

‘LADS, WE ARE GOING TO RUN OUT INTO THE PLAINS TO THE RIGHT SIDE, FOLLOW ME.’

I hear Blowers, then Cookey, repeat the order and the lads gather their kit; shrugging on bags and moving towards me.

We start moving away from the road and out to the right side, onto the plains. We make distance for a few seconds and then stop, for a rest.

‘It’s going to be dark soon and we absolutely cannot be out here when that happens. Dave and Curtis should be back soon - but we have to make a plan to get somewhere safe. I reckon we should make for that church. We go far right and loop round, until we come at it from the far side. What do you think?’

‘Sounds good, Sir,’ Blowers responds, and several of them nod at me.

‘Okay, let’s get moving.’

We move out, further into the plains, and our fast pace soon leaves the horde behind; but they have already turned in our direction en masse.

We keep going out, and, before long, we cross over the road and go back onto the plains on the other side. The sky darkens with each second we are running and I can feel the fear building up within us all.

We then turn back towards the village and the general direction of the church; within minutes it comes into view.

‘Looks clear from here,’ I say, through ragged breath, more to try and lift their spirits.

Then we get closer and see some of the horde are coming our way from the direction of the village crossroads; spilling out through the buildings which are well in view now. We slow down and stop for a few seconds, breathing hard.

‘If we go into the plains we will get separated from Dave and Curtis,’ I look to each man in turn. ‘We are going to have to fight our way through, there’s no other choice. The church is the biggest and strongest building, are you ready?’ They nod back, silent but determined.

‘That drill that Dave showed you, we can use that as we get closer. When I say, I want team Bravo to stop and team Alpha to move forward a short distance and fire. I’ll go with Alpha, Blowers with Bravo. When we finish firing and shout magazine, that’s when Bravo moves forward. Got it?’ They nod back and start shuffling, so that McKinney, Smith, Tucker and Hewitt are forward with me.

Blowers pulls the rest back a few steps.

‘Okay, let’s go.’

We start moving forward again and I see my team start to spread out a little, just as Dave showed them. Within a very short time, we are very close. I can see there are a few undead already between us and the church but more are shuffling out between the sides of the buildings.

As we get to within fifty metres of the first load of undead I shout the order: ‘ALPHA STOP.’

We all stop and kneel down.

‘FIRE,’ I yell and start firing single shots at the zombie soldiers.

They drop down as several of us shoot the same ones, but that can’t be helped and we keep firing and dropping them.

‘MAGAZINE!’ Smith yells first and starts to change.

Within seconds, we have all shouted the magic word and I wave my arm forward for Blowers.

‘BRAVO ON ME,’ Blowers yells and they surge past us, until he shouts to stop and they kneel down and start firing again.

I take the opportunity to get some deep breaths, to try and slow my breathing down.

‘MAGAZINE,’ Bravo starts yelling and I watch until Blowers waves his arm forward.

‘ALPHA ON ME.’ We spring up and charge forward and go past the kneeling Bravo team. I take them about forty metres ahead and shout to stop. We assume the position and commence firing again. We focus on the undead zombies between us and the church and we still keep dropping many of them, but more are still coming through the gaps towards us.

‘MAGAZINE,’ I yell out and glance to the sky, it is very dark now and it can only be a matter of minutes before the night is on us properly.

I wait until they have all shouted and wave my arm forward.

For the next few minutes, we advance slowly towards the church and the bodies are piling up around and in front of us. As my team change magazines, I yell out: ‘IN A MINUTE THEY WILL ALL STOP AND LOOK UP, WHEN THAT HAPPENS JUST FUCKING LEG IT TO THE CHURCH.’

Team Bravo run through us and commence firing. As they start shouting MAGAZINE, the already massed horde coming through the building gaps all suddenly stop and stand still, raising their heads slowly to look up into the sky.

‘NOW! FUCKING RUN,’ I bellow and start running towards the church.

There is no order now and we are all sprinting towards the building which is still a couple of hundred metres away. The distance is short but the ground is uneven and we are all exhausted; our speed ebbs away.

We hear the sudden roars and howling of the undead as they scream out to one another. The massive numbers means the sound is incredible and it serves to drive us on faster.

‘KEEP GOING. DON’T STOP.’ I urge them on, the fucking axe is banging against my legs again, having been wedged down between my back and the bag.

I reach the church building and kick open the large, wooden side door. The next one behind me is Cooke.

‘Cookey, check that the other doors are closed.’ He runs inside and McKinney joins him. I look back and see most of them are almost at the door, apart from Tucker. He is running, but I can see he is exhausted and looks like he will collapse.

‘RUN, TUCKER,’ I yell out and the others join in, urging him to run faster.

The howling suddenly stops and I see the zombie heads drop down and turn to face us, switched on now, focused and mean.

‘COVERING FIRE,’ Blowers yells out and we drop down onto our knees and start firing into the zombies.

As the first shots hit home they react and are running towards us.

We keep firing as they gain on Tucker, picking our shots carefully and aiming for centre mass. Several of them are right behind him, as he takes the last few steps to the church.

‘INSIDE NOW,’ I shout and we all bundle inside, slamming the door, just as Tucker bursts in. We brace the door and several of them push their weight against it, as the undead bodies slam into it from the other side.

‘Grab that locking bar,’ I shout at Jamie Reese, indicating a thick piece of wood resting against the wall.

We slot the bar down into the metal hooks and slowly ease our weight off. The bar holds and we can hear the bodies slam into the door from the other side.

‘The other door is secure,’ says Cookey, as he comes back and flops down, breathing hard.

I move into the centre of the room. Just a few rows of wooden pews remain; everything else has been cleared away. Even the stained glass windows are gone, but the gaps are just over head height and the zombies shouldn’t be able to get through, unless they have suddenly learnt to start climbing.

I remember the super zombie again.

‘Right, I want two covering each door, in case they break through. The rest of you pull the pews over to the windows and start shooting down into them, but save some ammunition, in case they get through the doors.’

I check each door. They are solid wood but old and they can’t take too much of a battering. If we get large numbers of undead bodies pressing against them, they could go through.

The lads pull pews over and climb up; I can hear shots as they shoot down. I go to both sides and look out. The view from the front is very worrying and the groans and noises from the undead are a lot louder now.

We all fire down, but they just keep coming and soon we are each down to our last magazine.

‘Everyone in the middle, pull the pews around us.’

We form a low and flimsy barricade with a pew just inside each door and a few round us. Then we all stand in the middle, half facing one door, half facing the other.

My axe is next to me, ready to be picked up and used when the bullets run out.

Where the fuck is, Dave?

We stand in silence, jumping and twitching at the bumps and bangs coming from the doors. The front door starts to make a creaking noise and we all turn to stare at it. A definite sound of wood creaking and then a splintering noise. Each of us raises our rifles to our shoulders and aims directly at the door.

‘This is it lads, get ready,’ I say, in a surprisingly strong voice.

The wood splinters louder and the door starts to break inwards, as the horde of undead zombie soldiers pile more and more body weight into it.

Just as the door seems that it will implode, a sudden fast and loud thudding sounds out and Blowers immediately cheers.

‘That’s the fucking GPMG,’ he screams out.

We push the pews away and drag them over to the window at the front. Once up, I look out and see a bright, flashing light coming from the corner of the crossroads - it’s too bright to see beyond the light but I know that Dave is standing there, probably smiling to himself as he slaughters thousands of zombies.

The effect is amazing and we watch bodies being shredded and ripped apart from the large calibre rounds.

We are all cheering and whooping and watch as the zombies come round from behind the church and start running towards the noise and are instantly mown down by hails of bullets. A second gun rings out, and I realise that Curtis must be with Dave, watching the flanks and rear.

Lights suddenly come on from the Land Rover that is parked behind the sandbags; the vehicle is facing the crossroads and I can see Dave illuminated as he rests the front tripod on the edge of the sandbags and fires into the crossroads; shredding everything in his path.

It goes quiet for a second.

Then…

‘FIGHT YOUR WAY TO THE REAR, WE’VE GOT LOADS OF AMMO.’

‘Right lads, we go out the back and move together as one,’ I shout out and we scoop our bags and kit up and go over to the rear wooden doors.

I stop to listen and press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear anything.

‘Cookey, me and you get ready to shoot out,’ Blowers says, as he and Cookey drop down a few steps back from the doors.

I lift the locking bar up and me and Nicholas Hewitt take a door each, we wrench it open and stand back, but neither Cookey or Blowers starts firing.

‘Looks clear, Sir,’ Blowers calls out.

‘Let’s go,’ I shout and we surge out.

The area is clear, apart from the bodies of the zombies we shot earlier. We move round and start making our way towards the Land Rover, reaching it within seconds.

‘Bravo, take the sides and the rear, Alpha at the front,’ I call out and we push into the circular area of the sandbags and start firing out into the crossroads.

The noise from the GPMG is deafening this close.

‘Fucking good to see you again, mate,’ I yell at Dave.

‘You too, sorry about the wait.’

Soon, it’s all over and there are scores of bodies scattered about the area and shiny spent casings littering the ground.

We move out slowly, finishing off the ones that are writhing on the ground; shooting directly into their heads from close range.

‘That was fucking tense,’ Blowers says to Cookey.

‘Fucking, telling me mate. Jesus, I thought we were fucking done for. Oi… Tucker… you need to start running faster, mate - they almost had you back then,’ Cookey shouts out.

‘I’m not built for running,’ Tucker yells back.

‘Built for fucking eating is what you are,’ one of them shouts.

I work with Dave at the back of the Land Rover, filling the lads’ backpacks with more magazines. A few of the recruits have been posted as sentries and are standing looking out into the plains with their rifles at the ready.

‘So, what took you so long?’ I ask Dave.

‘It was a long drive and we had to load up, then get back,’ he answers.

‘Ah..  we had ‘em just where we wanted ‘em,’ I say to him, he stops packing and looks up at me and nods.

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

The APC is loaded and ready.

The controls look just like a normal vehicle and I’m sure I will be able to figure it out as I go. Thankfully there is no key needed and the engine roars to life at the press of a switch.

There is another GMPG on the top, which Dave has already loaded with a belt of shiny big bullets. The rear section is massive with seats going down each side. Within a short time, the recruits all pile in.

Dave quickly runs through how to fire and reload the GMPG and tells them that one must be up there at all times. As Dave gets into the front with me, I hear them all start bickering about who is going to be first.

The Saxon vehicle is massive and feels solid and strong. It has taken a huge effort to get it, but I’m glad we did, if this won’t get through London, then I don’t know what will… a tank maybe… but we’ve already discussed that.

‘Can we stop at the armoury again and get more supplies, Mr Howie?’

‘Yeah, no problem mate. I reckon we should park up somewhere and get some sleep first. I know that lot must be ready to drop.’

‘Best go into the plains then, find somewhere quiet,’ Dave says.

‘Okay mate, sounds good.’

I pull away with a hard jerk and bounce along for a distance, getting shouts and jeers from the back, until I get a smoother motion. We head out into the plains and drive for a solid ten minutes, keeping a rough line with the road, way off to the right.

Eventually, I stop and shut the engine down.

Dave climbs into the back and relieves Blowers on the GPMG and tells them all to get some sleep.

Within minutes, they are all gone and I look down at the filthy, drawn, young faces and I feel immensely proud to have worked alongside them. Young, jobless and sent here to get experience and now look at them, they are a unit - a fighting unit.

I think ahead to the next day and moving towards London. I am willing my sister to just sit and wait and know that I’m coming for her.

I try to think through everything that’s happened today, but I feel very sleepy and my eyes are drooping.

Tomorrow we shall go to London, I just bloody know something else will happen though.

It always does.

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection has overwhelmed the rodent population and drives them on during the night; biting and clawing at everything in their path.

A young, undead couple, stand by the side of a car that has been eaten into by hundreds of sharp yellow teeth and an undead zombie baby groans on the seat; red, bloodshot eyes staring up at the sky.

The infection knows these small rodent hosts cannot sustain this pace for long, but they can take so many more hosts.

The infection also knows how long these hosts will last.

24 hours.

DAY FIVE

Tuesday Morning

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

From an empty window frame of an old cottage in the urban training zone, the infection watched as many hosts were torn down.

It saw the humans coming and sent the horde after them, but the daylight meant that it was slow and weak and couldn’t respond fast enough; the infection feels each loss of each host and knows it is being diminished and reduced.

It doesn’t know how or why it came into existence; only that it is, and the primary function is to survive, and, if it must survive, then these losses must be stopped.

The infection recognises the humans that cause these problems. All over the world the infection watches these humans fight back and inflict losses on the valuable hosts and it knows that it must stop this from happening, it must end the losses. In order to do this, it must evolve and learn how to fight back. The infection spread so rapidly that it knew it would only be a matter of a short time before it ruled this place and all in it. But it did not expect the ingenuity or bravery of these few humans. The masses were taken over within hours, but some were quick and fought back - or hid. The infection did not concern itself at first, knowing that the numbers it possessed would lead it to take them all, but now it senses there is a desperation to the situation. These humans are inflicting too many losses and this must be stopped.

These potential hosts offering resistance are cunning and they use more than their bodies; they have tools and co-ordination.

The infected host body stands still and watches as the recruits cut down the hosts, the brain inside the host is given more energy and synapses start flowing. The infection uses the intelligence and the memories stored inside this mind. But it doesn’t understand these memories or thought processes, so it releases more energy and then feels as the host starts to take back control. The infection knows it can stop this at any time, so allows the host to exert that control. The infected body stares forward and then moves his eyes left to right, the hands start clenching and unclenching and the rate of breathing increases. The energy flow is enhanced and control is given back to the host body, which falls to its knee’s screaming in agony; clutching its head at the intense pain surging from every cell. The body becomes demented and is raving in lunacy, staggering into walls and falling over furniture. The infection takes control and sends more energy into the nerve endings and the body screams with pain and drops to the floor, writhing in agony.

The infection sends more signals to the pain receptors and the host goes taut; the agony too much to bear. The body would normally shut down and slip into unconsciousness at this point, but the infection doesn’t allow that, it keeps the body awake and learns as the electrical impulses are fired throughout the body. The mind has been given back, but the pain is so intense the host body stays rigid - hardly breathing - every vein sticks out and the muscles are tense and tight.

Even death isn’t an option now; death has happened once to this man and the infection will not allow that mercy now.

Slowly pulling back the flow of energy to the nerve ending and pain receptors, the infection diverts the energy to the parts of the brain that release endorphins and the pleasure receptors. The body slowly relaxes and the muscles release, the body twitches sporadically from the intense contractions of the muscles.

The body starts to smile and moan softly, as it is flooded with chemicals giving an amazing feeling of warmth and security, then, as the pleasure heightens, there is a natural reaction from the body and, before long, his trousers are straining against the erection.

The infection releases a surge of endorphins and the body once again goes taut and the muscles contract as the feeling is too strong to bear. The infection eases the flow and draws back the control, piece by piece; testing and learning, as each function is given some power, then drawing it back to test other reactions.

The body writhes in ecstasy, then eases back into a normal state. Then the body sits up and the knees bend, to allow it to stand; but this is slow and cumbersome. The body puts its hands down to the floor and uses them to brace the weight, as the body’s feet find the balance needed.

The body slowly rises up, into a standing position, and then extends the arms out straight, then above the head. It bends the arms at the elbows and flexes them back out. It spins the arms round in circles, first forward and then backwards. The body jumps on the spot; heavy and unwieldy. Then another jump and the infection learns to control the flex of the tendons in the feet and toes to find balance. The body continues to jump and move about the room, the arms spinning and waving. Kneeling down and jumping up, then taking small leaps forward and backwards.

All across the world, various infected bodies go through the same moves; spinning and jumping. A release of energy to the nerve endings and all the bodies fall to the floor in agony. Endorphins are quickly released and the bodies stand up, drunkenly. In New York, Paris, Barcelona, Delhi, Singapore and towns and cities all over the globe; the bodies work in the same pattern: leaping; running on the spot; dancing and weaving - as the infection fights to control the electrical impulses, watching through hundreds of host bodies eyes, seeing different scenes, but sharing the common feeling.

While hundreds of thousands of host bodies across the world are cut down and slain by the brave people fighting back, the infection learns to control these few bodies.

While Howie and the recruits fought with grim determination, moving back a step at a time, the infected hosts were slaughtered. Too slow and cumbersome, shambling and shuffling as the bullets ripped them apart.

Then, as night fell, the infection released the power that it had built up. It made the host bodies roar into the night, so they could find one another and send fear driving into the heart of the humans. The infected watched them run and hide and sent more hosts after them. The infection felt the church door starting to yield and knew it would be over within seconds; the smell of fear coming from inside was strong, but not as strong as it expected. Then it was over - and the hosts were torn apart and shredded by one man using a tool and then the humans were together again - and it was done.

The infection took the losses and learnt from them and watched from the upstairs window of the house in the urban training zone. It heard the men laugh and call to each other. It watched the man in the centre of the others be shown respect and deference. It heard the humans speak and the same word is repeated.

The infected body stands still again now and stares out into the night. It watches as the sun rises and can feel its body slowing down to recover and repair.

The infection sends energy to the chest and makes air come out of the mouth and moves the vocal chords to make sounds; such as it does when the darkness comes.

This time the noise is subtle and quiet. The body keeps practising, making noises, until it hears the words that sound the same as the humans’. It repeats this word over and over again, drawing the sound out, until it resonates and becomes fluid.

It is one word.

It is: Howie.

Through the night, the recruits sleep in the rear of the Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier that is painted in the greys and blacks of urban camouflage.

Although exhausted to the point of near collapse, they still cleaned their weapons and made them ready, before they slept. The sleeping bodies in the hot metal vehicle soon built up a high heat in the already warm and muggy night. Dave had insisted that a look-out should be posted on the General Purpose Machine Gun at the top of the Saxon and, before long, recruits were falling out of the rear doors and sleeping directly on the ground underneath the vehicle; just to escape the heat.

Howie slept in the front and had woken mid-way through the night, to find Jamie Reese on lookout duty. He could see that Reese was wilting and fighting sleep, so Howie relieved him and took over the GPMG.

Howie felt the heat in the vehicle as he climbed into the rear to go up through the sentry hole and he had opened the doors to let some air in. He roused some of the sleeping men and told them to sleep outside. The recruits were sweating profusely, but were so exhausted they just slept on, until he poked and prodded them and half dragged them out into the cooler air, fearing they would become dehydrated.

Dave roused and saw what was happening, he nodded to Howie to show he understood and then climbed out of the front cabin and onto the top of the vehicle and lay down on his back; asleep within seconds.

Howie watched from the sentry point, turning round slowly and making use of a high-powered light that was connected by a lead to a power supply within the Saxon. As he watched, he thought of his mother and father and the sacrifice they must have made trying to come for him. He had no evidence of their demise and his greatest fear was that he would see them as zombies and either have to destroy them or be eaten by them. They might still be alive, but Howie knows this is very unlikely. The only family he has left is his sister, Sarah, living in London. Howie’s parents had left him a note, saying that they had spoken to Sarah and she was safe in her apartment.

The last four days had been spent trying to get to London to rescue Sarah; his home town was gone and so were all the other places he had seen so far. A message he had heard from a radio broadcast had told any survivors to head for the Forts on the South Coast and to stay away from London. Howie knew that getting through London would be impossible without some serious assistance so he and Dave had travelled to Salisbury to find something big, heavy and armoured to get through the massed hordes that must be waiting there. There is no way of contacting Sarah and telling her to sit tight and wait; he can only hope she is being smart and staying hidden.

Howie looks down at the recruits sleeping; still thinking of them as recruits makes him smile a little. They are just boys really, none of them older than eighteen, and they had been sent to join the Territorial Army by a new government scheme to give young unemployed people some experience of life and instil discipline in them. Thirty lads had only just arrived at Salisbury Army Centre on Friday, when the outbreak started; excited and full of anticipation. Now there were only nine left, and they were willing to listen and learn from Dave.

None of them had to go with Howie and Dave to London, but they knew that by staying together, they had a greater chance of survival.

A groaning noise alerts Howie and he tunes in, listening intently into the night. He flicks the high-powered flashlight on and sweeps round in a slow arc. A zombie is crawling towards them. Howie aims the GPMG then pauses, knowing that the noise will wake them all up and possibly draw more of the undead to them. Howie clambers up through the hole and drops down to the ground. He then reaches into the cabin and pulls out his beloved axe, and walks slowly to the zombie.

The undead is crawling pitifully slowly and his legs look mangled and crushed, but still he works his way forward, groaning with anticipation at the thought of biting into new flesh.

Howie crouches down, off to the side, and watches the zombie turn and start towards him. The flesh on the face and arms is very grey with a sickening pallor, the stench of rotting flesh oozes off the zombie and makes Howie pull his head back in disgust. The eyes are still red and bloodshot and Howie notices that the hands are cut down to the bones, from having to drag itself along the rough ground. Howie stands up and shakes his head at the disgusting creature. He takes the axe and steps forward, raising it high and then sweeps down directly onto the neck, to remove the head. As the axe flies through the air, the zombie looks at Howie and makes a noise that terrifies him.

Howie jumps back with a shout as the axe strikes, missing the neck and cleaving into the head. He drops the axe and falls back onto the ground, sitting still and staring at the now dead undead.

Dave comes running up and looks down at the cadaver, and then at Howie.

‘He said… my name,’ Howie stammers.

________________________________________________________

Sarah wakes up slowly as the bright sunlight streams through the smart black blinds covering her bedroom window.

Dust particles dance and shimmer in the air from her soft breath.

Long, dark, strands of hair spread out across the expensive silk sheets of the king size, double bed.

Sarah sits up slowly and looks at her reflection in the mirrored doors of the built-in wardrobes. She looks intently, with a look of concentrated determination which slowly morphs into sadness.

With a long sigh, she shimmies over the bed and stands up; stretching her arms and legs out. Sarah then walks into the en-suite bathroom and reaches for the light switch; but the electricity went out a couple of days ago and she curses herself for forgetting.

She checks the cold water tap and is pleasantly surprised that clear water still gushes out. She starts to brush her teeth and looks longingly at the large glass-sided shower cubicle in the middle of the room, then sniffs at her armpits and pulls her head away from the stale smell of body odour.

There are pans and pots on every surface; each filled with water and covered with cling film and aluminium foil. Sarah knew that once the electricity went out, she would have to preserve her supplies and quickly filled every available receptacle from her small apartment. Even the kitchen sink was full of clean water and she hasn’t flushed the toilet for a couple of days now. The warm weather has meant that she was sweating lightly nearly all the time, and especially at night, when the air was so still and hot. Her tight black vest top, clings to her body from moisture.

Sarah has been washing with cotton cloths and only using the water sparingly, but now, after several days, she longs for a shower. The air is so warm and humid and she can just imagine the cold water spraying onto her sticky body.

‘Sod it,’ she says to herself and quickly strips her clothes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor.

Naked she steps into the cubicle and turns the dial; a powerful jet of freezing water pummels into her skin, taking her breath away and making her squeal. The cold water is pleasant torture and she soaks herself, watching as goose pimples come up on her arms and legs. She quickly scrubs her body with soap and washes her hair, turning the shower off as the last of the bubbles is rinsed away.

She steps out and takes the thick, cotton towel hanging from a hook; she walks back in front of the bathroom mirror and stands naked, holding the towel down at her side, enjoying the feeling of the warm air, drying her wet skin.

After a few minutes, she is dressed in jeans and a baggy tee-shirt and finally goes into the lounge area - a small room with a kitchenette on one end. The apartment was subsided by her employer, one of the perks of working for a large, corporate bank. The downside was that she had to respond to work whenever she was called, and that was quite often during the recession. But even a tiny apartment like hers, in a swish block, would cost a fortune - far more than she could ever afford.

Sarah finally plucks up the courage and steps to the large windows, pulling the blinds up. She slides back the single patio door and steps out onto the tiny balcony that overlooks most of Central London and down onto the streets below. Her heart sinks as she watches the thousands and thousands of zombies crammed into the streets, as far as she can see. Even the road is not visible, because they are so densely packed. The only times she has seen crowds like this are for huge Royal Weddings or the London Marathon.

But these aren’t crowds waiting for a glimpse of someone famous; these are hordes of rotting, dirty, filthy zombies that want to eat human flesh. Sarah shudders and steps back inside. She closes the door but then opens it slightly, in defiance. They are down there and, as far as she is aware, they haven’t tried to climb up to her, and the apartment needs fresh air.

She walks over to the fridge, and again forgets that the power is gone. It is now empty as she has eaten all of the perishable food and is now on to the tinned goods.

‘Sod it,’ she says again and steps over to the wall cupboard, she closes her eyes and reaches in. She knows there are some tinned goods inside and she has been making herself select them at random, so that she doesn’t just eat the nicer things first.

She feels for a tin and quickly pulls it out; holding it in front of her face as she slowly opens her eyes and peeks down at the tin of… tuna.

‘Sod it!’

She opens the tin, takes a fork and sits down on the sofa to slowly much through the dry fish. Giving up within two mouthfuls and going back to the cupboard, she mooches through the various bottles of sauces and condiments, deciding on an almost empty bottle of barbeque sauce. She shakes the thick liquid down to the cap end, before squirting it over the rest of the tuna and mixing it in. She starts eating again, and whilst doing so, her mind travels back to Friday.

A trendy wine bar was what Howie would call it, and Sarah smiles at the memory of her brother making jokes about her whole life being “…a trendy gym, a trendy apartment and a trendy social life”. Sarah knew though, that success in her line of work depended on being able to socialise, or network. So she made contacts within all of the communities of the financial district.

Friday evening was the same as any other; calls were made, emails sent, text messages put out and the in crowd descended into Central London for drinks and Tapas at Charlie’s, which was owned and ran by the sleazy Charlie himself. He was always trying it on with the female staff and customers, despite his wife working there. Sleek black minimalist furniture and exposed wooden flooring. Pictures of pebbles and stones in various poses finished the scene and Sarah knew that it was stomach churning, fake and contrite, but business was business and it had to be done. So she laughed at the right times and gradually made her way through the crowds with her colleagues. A simple black evening dress was all that she wore; simple, elegant and classic was how her close friends said she looked - which was exactly the look that she aimed for. Too many of the female financiers showed way too much flesh out of the office and it just didn’t feel appropriate to her. Her Dad had always said: “…if you want to be taken seriously, you have to act seriously”. And his words had stuck throughout her short career.

Younger than Howie by two years, she had moved to London at the tender age of 23 and had been here for two years now. The shine of the city had already worn off and Sarah knew it wouldn’t be long before she wanted out of it. Sarah had seen the desperation of the older people, clinging to their power and fortunes and trying to stay with the in crowd all of the time; this just made her sad and more resolved to get out when she could.

Smoking saved her life and it’s not often that people can say that.

Sarah had been addicted for years and controlled the habit with having the odd couple of cigarettes at lunchtime and then after work, but so many of the young financiers were health freaks - using the companies gyms and clubs during lunch hours or after work. They called it, “… having a sesh”. Sarah was amazed at how many of them used cocaine and did so in public; but would then shun the smokers, calling them dirty and cancerous.

Taking the opportunity to nip outside, and just managing to avoid the grope being offered by Charlie, she talked with her co-conspirator and smoking colleague, Lisa. They chatted as they walked around the side of the building into a quieter side street and both lit up; giggling like schoolgirls, inhaling the smoke and relaxing with idle gossip.

‘Well, that Jonathon tried it on with me last night, I just knew he would, the dirty bugger,’ Lisa said.

‘He did? What did you do?’ Sarah replied.

‘What do you think I did? I told him that I’m a strict Catholic girl and he should bugger off!’ Lisa said in a very serious tone, then cackled evilly.

‘Oh, you didn’t - you naughty girl,’ Sarah laughed, waiting for the juicy details of the illicit encounter.

A scream came from the front of the trendy wine bar and it made them both jump and they darted forward to look round the edge of the building. Just in time to see Charlie standing there in his expensive designer jeans, brown boots and tucked in black shirt - with his podgy stomach pushing against the material.

A very pretty girl with long, blonde hair was shouting loudly at him as he backed away with his hands raised up in front of him, palms facing her, acquiescent and trying to shush her

‘YOU FILTHY BASTARD, YOU GRABBED MY ARSE,’ the woman screamed at Charlie and slapped him hard across the face, causing his perfectly styled messy hair to get dishevelled. Charlie backed away and begged the woman to keep her voice down. She became angrier and started throwing more haymakers at him. One of large bouncers stepped forward and restrained the woman, pulling her back.

‘YOU CRAZY BITCH,’ Charlie shouted and ordered the bouncer to take her down the street.

‘He had that coming, the sleazy pig,’ Sarah said.

‘Oh, he’s disgusting - he’s always grabbing my arse and trying to squeeze my tits,’ replied Lisa.

‘I don’t know why we keep coming here, it’s always the same people and the same thing, and that dirty sleazebag trying to grope anything that moves; he’s a sex pest.’ Sarah said.

‘You know what I heard, he just got back from his brother’s wedding in Greece and got off with the bride’s best mate and now he keeps going down to see her, right under his poor wife’s nose.’ Lisa said.

‘Someone should report him to the police, that’s got to be sexual assault or something.’ Sarah said. ‘Oh… hang on, it’s not quite over yet.’

A well-built man, with a bald head, came storming up the street, straight towards Charlie who was now talking to his two bouncers. As the man got closer, he pointed directly at Charlie.

‘Did you grab my girlfriend’s arse? You dirty fucker,’ the man shouts as he gets closer.

Charlie quickly starts stepping back, hiding behind his bouncers. One of them moves forward and extends an arm out to the man; a clear warning to stay back. The man knocks it out of the way and quickly punches the bouncer in the face, causing him to fly back and knock Charlie into a set of tables; upsetting the drinks all the over customers. The second bouncer moves in to grab the angry man but gets head butted and sent flying too. Charlie is on his feet and moving backwards, away from the oncoming angry bald man.

‘Please mate, take it easy, calm down, I didn’t do anything, it’s all a misunderstanding.’ Charlie pleads, seeing his two bouncers down on the ground, clutching at their faces.

Sarah and Lisa are laughing hard, watching Charlie beg the man to stop and backing away into more tables and knocking more drinks over. The bald man lunges at Charlie and grabs him by the front of his shirt and throws him down onto the floor. Sarah, Lisa and a half dozen other previously groped women all cheer at the sight of the sex pest getting his just rewards. The angry man glances round at the sound of cheering and smiles awkwardly at first, confused about the reaction.

One woman shouts out, to cheers and whistles: ‘Go on then, have him - he’s grabbed all of us, the dirty beast.’

The bald man smiles at the women and bows his head, before walking intently towards Charlie as he scurries away on his backside, one hand up in the air, still trying to calm the angry man.

‘Please mate, I didn’t do anything, you touch me and I’ll get the law on you, there’s CCTV here.’ The man bends down and pulls Charlie to his feet by the front of his clothes and punches him once in the face.

The women erupt in cheers and start applauding. People pile out of the main door to watch the action and more join in by clapping. The man hits him again in the face and the crowd cheer even louder, someone shouts “TWO”, and the man pounds him again. The crowd shouts “THREE”.

The man isn’t hitting him hard, but hard enough to stun Charlie and humiliate him. The bouncers are back on their feet now and starting forward to help their boss. A woman steps out from the crowd and stands in front of them.

‘DON’T DO NOTHING – HE GOT THIS COMING.’ The woman shouts at the bouncers in a strong Eastern European accent.

‘That’s the wife then,’ Lisa laughs as the crowd shouts “FOUR”.

A loud shout erupts from over the road and Sarah looks over to see another fight taking place.

‘Jesus, this place is getting worse, look at them going for it.’

Lisa stares over and they both watch as a man is being attacked on the ground by another man. Some other people run over and start to pull the man away, by grabbing at his shoulders and body. The man is thrashing about and appears to be trying to force his face into the other man’s neck. The attacker then springs up and launches himself at one of the rescuers.

‘Oh my god, did you see that?’ Sarah asks.

‘Yeah, that’s awful,’ Lisa replies.

There is a big ruckus going on now across the road as more people try to subdue the crazy man. He refuses to stop and keeps lunging his head at more people, biting them and causing them jump backwards. The man who was on the floor sits up after a few minutes and slowly gets to his feet.

‘At least he’s all right, I thought he was dead,’ Lisa said.

The man gets to his feet and suddenly lunges forward and bites into the neck of another man. Screams and shouts erupt and the bald man, holding the now bloodied Charlie, stops pounding and looks over at the mass brawl taking place. He lets Charlie go, who slumps to the ground whimpering. The crowd are all silent now.

Some people are running into the melee, and some are trying to escape.

One woman, dressed in a smart, black, business suit staggers out of the confusion, clutching her neck; blood spurting out between her fingers. She staggers across the road and falls, and the bald man tries to catch her and lower her to the floor. The man shouts for something to stop the bleeding and presses his already bloody hands into the side of her neck.

Women are screaming and men are running about in panic.

The fighting gets worse and more people get involved, until nearly the whole street is brawling.

Sarah starts to take in some of the details, despite not being experienced in street fights, but even she  understands that biting is not a normal action.

‘We should get out of here,’ Lisa murmurs to Sarah.

‘What? Christ, yes, let’s go,’ Sarah responds, shaking herself.

Sarah and Lisa start down the main road, but quickly see that the road ahead is also blocked by people fighting, they turn round and try to go the other way, but that too is blocked.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ Lisa shouts.

‘I don’t know… quick, down here,’ Sarah grabs her hand and they start back towards the entrance to the side street that they were smoking in, just a few minutes ago. They pass the front of Charlie’s again and Lisa screams as she sees the bald man being pulled down by the woman in the smart business suit.

The woman is biting into his neck, gauging the flesh away and hot crimson blood is pouring down her face.

They scurry past and enter the darkness of the quiet street. Both stop halfway down to take off their high heels and run in bare feet. They burst out of the street into another main road, also swamped with café’s, restaurants and wine bars and hundreds of screaming people covered in blood and clutching facial and body wounds.

Sarah and Lisa run down the pavement, dodging round people fighting. Blood spurts out from an arterial bleed, soaking Lisa on her face and bare arms. They continue to run, narrowly missing being attacked by inches.

Within a short distance, they reach Sarah’s apartment block.

‘Come in with me, Lisa - you can’t stay out here on your own,’ Sarah says, panting heavily.

‘I can’t Sarah, I’ve got to get home,’ she breaks away and starts running down the street. ‘I’ll call you when I’m home,’ she yells.

Sarah watches her run, then turns to go into her own block, but movement to her left catches her eye and she sees a man staggering into view. His shirt is blood soaked and half his face is torn away. He sees Sarah and starts directly towards her. Sarah fumbles at the numbers on the key-coded entrance lock. Her fingers move too fast and she has to press clear and start again. Finally, she pushes the door and slams it shut.

In the foyer, Sarah presses the button to call the lift. While waiting, she peers at the front door and watches the man through the glass, staggering past the door – then he stops and walks towards the plate glass.

Sarah pulls back and urges the lift to move faster.

The doors open with a loud ping and Sarah gets inside and waits for the slow climb to her floor. She doesn’t hear or see anyone else and gets safely into her flat.

She then pulls her mobile phone out of her bag and curses that she forgot it was on silent. The screen flashes with missed calls from HOME. Her parents have been calling her again and again. She presses the phone and waits for the connection. Her Dad answers and lets out a loud sigh.

‘Sarah, thank god you’re okay,’ Howard says.

‘Dad, what’s happening, there’s loads of fighting and people being attacked and a man had his face hanging off,’ Sarah babbles into the phone.

‘Sarah, listen to me. The phones will be down soon, something bad is happening everywhere. I don’t know what it is but you stay in your flat, okay? You must lock yourself in and wait for us,’ Howard speaks slowly and firmly, making sure she takes it all in.

‘Dad, what? What’s going on, are you and Mum okay?’

‘We’re fine Sarah, your mother’s right here. We are going to get Howie and then we’ll come and get you, wait there - do not go out or leave the flat.’

‘Is Howie okay, Dad? Is this everywhere? I’ve been out in town and it was awful.’

‘Yes, Sarah - it’s everywhere, now you must stay there…’

The line goes dead.

Sarah panics and yells into the phone: ‘DAD,’ over and over again.

She presses the END CALL button and tries to call them back. She keeps trying again and again, then calls Howie but gets no tone and then she works her way through her call list one by one.

All round the world, people screamed into their phones desperately trying to make contact with their loved ones. The huge numbers crashed the networks and the engineers were busy fighting for their lives, like everyone else, and couldn’t bring the systems back online.

Sarah never had a landline connected, the mobile signal in most of Central London was always brilliant and the building provided secure wireless connection.

Sarah tried using her computer, but the internet was down too. After hours of frantic calling and texting she gave up and sank onto the sofa; curling up and sobbing. After some time, she remembered the television; she had rarely watched any TV. Sarah flicked through the channels, but each one was either blank or showing a static image apologising for the loss in broadcast.

Those were the events of Friday, now it’s Tuesday and there is still no sign of her family.

Sarah finishes the tuna and discards the empty can into the waste bin. She is feeling a little stir crazy and yesterday sneaked out to knock on her neighbours’ doors - but there was no reply and she ran back inside her own apartment.

She knows that she has to keep mentally alert and that regular physical exercise releases endorphins into the system. She grabs her iPod and changes into a pair of shorts and a sporty vest top. Naturally very slim and lithe, regular workouts in the company gym helped keep her fit and toned. Selecting her gym play list, Sarah commenced exercising; again cursing herself that she had the shower first, instead of waiting. For the next two hours, Sarah punishes herself with hard physical exertion: running fast on the spot; then doing star jumps; squat thrusts; push ups; sit ups and then she makes use of the kitchen worktop for dips. Loud dance and rock music blare directly into her inner ear, pushing her to work harder and faster.

Eventually, she flakes out, crashing down to the floor, gulping air down and pulling the small white speakers out of her ears.

As she recovers, she try’s to think of how many apartments there are in the building. There are many floors: maybe twenty or twenty five and most of the apartments are small, so the developers could make more money.

So… maybe four apartments per floor - apart from the big, luxury ones at the top - that would make it  around one hundred apartments in her block. There must be someone else alive in this building and there should be a decent amount of water storage to supply the apartments. Which must mean there is plenty of water – so… I can have another shower!

Sarah runs for the bathroom, before she allows any doubt to creep in.

Again, having showered, under the pleasantly cold water, she gets dressed and makes her mind up - she is going to go out of her apartment and see if anyone else is still here. What harm can it do?

Sarah selects a large knife from the kitchen drawer and starts towards the front door.

‘Sod it!’ she exclaims, as she slowly opens her front door.

________________________________________________________

‘Oh… who did that?!’ Alex ‘Cookey’ Cooke bursts out from underneath the Saxon, clutching his nose.

‘Tucker was that you? Stinky fucker.’ Cookey shouts back, after taking a few steps away.

Tucker chuckles to himself, and then lets rip with another loud fart, causing more of the recruits to burst away from the rear of the vehicle.

‘You dirty fucker,’ Darren Smith yells, as Tucker carries on laughing.

I start giggling myself. I am at the top of the Saxon vehicle. Dave took the last look-out during the night and I got another couple of hours sleep, before the sun finally came up.

‘What time is it?’ Nicholas Hewitt stands and stretches out, then goes dizzy and has to bend back over.

‘Just gone 6 a.m.,’ I say, out loud, so they can all hear. ‘You lot feeling any better today?’

I get a mixed response.

‘Right, we need to make a move. Load up and we’ll go back to the main buildings and find some food.’

‘Hang on, I need a piss,’ Simon Blowers calls out and runs out from the Saxon; stopping after a few metres and relieving himself onto the grass.

Within minutes, he is joined by all of us, in a row, pissing in the warm summer morning; contented sighs and long groans as bladders are relieved.

‘I’m bloody starving,’ Tucker says.

‘No surprise there then,’ Cookey says, to a cackle of laughter.

‘Stop talking about food, I feel like my throat’s been cut,’ Curtis Graves says.

‘What? You didn’t even do anything last night Gravesy - you were pissing about, driving that Land Rover all night, while we were fighting for our lives,’ One of them shouts and then they are off again, bantering and jibing.

We slowly load back into the Saxon and I take the driver’s seat. The Bedford 500 6 cylinder engine roars to life and I engage the first gear and pull away. The Saxon is a big, squat looking thing with massive tyres and can hold up to ten soldiers in the rear. From looking at the controls I can see it has 2-wheel and 4-wheel drive capability but I leave it in normal at the moment.

The ground is hard and compacted from the scorching hot summer and the Saxon makes light work of it, until we reach the smooth surface of the road that leads back into the main area. I familiarise myself with the vehicle while we go over the low bumps, causing the lads in the back to bounce around.

I think back to the night and the zombie saying my name. I theorise that it must have been just the body expelling air and in the eerie night my imagination made it sound like my name.

‘You all right mate?’ I say to Dave.

He is sitting in the passenger seat of the cabin.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ He replies, deadpan as normal.

‘You hungry too, mate? I’m famished.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, what do we need to do? Get some food and go to the armoury… anything else?’

‘I don’t think so; more ammunition and a bit more kit from the stores would be good.’

‘Okay mate, food first though - we could split up and use the two teams we had yesterday, one for cooking and one for getting the stuff, with you.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

I’m sure most of the lads are doing the same as me and thinking only of food and their stomachs. We follow the road for several miles; the plains are massive and stretch out on either side, as far as the eye can see.

Eventually, we drive into the main building area. There are undead bodies littering the ground everywhere. Flies and insects are buzzing between the cadavers and I realise just how much of a disease risk all of the corpses across the country are.

‘Right, everyone out,’ I call, as I bring the vehicle to a stop on the large parade square. ‘We will split into two teams. Tucker, you’re on team Alpha, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he replies, but looks worried.

‘Team Alpha will come with me and get the grub ready. Team Bravo are going with Dave to get what he needs from the stores and the armoury. Right, who knows where the… food place is?’

‘It’s called the Mess, Sir and it’s over here,’ Tucker starts off immediately, followed by the members of our team.

‘STOP RIGHT THERE.’ Dave bellows out in his drill sergeant voice, and everyone freezes, including me. I look round quickly, trying to identify the threat; my assault rifle already raised up. I see Blowers and Cookey are doing the same.

‘WHERE ARE YOUR WEAPONS?’ Dave shouts and I realise that half the recruits have got out and started moving off; their rifles still in the Saxon.

‘GET YOUR WEAPONS AND KEEP THEM WITH YOU AT ALL TIMES,’ Dave’s voice does the trick and they scramble back to the Saxon and gather their weapons, looking sheepish and embarrassed.

I nod at Dave and he nods back.

‘See you in a bit, mate - say an hour? Will that be long enough?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

We set off to the “Mess”, and I wonder why the Army have to have such weird names for everything.

The Mess looks like most of the other buildings from the outside. The door leads into a corridor, which opens into a large canteen-style dining room, with long tables and benches. There is a long serving counter at one end; hot plates and cold cabinets now dark and cold.

Tucker walks down the room, rubbing his hands.

‘I don’t know what they’ll have left; I guess the meat might be off by now. What day is it? Tuesday? We’ll see, there might be something decent we can use - I’ll go and have a look.’ In his element now – he is the official cook and food supplier for our band of misfits.

I follow Tucker into the kitchen area, which is spotless and very modern looking: huge ovens, multiple sinks and various equipment are around the sides. There are lots of work surfaces in the middle. Tucker walks through, taking it all in.

‘Have you done cooking before then, Tucker?’ I ask him.

‘I was joining the Catering Corps, Sir. I love food and always have done loads of cooking, as you can probably tell,’ he jiggles his large belly and laughs. ‘Ah, here we are…’ He opens two large, metal doors that lead into a huge walk-in chill room.

‘Won’t all that be off now, mate? If the power’s been off for a few days,’ I ask him and follow him inside.

‘The Army uses a different power supply to the normal grid, it’s gone now, but I was hoping it stayed on long enough to keep this lot chilled. Plus these are very well insulated from the heat outside, so it takes a while for the temperature to rise.’

I see what he means, although the power is definitely out, the chilled room is decidedly colder than the kitchen or the outside.

‘Now let’s see, they must use the LILO method - so we just need to work out where that starts…’ Tucker says as he starts rummaging through boxes and packets.

‘The what, mate?’ I ask him.

‘The LILO method means Last In Last Out. Which means they have a system to see when the freshest stock is added, so they use the oldest stock first.’

‘Ah, I see, that makes sense.’

Tucker identified the freshest line and starts pulling boxes out into the kitchen. I call the rest of the lads and we start a chain, piling it up on the work surfaces, until there is a considerable mound.

I start poking through and see boxes of red meat, beef and whole chickens. I smell each of them in turn but they all seem quite fresh. Tucker walks back into the kitchen, as I’m sniffing.

‘They must have had a delivery of new produce on Friday, so we’re lucky this lot is still good.’ He says.

‘Are you using all of it?’ I ask him, surprised at the pile of goods.

‘Might as well, it will only go bad otherwise.’ He stops and stares at the pile and immediately starts separating them.

Tucker is, by far, the least fit of the recruits, and he gets a lot of stick for it, but watching him now, he looks focussed and very happy.

‘Anything we can do, mate?’ Roland McKinney asks, Tucker.

‘Oh yes, the power is still on…’ Tucker exclaims as he turns a dial on one of the gas hobs.

Then he checks if the oven is working.

‘Right Roland, can you grab some of those pans and fill them with water. Darren… if you start cutting these up into small chunks,’ Tucker thrusts a box at Darren and moves on to Nicholas Hewitt. ‘Nick, could you start chopping the veg, please mate.’

‘Anything I can do, Tucker?’ I ask him.

‘Err… no, Sir - thanks anyway - but we can manage.’

I leave them to it and make my back out of the building and across to the parade square. The Saxon looks massive; it must be over two and a half metres in height and over five metres in length. I feel more optimistic about our chances of getting through London but, again, the delay concerns me. These lads didn’t have to come with us into the plains yesterday. I know they said that sticking together increases the chances of survival, but getting that Saxon was my objective and I did it to rescue my sister. I put them in danger for my own ends. In the church when the ammunition ran low and we were seconds from being invaded, not one of them moaned or said a word, but they stood together and prepared for the worst. So… the least I can do now is give them some time for food and rest.

I meet Dave at the Saxon and we watch the recruits bringing boxes of ammunition out. Dave takes the magazines out and stows them in compartments in the vehicle. Then the spare rifles and ammunition for the GPMG - then more clothing – and finally some NATO helmets.

Once loaded, we head over to the Mess and walk in to a wonderful aroma: a mixture of meats and sauces, that sets my mouth watering at once.

Tucker has done an amazing job. There are bowls and trays of food in the middle of one of the tables.

A few minutes later, and we are all tucking in; piling plates with food and shovelling it in to our mouths, without manners or etiquette.

There are laughs and jokes round the table as everyone eats their fill.

Dave stays quiet and eats an enormous amount of food, for such a slightly built man. We sit back, relaxed and contented and drink strong coffee.

‘So, I’m going to head to London with Dave. I promised I would drop some of you off on the way …’ I let the question hang in the air.

‘Sir, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather stick with you two, until you get to the Forts. I haven’t really got anywhere else to go,’ Blowers speaks first, his voice steady and decisive.

‘Yes, mate, of course - but going to London is going to be hard - are you sure this is what you want to do?’

‘Yes, Sir. I think Cookey feels the same way, we talked about it earlier,’ Blowers looks to Cookey who nods in affirmation.

‘I won’t last five minutes on my own and, besides, someone has to do the food and make the brews,’ Tucker offers.

‘That’s great mate, thank you,’ I say to Tucker. ‘McKinney, what about you, mate?’

‘Well… I want to see my family, but I know they would have headed with everyone to the Forts… if they haven’t…’

‘I understand,’ I interject, to try and save him the hardship of having to say it.

‘But, there’s no point me trying for home on my own - especially after seeing what they are like at night. So, if it’s okay, I want to come with you too,’ McKinney looks down at his empty plate, clearly uncomfortable with feeling like he has to ask.

‘Lads, Dave and I would be more than happy to take you all with us, you’ve proved yourself. Trust me, it’s not me doing you a favour, it’s the other way round.’

‘I’m going to head off, Sir - if that’s all right,’ Alan Booker offers, suddenly.

‘No problem Alan, where you heading to?’ I ask him.

‘I’ll try home first and then the Forts, if that fails. I live in the other direction - so I’ll find something to take, save you having to drive away from your direction.’

‘Alan, after what you’ve done for us mate, it’s really not an issue if you need a ride somewhere,’ I say to him.

‘Nah, thanks anyway. I can take something to use,’ he says but looks sheepish and avoids eye contact.

‘How will you take something, Alan? Even Dave and I struggled to find transport at times. It’s not as easy as you would think.’

‘Nah… it will be okay. I sort of know how to take cars without keys - if you get my meaning.’

‘Ah… a mis-spent youth eh, mate? Well, it’s a pity to lose you. Feel free to change your mind.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie. I really appreciate it.’

Alan is the only one that wants to leave. The others try and convince him to stay, but I can see his mind is made up.

Half an hour later, we are driving out of the gates and down the road.

Alan insists on being dropped off at the main junction and he gets out with his rifle, ammunition, and rucksack. There’s a silence after he goes and we drive on quietly. The recruits have been through so much together, in such a short space of time, and the loss hits them hard.

Cookey makes an effort to crack a joke, but it falls flat.

‘Now… are the rest of you sure that you want to come with us?’ I shout back to the lads. ‘Because there’s going to be a lot of zombie mother fuckers that need killing, Dave and I did want to keep them to ourselves, but seeing as you lot have helped out, we are willing to share them - but not if you’re going to be holding back.’

A few muttered responses.

‘Oh yes, a whole lot of zombies that want to eat brains…’ a few chuckles this time. ‘BRAINS!!! I MUST HAVE THEM BRAINSSSS…’ I groan the words out and then look across at Dave. ‘EAT DAVE’S BRAIIINNNSSS!’ A few more laughs, especially when Dave looks at me with his usual deadpan expression.

‘COOKEY NO HAVE ANY BRAAAINS TO EAT THOUGH!’ They laugh properly this time and start ripping on Cookey, who takes it well and abuses them back.

The tension is broken, for a little while, at least.

________________________________________________________

Sarah treads softy down the carpeted hallway; creeping forward and stopping at the first door. She knocks gently and listens with her ear pressed to the door and, after a few seconds of silence, she tries the door handle and is not surprised to find that the door is locked. She moves down the corridor, checking each door, knocking and listening and then slowly pushing the door handle down.

Sarah hasn’t heard any noise from the neighbouring flats since the event began and she can normally hear the muted tones of the televisions; music being played or the tones of voices.

She realises that she has never heard anyone from above or below her apartment, so has nothing to gauge whether the occupiers will still be there. Her floor is finished quickly; no noise and all of the doors are locked. Out of habit, she moves towards the lift doors and goes to press the CALL button, only realising, at the last second, that the power is out.

She moves to the fire door and slowly pushes it open, looking down into the stairwell. The apartment block is modern and finished to a high standard; the developer went to the extent of carpeting the emergency stairwell and having brass rails fitted.

Some of the more health conscious residents used the stairs for a daily workout. The carpet is light brown, carefully selected to absorb moisture and street dirt from the boots of delivery drivers. The developer also thought to add glass panes to each fire door, so that natural light filters into the stairwell.

‘Up or down?’ Sarah whispers to herself.

Living on the 14th floor meant she was just over half way up. She stands still for some minutes, considering which way to go. In the end, she chooses to go up, knowing it will be quicker for her to run back down the stairs if she has to escape anything.

The memories of seeing the undead bite into the living, makes her shiver with fear as she starts to ascend the stairs; keeping to the central carpeted section to deaden her footfalls.

There are two sets of stairs between each floor and she is at the next landing door very quickly; crouching behind the door and listening, then raising herself up slowly to peer through the glass pane and out into the corridor.

The view is exactly the same as her floor, carpeted corridor with four apartments, two on each side and a large picture window at the end. She creeps out, until she is through the doorway and gently closes the door behind her. She repeats the actions from her floor, moving from door to door. Each apartment is quiet and the silence only serves to add to the tension and fear she is feeling. She moves stealthily back to the stairwell and climbs up to the 16th floor.

By the 19th floor, she is more nonchalant and the knife is held down at her side, rather than up and ready. She still tries the handle’s but her movements become less stealthy and covert and she spends less time at each door.

By the 20th floor, the knife is in her back pocket, and she walks normally down the corridor and knocks loudly at each door, before trying the door handle; not bothering to listen this time.

Thinking that there is clearly no one there - the whole block must be empty - she makes her way back down the corridor and into the stairwell.

Up the stairs and onto the 21st floor. Again she knocks and tries each door handle – but there is no sign of life.

‘Where is everyone?’ She mutters and goes back into the stairwell and climbs further up, her thigh muscles still aching from the two hours of exercise.

Feeling hot, thirsty and sweating she reaches the 21st floor and pushes the door open, before stepping into the corridor.

Thinking of a cold drink and another cold shower, she reaches the first door and her fist freezes in mid-air as she goes to knock, The door is wide open. Her heart starts beating faster and her breath catches in her throat as she looks down at the bloodstains beneath her feet. She looks back down the corridor to the stairwell door and curses herself for not noticing the red, smeared footprints on the light-coloured carpet. Deep red, dried blood smears are all over the high gloss white wooden stairwell door. She slowly follows the bloody footprints on the carpet and looks towards the end of the corridor. Her heart skips a beat as she sees the man that is facing her. He has drool coming from his mouth and his eyes are all bloodshot, like he has a serious disease. His skin is drawn and tight against his face, and Sarah can see that his normally dark black skin has gone shades paler, almost grey.

The man rocks gently as he stares at her and his head rolls about, seemingly uncontrolled. He is dressed in just white shorts and a once white vest top that is now heavily stained from blood and saliva.

The man groans and starts to shuffle slowly towards her; his movements are slow and jerky as he moves. He slowly spasms and twitches, flicks his arms out and causes his head to jerk quickly to one side.

Terrified, Sarah stands still, watching the man shuffling towards her. Then she comes to and darts forward into the open doorway with a squeal; slamming the door behind her and running into the lounge area.

The apartment has the same layout as hers, but with different furniture and décor, which makes it feel surreal.

She pulls the knife from her pocket and turns back to face the door, turning away from the old, zombie woman; shuffling on thick, carpet slippers into the lounge. Saliva dribbles from her old and puckered mouth and coats the front of her nightgown. She inches towards Sarah, the bloodshot eyes staring at the tender skin of Sarah’s bare neck.

Sarah’s heart is pounding and the blood rushes through her temples, deafening her senses. She waits for the sound of the man against the door and tightens the grip on the knife handle, but a sudden noise behind her causes her to spin around. She screams as she sees the old woman; a massive, ragged gash in her neck. She lunges at Sarah, with her lips pulled back.

Sarah yells and jumps backwards, at the same time as thrusting the knife forward, plunging the sharp blade directly into the old woman’s chest. The zombie is knocked back, but then continues forward again.

Sarah backs away, staring at the knife handle embedded in the woman’s chest.

She is trapped in the short corridor between the lounge and the front door and, within a couple of steps, her back is pressing against the door.

The old woman keeps coming, each small shuffling step bringing her closer and closer to Sarah who stares in horror at the skin that is torn away from the open neck wound.

Sarah waits until the old woman is two or three steps away and lunges forward again, grabbing the knife handle and pulling it free. She stabs, plunging the knife back into the zombie woman’s chest but gets no reaction.

The woman is pushing against Sarah and has again pulled her lips back to reveal worn down, old, yellowing teeth.

Sarah stabs furiously, in blind panic and then uses her hands to drive the woman away.

The old woman zombie falls to the floor, from the power of the blows, and Sarah yanks the blade free and staggers back to the door.

The elderly zombie slowly sits up and starts bending forward to stand.

‘Oh… fuck off,’ Sarah cries out and, without thinking, pushes the door handle down and pulls the door open.

The zombie man is standing in front of her, and Sarah screams again and lashes out with the knife, slashing him across the face. His skin peels apart like dried fruit and blood seeps down into his mouth, turning the saliva pink.

Sarah feels the old woman against the back of her leg and spins round, to see the woman crawling towards her.

She stamps down on the zombie woman’s head and drives her face hard into the floor, feeling the crunch as the nose is broken and teeth are knocked out.

The zombie man staggers in; spitting bloody drool and Sarah stabs out hard and fast, puckering his chest and abdomen. She moves backwards, but gets stuck by the old woman’s body.

In desperation, she raises the knife high in both hands and drives it into the skull of the zombie man, as he lunges forward for the bite. The blade forces through the skull into the brain and the force of the blow drives the zombie down onto the floor. Whimpering and full of panic, Sarah jumps over his body and dashes out into the corridor. She screams loudly as she sees another zombie man coming out of the next apartment, shuffling towards her.

Sarah backs away down the corridor, the knife still embedded in the zombie man’s head. She backs down to the stairwell door and turns to run away, suddenly seeing another ravaged and bloodied face staring at her through the glass pane from the stairwell.

‘FUCKING HELL!’ Sarah moves away from the door.

Turning round, she sees the old woman zombie crawling out of the apartment doorway into the corridor. The other zombie man advances slowly and Sarah hears the door being pushed open, behind her.

With a yell, she slams her body into the door, sending the zombie behind it flying backwards. She spins round, trapped again and desperately trying to think of a way out.

She looks down at the wall and the bright red plastic case of the fire hose and instantly starts tugging at the large door to open it up.

The door stays shut and Sarah loses valuable seconds, fumbling to open the clasp.

The stairwell door starts to open and Sarah kicks out hard, slamming the plate glass into the face of the zombie man. Blood spurts out from his broken nose, coating the glass pane. Sarah pulls at the hose and the heavy metal head, yanking it free of the reel; the large, red, metal head has arrows depicting: ON and OFF.

Sarah fumbles with the tap head and twists it the wrong way, in her panic. The door swings open and the zombie lunges into the corridor. Sarah swings the heavy metal hose-head, and batters him across the face forcing him to spin into the wall behind him. She twists at the tap head and hears as water surges through the hose, sending it rigid - but no water comes out. She pulls the lever and gets thrown backwards onto the floor by the sudden release of the water shooting out of the end. The hose dances and bangs against the walls, forcing gallons of water out into the corridor; soaking everything. Sarah is drenched within seconds, and has to fight against the powerful spray to take hold of the metal head. She picks it up and turns it back towards the stairwell door; straight at the zombie man. The powerful jet of water knocks him back through the door and into the stairwell. The door swings closed, causing the water to spray back and soak Sarah again. She spins round on her backside and directs the jet at the next zombie man, again hitting him from close range at centre mass and knocking him clean off his feet and down onto the floor.

The old zombie woman has crawled close to her victim, and Sarah forces the jet of water directly into her face. The woman’s skin is pummelled and forced back, as she gargles and chokes on the water, but she keeps crawling forward and Sarah leans over with the hose, so that it is right in front of her and the jets force the zombie woman’s head back - as the water is pumped down her throat.

Finally, the old woman dies again as her lungs fill with water and her stomach lining expands from the sudden fluid intake.

Sarah gets to her feet and switches the lever off; the sudden loss of pressure causing the hose to drop down a few inches, as she turns back to the stairwell door.

Sarah marches forward and kicks the door open to see the zombie man just getting to his feet; balancing on the edge of the top step.

‘Fuck you,’ Sarah shouts and pulls the lever back.

The powerful surge of water takes the zombie clean off his feet and down onto the next level. Sarah pulls the hose through and slowly steps down the stairs, her feet squelching in the sodden carpet. Sarah directs the hose at the zombie, spraying it across the short landing and down the next flight of stairs; a look of grim determination on her face.

The hose extends far enough for Sarah to jet the zombie out of the next door and into the corridor of the 20th floor and she rushes forward, spraying it further down the corridor; buying herself time to run back to her own apartment, tears streaming down her already soaked face.

Sarah runs down the stairs and into the corridor of her floor and sprints to her door, lurching through and slamming it behind her. Then she slumps down, sobbing and soaked through. Her mind races at what she had witnessed. When this first happened she suspected that it was a mass breakdown of civil order and general violence; that had happened recently in London and other English cities. Then she spoke to her father who said it was everywhere. Sarah has been running his words through her mind ever since. What did he mean by: everywhere?

He couldn’t mean worldwide - surely not the whole world? Zombies and vampires are make believe, something invented for the movies. They can’t exist; something so frequently seen on television can’t just happen… but all the things I have seen must be believed. Zombies have risen up and are roaming the land.

Sarah sobbed for a long time, unleashing the pent up misery and isolation of the last few days; crying hard for her family, friends and the people she had seen being taken down. Tears coursed down her cheeks and her body heaved as the sadness poured out of her.

Eventually, wet through and shivering from shock, she staggers to the bathroom and pulls off her soaking clothes. She uses the thick, cotton towel to dry her body, moving like a robot and without expression. Thinking only of what she just witnessed a few floors above her. Thinking of the decaying bodies that stank of death with greying skin and saliva drooling out of their mouths; the red bloodshot eyes and the horrific injuries on them. She had stabbed that woman again and again but still she kept coming and Sarah replays the action in her head, feeling as the knife bit into the rib bones and jarred her wrist, the suction of the skin as she pulled the knife out, and of the fresh blood spurting from the injuries she had caused.

The thoughts and images become too much and her stomach heaves as she drops down with her head in the toilet bowl, puking up the tiny tuna meal she had forced down.

She stays there for a long time, retching and sobbing into the toilet.

__________________________________________

We sit in the Saxon with the engine switched off. We only left Salisbury a short time ago and we have already passed through several small villages as we progress our journey through the country roads.

The first village centre only had a handful of undead in the centre, all of them gathered once again in the heart of the village; shuffling and groaning in the scorching sun.

‘They’re not getting much of a tan are they? Considering how long they’ve been out in this heat,’ I say to Dave, who is sitting next to me, staring at the mini horde as we drive past.

‘No, Mr Howie,’ he replies.

‘You’d think they’d be burnt to buggery by now.’

‘Possibly.’

‘But then, there’s something in the body isn’t there, that causes the skin to get tanned? I guess dead people just don’t tan very well.’

‘Pigs do.’

‘What?’

‘Pigs can get sunburnt.’

‘No way… pigs can’t get a suntan.’

‘They can.’

‘Well… I always thought that cows explode, if they don’t get milked.’

‘Do they?’

‘I don’t know - I heard that they did.’

‘Oh… I’ve never seen one explode on its own.’

‘Well… maybe it’s not true then… hang on… what do you mean… not on its own.’

‘Well, I haven’t.’

‘So, have you seen a cow explode, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it explode?’

‘I blew it up.’

‘You blew a cow up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? How did you blow a cow up?’

‘I put explosives on it and blew it up.’

‘You did what?! You can’t go around blowing cows up!’

‘I had to.’

‘Why? Why on earth did you have to blow the poor cow up?’

‘To kill the cow herder.’

‘What? You blew a fucking cow up, just to kill a cow herder.’

‘Yes.’

‘That makes no sense, why didn’t you just kill him.’

‘I did.’

‘No… I mean, why didn’t you kill him some other way, like shooting or stabbing or strangulation or something other than blowing him up.’

‘It had to look like an accident.’

‘A fucking accident! Oh, yeah… ‘cause cows are always exploding where I live… how on earth can you make an exploding cow look like an accident?’

‘He was a courier for explosives.’

‘Oh, I see. Well… I guess that makes sense then… I think?’

‘He carried explosives for the insurgents, so we rigged the cow to blow up and took him out.’

‘Oh, where was that then?’

‘I can’t say, Mr Howie.’

I knew he was going to say that!

‘Fuck me, look at that lot…’ I shout and hear the recruits scrambling forward to try and peer out the front.

‘Zombies ahead,’ Tucker shouts from his look-out position on the GMPG.

‘No shit… really, Tucker… where are they?’ Cookey yells back.

‘Ahead,’ Tucker shouts down.

‘I was being sarcastic,’ Cookey calls out.

‘What?’ Tucker yells.

‘I said I was being sarcastic,’ Cookey bellows out.

‘You want some elastic? Try my bag, there might be some in there, mate.’

‘Oh, for fucks sake,’ Cookey groans.

‘Give up mate, it’s a lost cause,’ McKinney offers.

So here we are, sitting in the Saxon, looking at a massed horde blocking the road ahead of us. The village doesn’t look that big, with just one main road going through a collection of shops and houses. There is a village green off to the right, bordered by a metal fence and the horde is gathered up against the fence. They start slowly turning round to face us.

‘Well, that’s a shit load of zombies,’ I say to Dave.

‘It is, Mr Howie.’

‘Do you think that the A…P…C… will get through them?’

‘Might do, Mr Howie,’

‘Right lads, buckle up,’ I call back. ‘TUCKER, HANG ON TIGHT,’ I yell up.

‘What?’ He yells back.

‘Ah, he’ll be all right.’ I re-start the engine and push my foot down, making the engine scream with power.

I slowly lift the clutch and the vehicle shoots forward and… stalls.

‘Not a word…’ I say, as I hear sniggers coming from behind me and try again, going a bit easier with the clutch this time.

The vehicle surges forward, gathering speed quite quickly. We plough into the front of the horde and the hard metal square front detonates their heads and bodies, sending them spinning off and knocking more over.

I plough through and feel a slight bump as the massive tyres crush the undead beneath us. The vehicle hardly rocks on the suspension and, within seconds, we are through them; leaving a trail of broken and squashed bodies behind us. The lads all cheer and whistle and I can hear Tucker shouting something. I stop the Saxon and look over at Dave.

‘Did you see that? Fucking brilliant, this thing is awesome,’ I sound like an excited child, babbling away. ‘They were smashed apart and we hardly felt a thing.’

‘Yes.’

I use the side, wing mirrors to look back and see the mangled remains and those not so injured picking themselves up off the floor.

‘Would be a shame to just leave them there, mate,’ I say to Dave, with a grin.

‘Do you want to go back again?’ he asks me.

‘Yeah, we could - or we could do it the old-fashioned way.’

Dave turns to look back at the recruits in the back. ‘Blowers, get those bayonets from the box and show the rest how to fit them on.’

‘Yes, DAVE!’ Blowers answers promptly and somehow makes the word “Dave” sound like “Sarge”.

I reach down to the floor and lift my axe up, it is all shiny and clean; feeling nice and heavy. I test the blade with my thumb and jerk my hand back from the unexpected sharpness.

‘I sharpened it,’ Dave says.

‘Bloody hell, thanks mate. You still got the knives then,’ I say, as he suddenly has them in his hands; I didn’t even see where they came from.

‘I put new blades on these too,’ he says, staring along the sharp edges.

I can hear the recruits talking quietly and clicking noises; one them yelps.

‘I fucking told you it was sharp didn’t I,’ Blowers says with scorn. Then, after a few minutes, he shouts out that they are all ready.

I feel the adrenalin start pumping and the anger is knocking at the door, waiting to be let out.

I pull the axe and climb down from the high driver’s position. The zombies are shuffling closer to us and I hold the axe down at my side, as I walk round the front of the vehicle to meet Dave as he climbs out.

The lads jump down and walk back towards us, holding their rifles carefully, due to the massive nasty looking blades at the end.

‘Safety’s on,’ Dave says to them and they all look down, to check the side of their weapons. ‘Strike and move, use the weight of the weapon to drive them back with repeated stabs to the chest and torso. Use the butt of the weapon for blunt trauma. The bayonets are sharp and will slice through their jugulars easily. Be very careful if you have to fire the weapon in close confines, the round will rip through the body and come out the other side,’ instructs Dave – an impressively long speech from him!

Finally Dave turns to me and nods.

I start to walk towards the encroaching zombies and stop. ‘Ready lads?’ I ask of the young recruits.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ they nearly all mutter.

I turn and stalk towards the undead.

The last few metres I stare hard at the nearest one, a large built male and I feel my eyelids twitching; with the image of my beloved parents being bitten by one of these foul things.

The axe is down at my side as I step closer. Time slows and I feel my right fist clenching and, before I have any idea what I’m doing, I have slammed my hard fist into the side of the zombie’s head. I follow through with the punch and slam him across the road. He staggers into another undead and stays on his feet and I’m on him before he can react; punching again and again with my right fist. The blows send him down onto the floor and I go still. Waiting. Breathing.

I feel them surround me, I feel their presence and I close my eyes in anticipation.

The danger of being so close to these evil things thrills me. The infection they carry is all around me, their teeth are being pulled back and they step and shuffle closer and closer.

But I am death.

And I come for you.

I open my eyes and scream into the air, as I spin the axe up and round; slicing through skin and bone. I hold the aim towards necks and feel the sharpened blade bite and slice through their evil, tainted, infected skin.

I step backwards and drive down a massive, overhead strike; cleaving through a skull and watching as brains burst out and the head implodes.

My senses are alive and I feel one lunging at my back. I step back and drive my elbow into his face, dropping him instantly. The axe is alive, an extension of my body. We are one and we destroy those that stand before us. I chop into heads and necks, slicing faces off. Biting the vicious blade into collarbones and spinal columns as they fall at my feet. I plough forward, swinging and killing. A quick glance over and I see Dave moving like water through them, his arms spinning with grace and beauty.

A strange man with an amazing gift: moving like a ballet dancer - his whole body poised, flexing, bending and stretching with each killing blow. He darts forward and plunges the knives into the chest of a zombie woman, his arms a blur as he rapidly stabs and then slices through the jugular and drops down to avoid the spray that soaks into the eyes of the next zombie, blinding him. Dave spins round the back, dragging the blade after him, as he lunges forward, driving the point of his other knife into the throat of the next one.

I go back to work and cleave my way through the bastard horde; the evil foul things that walk this world after their natural life has expired. I kill and maim and leave broken, undead bodies behind me. Then, I break through into a clearing and rejoice as I see a fresh and densely packed group ahead of me.

The anger has only just warmed up, it has stretched out and flexed muscles and is now ready for the proper workout.

I look back and see Blowers driving into them with a look of pure fury on his face. Cookey by his side, the banter and easy jokes gone now, as they tear the undead apart. Tucker is screaming with hatred and fear, hacking away. McKinney, Smith and all of them are in amongst them and the bodies fall down with hacked and bloodied injuries.

I turn back to the horde ahead of me, just as Dave gets to my side. We stare at each other, words not needed, and we charge together, roaring into battle. Dave launches himself high into the air and comes down into them, his knives doing the deadly business of sending them back to the hell from whence they came.

My axe is breaking them apart.

I pick my targets one by one.

A neck gets cleaved and the head drops down. I swing the blunt end back and I crush a skull. I drop the axe low and strike up into bollocks, destroying the undead’s chance’s of ever breeding his evil spawn. I spin and swing the axe behind me chopping a zombie arm off at the shoulder. Then low again and I take a leg off at the knee joint. This doesn’t kill them, but it pleases me to maim and hurt and make them fall down onto the bloody and slick ground.

We keep going: chopping, slicing, hacking and destroying - until one dirty zombie remains and we gather round him.

Silent faces.

Hard breathing.

The zombie turns round and round, unable to decide which one of us to try and bite.

Me, Blowers, Cookey, McKinney, Smith, Tucker, Graves, Reese, Hewitt and Dave stand round this one remaining filthy, dirty, evil, zombie fucker.

We stare hard at him and I see the anger inside each of them. There is glory here; glory in battling alongside brave warriors such as these.

Dave steps forward and takes the zombie by the back of his hair, wrenching his head back and pulling him off his feet. I roar and raise the axe high, driving it down into the exposed neck. As the blow lands, the recruits pile in and the zombie is punctured by eight sharp points from eight sharp bayonets being pushed by eight brave young warriors that have been pushed to the brink by these evil things. The body is hacked apart, unrecognisable within minutes.

We walk silently back to the Saxon, taking long gulps of water from our canteens and nodding at each other.

‘That was fucking, beautiful,’ Cookey says quietly, to nods and murmurs of agreement from all around him.

We use wipes to clean the blood from our weapons and skin and then load back into the Saxon.

‘At least you didn’t bum them, this time, Cookey,’ Blowers says.

‘Fuck you, Blowers - you were stabbing them in the willy,’ Cookey retorts.

‘The willy? Are you ten or something,’ McKinney joins in.

‘You were stabbing them in their zombie willies,’ Tucker laughs loudly, at the infantile language being used.

‘You can all get fucked,’ Cookey shouts and the abuse goes on.

I drive the Saxon away from the village, away from the devastation and the bodies lying festering in the sun.

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

All over the world, the infection feels the losses from these survivors.  The infection feels its size dwindling as the fighters become more deadly and more cunning in their resistance.

Small groups gather and organise themselves, securing supplies and learning how to take the deadly hosts down during the daytime and then hiding themselves away in strong and secure locations that the zombies cannot penetrate.

They take away ladders and ropes, lock strong doors and remove the keys; using the underground networks and anything they find that still works.

The rats have progressed the rate of infection significantly and their small, wiry bodies have been able to get into places that the human hosts were unable to access, but they are easy to kill and put down.

Through millions of eyes, the infection watches these fighters and it understands that in order to survive it must target these first.

The infection again watches as the one called Howie leads his fighters in an attack and kills many hosts, and the infection watches through those millions of eyes to see when they will re-appear, so it can send the rats into them.

Inside the minds of the test hosts, the infection continues to play with the brain and learn more of the complex secrets this thing possesses. It already understands that the hosts were not fully in control of these brains, and, like itself, it knows the brain is a work in progress; still in the early stages of evolution.

The infection allows the mind to access memories and knowledge, but the billions and billions of images and thought processes just cause confusion as they are in no order and have no sense. But the infection controls many now and can work on these images, while the hosts rest and repair. The infection now knows that the same strengths, cunning and guile possessed by the fighters are locked inside these minds and it will work hard and fast to unlock them.

Unlock them, not just to take more hosts, but to fight back.

To buy itself time, the infection urges the rats on, devouring everything in their path. The success of the rats has spread across the world and soon they are scurrying over every street and road worldwide. Bite, but don’t kill is the message constantly replayed in their tiny brains. They work as a super organism and even the hardest and toughest resisters are consumed with panic as the black plague comes for them.

_________________________________________

We enter another small village and find a horde gathered outside a florist’s. The once beautiful flowers in the window are now wilting.

This horde is small in number, compared to the previous one, maybe a dozen of them at most and I see a child zombie in the group this time. Thankfully, I haven’t killed any child zombies… yet. A couple of days ago I would have blanched at the thought of it and been sickened to the core. But now I’ve hardened and they are not children any more. They are undead and they will kill given the chance. They must be dealt with, like any other undead.

‘Can we stop please, Mr Howie,’ Dave says to me, snapping me out of my thoughts.

‘Yes, mate. Why? What’s up?’ I ask him as I bring the huge Saxon to a halt, causing the recruits to  cram forward.

‘Practise,’ Dave says simply and indicates to the small horde.

‘Okay, mate.’ The recruits clamber out and gather round Dave at the back of the vehicle. I draw my axe and look at the horde, itching to go for them and take them all out.

‘You did well with the last lot, but you were clumsy and slow. We are going to practise on these,’ Dave informs the recruits, as I lean on my axe.

‘Take off the bayonets and I will show you some basic techniques for using it as a bladed weapon.’ The recruits do as instructed and remove the bayonets from the end of the assault rifles.

‘Now… weapons back in the Saxon and follow me.’

They place their assault rifles back in the Saxon and then walk with him towards the horde.

The sun feels uncomfortably hot.

The zombies have turned towards us and started their slow shuffle, but I parked well back, to give us time to arrange ourselves - so there is no immediate rush.

The recruits gather round Dave, holding the knives self-consciously out in front of themselves, glancing at each other and at the horde.

‘Now you can stab them in the chest, but that won’t kill them - it buys you time and the weight of the thrust can drive them backwards - but it is not a killing blow. Do you understand,’ Dave asks and looks at them in turn as they nod. ‘The only sure way that I have found of killing them is the neck and head. Even after repeated stabs to the chest and abdomen they still fight back, so they don’t die like normal people - but they do bleed. The bleeding is different though, a few stabs that would normally render a man lifeless within seconds does not seem to affect them in the same way. The way round that is to cause them a massive loss of blood that even they cannot cope with. Now watch.’ Dave walks towards the horde holding his knives down at his sides, the nearest undead is an adult male, middle-aged and fat. He is wearing a pink, frilly dressing gown that is open; his wobbly bits dangling, as he shuffles along.

‘Now take it easy, Cookey - I know what you are looking at,’ Blowers mutters, to a few sniggers.

‘Yeah, you’re just jealous ‘cos he’s bigger than you,’ Cookey retorts.

Dave turns back to look hard at the lads who fall silent under his intense gaze. Then he simply walks up to the zombie and stabs him once in the chest and leaves the knife embedded in. He quickly steps back as the zombie bares his teeth and lunges forward.

‘See here, this one is now stabbed through the chest with a long-bladed weapon. This would normally drop even the strongest of men, but he does not even flinch,’ Dave calls out and the recruits watch with interest as the undead continues to shuffle, with the knife handle sticking out of his chest.

Dave steps in and stabs with the other knife, driving that one down into his lungs.

‘So now, he has two knives in his chest. I have punctured one of his lungs, but still he does not react, nor does he slow down,’ Dave points at the undead.

He then steps forward and quickly pulls both blades out, causing the zombie to stagger forward a little from the pressure of the pull.

‘Now, a lot of the damage from stabbing is done when the weapon is removed. The embedded blade can cause a seal around arteries and capillaries and the removal of the weapon breaks that seal, but here we see that although there is blood loss from the wounds, it is far more reduced than with a normal person. Their blood congeals much faster than ours, which means that they can withstand injuries such as this.’ Dave turns back to the recruits to make sure they understand. Most of them nod and murmur with interest.

‘So, a stab will only be of use if it has a single purpose to drive them back, like this,’ Dave lunges with frightening speed and stabs repeatedly into the chest and abdomen of the zombie. His arms blur and although I have seen him move in several battles now, I am still amazed. The zombie is forced backwards from the many punctures and eventually falls down onto the ground. Dave steps away and faces back to the recruits, not in the slightest out of breath.

‘He is still alive, or dead… undead.’ Dave scratches his head and stares down at the zombie trying to rise back up. ‘Anyway, the repeated wounds have not killed him, so we have to look to the rapid blood loss.’ Dave steps forward and sweeps his blade across the zombie’s throat, stepping behind him and facing back to the recruits.

‘See the arterial blood spraying out? There is nothing known that can congeal, stop or replenish that amount of blood loss in that short space of time.’ The recruits watch the bright red jet of blood spurting out in waves from the throat, soaking the pink dressing gown and the ground beneath. Within seconds, the zombie rolls over and is still.

‘So, we go for the throat or the brain, but the brain is protected by the hard casing of the skull and requires a significant use of force.’ Dave steps to the next zombie and lightly taps the point of his knife into the skull.

‘The skull has to be thick to prevent injury to the brain, so here I am hitting the skull with light force, and other than causing minor puncture wounds, I do not affect the brain at all. Now… as I increase the force used, you will see that even a significant amount does not penetrate the bone.’ Dave keeps walking round the adult female zombie, digging the tip of the knife into her head. ‘Now, in order to penetrate and drive into the brain, you must apply direct force, do not sweep or slash. Drive the point of the weapon directly into the top of the head.’ Dave pulls his arm and slams it down, causing the knife to dig into the skull. Then Dave lets go and the body falls to the ground, with the knife still stuck in the head.

‘Blood is slippery and can easily cause you to lose grip on the handle, and you need a similar amount of force to pull the knife back out. You can see that with a wet handle and the weight of the body dropping, you could lose your grip and then have no weapon.’ Dave bends over and grabs the fallen zombie female by the ankle, dragging her over to the recruits.

‘I want each of you to feel how hard that blade is stuck in.’ The lads all gather round the female zombie’s head and take it in turns to pull at the handle; remarking to each other, in serious tones, how really hard it is stuck in there.

This has got to be one of the most surreal scenes I have ever witnessed.

A group of eighteen year old lads standing round a dead zombie, discussing how well the knife is stuck in her brain, in a quiet village, in southern England.

Dave then puts a foot on the zombie’s shoulder and pulls the knife out; then leans down and wipes the blood on the back of her nightdress.

‘Right, I want each of you to find a zombie and try it out,’ Dave says, as he cleans the blade.

Blowers, Cookey, McKinney and Smith all move forward to do as Dave says. Tucker hesitates then he too moves into the crowd.

I watch the lads dodge round and through the zombie horde and try to avoid their last second lunges. Blowers and Cookey both go for the same zombie and start arguing about whose it is, until Tucker grabs the back of the head and slices cleanly through the neck and drops the body, before smiling and walking back to Dave, leaving them both staring; open-mouthed.

A determined look crosses Cookey’s face and he stalks off to viciously pull a head back hard and gouges down into the flesh, sawing away until he almost decapitates it from the body. Eventually, they are all dead, apart from the zombie child who drools and starts toward Dave. The rest all watch with mixed looks of horror and revulsion. Dave stares hard at the zombie and starts forward with his knives. Before he has taken two steps I have rushed in with the axe and sliced clean through the neck and the body falls slowly to the floor; blood pumping out onto the hot tarmac. I stare back at the recruits until they all look down to their feet or off into the distance.

‘It’s not a child any more – they are not people. They will kill you and turn you into one of them. Don’t hesitate next time.’

I walk back to the vehicle with a mixture of feelings; guilty because it was still a child’s body and everything we are ever taught in life is to protect children at all costs; they are the future. Even though I told them it wasn’t a child, it has left me feeling numb.

The fuel gauge drops steadily and I realise the biggest flaw of having a vehicle this size is that the fuel consumption is so high. We will need to re-fuel before too long.

Dave looks at me, having followed my gaze. I can see that he remembers the last time we tried to re-fuel, by putting diesel into a petrol only tank. We almost got caught by a massive horde as night fell.

‘Don’t worry mate, I’ll make sure it’s the right kind this time.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

Before long, we pass through yet another village but this one is devoid of life. I slow down, so we can look closely, but there are no blood stains or broken windows. Nothing. This doesn’t feel right; every village we have passed through has had some zombies in it.

‘Who is on look-out?’ I call back to the recruits.

‘McKinney,’ Reese shouts back, as he is the closest to my end.

‘Ask him if he can see anything from up there.’

Reese stands up and speaks with McKinney, who yells down.

‘He said no, Sir. He can’t see anyone.’.

‘Strange,’ I say and Reese continues leaning forward to look out of the front window.

‘Certainly is quiet,’ Reese murmurs.

‘What’s up?’ One of them calls from the back.

‘We’re going through another village, but it is completely dead, if you’ll pardon the expression. There’s no one here,’ Reese calls back to them.

I hear more of the lads shuffling along to try and glimpse out of the front windows.

‘Can I open the rear doors to look out?’ One of them shouts, it sounds like Blowers, but he must be at the back and the vehicle is loud.

‘Good idea,’ I shout out and the message gets relayed.

I suddenly hear more noise from the massive wheels going on the road. We drive out of the village and into a country lane. There are wooden signposts stuck into the verge advertising a Farmers Fete this weekend. Then, as the road bends round, I see the top of a large white marquee in a big field off to the left. As we get closer, I can see the tops of cars and vans parked in the adjacent field and a gap in the hedge connects the two fields. The signposts indicate to turn left for parking and I slow down to try and get a better view, but the hedgerow is too high. I hear McKinney shouting and I decrease the speed even more, waiting for the message to be relayed.

‘McKinney says they are all in the field by the tent, loads of ‘em, Sir,’ Reese leans forward and tells me.

‘Well, we’ve got to have a look, really,’ I say to Dave, as I stop the Saxon.

‘There are bloody loads in there, Sir,’ McKinney says, as I clamber up onto the roof.

I stand up and look over the hedge and see a large flat field with a big white marquee off to one side. There is a roped off circular central area and then some smaller tents and marquees round the outside. This explains where all of the village zombies have gone - they are all here. Hundreds of them have gathered in and around the large marquee. Hundreds of undead in various types of nightclothes or completely naked. From a distance it looks like some weird sex party or a fancy dress shindig, with everyone coming in their pyjamas.

‘Fucking, look at that,’ I mutter to myself. ‘You don’t see that every day, now do you?’

‘No, Sir,’ McKinney answers.

‘Well, we can’t stop and kill every zombie we see - but I feel bad if we just leave them here for some poor helpless soul to wander into,’ I say to McKinney.

‘Do you want me to use this, Sir?’ I look at McKinney and he taps the top of the GPMG.

‘Dave, how much ammo do we have for the GPMG,’ I shout down and then see Dave is already climbing up onto the roof.

‘Oh, sorry mate, I didn’t mean to yell.’

‘That’s okay, Mr Howie - we’ve got loads,’ Dave says.

‘All yours then, McKinney,’ I say to him and move off to the side, so I am well out of the way.

A large grin forms on his face and McKinney yanks back the lever and aims the gun into the middle of the horde. He the hesitates, for a few seconds, and glances at me again.

‘Mate, you don’t have to do it, someone else will…’ I say to him.

He shrugs and lets rip with the heavy machine gun.

The noise invades the quiet air and the zombies immediately start falling as they are torn apart by the heavy calibre weapon. The recruits all look up at McKinney and I know some of them will be jealous that he has the chance to use it and kill so many. Movement catches my eye and I see Dave waving at me, pointing to the GMPG. I shout out for McKinney to stop firing. Once silent, I shake my head from the sudden cessation of noise and look down at Dave. He has got a large metal container out from the back of the Saxon and opens the lid. The things inside are instantly recognisable, and I’ve seen them a thousand times on movies, but never in real life.

Hand grenades.

Dave gathers the recruits round him, apart from McKinney, and shows them how to remove the pin and keep hold of the lever, then pull the arm back for a long throw. Dave leads them all up the lane and into the car park, then through the gap in the hedge, until they are in the field and staring at the already reduced numbers of the zombies.

I can see Dave talking to them, but cannot hear what he is saying - from his movement I guess that he is telling them to throw it far and then find cover.

There is a large tractor with an evil looking, giant metal contraption fitted to the end. Dave leads them all over so that the tractor attachment is between them and the zombies. He then pulls the pin out of his grenade and uses a big overhead sweep of his arm to launch the grenade into the middle of the packed crowd, shouting ‘GRENADE,’ as he does so.

The explosion that takes place a few seconds later is a lot bigger than I expected and I see several bodies blown up a few feet into the air and many more drop down from the shrapnel ripping through legs and stomachs.

Dave then makes them all take turns to throw a grenade each and shout ‘GRENADE,’ as they launch it. McKinney and I watch with “…ooh’s” and “…aaah’s” like a fireworks display - as the grenades explode and cause devastation to the horde.

The zombies closest to the exploding grenades are obliterated with each loud percussive bang. The lads finish lobbing their grenades and I can see that they are smiling and laughing at the carnage that has been caused.

Dave gives me a thumbs up as they leave the field and it’s safe for McKinney to continue. The GPMG starts up again and, within seconds, they are all dead - or at least down and unable to get back up from their awful injuries.

‘That was fucking amazing, did you see them explode? I fucking love blowing stuff up,’ Darren Smith says excitedly, as they walk back to the Saxon and load up into the rear.

‘Are we going to stop at every village on the way, Sir?’ Blowers shouts to me.

‘It would be nice, but we don’t have the time, mate,’ I reply, thinking how everyone is calling me Sir or Mr Howie now. I’m just a shift manager for a supermarket, how the hell did I end up leading a squadron of zombie killers across the country?

________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection recognises this group of resisters that keep cutting it down. It watches the one they call Howie who is standing further away, watching as the hosts are destroyed and the infection is once again diminished.

The infection now controls billions of hosts across the world, so these handful of losses do not impact greatly, but the infection feels the loss and although it does not have emotions or feelings, it has an understanding that this must be stopped.

The resistance fighters grow stronger and their numbers increase, as they join together and wreak devastation during the day time. They use bigger and better tools to aid their killing and find new ways to destroy them. The infection knows, from the chemicals inside the hosts, that it should be feeling anger and it begins to understand what revenge means. It continues to experiment on the few host bodies across the world that it keeps isolated to practise with.

Those few hosts, separated from the hordes, suffer incredible amounts of torture as the infection floods them with the chemicals it learns to produce. The hosts scream in pain and collapse on the floor with rigid tension, when the pain becomes too much. They dance and jump around and move quicker and quicker, as the infection learns to control the flow of electrical impulses to the tendons, nerves and muscles.

They break down and cry when they are filled with a sudden overwhelming sense of sadness and loss, weeping uncontrollably and pounding their fists into their heads in desperation. Then they suddenly burst up and start giggling with glee; the giggles become louder, until they are laughing uncontrollably with the sudden switch in chemicals coursing through their bodies.

The chemical flow is switched again and the laughing stops; they become suddenly serious and stare hard into the distance as the infection pumps the blood and makes them feel anger - then the anger increases, until they are filled with a burning rage. A rage that needs to be fed with violence and an urge to destroy everything around it.

The infection feels this rage through the hosts body and knows this is something it can use.

The practise hosts are pumped full of this deadly hormone and they are released from control to do as they wish and they move with lightning speed to pound and destroy anything near them. Those that are alone, without access to inanimate objects turn on themselves, as the blind fury possesses the - they gauge their skin and bite fingers off, then pummel their own bodies with vicious blows, breaking ribs and knee joints.

Some of the control hosts are near other host bodies and they turn on them with an amazing ferocity. They attack and kill the other hosts with an incredible strength and the infection allows them to continue, watching through many eyes: the attackers, the witnesses and the victims.

The rage is too strong though and the control hosts spend too long on one body, ripping it apart with their bare hands and teeth, shredding the flesh and pulling the insides out, to throw them down on the ground - so they can be stamped upon. The control hosts hurt themselves to the point that they cannot function and drop down to the floor - being so unable to cause the destruction they crave, they turn on themselves and rip their own bodies apart.

The infection has found something here; something it can use, but it has to learn to harness this power. So, as the first control hosts are killed by their own demented actions, the infection takes more control hosts and, in every land, there are single zombies that suddenly stop rolling their heads and groaning. They look forward and intelligence comes back into their eyes -  as they step away from the hordes they are with, to stand alone.

_______________________________

Sarah wakes on the sofa, the sobbing and crying had left her feeling drained and she slept fitfully for a few hours, with horrific images coursing through her sleeping mind.

What she experienced has shocked her to the core and a deep feeling of sadness, loss and desperation overwhelm her. She doesn’t know how long she can keep going; unable to leave her apartment and struggling to survive on just the few tins of food she has left.

She paces through her apartment, which helps her to think and forces her mind to work rationally. She can now use work skills to break the problems down into small chunks.

‘What do we know?’ She starts speaking to herself as she would at work when faced with a difficult or complex matter.

‘I’m on the 14th floor and I only saw them on the 21st floor. There were no signs of them on any floors between here and the 21st floor. Now… there is one on the 20th floor. He did not see which floor I ran to, so, unless he can smell me, he cannot find me and I was soaked with water - which will remove any smells. But then I did leave a water trail behind me. Okay… so he could find me. But there were no signs of them on the other floors. I have only a few tins of food left, but plenty of water - so I can survive - but it will get very hard. Priorities... I need more food. If they are dead zombies then they cannot survive forever without food or water - they have been outside in the street now for days and I haven’t seen them eat or drink anything. So, I need to eat and wait for them to die, or die again, or just fuck off and leave me alone. But, in order for me to survive, I need food and that means going back out there for more supplies.’ She stands still, as she realises what must be done. She nods to herself with quiet resolution.

‘I have to get more food. Going up is no good, so this time I will go down. I also need weapons.’ She rushes into the small kitchen and goes through her cutlery drawers. Waving knives and rolling pins about, she practises with each item, but the knives are no good; stabbing at them seems ineffective. She moves from room to room, looking for anything that could be used. Eventually, back in the kitchen, she finds a large, wooden broomstick that had been left by the previous tenants. She always thought it was odd to have a wooden broom in a tiny, carpeted apartment.

Sarah takes the broom and holds it up; it isn’t heavy, but it is long. She rummages through more drawers and pulls out a roll of brown, parcel tape that she used to secure her moving-in boxes. She takes a long-bladed kitchen knife and tapes it securely to the end of the broomstick handle, she then moves into the lounge and practises lunging and stabbing with it.

It isn’t perfect, but it will have to do and she knows that she has to leave now and try again, or the fear will become too much and she will never be able to leave.

She walks to the door and extends her hand, grasping the handle and pausing to calm her breathing and her rapidly beating heart. She then yanks the door open and jumps out into the corridor, like an Amazonian warrior - holding the broomstick out in front, like a spear. She faces one way and jumps round to face the other side of the empty corridor. She gets to the stairwell and each step brings more fear, but courage grows after each step is taken.

Sarah peers through the glass pane; silence all around, the only signs are the wet stains on the carpet, but even they are drying quickly from the hot air.

Sarah breathes deeply and starts down the stairs, taking each step slowly, to make sure her footsteps are masked from noise by the soft carpet. She reaches the door to the 13th floor and again looks through the window into another empty corridor. She advances in slowly and, this time, she opens the fire hose cabinet and pulls the metal head free, making it ready for use.

Waking down the corridor with the spear waving in front of her, the bristle end is just behind her back and she has to keep twisting it, so that the flat end doesn’t catch on her hips when she pushes the bladed end forward.

She stops at the first door, listens quietly, and only when she is sure there is no noise, does she try the handle. No knocking this time, she tells herself - move silently and do nothing to draw attention to yourself. All the doors on the 13th floor are locked and secure - Sarah was surprised when she discovered the apartment block had a thirteenth floor, a lot of developers still go straight from twelve to fourteen - out of superstition.

Sarah descends each floor in turn - each time she unlocks the fire hose and pulls the head free in preparation. At the 9th floor, she listens at the first door, nothing is heard and she tries the door handle. Moving on, she listens and tries the door handles for each door. At the last one, she pauses for a second -as she holds the handle down, resting her head against the door. The tension, fear and concentration are exhausting and she rolls her shoulders to ease the pain building across them.

‘Who’s there?’ A voice says softly from the other side of the door and Sarah opens her eyes wide, suddenly very fearful and not wanting to release the handle - in case it gives her away, then she realises the stupidity of this thought process.

‘Hello?’ The voice calls again; a soft male voice full of fear.

Sarah releases the handle and steps to the side, not wanting the person on the other side to see her trough the peephole.

‘I saw you move, who is it?’ The voice asks, still soft and very scared.

‘I live on…’ she pauses, not wanting to give away her floor. ‘I live on the 18th floor, I was looking for other people and food,’ she says softly, still not wanting to draw too much attention to her location.

‘Are you alone?’ The voice asks.

‘Yes,’ she replies.

Sarah hears the sounds of the locks being rotated, bolts and chains being removed and pulled back. The door slowly opens and a man comes into view.

‘Hello… Charlie,’ Sarah says to the battered and bruised face of the wine bar owner, and he smiles through swollen lips.

_______________________________________

Another bland and boring village, another horde, and again we stop the Saxon well back from them, the engine switched off to save precious fuel.

The crowd are gathered at the front of some shops on the main road.

‘Don’t they get bored,’ I ask Dave.

‘I don’t think so,’ he replies.

‘It doesn’t look like they’re focussed on anything specific, does it? They’re all just aimless.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘I reckon about thirty or so?’

‘Twenty eight.’

‘Oh, okay… so, what is it this time? Rocket launchers? Flame throwers? Or are we going for Samurai swords?’

‘Sniper rifle,’ Dave says and gets out of the Saxon to walk round the rear of the vehicle.

‘Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be? I didn’t even know we had a sniper rifle,’ I mutter to myself as I climb down.

The recruits have piled out and are stretching in the sun and chatting quietly.

Dave comes out of the back doors, holding a long bag, which he places on the ground and unzips the full-length zip. He removes a long, green-coloured rifle. The stock is folded and Dave pulls it out to the full-length and then fixes on a long tube to the end of the barrel. He checks the magazine and fixes it to the bottom of the rifle and finally walks over to the middle of the road and lies down, facing towards the horde.

‘This is a L115A3 long-range rifle. The scope is a standard day scope which increases the magnification by 25. There are five rounds in the magazine. The weapon has an adjustable bi-pod so the rifle can be settled, while you locate the target. This bit here is a cheek piece…’

‘What does that do?’ Tucker interrupts him to groans from the rest of the recruits.

‘You rest your cheek on it,’ Dave answers without expression. ‘The suppressor, at the front, reduces the range, but it also reduces the noise and flash, which thereby serves to keep the sniper concealed and increase his survivability.’ Dave pauses to extend the bi-pod and make minor adjustments, as he looks through the scope, towards the gathered horde.

They have noticed our arrival and have turned to shuffle towards us, but the distance means it will take them quite a long time to get near us. I keep my assault rifle ready, just in case any of them decide to start sprinting.

‘The rifle fires an 8.59 millimetre round, this is heavier than some sniper rifles but it means the round is less likely to be deflected over long ranges. The range is six-hundred metres for a solid strike but it will fire over one kilometre and still be effective.’

The recruits murmur at this, and I’m shocked too at the great distance this thing can cover.

‘So, we settle down and breath nice and slowly, so we are not jerky. Each movement is slow and controlled. You have to take into account wind speed, but in weather like this and over this distance, that is not an issue. Locate your target and keep your breathing controlled. When you are ready, you squeeze the trigger, do not snatch at it, as you will jerk the rifle and ruin your aiming. Squeeze and fire.’ The rifle makes a coughing noise and I watch a head explode in the middle of the horde, as the body drops down amongst them.

‘Okay, Mr Howie, would you like to try?’ Dave asks me.

‘I’ll try mate, but you know what I was like with that last rifle.’

I go over and drop down to lie flat. I snuggle my shoulder into the end of the stock and rest my cheek on the cheek piece. I always thought that you put your eye right against the scope, but Dave shows me to look through it and locate the target. I choose a fat one, front centre. His head is wobbling less than the others, due to his fat neck.

‘Breath gently, identify the target and move slowly to make adjustments, if you need to,’ Dave instructs. ‘When you are ready, squeeze the trigger.’

I keep the head in sight, it sways from left to right and I keep focussed on the middle of the sway, breathe slowly and squeeze the trigger.

The end coughs and I watch as the head explodes and the bullet rips through, taking the back of the skull off and going into the chest of another zombie behind the fat one. They both fall down and the recruits cheer and applaud, as I get back to my feet.

‘You got two, well done, Sir,’ McKinney says and the rest join in.

I grin back at them and Tucker hands me my rifle.

‘I’ll go up on the GPMG while you take your turns,’ I say to them and climb in through the back and up through the hole. I check all around to make sure there aren’t any sneaky ninja zombies trying to creep up on us.

Dave settles each recruit and goes through the same instructions as he did for me. Blowers first, then Cookey, Tucker struggles, due to his larger size, and just pulls the trigger quickly and gets up. Reese goes next and lies down next to the rifle. He calmly settles himself down and stays still for long seconds, making very minor adjustments. He hardly seems to move and, even from this close distance, I cannot see him breathing. He takes the shot, aiming for one of the undead at the rear of the group, deliberately choosing a more difficult target. The round strikes centre forehead and takes the back of the head off in an explosion of blood and brains. The lads all cheer for Reese and he responds by going bright red.

‘Try another one,’ Dave says, as Reese starts getting up. He nods and settles back down.

‘That one at the back - the small woman in the pink thing,’ Dave says.

I look over and see a small-built zombie woman at the rear of the group. She is shuffling the same as the rest, but her head is wobbling quickly and erratically.

Reese settles and pauses for long seconds, then squeezes the trigger. The woman drops immediately with her head blown apart.

‘Fucking good shot mate,’ Cookey says and bends down to pat Reese on the back.

‘That was very good mate, well done,’ Blowers says.

Reese blushes even more as Dave watches him closely.

‘Let him do another one,’ McKinney calls out and the others all shout in agreement.

‘Okay, I want you to take the one on the far right, with the white shorts and then the naked one on the far left,’ Dave says. ‘But I want them both shot within ten seconds of each other.’

Reese nods and identifies both targets through the scope, sweeping from right to left then back again. He aims for the zombie male on the right with the white shorts and takes the shot. The zombie drops, as before, and Reese racks the bolt and sweeps over to the left and pauses just for a couple of seconds then takes the second shot. This one strikes in the mouth and the zombie gets thrown backwards, as the bullet strikes through the back of the skull.

‘Sorry, I missed the second one,’ Reese says apologetically, as he stands up.

‘You rushed and sliding the bolt, threw you off a little,’ Dave says to him.

I’m amazed at the criticism, two headshots like that were amazing - but Reese nods at Dave.

‘Yeah, it felt rushed, I adjusted my position as I reached for the bolt and I didn’t need to,’ Reese explains.

Dave allows the rest of the recruits a go, nearly all of them miss head shots and they all seem flat after Reese’s amazing efforts.

‘Jamie, you finish them off,’ Dave says to Reese as the rest of them stand back.

Reese nods quietly and goes to drop down.

‘Go on top of the Saxon,’ Dave tells him and Reese obliges in silence as he clambers up and the rifle is passed to him. I drop down from the GMPG hole and climb out to join the others.

‘I will number them for you, starting from the front and always moving from right to left as they go back, got it?’ Dave calls up.

‘Got it,’ Reese affirms, quietly.

‘Front centre, large built male is one; two is the female with blonde hair; three is the old man in the striped pyjamas…’ Dave continues to count them out, showing Reese his method of selecting multiple targets.

‘Ready?’ Dave calls.

‘Yes,’ Reese replies softly.

Dave waits a few seconds, then calls out ONE. Reese takes the shot and the large built zombie drops. Dave calls out TWO, and the blonde undead gets blown away. Dave calls out FIVE, and Reese instantly adjusts to identify the target and drops it.

Dave keeps going, calling out random numbers.

Reese only gets one wrong, but all of them are headshots.

There is utter silence, apart from the numbers being called out and the coughing noise from the rifle.

The last one drops to an outburst of loud cheering and clapping from all of us, even Dave claps and smiles at Reese as he gets down.

‘Very good,’ Dave says to him simply and I see Reese swell with pride from the praise.

‘So, we have a sniper in the team,’ I say to Reese and shake his hand.

He looks down, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Right, let’s get loaded and gone from here, time is ticking and we need fuel,’ I call out and the lads all load up.

I get into the driver’s seat and look across as Blowers gets into the passenger seat.

‘Dave is showing Jamie how to strip and clean the rifle, so you’ve got me for a bit, Mr Howie,’

‘Okay mate, no worries.’ I start the engine and we pull away, driving straight over the bodies and crushing them into the road.

The country roads give way to more urban areas and, despite the fuel getting lower, I keep the speed up as we drive through the towns. The signs of devastation and severe civil uproar are everywhere, just like in Portsmouth. Burnt out cars and vehicles, shop fronts smashed in and bodies everywhere. Some of the houses have been burnt out too and there more signs of fire-damaged buildings the deeper we go.

Dave has swapped with Blowers now and is sitting up front with me again. Curtis Graves is on the GPMG and the rest of them stay quiet. The villages were quaint, but we didn’t really see signs of just how severe the outbreak is. But here is different, it’s gritty and it reminds me that a whole lot of people live in this country and every single one of them has been deeply affected by this event. The tragedy is everywhere, in the roads and streets, in the smashed in buildings with their front doors hanging open. Bloodstains and smears are all over the road and on road signs and metal railings. The bodies that we see are festering and already rapidly decaying in the hot, summer sun.

‘We’ll take the motorway into London,’ I say to Dave.

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

The road leads us through the centre of the town, and we see the high street stores have been looted; debris and everyday items litter the ground. There are very few undead though, just a couple here and there, shuffling along and slowly turning to watch us as we drive past.

A man runs out in front of the road ahead of us, waving his arms and shouting loudly. I didn’t see where he came from, must have been from one of the shops or buildings.

I slow the vehicle down and he stays in the middle of the road, trying to stop us with his physical presence. I slow to a full stop with him standing just a few feet in front of us. He walks round to my side and looks up, as I open the window slightly.

‘Thank god, I knew the Army would come,’ The man shouts, he is middle-aged and dressed in suit trousers and an office style shirt; now filthy with grime.

‘We’re not the Army mate, we’re just using this vehicle,’ I say to him.

‘Well… you’ve got a man on the top with a machine gun,’ he shouts back.

‘Er… well yes, but we’re just trying to get somewhere.’

‘You have to help, I got trapped trying to get supplies and I can’t get back to my family. I tried to go back but they’re surrounded by those things.’ The man shouts in desperation and indicates off to a side street, tears are streaming down his face and he looks petrified.

I glance over to Dave who shrugs his shoulders.

‘How far away are they?’ I ask him. I don’t want to keep stopping, but he’s clearly desperate.

‘Down there, not far, honestly, just down there,’ he moves quickly from foot to foot, pointing back to the side street off to the left.

‘Okay, hop on the ledge and direct us.’

The man climbs up, holding onto the wing mirror and balancing on the driver’s step. I drive forward and the man keeps waving to the side street and shouting ‘…down there, down there.’

I turn in and drive down the road for a few hundred metres.

‘Down this road,’ the man waves to a residential street and I see a handful of undead immediately outside a terraced house.

‘Bloody hell, mate - there’s only a few of ‘em - I thought you said there were loads.’

‘There is loads, look at them, I’ll never get through them,’

‘Are you being serious?’ I look at man incredulously.

‘What? How am I supposed to get through them,’ he cries.

‘What about weapons? You must have armed yourself.’

‘Well, I’ve never really believed in violence and I don’t like weapons,’ he says defensively.

‘Oh, but it’s all right for us to use our weapons?’ I shout at him.

‘But you’re the Army...’

‘We are not the bloody Army,’ I cut across him. ‘You are not going to survive very long without weapons and being willing to bloody use them.’

‘But…’ He tries to stammer.

‘No but’s mate - you said you have a family in there - kids and a wife?’ He nods. ‘So man up and defend your family.’

I push the door open and he falls off the ledge. I take my axe and walk towards the five zombies that are shuffling around his front door. The recruits are bursting out of the Saxon and running towards us with their knives, and Dave is already at my side, as I walk up to the closest one and behead him as he turns round.

I follow through with the swing and take another one down. Dave has already dropped the other three by the time the recruits get close, and they all stop, looking disappointed, and slowly turn and walk back towards the vehicle. The man is staring open-mouthed at Dave and I, and then at the bloodied bodies on the ground.

‘What’s up mate, was that too violent for you?’ I say, as I walk past him back to the Saxon and we drive back up the side streets onto the main road.

We enter the featureless and empty motorway and keep driving towards London. We have no satellite navigation; just a road atlas. Getting into London will be easy enough, apart from the millions of zombies, but finding where my sister lives will be extremely hard.

At least we don’t have to worry about one way roads, no-entry signs or traffic build ups now, and we won’t have to pay the London congestion charge! Mind you, I imagine there will still be someone sat in their offices, clocking the vehicles and sending out letters to their home addresses. A city the size of London should have lots of survivors holed up, so maybe they have already started cutting the numbers of zombies down.

That radio message said that London was infected and to stay away, but that was a few days ago now. I imagine driving through an empty city centre, with piles of zombie bodies stacked up neatly, ready to be burnt.

It won’t be like that, but a man is allowed to dream.

‘There’s some services on this road,’ Curtis Graves calls out.

‘Thanks mate, how do you know that? I guess you’ve been here before then?’

‘We used to go to 4x4 vehicle shows and take our old Land Rover. Dad always worked out each service station, so we could stop, if it broke down,’ Graves says.

‘And did it break down?’

‘Rarely, they tend to go on forever, especially the old ones - you just need a few tools and a working knowledge and they are easy to fix.’

‘How far up this road mate?’ I say, looking down at the fuel gauge that is now only a little bit above the red line.

‘Only a few miles, not far.’

‘Do any of you know how to get fuel out when there is no power?’ I shout.

‘I know they either have to press a button inside the kiosk to allow the fuel out, or it’s done on an automated system when the cameras have had time to record the registration number,’ Nick Hewitt shouts down to me.

‘What about now - with no power in the service station?’

‘I don’t know, but some of the main services have to have backup generators, in case of power outages, so they can still get fuel to the emergency services and stuff,’ Hewitt shouts.

‘Curtis, is this service station a large one?’ I ask him.

‘Yes, Sir - it’s the only one for quite a while.’

‘Okay, we’ll aim for that then. We have to get fuel and Dave has experience of generators,’ I cast him a glance as I remember him electrifying the metal gates outside the police station. ‘Dave and Curtis, can you two go for the generator? Nick, I want you to try and find out how to activate the pumps, if we manage to get the power back on. Darren you take the GPMG and Jamie go up-top with the sniper rifle. The rest of us will spread out and keep watch, got it?’

I get a chorus of YES from behind me. I glance over and see Dave staring at me, and, although his face is blank, I can tell he is thinking of something.

‘What?’ I ask him.

‘Nothing, Mr Howie.’

‘Was that a bad plan? Change it if you want to mate – sorry, I should have checked with you first.’

‘It’s a good plan,’ he looks back to the front. ‘It is a very good plan.’

_____________________________________

Sarah stands in the corridor, with the front door directly behind her, staring at Charlie - her makeshift spear is lowered but is still pointing towards him and he keeps glancing nervously at the large blade taped to the end.

‘I didn’t know you lived here, too?’ Charlie says.

‘Or you,’ Sarah says.

‘You been here long?’ He asks.

‘A little while,’ she watches him gingerly touch his bruised and battered face, the lips are still swollen and the bruising has gone a sickening shade of yellow.

‘It still hurts,’ he moans.

‘Does it?’ Although this is the first person she has seen in days, Sarah is not overwhelmed with joy to see the sleazy bar owner. ‘So where is your wife?’ she asks.

‘Err… I haven’t seen her for a few days,’ he mumbles quietly and looks away.

‘Doesn’t she live here with you?’ she asks him, puzzled.

‘Err, well she did, kind of,’ He looks very uncomfortable.

‘You left her there, when all this was happening? You left her on her own?’ She demands, her voice rising slightly.

‘Well, it was all going mad and someone had to stay and lock up. I needed to get changed after that crazy man attacked me for no reason.’

‘That crazy man was the husband of a woman you groped, I’m surprised it didn’t happen a long time ago,’ Sarah shouts.

‘What woman?’ A tall girl, with long, straight, black hair, asks. She has a slight accent.

‘Oh, hello,’ Sarah says, surprised.

‘Hello, what woman?’ She repeats.

‘I’m Sarah, nice to meet you,’ Sarah says.

‘Hello Sarah, I’m Vivien. The woman is strikingly beautiful with high cheekbones, but with a surly, pouty face. ‘What woman?’

Vivien looks to Charlie and then back at Sarah. Charlie visibly squirms under her gaze.

‘Excuse me Vivien, I don’t mean to be rude - but Charlie was just telling me how he left his wife at the bar when all of this happened…’

Not my problem.’ Vivien shrugs.

‘He left her to die,’ Sarah says, shocked at the coldness of the woman.

‘Like I said, not my problem.’ Vivien says again, pouting.

‘So, how did you get here?’ Sarah asks the woman.

‘Charlie got me from the hotel on Friday night,’ she replies, without expression.

‘The hotel?’ Sarah asks.

‘I was staying in a hotel near here. Charlie came and got me and we came here.’

‘You fucking scum, you left your wife to die and went to get your girlfriend instead?’ Sarah shouts at Charlie.

‘I didn’t know what was happening. I was coming home to get changed and picked Vivien up on the way…’

‘You were beaten up for groping another woman, and then, when the whole world erupts, you slink off to get your mistress from the hotel she is hiding in - to have a quickie at home?’ Sarah shouts loudly now, gripping the spear hard.

‘What woman? You said there was a fight at the bar.’ Vivien shouts at Charlie, erupting in anger. ‘You fucking cunt, you said there was a fight - but a man beat you up for grabbing his wife - you dirty, fucking animal.’ Vivien screams, her accent getting stronger with the instant rage.

Sarah stares in shock at the sudden outburst.

Vivien turns and walks into the bedroom and slams the door, she re-opens it a few seconds later and stands there with her arms folded.

‘You fucker. You got me in a hotel waiting for you and your wife at home and you were touching some other woman, you disgust me. Filthy fucker.’ Vivien shouts and her face is contorted with anger.

‘No, Viv - I didn’t. I promise I didn’t, it was all wrong - just some mad bloke,’ Charlie pleads with her.

‘You can fuck off with your promises, you make empty promises, always empty promises…’

‘Viv, please…’ He looks to her pleading.

‘I gave up a life for you, a home with a decent man; I gave up my job and my studies and got into debt. I had a life and you promised me you would take care of me. I even had to pay my own fucking hotel bill - you cheap dirty man….’

‘Err… excuse me, have you seen what’s going on out there?’ Sarah interjects.

‘I don’t fucking care,’ Vivien screams.

‘Well I do, as far as we know the whole world has fallen. That creep left his own wife to die and now you’re arguing about him touching up another woman…’

‘Who the fuck are you to talk to me, don’t talk to me - you fucking whore, you’re all whores in this country.’ Vivien screams, the veins in her neck bulging out and suddenly she isn’t so beautiful.

‘Okay, listen Vivien, those things are in the building, and if you don’t keep your voice down, they will come here.’ Sarah says, with a firm, level voice.

‘This is your fault,’ Vivien turns back to Charlie. ‘This is all your fault, you fucking prick and now we’re going to die in this shit hole.’

‘Now, listen to me - you bitch. You made your choice and now it’s too late, so don’t fucking moan at me…’ Charlie retorts in anger.

‘What!? I’m moaning, am I - you promised me a life and this is what I get? You cheap, bloody man.’

‘Viv, you’re a cheap bitch that fell for it, that’s your fault, what did you expect from me? I’m fucking married, for god’s sake.’

Vivien starts pummelling his body and face with her fists and her long, black hair flies about. Sarah slowly backs away, fearing the loud noise will draw the zombies there. She quietly opens the front door and checks the corridor, then pulls the door closed behind her.

The sound of the raised voices and glass smashing can still be heard as Sarah reaches the stairwell and quickly goes down to the next level.

The noise will draw those things, but it will also mask any noise she makes and she moves quickly onto the next level, trying door handles and then thinking to check under the floor mats. The next couple of floors are all locked and secure but then she gets lucky and finds a shiny key under a mat outside a door. She quietly listens and then slides the key in, gently pushing the door open.

Once again, the apartment is a replica of hers - the layout and the room sizes are the same, just the décor is different.

She eases forward slowly, making each step land softly and shifting her weight from foot to foot. The lounge is clear. She checks the bedroom and bathroom which are also empty and breathes a sigh of relief as she rushes into the kitchen and checks through the cupboards. The various tinned goods get swept into a bag that she finds in a drawer, plus some rice cakes and unopened cartons of orange juice.

Within minutes, she is back outside and replaces the key under the mat, just in case the owner returns and, also, in case she gets stuck away from her apartment again.

Back in the stairwell, she climbs up and pauses when she reaches Charlie and Vivien’s floor. She slowly peeks through the door and her heart sinks as she watches the zombie shuffle along the corridor, towards the still raised voices.

Sarah shakes her head at the blind stupidity of it all and makes her way back to her own apartment. On the next floor up, she has to dart back down and hide, as a zombie shuffles through the door and into the stairwell; the slow and heavy footsteps resound on the carpet as the cumbersome thing drops down each step. The zombie moves slowly and Sarah keeps backing further down, staying out of sight, until the zombie follows the sound of the voices and enters the corridor.

Sarah wastes no time and quickly sprints up the stairs, until she reaches her own floor and checks that it is empty. Then she runs back into the safety of her own apartment, with a sense of victory at the accomplished mission and the gained supplies.

______________________________________

We drive quickly down the slip road to the services, following the long, narrow route, until we reach a fork in the road. I take the right path and drive into a service station. Several rows of fuel pumps with green and black handles are stretched across the centre. The pumps on the far end look bigger and I guess they are for commercial sized vehicles; I aim for those pumps and stop before I reach them.

‘Which side is the fuel cap on?’ I ask Dave and he jumps out and checks both sides.

‘Your side,’ he shouts up.

‘Cheers mate,’ I slide the Saxon alongside the pumps, while Dave waves me forward and then holds his hand up.

‘Okay lads, let’s go,’ I shout out and the rear doors are thrown open. The recruits pile out.

Curtis runs to Dave and they both set off, towards the rear of the building, carrying their assault rifles at the ready. Darren Smith is already up-top on the GPMG and I watch Jamie clamber up with the sniper rifle and then start sweeping the area through the scope.

Blowers then directs Cookey, Tucker and McKinney to take a side each, they respond quickly and spread out. I watch them rack the bolt back and make ready. Within seconds, everyone is where they should be and I glance over to see Nick Hewitt trying to force the doors open.

‘Is it locked?’ I shout to Nick.

‘Yep, locked up tight,’ he calls back.

‘Fuck, I wasn’t expecting that. I can’t believe it’s still locked and hasn’t been looted yet,’ I join him at the electric doors, which are shut tight and secure.

‘I’ll get the axe, hang on.’ I run to and from the Saxon and then I take a big swing and strike the glass in the middle, holding my head away to avoid any flying glass. The axe has dented the glass but that’s it. I strike again and again but the glass holds tight.

‘Security glass,’ I say to Nick. ‘Ttry shooting it,’ I step back and turn round to face the other direction.

‘NICK IS GOING TO SHOOT THE DOORS,’ I call out, so the others don’t panic when they hear the shots.

Nick aims and fires once, the round makes a hole in the glass pane, but otherwise, no damage. I use the axe to strike at the bullet hole, hoping it has weakened the structure, but it holds fast.

‘Fuck this, hang on mate,’ I run back to the Saxon and climb into the back and start checking through the various storage sections, until I find a nice, long, thick chain - with a hook on one end. I find a hole at the bottom front of the Saxon and attach one end of the chain, then stretch it across to the doors and wind it through the bar handles several times.

Once back in the Saxon, I engage the reverse gear and the chain pulls tight. I apply slightly more pressure to the gas and the doors are pulled clean off and get dragged a few feet, until I stop and roll forward back to where we were. Hewitt runs straight into the shop area and I see him make for the counter.

Curtis comes running round to the front, towards me.

‘We’ve got it ready, it should be on in a minute or so, Sir,’ he yells as he gets closer.

‘Well done mate, we just need Nick to figure out how to turn the pumps on now.

_______________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection has tracked the group through the countryside and then watched them trundling through the towns.

Each host turns to watch the distinctive vehicle as it drives past them.

Then they stopped and took down more hosts and it watched the one they call Howie using that long implement and the other smaller one cutting the throats and causing the precious lifeblood to drain away within seconds.

The infection had watched them as the smaller one spoke to the others and then they all used sharp implements to cut through host necks. Then they stopped again and used another tool to blow the heads off.

The infection watched and waited, tracking their movements and sent the rats out in that area to find them, stop them and kill them.

The rats hunt and watch, the eyes are different than the human hosts, but the sight is still excellent and the infection watches through hundreds of thousands of eyes; just waiting for them re-appear.

___________________________________

‘Fucking, look at the size of that rat,’ Cookey shouts and we all turn to see a big, fat, black rat sitting on the top of a waste bin, off to the parking area - but the side of the fuel station.

‘That’s fatter than you, Tucker,’ McKinney shouts.

‘Fuck off, we like our food - don’t we my lovely,’ Tucker shouts towards the rat.

‘Argh, they’re disgusting, I fucking hate rats,’ Blowers says.

‘Must be full up from chomping on all of those bodies,’ Tucker says, with gruesome relish.

‘Ah… Tucker, that’s fucking gross, you dirty bastard,’ Cookey shouts at him.

I watch the rat watching us. There is no fear in it and I guess that they have evolved and got braver.

‘That fucking thing is watching us,’ Blowers says, with disgust.

‘Jamie, do you think you could hit that rat from up there,’ I shout over to him, he nods and lies down on top of the Saxon, aiming towards the litter bin.

I hear a slight cough and the rat is blown apart in a burst of pink and black fur. We all cheer and Jamie gives a slight nod and carries on scanning the area.

‘He’s morphing into, Dave,’ I mutter under my breath.

_____________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection watches the group and the one they call Howie walks back and forth. The smaller one has gone out of sight, but they are all holding those long things that kill the hosts so easily.

The rat sits and watches the group, fully controlled by the infection as it takes in the area; the rat is made to piss down the sides of the waste bin, so that others can track its location. Another one pops its head out from some bushes further back and watches the rat on the waste bin.

Then another one climbs out of a drain cover and watches the one in the bushes.

More start popping out all round the area, watching the others and marking the site; pissing where they stand, so that the infection can use their powerful sense of smell. Within minutes, there are rats throughout the fuel station site. Their red eyes almost glow against the darkness of their fur.

The scent markers work and rats from miles around are sent surging towards the location. A scent trail is laid by each rat, as it gets closer to the smells left by the preceding rodents.

Survivors fighting for their lives against the rats invading their homes are suddenly dumbfounded when the rats turn as one and start running away. They look out of their windows and peek holes to see a thick black carpet of black bodies all running in one direction.

The motorway that Howie and the recruits used just a short time ago is slowly filling with sleek black bodies and fat black bodies - first in ones, then twos, then small groups - until they are piling in from the sides, the drain covers - all pushing towards one direction.

Slowly, the infection is able to watch the group from many different eyes, but it holds the rats back, and waits.

The infection has learnt to resist the urge to send these small hosts in now, it must wait until there are enough to overwhelm them.

_____________________________________

‘Got it,’ Nick Hewitt bellows from behind the counter.

‘Well done mate, nice one,’ I say from the end of the aisle.

I had just taken cans of warm drink out to the lads, carrying them in a basket and letting them select the one’s they wanted. Then, while I was waiting for Dave and Nick to figure out how to get the power supply to switch to the generator, I stocked up the back of the Saxon with more chocolate bars and snacks.

The room suddenly fills with light and the chilled cabinets start up with a clunk and a whirl. The pumps outside make a noise, as I watch the lads all turn to look at them and start smiling.

‘Is the pump ready, Nick?’ I ask him.

‘Um, hang on Sir, I’m just figuring it out.’

‘How do you know about these things? Have you worked in fuel stations before?’

‘No Sir, I just like technology and electrical stuff, computers that kind of thing. I love figuring out how stuff works.’

‘Oh right, I thought all of you were unemployed?’

‘We were - I was.’

‘How come, if you can do this kind of thing? There must have been employers out there desperate for blokes like you.’

‘I’m dyslexic, Sir,’ he looks up at me, with grin. ‘The Army was going to help with that… well, they were going to… anyway.’

‘Bloody hell, didn’t they do that at school.’

‘Not really, they thought I was pissing around and just not trying and, by the time they figured it out, it was too late really and I lost interest. I was bunking off all the time. Oh… here we are, right… that should be it.’

‘Have you done it?’

‘I think so. Try it now and give me a shout if it doesn’t work,’ he says as I leave the store and cross to the pumps.

I unwind the fuel cap and sniff the hole; just to be sure it’s diesel and not petrol. I wouldn’t have thought these things would run on petrol, that would cost a fortune, but after the last time we put the wrong fuel in I double check.

I press the lever in on the black handle and feel the vibration as it starts to pump fuel into the tank. I give a thumbs up back to Nick who returns the gesture and starts walking out from behind the counter. Then he stops and goes back and slides up the metal shutter that hides the cigarette display. He looks over at me; gesturing towards the tobacco display. From his manner it appears he is asking if it’s okay to take some cigarettes.

Bless him; he doesn’t have to ask me.

I give him another thumbs up and nod vigorously, showing that I don’t mind. The fuel pumps steadily into the tank as I watch Nick load up bags with all of the cigarettes, tobacco, papers and lighters and stroll back outside.

He goes over to the lads and shows them the contents and I’m surprised when Blowers, Cookey and McKinney all take a packet and light up.

Tucker declines and walks over to the Saxon, as Dave walks back round from behind the building with Curtis.

‘Do want you a packet, Sir?’ Nick asks me.

‘Nah… you’re all right mate. I gave up a little while ago, would be a shame to start now - right at the end of the world.’

‘Okay, lads do you want any smokes?’ Nick calls up to Jamie and Darren on top of the Saxon.

‘Yeah… I will in a minute mate. Best not smoke here with all this fuel about,’ Darren calls down.

‘Probably a good idea,’ I say.

‘Is it okay if I go over to the side for a smoke, Sir?’ Nick asks me.

‘Yeah, mate  no problem.’

Dave walks up and watches the fuel handle. Curtis joins Nick Hewitt and Blowers chatting away and takes a packet of cigarettes, opens it up and lights one. They all stand chatting, blowing smoke into the air and I notice they keep their observations up and are constantly scanning the area.

‘Fuck me, they nearly all smoke,’ I say to Dave.

‘Squaddies, Mr Howie - they nearly all smoke.’

‘I thought soldiers had to be super fit.’

‘There’s a difference between being fit and being healthy.’

‘Have you ever smoked, Dave?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘I used to, but I gave up. Watching them now makes me want one though.’

‘Are you going to have one?’ He asks me.

‘God no, far too expensive, I can’t afford them any more.’

‘True, they do cost a lot.’ Dave answers, missing the joke. ‘Or you could just sign for them, seeing as you’re a manager…’ He says, not missing the joke.

‘Bloody hell, Dave… did you just make a joke,’ I ask him, shocked at his reference to when I met up with him in the supermarket and tried to get him to take some clean clothes from the clothing section. He had refused, saying he had no money and I told him I would sign for them.

Dave just gives a slight smile, but his eyes are glinting.

‘Well mate, you are changing. Becoming an instructor, smiling and even making jokes now, I just don’t recognise you anymore, you’ve changed - you’re not the person I met.’ I smile at him.

He looks puzzled and stares at me. ‘I am,’ he says.

‘I was just joking, mate.’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘SIR,’ Jamie Reese shouts out loudly from his position above us on the Saxon.

‘What’s up, Jamie,’ I lean back to look up at him, but he is facing the other way.

‘Sir! There are lots of rats all around us.’ Reese says.

‘Rats? I wouldn’t worry mate, they’re just getting brave, now all the people are gone.’

‘I don’t think so, Sir. Maybe you should look.’ He sounds concerned and I get Dave to hold the pump lever down, while I clamber up-top.

‘Where, mate?’ I ask him, once I’m next to him.

‘Everywhere Sir, have a look,’ he says. I take the rifle and look through the scope. I scan quickly from left to right.

‘You’re too high, Sir, look down to the bottom of the bushes - at the edge of the car park,’ Jamie says.

I can just see the top of the main services building, where the shops and cafes are. I lower down to the bushes. As I focus and watch, I see black shapes emerging and then staying still. I sweep along the bottom of the bushes and can see hundreds and hundreds of rats, watching our direction. I keep sweeping and see more emerging every few seconds and my heart misses a beat as I notice their small, beady, red eyes.

Zombie eyes.

Zombie rats.

They don’t move though, but just squat still, watching all of us.

‘Everyone… back in the Saxon right now - but do not run,’ I shout out.

I hear footsteps as the lads all start heading back, all of them quiet and I can tell by the noise they are walking fast.

The pump switches off as Dave extracts the nozzle and I hear the clunk as he rests it back on the stand.

More and more rats are coming into the perimeter and I sweep the scope over to the access road and almost shout out, when I see a thick black carpet of undulating bodies sweeping towards us.

‘Smith, get that gun aimed on the access road leading in, is everyone loaded up?’ I shout down.

‘Apart from you and Jamie yes - what’s going on?’ I hear Blowers say.

‘Lads, there are thousands of rats watching us and more are coming. They are wild, zombie rats. Jamie, I want you to get back inside, mate.’ I hear movement as Jamie drops down to the rear and climbs into the back.

‘Smith, you drop down, mate - I’ll take the machine gun. Curtis, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Graves replies.

‘Get up front, into the driver’s seat and get us out of here,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level and calm.

I glance over and see that Darren Smith has dropped back down.

I lower the sniper rifle and ease myself into the hole and take over the GPMG.

I pull the lever back and aim directly at the entrance to the access road. Movement catches my eye and I look over to the shop area. The fuel pumps are covered by a large flat roof, to keep customers dry when they are filling up. The store building also has a flat roof - that is only inches away from the edge of the fuel pump roof. Black bodies are running and jumping onto the fuel pump area roof.

‘Shit, they’re above us – quick, Curtis, get us out of here,’ I shout down.

The engine starts and I hear Curtis grinding the gears, as he tries to select first. Then I hear skittering noises directly above me as the rats tiny claws scratch against the top of the metal roof.

I look back to the hedgerow, just as thousands of rats burst out and start running directly towards us. More are coming from the other side and, within seconds, the ground is covered by the rodents as they surge forward.

‘NOW, CURTIS,’ I bellow and then realise that if I open up with the GPMG, I run the risk of hitting the fuel pumps, which would blow us all sky high.

The Saxon starts forward and rolls away from the fuel area. The rats are already close to the vehicle and I move round in a circle to see them come from all directions. Curtis increases his speed and turns to go back down the access road, which we came up. The tyres start hitting the rats and I hear popping noises and crunches as they are squashed under the giant wheels.

‘KEEP GOING,’ I yell and wait until we are clear of the fuel pumps, before opening up with the GPMG.

The rat’s bodies are small but there are so many of them that I can’t see the road surface now and the heavy calibre machine gun rips through them; sending bodies flying into the air. But, for every rat that is torn apart by the machine gun, several more appear.

I spin round to face back towards the pumps and see them pouring round the sides of the building, all heading our way. Now thousands of rats with red bloodshot eyes surge towards us and, as we clear the end of the flat roof, I see bodies dropping down onto the top of the Saxon.

‘FUCK! THEY’RE ON THE TOP,’ I scream out and feel the Saxon give a burst of speed, as Curtis tries to shake them off.

Several of them fall off, but a few remain and start walking towards me, rocking with the motion of the vehicle. I can’t shoot them, as I don’t know if the rounds will penetrate the armoured vehicle from this close range and the gun won’t aim down that low.

I open fire on the fuel station and pour rounds into ground level.

Bodies get burst apart and blown away and I see mini-explosions of blood, as the large bullets rip through their bodies.

I keep firing and the rounds hit the fuel pumps; I aim for the one we were using. As we get onto the access road and are crushing hundreds of rats beneath us, the fuel pump explodes into flames with a massive bang. Thick, black smoke billows up and rolls across the flat roof and over the sides. The fuel in the pipes gets set alight and, within seconds, the other pumps are exploding; sending scorched bits of rat body past me from the pressure wave.

Each pump goes with a massive bang and a huge fireball erupts upwards, incinerating the flat roof within seconds. The structure collapses from the sudden, intense heat which sends more flames and smoke billowing out the sides. Another huge fireball explodes and this one is much bigger than the previous; the remains of the roof are launched high into the sky - jagged chunks of metal flying off in different directions.

One large chunk is sent wheeling through the air, directly at us, and I drop down, just as it bounces off the rear and goes spinning over us - landing directly in the path of the Saxon.

Curtis slams the brakes on and we all go flying forward, then off to the side, as he steers round the obstacle.

‘There’s fucking thousands of them,’ I shout out, above the noise of the engine screaming and the huge explosions behind us.

Just as I move back towards the GPMG hole, a big, fat, black rat drops down onto the floor of the Saxon. We all shout and scream and start stamping down with our boots, but the speedy body darts and weaves through us.

Another fat body drops down and now we are trying to stamp down on two of them. Tucker’s big boot gets the first one - which explodes under his foot; bits of blood and fur spraying out.

‘Fucking got him,’ Tucker yells, with victory.

‘Get that other fucker then,’ Cookey yells, as we keep trying to stamp down and kick it. The rat is darting about very fast and trying to leap up at our legs, the long yellow teeth bared, and gnashing with ferociousness.

‘Yeah, got both of the fuckers,’ Tucker yells as his massive boot crushes the next one.

‘Thank fuck for that, I fucking hate rats,’ Blowers sinks back onto the bench seat, just as several more rats drop down from the hole and start running round the back.

‘CURTIS - WE HAVE TO STOP,’ I shout out, as we all dance up and down, stamping our feet.

‘THEY’RE EVERYWHERE THOUGH,’ Curtis yells back.

‘HEAD FOR THE SERVICES BUILDING, FUCKING QUICKLY TOO.’ We all jolt as the Saxon goes in a straight line and speeds up, bouncing over the kerbs and lane dividers.

We keep jumping and slamming our feet down, as a rat jumps onto the front of Darren’s trousers and starts climbing up his legs, onto his stomach.

Blowers punches out hard and strikes the rat in the middle of its body, the rat drops down but the blow was hard and knocked Darren back onto the benches.

‘Sorry mate,’ Blowers shouts.

‘It’s okay,’ Darren yells as he gets up winded, but still dancing on the spot.

‘ALMOST THERE, MAKE READY,’ Dave bellows at the top of his voice and we all try to pick our assault rifles and bags up as we bounce up and down, black bodies scurrying and jumping at our boots.

‘BRACE,’ Dave yells, too late, as Curtis slams the brakes on - bringing the Saxon to a grinding halt.

We all go flying and I drop down onto my hands and knees. A rat launches at my face and is kicked aside by a black boot.

‘THANK YOU,’ I shout as I get back up and we all scrabble to get to the back doors, bursting out onto the concrete just a few feet away from the front doors.

‘GET INSIDE,’ Dave yells and we all start running to the doors. Dave gets there first and slams into them and bounces off.

‘LOCKED,’ he yells and starts kicking at the doors. I get to his side and glance back to the car park. We have gained a few seconds, but the rats are pouring across the car park.

I start hammering on the doors and see someone moving around inside. A man appears, running towards the doors and stops when he sees several armed and crazy looking men yelling at him.

‘OPEN THE DOORS,’ Dave shouts, but the man walks a bit further, then stops, and stares back at us - a terrified look on his face.

Dave steps back and aims his assault rifle directly at the man.

‘I CAN SHOOT YOU FASTER THAN YOU CAN RUN. OPEN THE DOORS NOW.’

The man jerks forward and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and fumbles with a lock; eventually, he opens the door and we burst in, roughly pushing him aside. We all try to get at the doors at the same time and slam them shut; the keys are still in the lock and I manage to turn them and pull them out, just as the rats slam into the glass panes from the other side.

We all jump backwards and aim our assault rifles down into the writhing mass.

‘DON’T SHOOT, YOU’LL BREAK THE GLASS,’ Dave shouts and we all slowly lower our weapons, watching with horror and disgust as the rats throw themselves at the doors.

Several of them stretch their mouths wide open and try to bite at the smooth glass, but all I can see are hundreds and hundreds of pairs of red eyes.

‘We need to seal the building up,’ I say to the recruits. ‘Team Alpha, take the left side with Dave… Team Bravo, the right side with me. Make sure every door and window is closed and locked.’

Dave, McKinney, Smith, Tucker and Hewitt all run off to the front left side of the building, straight into the café area. To the right is a convenience style shop and I start into it with Blowers, Cookey, Reese and Graves.

We sweep round the edge of the building, kicking in doors and shouting clear when we have checked the area.

The convenience store has a storeroom and small staff canteen; both have doors and windows leading to outside, but all are checked and found to be locked securely. We move out of the shop and down the wide central aisle. The next room on the right is a small amusement arcade with darkened fruit machines.

I watch the lads quickly sweep the rooms, but the room is sealed internally, with no other doors. As they come back out, I hear a woman screaming and running out of the rest rooms - which are directly ahead of us.

‘There’s a rat in the toilet,’ she screams and doesn’t even take in the armed men walking towards her.

I see a Burger King off to the right, a long counter and seating area with tables and chairs with several people all standing up to look at us.

‘There are thousands of rats trying to get inside this building, we need to seal every point of access,’ I shout at them, scaring them witless and a woman faints and falls onto the floor.

A young child starts screaming and is picked up by another adult female.

‘Blowers, you check in there with Cookey - Jamie and Curtis with me to the toilets.’

‘SIR!’ they all shout.

I run ahead to the toilets: one wide access in, the males to the right and the females to the left.

‘Jamie, you take the right side, Curtis with me.’

We split up as Curtis and I burst into the ladies toilet. The first cubicle door is open and a fat, black rat is climbing out of the toilet bowl, using its front paws to pull itself up. I run into the cubicle and slam the lid down hard, crushing the rat dead. I lift the lid and use my foot to push it back inside, then slam the lid down again.

I hear Curtis yelling and slamming the lid down in the next cubicle and I move out and round to the next one after that and see one rat already on the floor, scrabbling towards me. I take a running kick and splat it against the rear wall; the body hits, slides down and remains motionless on the floor. The next rat drops out of the bowl onto the ground and I stamp down; crushing the wet, shit smeared body. I move from cubicle to cubicle, pulverising rats, as they appear.

‘Curtis, I’ll hold these, you find something heavy to put on the lids,’ I shout to him.

I position myself a few feet back, so that I can see all of the cubicles and then run forward to crush or kick them as they appear.

I’m kept busy as they keep coming, until I pick the dirty, wet, dead zombie rat bodies up and throw them into the bowls to try and block them. I keep doing this, until each bowl is filled with dead rats, then I put the lids down, but can still hear them fidgeting and moving about. I push the flush buttons for each bowl, trying to drown any living undead rats, that are still down there.

Curtis bursts in with Blowers and Cookey, each of them carrying a heavy, long, cylindrical waste bin. We put the heavy metal bins on the lids and step back, to see if the rats can get out. After a couple of minutes, I am satisfied that they can’t, so I push the already dead rats out of the way and get the lid up.

‘Burger King is clear, Sir,’ Blowers says.

‘Thanks mate, what about the men’s toilets?’ I ask Jamie.

‘We did the same thing in there, they were trying to come up through the bowls, too.’

‘Okay, let’s see if the others are all right.’

We leave the toilets and make our way into the central area; Dave and Team Alpha are already waiting for us.

‘All clear for the minute, Mr Howie, but it won’t last long,’ Dave says, as we join them.

Nick has pulled out a packet of cigarettes and the lads start lighting up, after Nick looks at me for approval.

‘Crack on, lads - I think we need a few minutes rest after that,’ I say to them, as they light up, taking deep drags.

‘I know what you mean, we always had rats in the supermarket; the fuckers will get through anything for food. This place has air-conditioning, so there will be vents. Also, the drains will need sealing up.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave says.

‘Mr Howie, are those fucking things zombies too?’ Tucker asks me.

‘They certainly look like it, mate - I don’t plan on getting bitten though – so I cannot be exactly sure, but look at those eyes!’

‘Yeah, but why are they coming for us, Mr Howie?’ Smith asks me and they all look to me for an answer.

‘I don’t know, but it bloody looked like that didn’t it? They were watching us for ages, before they started to attack. There’s people here they could have come for, but, mind you, we were out in the open and they were locked in here.’ I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all. ‘What a fucking day,’ I add and rub my forehead.

We are all sweating heavily from the hot weather and the frantic exercise we have just done.

‘I am parched, they must have some fluids in here, let’s look,’ I turn and walk, amazed that I have used the word fluids instead of saying drink. Bloody Dave – he is rubbing off on me.

‘Er… Hi,’ a voice says meekly, and I look up to see the man who unlocked the doors walking slowly out of the entrance to Burger King.

‘Hi, sorry about that. We didn’t mean to barge you out of the way like that,’ I say to him.

‘Cookey, you’re on first watch, on the front doors - Hewitt you watch the toilet entrance - we’ll bring you some drinks,’ I say to the lads and then walk up to the man and extend my hand.

‘Hi, I’m Howie,’ I say to him and we shake hands.

‘Tom. I was the night manager when this happened. There’s quite a few others in here too,’ he says, nodding towards Burger King. ‘Are you guys the Army?’

‘No mate, these lads had just joined up when Dave and I found them at Salisbury. We were there to take that huge vehicle...’

‘So… that means you are the Army then?’ Tom says.

‘Well… they are newbies really and so am I. Dave is the well-trained one. He was in the Army.’

‘But… you’re in charge of them?’

‘I guess, but they’re just lads really, we are on our way to London.’

The man nods at me.

‘You’d better come and meet the others,’ he says and I follow him into Burger King. The lads are already behind the counter, going through cupboards and pulling out bottles of water.

‘Mr Howie…’ Tucker calls out, and throws a bottle of water over, as I go past the counter.

‘Cheers mate.’

There are about eight or nine adults in here, plus one small child and a baby. They are all clustered round some tables in the middle. The people look very tired and frightened and keep glancing over to the lads behind the counter. I realise how terrified they must feel, seeing us all in full action.

I nod at the group: ‘Hi, I’m Howie - sorry about the noise and bursting in like that and please excuse the lads; they’re just getting a drink. We are not here to hurt anyone, I promise, we’re just trying to get away from the thousands of rats that are chasing us.’

They all start talking at once and Tom holds up his hand, to quieten them. ‘Mark, why don’t you go first,’ Tom says, indicating to a man who is still wearing a smart business suit, with the shirt top button undone and his tie pulled down slightly.

Mark stands up and glances round at the others, before speaking.

‘I think I speak for all of us when I ask just what the hell is going on here?’ He has a strong, cultured voice.

‘What do you mean?’ I say to him, puzzled at the question.

‘Well you’re the Army, I think we have the right to some answers.’

‘We are not the Army… I…’

‘…but you are dressed like soldiers and are carrying military assault rifles, plus you are driving around in a tank.’ Mark continues.

‘APC,’ the lads chorus.

‘Yes, I know how it must look. Dave was in the Army and we are wearing Army clothes, as ours was covered in blood.’

‘So, just who are you and why are you here?’ Mark demands.

‘I’m Howie, that’s Dave over there,’ I indicate towards Dave who just stares back blankly. ‘And the other lads are the recruits we met at Salisbury. My sister is in London, I’m going to try and get her, which is why we’ve got the big vehicle. Didn’t any of you hear that broadcast on the radio?’ They look at each other in confusion, then back to me, with eager faces.

‘What broadcast? Has the Government released a statement?’ Mark asks.

‘I don’t know about the Government, but I heard a broadcast on a car radio, it said that London was infected and for survivors to head to the Forts on the South Coast.’

‘Well, just who put the broadcast out? Who sent it and what else did they say?’ Mark says, his tone  becoming more forceful.

‘I don’t know, it didn’t say - it was just a looped message on a random frequency. Didn’t any of you go through the radio frequencies?’ Some shake their heads and others just stare back at me, blankly.

‘Don’t any of you watch the movies? In horror movies, they go through the radio frequencies and search for government messages.’

I am dumbfounded at the amount of people I have met so far that have not bothered to do this.

‘I don’t think any of us have scanned the radio but… what’s this about rats?’

‘We were getting fuel, when we saw hundreds of rats staring at us. Now, this whole area is covered in them, they’ve got the same red eyes as the zomb… the strange people have.’

‘I told you Mark, that they were coming up through the toilet,’ the woman who ran screaming earlier says. She too is wearing a smart business suit and has the same cultured tones as Mark.

‘Yes, thank you, Cynthia,’ Mark says, without even looking at the woman.

‘Listen, we need to secure this building and make sure they can’t get in,’ I say to the group.

‘How will they get in?’ A woman holding the child asks, her face looks pale and drawn.

‘Rats can get in anywhere: through air vents, drains - and, with so many of them in full force, they can chew through most materials.’

‘Oh my god, they’ll get in and kill us! They’ll kill my babies!’ She starts panicking, clutching the child closer to her.

‘No, we’ll secure the building and figure something out. Even if it means just waiting until they go away or die.’ I turn to Tom. ‘Tom, we need you to explain the layout of the building to us and identify any rat entry points.’

‘Okay, now?’ Tom asks.

‘Yes mate… lads, gather round.’

‘Now… just wait a minute, I think we were talking,’ Mark says, with a condescending tone.

‘No mate,’ I say cutting him off. ‘We have to do this now, before it’s too late. We can talk more later,’ I make a point of turning away from him and looking at Tom.

‘Is there a flat roof?’ I ask Tom.

‘Yes, it’s quite big actually,’ he replies.

‘Okay, we need to get someone up there. Is there access from inside the building?’

‘At the back, there’s an access ladder.’

‘Jamie, you’ve got the rifle, I want you up-top - but we need a way for you to communicate with us down here.’

‘There’s a couple of sky-lights in that central area, Sir - we could open them, so that Jamie can shout down,’ Blowers says.

‘Tom, will they open without being forced or broken?’

‘You just need to undo the latches, this place is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week - so they’re not a security issue,’ Tom replies.

‘Okay, good idea, Blowers. Jamie, do that then, mate - crack open one of the sky-lights and shout down, to make sure we can hear you - every twenty minutes - so we know you’re all right, got it?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Jamie Reese replies.

‘Right, we keep two in the middle area at all times, watching the front and the rear, and then a couple on constant patrol around the building, checking all of the rooms. The rest of us will make the building secure…Tom, does that shop stock Sellotape?’

‘What?’ Tom asks.

‘…or brown parcel tape?’ I say to him.

‘Oh right, yes they do - we have to get some of our office supplies there, if we run out.’

‘Right, okay, if any of you want to help, that would be great,’ I look at the group seated in front of me. An old man and woman quietly look at each other.

‘We’d be glad to help you, young man,’ the elderly chap says.

‘I’ll stay here with Mary and help to look after the children,’ the old woman says, indicating the scared woman clutching the child; a baby in a removable car seat sleeps next to her.

‘Tucker, we need to get moving. While we start getting the building secure, you go through the supplies and see how much food and drink we have.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Tucker responds and shoots off, towards the counter.

‘Dave, can you come with me, Jamie and Tom, to look at the roof?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

We go through to the back of the building into the utility and office areas. Tom explains that they have daily deliveries, so the only stock will be what is in the shops and cafés. We stop at a metal access ladder that leads up to a small landing and a door. Tom ascends first and unlocks the door with his set of keys. We follow up and step out of the door into the bright sunshine; ready to respond, in case the roof is covered with rats. The sides of the building are sheer and, unless the zombie rats start stacking boxes, it will be unlikely that they can get up here.

‘All of the wiring and pipes are underground, so there are no attachments to the building anywhere,’ Tom says, as we walk round the perimeter.

The view is much worse than I thought it would be, the ground level is thick with rats, stretching out across the car park, all the way back to the still burning fuel station.

‘At least now we know who caused that,’ Tom says.

‘Yeah, sorry about that mate - bit of a desperate situation,’ I apologise, watching the thick, black smoke pluming up into the sky, sending a massive smoke signal to every undead in the area.

‘We can expect more visitors now,’ I say to Dave, who nods.

The rats are climbing on top of each other at the edges of the building, each one desperately fighting and squirming to get inside.

They are on all sides of the building now, and hundreds more are still pouring in from all directions.

We get to the central sky-light and undo the clasps on the sides; the top can be fully removed, but that would be dangerous; rats might descend very quickly, like in the Saxon.

‘Just crack it open a few inches, so we can slam it down, if we need to,’ I say.

‘Cookey? Nick? Can you hear me?’ I shout down.

Two faces appear underneath me, grinning up.

‘Loud and clear,’ Cookey shouts up.

I move away a few feet. ‘How about now?’ I call out.

‘Yep, still good.’

I move over to the edge of the building and call out again.

‘Yep, we can hear you fine,’ Cookey shouts up.

‘Okay, Jamie - all yours. Shout down every twenty minutes, so we know you’re still alive.’

‘If I see any of the people, can I fire on them?’ Jamie asks me. I look to Dave and we both nod.

‘Yes, mate, but let us know first, so we don’t all jump out of our skins.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Bugger, he is slowly turning into Dave.

Back downstairs, I see that Blowers has already divided them all into teams and sent them off into various sections to secure the building. ‘I told them to tape up every possible entry point,’ he says.

‘Well done, mate.’

I watch as Dave walks down the aisles and stops to pick something up from the shelf. Then he walks over to the counter, to a tray of cigarette lighters. He raises a can of hairspray and presses the button, as he sparks the cigarette lighter and a long flame shoots out from the nozzle of the can - he looks over to me and smiles.

‘I knew we’d have flame throwers at some point,’ I jokingly groan. ‘Bloody good idea though, mate, let’s hand them round to everyone. But… they might burn the building down… maybe we should put them at key points, so we can spray into the drain openings and toilet bowls - in case they break through.

Dave nods in agreement and we start walking through the building, watching the recruits and the people from Burger King taping up every air vent and drain cover.

Darren Smith is stretching tape across the gap, just a few inches back from the front door.

‘It won’t stop them, but it might buy us a bit of time, Sir,’ he says, as we stop to help.

‘Tom… we need a safe, secure place we can all go to, in case they get through.’

The storeroom or the office? The office has the cash safe in there - so it’s the most secure, just very small,’ he replies.

‘Will we all fit in there?’ I ask him.

‘Probably not, so… we could use the office and the storeroom - if we make the storeroom fully secure.’

‘They are connected by the corridor, aren’t they?’ I ask him.

‘Yes, so we could fall back to the storeroom first and then the office - if all else fails,’ Tom replies.

We walk through to the back area; the old chap from Burger King is working with McKinney, taping up the air vent. I check the rear access; a double metal door with safety bars on the inside and thick looking bolts on the top and bottom.

‘We should keep these doors clear, they look strong and even rats can’t chew through metal quickly.’

I explain the plan to the old man and McKinney and then work with them to secure the room completely. The door leading into this area from the main building is only a single wooden door. There are some stock cages in the storeroom and I work with Dave and McKinney to pull the cage of the wooden base. Once free of the wooden base, the metal cage stretches out - it’s fine mesh and we jam it against the door.

‘That should hold them for a bit longer, if needed.’ We remove the mesh barrier and rest it to one side.

We hear shouting and run into the main area to see Nick booting a rat against the wall.

‘Coming from the ladies toilets,’ he yells and we run in to see thick, black bodies straining to lift the lids with the heavy waste bins on top. The dead rats I put in the bowls have just given them something to stand on and get leverage.

I grab a can of deodorant and a lighter and charge into the cubicle. Just as the lid lifts and two of them squirm halfway out, I ignite the spray and keep the button pressed down and push the flame throwers at the bodies.

The rats squeal and start thrashing; the jet of hot flame incinerates their small bodies within seconds. Remarkably, they keep trying to fight their way out, rather than dropping back down into the safety of the bowl. I kick out at the flaming bodies and stamp them down onto the floor, so that I can crush them underfoot.

I rush out and see Dave doing the same thing, but holding the flame directly on their heads, so the fur burns away. He scorches them to death, amidst squealing and thrashing.

‘We need someone in both toilets all of the time,’ I shout out as the last of the rats is destroyed by fire and stamping.

‘I’ll do these ones,’ McKinney offers.

We go back out into the main area, Cookey and Nick Hewitt are still there, but watching our direction with concerned faces.

‘All clear for now. Cookey, can you keep watch in the men’s toilets, mate? Nick… you watch this area and the front doors,’ I shout over to them.

‘He’ll bloody like that,’ Blowers shouts from off to the side somewhere. ‘Cookey likes hanging around in the gent’s bogs - don’t you, Cookey?’ He adds, as the lads all start sniggering from their various positions. I even hear Jamie chortling from above us on the roof.

‘Get Fuc…’

‘Language lads!’ I shout out and cut Cookey off, before he offends everyone in the building.

Cookey grins and walks off to the toilets.

‘Oi, Nick! You got any more smokes, mate,’ Cookey yells and Nick throws him another packet.

We keep waking around the inside edge of the building; checking and re-checking the access points.

Nearly all of the tape is used up, there’s just a few rolls left over. The storeroom is searched, but no more tape is found. I find Tucker in the other café, the one by the services company. He is sorting through boxes of food and making piles.

‘Tucker, can you get some supplies into the storeroom and office at the back? They are our fall back points,’ I say to him.

‘Got it,’ he responds and starts loading boxes with bottles of water and snacks.

‘Also mate… in your official capacity of stores man - can you get those First Aid kits on sale in the shop and stack them in there too? Get some dressings and stuff to the lads as well, and make sure they’ve all got water and something to eat…’ Tucker nods and starts moving off. ‘Oh… and Tucker,’ he turns back to face me.’

Sir?’

‘Thanks mate, good job.’

He smiles and walks off and Dave stares at me again.

‘What have I done now?’ I ask him.

‘Nothing, nothing at all Mr Howie.’

‘It’s going to be a long night, I can bloody feel it.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie, it will be.’

_________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The rats sat and waited until the numbers were strong enough to attack and be sure of a victory, the infection felt the pull of the rodents as their urge to attack and bite the resistors was pulling at them. But the infection held them and waited for more to arrive.

It watched from the thousands of pairs of eyes and picked up on the scent trails from thousands of pairs of noses until sufficient were present. Then, as the one they call Howie got on top of the vehicle, they commenced the attack, pouring across the small fuel station forecourt and throwing themselves at the vehicle. Many died instantly from the giant wheels crushing them, but still they poured in and the infection knew they would be taken now.

The vehicle started moving, but the infection had planned for this; tapping into some of the memories and images from the human hosts and starting to learn basic tactics. It sent rats up onto the roof so they could attack from all directions. As the vehicle rolled under the roof, the infection pushed the bodies over the edge to drop down. Some held on, but many were thrown off as the vehicle went faster, and then the one they called Howie used a loud tool to fire metal at the rats and the station exploded.

The infection felt many of the rodents scorched and blown to pieces by the massive explosions, but still it sent wave after wave of rats after them.

The infection moved the rats from the top of the vehicle and made them drop down into the inside, where it could see and smell the potential hosts. But those resistors were quick and the infection failed to send in enough rats to finish them off. It kept the rats moving and leaping at the bodies, but the boots were too thick and the rat’s small teeth were unable to penetrate. The resistors were lucky as they had no idea how many times the rats sunk their teeth into the edge of the thick leather boots, but were kicked away or stamped down on.

The infection watched as one of the rats gained purchase on the front of one and started to climb up to the soft skin of the stomach, but another one struck out and killed it.

Then it got more rats inside and the potential hosts stopped the vehicle and ran into the building.

The rats were urged on and whipped into a frenzy, but they got inside the building. The infection sent them against the walls and glass and forced them to bite into anything soft enough to damage. It found pipes and access tunnels and sent the rats along and into the toilets, just like it had done many time, but the resistors were there again and repelled each attack, killing the rodent hosts.

Through the eyes of the rats, the infection saw the huge plume of black smoke rise high into the clear, blue sky. Every host across the county stopped and stared into the sky, searching for the sign.

The infection saw the thick black smoke, through many human host eyes and sent those towards it, but they are too slow and the shuffling will take them too long. The infection knows that it can speed them up, but they will become weaker and unable to repair the already badly damaged and decaying bodies.

The infection calculates this risk and allows more energy to flow.

The hordes of zombie undead suddenly start forward with renewed speed and they run in staggered groups towards the smoke signal.

_____________________________________

We keep pacing round the building, checking and re-checking. More rats escape from the toilet bowls but are quickly dispatched by the flame throwers used by Cookey and McKinney. They shout to each other with a running tally, competing with the number of kills they both get.

Tucker has distributed water and snacks amongst the recruits and I keep rotating them round so they don’t get bored, apart from Cookey and McKinney who are too intent on their competition to leave their posts.

The people that were already here are moving about chatting with the recruits and making suggestions, until they all gather back in the seating area of Burger King. Dave and I join them after taking another walk about and checking each area.

‘How are we going to get out?’ I ask Dave quietly, away from earshot of the group, ‘they are too small to take on easily and there are fucking thousands and thousands of them now.’ Even Dave seems stuck for once and looks thoughtful.

‘Maybe they will die quickly, but we can’t risk just waiting here, they’ll bite their way through soon enough mate,’ I say to him.

He doesn’t respond, but just looks at me.

‘There must be something we can do to reduce their numbers, or get back inside the Saxon and lock the top down.’

‘We’ll never get through them,’ Dave says.

‘Okay, what about fire? But that risks the building and us too - or we could try poison? But we don’t have buckets of rat poison,’ I keep making suggestions, negating each one as I think of it. ‘How about electrocution? We did that at the police station?’

‘There’s no power here, Mr Howie, I did think about that.’

‘Okay mate, do you know what we need?’ I ask him.

‘What?’

‘An exploding cow,’ I smile at him.

‘We don’t have any cows here, Mr Howie.’

‘I know… it was a joke, Dave.’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘The grenades would be no good, we’re too close to the building,’ I say, thoughtfully.

‘They’re still in the Saxon,’ Dave says.

‘Oh well, there’s that idea gone.’

‘CONTACT,’ Jamie shouts from above us.

The people in Burger King all stand up and look about, terrified.

‘Quick, upstairs,’ I say to Dave, as we run to the access ladder in the back area and climb up onto the roof.

‘What’ve you got Jamie?’

I race towards the front edge, where he is standing, aiming the rifle.

‘Look!’ Jamie points almost dead ahead and I peer out over the car park to the hordes of undead zombies running towards us.

‘It’s not night time and they’re running… why are they running?’ I shout out, alarmed.

‘They’re coming straight for us, Sir,’ Jamie says.

‘Start shooting them, mate,’ I run across the roof to check the other sides and I am horrified to see more of them coming across the car park. More are on the motorway and even coming across the fields behind the services.

‘Fuck me, there’s loads of them!’ I check my watch. ‘It’s about an hour to sundown, but they’re running now - something has changed.’

‘What’s going on?’ a voice shouts up, through the skylight.

‘Zombies, coming from all sides, and fast,’ I yell down.

‘But it’s daylight,’ the voice shouts up.

‘That’s what I said! Get the others up, quick as you can, but keep Cookey and McKinney in the toilets and Hewitt on the main area beneath us.’

I move back to the front and see Jamie taking aim and firing at the oncoming masses, his aim is brilliant and, even from this range, and firing at moving targets, he still drops them.

‘Are you getting head shots from here?’ I ask, surprised as they fall down and stay down.

‘No way, not from this distance and the speed they are moving at,’ Jamie replies and fires again with a cough sound from the rifle.

‘But they are staying down?’

‘Are they? I haven’t looked, hang on,’ Jamie says and sweeps the scope back to the ones he has already shot down.

‘You’re right, they are staying down, not even moving,’ he says.

‘They must be weaker, a body shot like that wouldn’t stop them, it might drop them down but they would keep coming.’

I make my SA80 assault rifle ready, just as Tucker, Blowers, Curtis Graves and Darren Smith come out onto the roof, one at a time.

‘Jamie is killing them from this distance with body shots,’ I say, as I take aim and hear the rest of them rack their rifles and make ready.

‘Spread out to cover all sides,’ Dave says.

I aim at centre mass of a large-built, undead female who is staggering and wobbling across the car park - I fire and watch her drop as she is struck somewhere in the middle of her body. I keep watching, waiting for her to start twitching and trying to get up, but she remains completely still.

I next aim for the middle of a group and fire into them. One of them drops and is instantly trampled under the feet of the others.

I hear rifles popping all around me, and the coughing noise from the sniper rifle held by Jamie. I keep firing and feel a deep satisfaction as they are dropped on the spot.

There are more moving fast though and are already halfway across the car park. The rats pay them no attention and the zombies just stagger through the black bodies, treading them down or kicking them aside, as they lurch forward.

Even when the human zombies drop from being shot, the rats don’t try and eat them, they just keep surging forward.

‘Shit, look at that lot,’ Blowers calls out and I look over, he is facing the motorway and I see a densely packed horde charging down it towards the slip road. They are really crammed together at the front and then spread out to a long tail, further down the motorway.

‘There’s more coming across the fields at the back too,’ Tucker shouts.

‘Fuck me, they don’t like us much, do they,’ I shout out. ‘Rats and zombies all coming for us, doesn’t it just make you feel special? Jamie, can you start dropping them as they come into the access road from the motorway, mate.’

‘Sir,’ Jamie confirms and moves over to the corner of the building, so he can cover the car park entrance to the access road and the motorway. He puts his bag down at his feet and I see it’s full to the brim with boxes of bullets. I move over to the skylight and shout down: ‘Get one of those people up here to help Jamie re-load the rifle magazines.’

I watch Hewitt run towards the side to Burger King and I go back to the front and take aim. There are hundreds of zombies coming for us now, and thousands of rats. We keep firing, taking single shots and managing to keep them back from the building, but their numbers are huge and it’s only a matter of time before they get to us.

‘How can I help, young man,’ I turn to see the old man coming up the ladder and onto the roof.

‘Can you re-load a rifle magazine?’ I ask him.

‘I did National Service, I can’t imagine it’s changed very much. I might be a bit rusty but I’m sure I will soon pick it back up,’ he says, with confidence.

‘Dave, can you show him what to do? We need to keep Jamie firing.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie, on it now,’ Dave responds and takes the old timer over to Jamie and shows him how to push the bullets into the magazine and stack them up on the low wall next to Jamie.

We keep shooting and they keep dropping, but more are coming, and we still have the rats to deal with.   We are getting good results though and the car park and surrounding areas are soon littered with bodies.

‘Here they come,’ the old man shouts, as the massive horde from the motorway staggers out of the access road and spreads into the car park, running towards us.

I turn and fire into them, as do Dave and Jamie.

Our shots are good.

Dave stops firing and drops down to the bag at his feet, he pulls out a black pistol and hands it to the old man.

‘Can you use this?’ he asks.

‘Oh yes, I was a good shot a few years back,’ he replies, taking the gun and examining it with steady hands.

He takes seconds to figure out how to push a magazine in and slide the top back.

‘When they get closer, start using it,’ Dave says simply and goes back to firing at the massed horde charging towards us.

I keep shooting into them, but the numbers are too high and they are relentless. They get halfway across the car park and the old man raises the pistol and starts firing - sharp cracks fill the air as the handgun fires and I see his arm hardly moves from the recoil.

He drops several of the undead with his first magazine and starts re-loading, checking Jamie has enough magazines before he continues firing.

Despite our constant firing, they reach the front of the building and slam into the glass doors with a loud bang.

‘Tucker, get down and support Nick, in case they get through,’ I shout and Tucker runs towards the ladder.

I switch the assault rifle to fully automatic and lean over to look down at the already packed horde and squirming black bodies jumping up between them.

I then press the trigger and watch as they are cut down from the rapid fire - but thirty or so rounds last seconds and I’m re-loading and firing again.

The old man is leaning over and firing into them too.

‘They’re at the sides,’ Blowers shouts.

‘Which side?’ I yell back, as I change magazines.

‘Both,’ he shouts back, running between the two edges and looking down.

I glance at the Saxon and the GPMG sitting dormant on the top, wishing we had it now.

‘At the back, too,’ Smith yells out.

‘How are those doors looking,’ I yell towards the skylight.

‘They’re holding, but they won’t last if they keep coming,’ it sounds like Nick shouting up.

‘Tucker, get those people into the safe area and make Tom keep them there.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ Tucker shouts and again I go back to firing down into the increasing horde.

They are staring up at us, pale, drawn, decomposing faces that are rapidly becoming less human in appearance.

The bodies pile up as we shoot them, which creates a natural obstacle for the others, but they are frenzied and claw and rake at the bodies to get to the doors. The groaning noises they emit are a lot more aggressive now and they almost sound like they are growling.

‘What’s got into them?’ I shout out, as I change magazines again.

‘I don’t think they like us very much,’ Blowers says, as he fires his weapon down at the sides.

I look up and see more coming along the motorway and from all around. Dave suddenly runs off and slides down the ladder, heading underneath us to the shop. He returns a few minutes later with a basket full of bottles of spirits and a rolls of kitchen towel.

‘I’ll help with those,’ the old man says, and starts working with Dave to open the bottles and stuff thickly twisted kitchen roll in the top of them.

Dave steps up to the edge of the building and lights the first one; he waits for it to catch alight and launches it high into the air. It smashes on the ground in the middle of a group charging across the car park. The flammable liquid ignites and flames shoot out, as the liquid bursts away. Several of the zombies are set alight instantly and they stagger forward, but drop down within a few steps.

‘They really are much weaker now,’ I yell out, as the old man hands Dave a flaming bottle. Dave launches it and again it hits in the middle of a group, bursting into flames that shoot up and ignite the zombies.

Dave continues with the deadly cocktails, until there is a line of fire across the car park. The undead run straight through it and many are set alight and fall down within a few steps, but many more make it through and get to the front of the building.

‘THE MALE TOILETS ARE GONE,’ Cookey yells out, and I glance down to see him holding the door shut.

‘IS THAT BECAUSE YOU BUMMED THEM ALL,’ Blowers shouts and I can’t help but burst out laughing.

‘YES, IS THAT A PROBLEM,’ Cookey yells back.

And I snigger, as I fire my weapon down into the horde again; blowing heads apart and watching the bits of skull and brain matter fly off.

The doors are getting overwhelmed now and the zombies are already several deep and growing.

‘Dave, drop some straight down on them, we’ll have to risk it. The building is metal and glass so we might be all right. They’ll be through there any second.’

Dave leans over the lip and pulls his arm back, then he launches a bottle straight down, which explodes and bursts into flames, sending smoke straight up at us. Dave grabs another one from the old man who has lit two, and they both lean over and throw them down. The liquid flames up instantly and zombies drop like flies to lie in the flames; the rats squeal and scurry about, with more frantic movements and I see many of their bodies on fire too.

Daylight fades and turns to night, as more zombies pour across the car park towards the building. As the last of the light fades they all suddenly stop and stand perfectly still.

‘Here we go,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Mind you, they can’t get much worse, can they?’

They all stare up at the sky and start to roar into the night, just as they have done each day so far. We take advantage of their staying still to shoot many down, firing into them as they roar.

I suddenly feel anger building up in me and I roar back at them: ‘COME ON YOU FUCKERS.’ Dave joins me and we roar with defiance at these undead things that are refusing to let us be.

Blowers and Jamie join in, even the old man shouts and I hear the lads underneath me screaming with defiance and the adrenalin courses through my system.

You are many and we are few, but we will kill you.

We are righteous and you are evil and we will destroy you.

We roar at each other, masses of zombies and a small group in a motorway service station but, right here and now, I wouldn’t change sides for anything in the world.

The undead stop roaring but we continue. We scream every bad word ever known to us, at them.

Dave’s drill sergeant voice the loudest of all: ‘I AM DEATH AND I COME FOR YOU,’ he bellows and it sends a tingle down my spine. I let rip with every ounce of being and scream as they charge.

As one, we stop roaring. As one, we lower our weapons and aim. As one, we fire.

We cut them down as they charge towards us, weapons on fully automatic now. Jamie has ditched the sniper rifle and has taken up his assault rifle and is firing into them with deadly accuracy.

They keep coming and they keep dying - as we scorch them and tear them apart with our bullets.

‘DOORS,’ Cookey bellows from underneath us.

‘MOVE BACK,’ I shout and we start moving back to the ladder and dropping down onto ground level.

‘Are they all in the safe area?’ I ask Cookey, as I move into the main area.

‘Yes, Sir - Tucker has taken them and that Tom bloke said he would keep them in there,’ Cookey answers.

‘Where’s Tucker now?’ I ask him.

He staying with them to make sure they don’t lock us out.’

‘Bloody good idea, Christ look at that lot,’ I look to the doors and see a solid press of bodies squished against them.

The pressure is so much that the ones at the front are pushed hard against the glass and I can see the black rat bodies running between their legs and feet.

‘The toilets went then?’ I ask Cookey.

‘Yeah, we got fucking loads though. The bodies were stacked right up, but just too many of them coming out - the doors are inward opening though, so they can’t push their way out.’

‘Who won the competition?’

‘McKinney, the bastard,’ he grins.

The rest scale down and come to join us staring at the doors, when a sudden realisation hits me.

‘Fuck, the roof is probably the safest place - why don’t we get them all up there, at least we can still fight back,’ I spin round to Dave. ‘Mate, you hold up here with Cookey and McKinney, the rest of you come with me.’

I run back to the safe area and into the storeroom. Tucker is just inside, closest to the door. They all jump up and stare at me, with terrified faces.

‘Change of plan, we need to get everyone on the roof, as soon as possible. You have to move now,’ I say to them.

‘But hang on, we were told to come in here and now we have to go up there? Surely this is safer?’ Mark, in the business suit, starts moaning.

‘Shut up, we need to get moving now, quickly, get those children up first.’ I run forward and snatch up the baby and start moving back towards the ladder.

I make Smith go up ahead of me and I climb up one-handed, holding the baby with the other arm, while the mother screams and chases me, holding the other child. I pass the baby up to Smith who takes it - like it’s a bomb about to go off.

‘Quickly, pass me that child now,’ I say to the woman.

‘No, don’t take my baby,’ she screams in blind panic.

I drop down and push her to the ladder and force her up the first few rungs. She climbs up, clutching the child.

I force them up quickly, apart from the old woman, who, due to her age, takes a little longer. Mark is right behind her and goes to push her up faster, causing her to slip down.

‘Fucking hurry up, or we’ll all die, you old cow,’ Mark shouts at her.

Blowers steps in quickly and punches him hard to the side of his head, causing him to smack against the wall and slide down.

Blowers then stands over him, watching him intently.

‘The rest of you get up quickly, this man and I will wait till last,’ Blowers says, through gritted teeth.

Mark stares up at him, with a look of horror on his face, but stays down on the floor.

‘DOORS ARE GOING,’ Dave shouts from the main area.

‘Blowers, get up there quickly, and you,’ I shout to Blowers and point at Mark, the last ones to go up.

I run back to the door leading out into the main area and see the glass doors slowly buckling inwards, the glass cracking noisily as the pressure builds.

‘Get back to ladder and up to the roof now,’ I shout and Cookey and McKinney sprint past me.

Dave and I kneel down, just a few feet from the door leading to the back area and the ladder.

‘You next, Dave.’

‘No.’ Dave states.

‘Fine, then we’ll both stay here,’ I say stubbornly, and we both raise our rifles and take aim at the doors.

‘Are you going or what?’ I say, after a few seconds.

‘Nope,’ he answers.

‘Okay, be like that.’

‘I will, Mr Howie.’

We both watch the doors, both of us being unwilling to be the first to break away.

‘They’ll be through those doors any second now, Dave.’

‘Yes.’

‘So… you’d better get going, then.’

‘You really should go, Mr Howie - I’ll cover.’

The glass fractures and doors start buckling further open. I glance over to him and he looks back at me as I grin, he smiles slowly back at me.

‘Ready, Dave?’ I ask him, turning back to the doors.

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

The doors burst open and the zombies start pouring in. We open fire on fully automatic, cutting them down in droves and sending them back to hell.

They surge forward: zombie men, zombie women and zombie rats.

Just as they reach us, I lean over and slam the door closed and brace it with my back.

‘I’ve got the door, you go now,’ I shout at Dave, who runs forward and starts pushing against the door next to me.

‘Dave, I’ve got the door - get up that ladder now.’

‘I’ve got the door, Mr Howie - you go.’

‘I got to the door first - so it’s mine.’ I shout back at him, over the thumps and bangs.

‘No, Mr Howie.’ He grunts, straining at the door.

‘Right, I didn’t want to have to do this, but you said I was in charge,’ he shoots a look at me. ‘So, if I’m in charge, then I’m ordering you to get up that ladder.’

He stares at me.

‘Okay, Mr Howie. Move quick though. The door won’t hold.’

‘I know mate, now go.’ I shout.

He releases suddenly and sprints to the ladder and starts climbing up fast, as soon as he gets half way up he shouts down ‘NOW.’

‘COMING,’ I shout back and jump away from the door and start sprinting towards the ladder.

The door bursts open behind me and I hear them charging into the room.

During those milliseconds of running I work out that if I grab that ladder they will be on me before I can climb up.

Dave, or anyone else up there, won’t be able to shoot down, because I will be in the way. Dave would most likely drop down and try to fight them all and get killed in the process, and Dave is the strongest chance they all have for survival.

All it will take is one bite or scratch and I’m done for, and they are moving fast now. There is no way I can go for the ladder; it just can’t be done.

Time slows down as I reach my hand out to grab it and pull my arm back at the last second, then race forward into the storeroom, slamming the door behind me.

I lock the door and push the bolts in at the top and bottom as I hear Dave bellowing my name and the growling of the zombies as they impact on the other side of the door. The door is solid wood and will hold for a bit, plus the door isn’t that wide - so they won’t be able to get that many bodies across it. But they can press in from behind and eventually the door will go.

I pull the opened cage sides down across the door and pile boxes and items in front of it. Sweating and breathing hard, I step back and look round. Tucker has left some supplies down here and I smile as I realise that even during those frantic few minutes he managed to get some of the supplies up onto the roof. I sink down onto the top of some boxes and change magazines in the assault rifle. Next, I pick up a bottle of water and take a long drink, before I settle down to listen to them thrashing against the door trying to get to me.

I hear muffled shots; the lads must be shooting down onto the horde below. I feel numb and suddenly very alone. I know that if I had gone for the ladder, I would never have made it, but already there is doubt in my mind that maybe I could have gone for it. But they were right behind me and I only just managed to get this door closed.

One bite, that’s all it takes.

Dave screams as Howie runs past the bottom of the ladder, he is at the top aiming down with his rifle, ready to drop them as Howie climbs.

But he went straight past and into the storeroom.

Dave hears the door slam shut and his mind calculates that Howie got into the room safely.

‘MR HOWIE,’ he bellows and then listens.

‘MR HOWIE,’ he roars again.

Still nothing.

‘GET ON THOSE SIDES AND KILL THEM,’ Dave turns away from the ladder and storms over to the front of the building.

The people from Burger King are huddled in the middle of the roof, cowering down, while the recruits and the old man fire down into the massed undead.

‘SMITH! WATCH THAT LADDER,’ Dave bellows and starts firing down into the crowd; Howie told him he was in charge and had to go.

In Dave’s mind, things are black and white - right or wrong. There are leaders and there are followers. Even at the supermarket, Dave admired Howie as he reminded him strongly of some of the best officers he had served under. Hard working, kind and considerate - but also not a fool. He was always willing to make conversation and show a genuine interest in his staff. These traits are rare in an officer and Dave admired that Howie for the traits.

Dave knew he was without purpose when they attacked the supermarket that night.

He fell back on his years of training and natural instincts to protect the base; protect the place that recruited and paid him. Then Howie showed up and, instead of panicking or screaming, he showed those traits even more. He stood next to Dave when they started to attack again. Over the last few days, Howie has shown what a natural and strong leader he is, sticking to the primary objective - but being flexible enough to adapt and overcome whatever is in his path. Doing the right thing at the right time and doing something that the Army had never done with him - Howie encouraged Dave to be human, to joke and to smile.

And that first battle when they charged the zombies in Boroughfare town centre, Howie didn’t allow the anger to control him.

He channelled it and made it work for him. He was clumsy and took unnecessary risks, but Dave could see the battle lust in his eyes and knew that Howie was a man to follow. Since then, Dave had protected Howie.

Howie took the recruits and showed them kindness and respect and, by doing so, he became their natural leader too. He protected them during the battle to get the Saxon and knew how to get them safe before the night came, and, even after that, when most men would weep or break down, Howie took the time to check on the recruits’ welfare and make sure they were all okay - then joked with Dave.

Dave knows those are very special traits, he has been in countless war zones and on countless operations and can see when someone is good.

Howie is good.

Howie is his friend and his leader.

To Dave, killing is a skill that comes naturally; he doesn’t relish it or dream of it. Killing is just something he is able to do easily. He is small and can move quickly and is able to co-ordinate his movements to achieve maximum efficiency. Only, with Howie, has he felt that bloodlust, that feeling of fighting alongside a fellow warrior and defeating something evil.

Dave feels something he very rarely feels. A feeling inside growing and gnawing at him. The assault rifle in his hands becomes something weird and strange, something that doesn’t belong to him and he stops firing and lowers the weapon down gently, then stands still to examine this feeling inside him, trying to block it out - but it pushes up inside of him and tries to take over his mind and body.

Dave blocks it and tries to focus, but it screams inside of him, it demands to be released and it will never go away until it is let out.

‘BLOWERS,’ Dave roars, his voice rising above all the noise and weapons firing.

‘YOU’RE IN CHARGE.’

Dave lets the feeling out.

He releases it to purge into his blood stream and pump around his heart. He closes his eyes as the pressure builds and threatens to overwhelm him. Then the feeling is in control of him and he opens his eyes and draws his knives; one in each hand with the back of the blade pressing up against his forearms.

Dave looks down into the horde and leaps from the building, straight into the middle of them, as that feeling takes over completely. That feeling of anger.

Dave is angry.

I sit in the storeroom feeling sorry for myself, sorry that I’m separated from the others. Then I think of Dave. He has the address book in his bag and I know nothing will stop him from finishing what we set out to complete.

I feel bad for ordering Dave away from the door like that, but he is a special man and the recruits need him more than they need me. I can laugh and joke with them, but it’s Dave that has given them the skills to survive and he can carry on showing them and protecting them.

Under Dave’s tutelage the recruits will prevail and I know my sister is in good hands with them too. They will fight together or die together, and they have already shown the commitment and camaraderie they have built up. I feel proud to have fought with them and I feel especially proud to have fought alongside Dave.

I know he struggles with day to day living, and is unable to see irony or sarcasm and cannot work out the things people mean when they say something different. But then, I think back to some of the little quips he has made and it shows that, even under the most extreme event known to mankind, people can still evolve.

The building is surrounded by rats and zombies and they all want to kill us. The lads can fight them off for a while up there but they have proven they can wait longer than we can fire, and there seems to be an endless supply of them.

But the rats and zombies are trying to get into the building and are all facing inwards. Not the other way. I get to my feet, my blood starting to pound in my ears.

My sister stands the best chance of survival if Dave can get to her. Those recruits stand the best chance of survival if Dave takes them, and those survivors we found here stand the best chance of survival if Dave is alive to lead the recruits.

If I can get to that GPMG I can even the odds, and even if a rat or a zombie bites me, the infection won’t be instant and I can still fight through or lead them away.

It’s a chance worth taking, for Sarah, for the recruits and for those people.

Dave must survive and if that means I charge out to my certain death then I will do it. I’ve been lucky so far and I admit to myself that is mostly down to Dave, and if he could keep a clumsy fool like me alive, he will be able to do it for them.

I draw the long bayonet from the scabbard on my belt and fix it to the end of the rifle, wishing I had my axe with me. One magazine in the rifle and then the knife on the end and that’s it to get me to the Saxon.

Fuck it! I do this for Sarah, for the recruits and for Dave and I kick open the rear doors and burst out to find a whole load of nasty zombies on both sides.

The door had swung hard and knocked two of them off their feet.

I run forward as they immediately turn and start chasing me. I out sprint them and run down the back of the building and see more of them pressing into the sides of the building. I run out and away from the building and into the car park, then turn and drop down on one knee and fire the assault rifle into the zombies closest to me.

They drop down from each shot and I thank the Lord for whatever has made them weaker. I run on as more of them start running after me and I see more turning away from the building, coming towards me. I turn right and start towards the front of the building; the rage and anger building inside me. I get to the corner and see the Saxon immobile, a few feet from the building; hordes of zombies are facing away from it, towards the front and surging into the open doors of the services building.

I run forward, desperately trying to reach the Saxon, before they see me - but the ones chasing me must send some signal or make noise because they turn and start towards me. I drop down and fire the remains of my magazine into them; tearing them apart and watching them fall and get blown backwards.

Out of bullets, I start charging towards the Saxon, roaring with anger and the top of the roof at the front of the building lights up with sustained firing, the bright muzzle flashes start against the night sky.

The recruits shoot down at the zombies as they run towards me and I know I’ve been given a chance now and I take it, sprinting flat out to reach the Saxon.

Rats are scurrying round my feet and I feel bodies being crushed and kicked as I sprint over them.

I reach the Saxon and race round the front to climb into the open driver’s door but there are zombies waiting for me. I charge into them, as they come for me and slam the butt of the gun into the closest face.

I whip round and thrust the bayonet through the throat of the next one, as I catch a glimpse of my axe handle poking out the edge of the Saxon. I kick the zombie away, leaving the bayonet and rifle stuck in his neck and reach out to grab the handle. My hand closes around the shaft and I draw it towards me, like an old friend.

I step back with my axe, my faithful and trusting axe. I know that if I try to climb in now they will be on me and I step to meet their charge and swipe the axe into them. The heavy blade bites into flesh and sends them slamming into the side of the vehicle. I pull back and use the blunt end to knock the next one down and I keep going and smashing them aside, as they charge at me.

Suddenly, there’s a gap and I quickly climb into the Saxon and slam the door closed. I dive over the back of the driver’s seat and into the back. The rear doors are open and an undead appears and starts clambering in with his teeth bared. I step forward and lash out with my boot, connecting to his face and pulverising his nose. Another one charges towards me, and I slam the axe down on his head, breaking his skull open. I over extend and fall out of the back doors and onto the ground. A zombie is inches away from me, bending forward as he lunges for the bite. I press backwards, up against the open rear door of the Saxon and realise I have nowhere to go. The zombie’s head then bursts apart from a round fired from an assault rifle, held by someone on the roof.

That had to be either Dave or Jamie firing; either that or one of them is trying to kill me.

I clamber back inside the Saxon and pull the doors closed and move towards the ladder that leads up to the GPMG. A fat black rat drops down as I look up.

‘JUST FUCK OFF,’ I scream and pick the thing up with my bare hands and launch it hard against the metal rear doors, the body exploding on impact.

I climb up and see another rat on top of the machine gun and punch it full in the face, sending it flying off the side of Saxon. I rack the bolt back and spin round to the front of the building and the huge horde of undead zombies charge towards me.

My face splits into a grin as I pull the trigger.

Dave drops down into the horde, using their bodies to break his fall and instantly he is up and spinning about. The absolute anger and rage burning through him, makes him fight faster than he ever has done before.

His arms spin and his legs kick out, as he drags the deadly sharp blades across throats and slices open the arteries. He pushes forward, using the knives to puncture the backs of zombies too slow to turn and plunges the knives into their necks.

With amazing athleticism, Dave cuts through the horde; slicing them apart and tearing flesh open with each precise sweep of the blades. He roars into the night and they charge at him, and he spins and ducks and leaps through them, killing them swiftly and dispatching them with gruesome finality.

Two of them charge at him and Dave drops his upper body down but raises the knives high and wide and pushes through the middle of them, slicing their necks open as he pulls the blades past him. He pulls his arms forward and thrusts the points through the necks of the next two; dropping them instantly and he keeps driving forward, killing anything in his path.

The anger and the desperation to rescue Howie overwhelms and consumes him.

The perfect killing machine, trained only to destroy with ruthless efficiency, allows the rage to spur him on and those skills become more deadly than ever before.

Dave fights his way into the building and down the main area, working his way through countless zombies and the bodies drop behind him as he whirls and dances through them.

Fighting and killing to get to Howie. Fighting and killing to rescue his leader and his friend.

Dave reaches the door and pushes against it hard, bellowing out: ‘MR HOWIE,’ as he pushes.

The door is locked and barricaded and he hammers on it with brutal strength, as more zombies enter into the main area behind him.

Blowers drops down from the ladder and fires into the oncoming undead, then joins Dave in beating at the door.

Between them, they force the door open and push the barricade away; bursting into the room to find Howie gone and the rear doors wide open.

They charge out into the night and continue fighting their way round to the front of the building. Dave uses his knives to rip them apart and Blowers uses his bayonet and butt of the rifle to cut, slice and slam them down.

Rats pour out after them and jump at their legs, as they fight and keep moving - both of them roaring and growling with ferocity and fury.

Just as they reach the corner of the building the GPMG starts firing and they both turn and run out to the car park, then duck down to get to the side of the Saxon.

Howie is on the heavy machine gun, firing into the front of the building and cutting down anything that moves.

I keep firing and tearing them apart, for each one I kill, I know that I give the others a fighting chance for survival.

My mind is blazing at the destruction I cause before me as the bodies are ripped apart, brains and heads bursting apart and limbs being taken off.

Blood, bone and bits of body fly everywhere and even the rats are squirming to get away from the deadly hail of bullets.

I hear shouting and turn to look down at Dave and Blowers crouching by the side of the Saxon. I grin down at them and wave for them to climb in and watch as they pull the driver’s door open and disappear inside.

I turn round and aim towards more undead that are coming into the car park from the access road, and together with the recruits firing from the top of the roof, we slaughter them all.

‘MAGAZINE’ I yell as the GPMG clicks empty.

‘LET ME DO IT,’ Dave yells from below me and I drop down, grinning at him stupidly as I reach the bottom.

He grins back and there is a look of relief on his face as he stares at me.

‘Where did you two come from?’ I ask them.

‘Dave jumped off the building and killed ‘em all, to get back inside,’ Blowers says.

‘Fuck me, bloody hell mate, I would have stayed there with my feet up - if I’d known that.’

‘Good to see you, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, as he climbs up to change the ammunition box on the GPMG.

‘You too mate, and you Blowers, did you leap off the roof too?’

‘No, I came down the ladder, like a normal person,’ he says, grinning at me.

‘I’ll take over,’ Dave shouts down and the machine gun starts up again. I tap him on the leg to get his attention and he stops firing.

‘Is the front clear? Me and Blowers will make a run for the ladder and get back on the roof, are you okay here, Dave?’

‘Yep, all clear, I’ll be alright here,’ he shouts and starts firing again.

We open the doors and climb out, slamming them shut again as we run towards the front of the building, jumping, clambering and slipping on all of the broken and mashed up bodies. The rats are still running about but they seem less directed now and slower. Many of them are dead.

We get to the ladder and climb up onto the roof; the recruits are all waiting for us, smiling and cheering as we come up to them.

‘Well done lads, I think we got most of them now,’ I say to them.

‘We? You did most of it, Sir… How did you get to the Saxon?’ Tucker gushes, his face red and sweating as he hands me and Blowers a bottle of water each.

‘Ah you know, just sort of legged it and hoped for the best. Jamie, was it you who shot that zombie that was about to bite me.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ he says.

‘Bloody good shot mate, well done, you saved my life.’

He blushes, as the lads pat him on the back.

‘How’s it looking now?’ I ask them and walk round the sides of the roof, looking down.

‘We got nearly all of them,’ Cookey says. ‘Just a few left to get, and the rats of course.’

Looking down from the roof I’m amazed at the huge amounts of torn and broken bodies lying about covered in blood. The front is a mess; corpses everywhere. I look over and see Dave scanning round with the machine gun, looking for something to kill. Jamie has got the sniper rifle back and is also sweeping the whole area, the rifle giving little coughs as he fires into the night.

Within a few minutes, we are relaxing with bottles of drink and munching on chocolate bars as the lads regale each other with how many kills they got.

I walk over to the central area, to the group we found in Burger King.

‘Everyone okay?’ I ask them.

Tom stands up and looks at me.

‘So you got them all,’ he asks.

‘Yep, pretty much. The rats are still down there but they are getting slower and some of them are just dying where they stand. If they keep going like that, they should all be dead by sun up and we can get rid of any that remain.’

‘So… what happens now?’ Tom asks me, the others all look over.

‘Now? Well we rest here for the night and move out in the morning, I guess.’

‘What about us? We have lost our safety,’ he says, looking down at the ground. I get the impression he has been forced to speak like this and is feeling ashamed.

‘You weren’t safe here for long; it was only a matter of time before they found you, or before looters came for what was left inside. When daylight comes, you should find vehicles and head for the Forts, stick together and avoid the towns and cities and you will be okay.’

He nods and turns back to the group and they start discussing things with lowered voices. I walk away, feeling like I’m intruding on their discussion.

‘You staying there, Dave?’ I shout down to him.

‘Yes, Mr Howie - for a bit anyway.’

‘Okay mate, we’ll get someone down to take over in a bit.’

I arrange for the lads to take shifts and I do the first one.

Walking slowly round the edge of the roof and peering out into the darkness, I can’t believe we came through this again, the odds were overwhelming, but we stuck together and backed each other up.

I feel shocked but humbled that Dave leaped off the roof to try and rescue me, while I was charging out into a horde that size, to try and keep him alive. We really must co-ordinate our heroic efforts next time - or this bunch could have ended up with neither of us.

We only made a few miles again today. But, tomorrow is a new day.

We have a full tank of fuel and a straight road into London.

What can possibly go wrong?

_______________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

If the infection had feelings it would be feeling hurt and humiliated now. It sent wave after wave of rats against them and then many human hosts too, but the infection pushed them all too hard and weakened them. The energy needed to drive the bodies on like that during the day meant it couldn’t work fast enough to prevent the injuries from shutting the bodies down.

The rats slowly stop charging about, as their bodies decay from within at a rate faster than the infection can fix.

They slow down, becoming harder to control, until they simply drop down and die, again.

The infection watched the one called Howie and the smaller one killing the hosts again and again. The infection was sure it had them, when the front doors were forced but, yet again, their cunning and guile kept them safe. But the infection learns and evolves and tomorrow is another day, another day to find and take over this group of resistors.

What can possibly go wrong?

DAY SIX

Wednesday.

The sun rises and promises yet another scorching day. The humidity has been high all during the night and those people on the flat roof of the services on the motorway between Salisbury and London had a broken sleep; twitching and crying out from the horrors they have witnessed and the fear they have faced.

They sweat heavily and slowly strip down to the barest of clothes; just enough to cover their modesty but they are still desperate to be rid of the restrictive and sweat soaked clothing.

There is no breeze and, as they lie below the low wall running round the edge of the flat roof, they feel the pressing heat even more. Throughout the night, they get up and move about, breathing heavily and longing for air conditioning.

They are listless, lethargic and any conversations are held quietly and restricted to the minimum amount of words possible.

Those people on the roof each think of the lives they once had. Of the things they did and how they took so much for granted. Getting bogged down in the mundane existence of day-to-day living. Dreaming of betters cars, bigger houses, more money, better phones and computers. Convincing themselves that this is what life is about, achieving and getting more things that will make them happy. Not one of those people now wishes they had more time to get the latest iPhone, or had to chance to drive a Ferrari. Even the previous excited dreams of winning the Lottery, now feel unimportant. They all dream and wish they had spent more time with their families, had taken more effort to tell their loved ones how much they loved them. Petty family squabbles that seemed so important at the time now feel stupid and as petty as they really were.

Lives full of regret and remorse, dreams unaccomplished and hopes taken away, all for something they played no part in and had no concept of.

This living nightmare is a thing of movies and stories; too far fetched to have ever been taken seriously.

Soft living in safe places had made most people unfamiliar with the struggles of life that many of their fellow humans suffer.

War, disease and poverty had never really affected any of these people on the flat roof but now the conditions they survive under are so extreme they feel sorry for themselves and nearly all of them point the finger of blame elsewhere.

The government… fanatics… crazy people - did this.

Why weren’t more control measures put in place?

Why didn’t someone do something and stop this?

The need to blame someone almost overwhelms some of them and they fail to realise the time for blame has gone, there is no structure left and no authorities to call up or email and demand answers.

There will not be any parliamentary enquiry or difficult questions raised at the next session of Prime Minister’s questions. This has happened and the only thing that matters is survival. Those clinging onto their past lives and waiting for the horror to end are living in denial and will quickly perish, simply for not facing reality and taking the necessary steps for survival.

Food, water, warmth and security - nothing else matters now and any hope that life will soon return to normal is false.

Tucker grows into his role of welfare and supplies co-ordinator and ambles round the various sweaty bodies distributing bottles of water and urging them to drink and stave off any risk of dehydration.

Jamie Reese periodically sweeps the area through the scope of the sniper rifle, taking his time to drop undead latecomers that appear staggering towards the building. The suppressor on the rifle gives a polite cough and causes no reaction from those scattered about.

Simon Blowers and Alex ‘Cookey’ Cooke spent a short time chatting and verbally abusing one another, before falling into silence and drifting off into sleep.

Nicholas Hewitt chain-smokes cigarettes, while lying on his back, staring at the stars.

Darren Smith leans against the edge of the look-out hole in the Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier, slowly circling round to check the perimeter.

Curtis Graves sleeps a few inches away on the top of the vehicle.

Roland McKinney sits closest to the group of survivors they found in the services, he plays marbles quietly with the young child whose mother sleeps fitfully nearby, her hand resting on the car seat, within which her baby sleeps.

Finally, out in the wide car park which stretches round the front, sides and rear of the services - two men stand and stare at the smoking remains of the fuel station they blew up, just a few hours before.

‘That’s got to beat the exploding cow,’ Howie says.

‘It does, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies.

‘Have you ever taken out a fuel station before then?’ Howie asks and Dave stops to ponder the question.

‘Not a fuel station, no,’ Dave answers.

‘You say that, like you’ve done something similar,’ Howie asks.

‘A refinery.’

‘No way! You blew up a refinery?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bloody hell, bet that was big.’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you do that?’

Again, Dave ponders the question and looks at Howie, before finally answering. ‘It’s not that hard really, there are pressured gas and oil pipes everywhere and this one didn’t have decent fail safes and safety measures that most should have, so a few explosives and the rest went naturally.’

‘I bet that was a big bang.’

‘Yes, we were told afterwards, that it was seen from space.’

‘No way… that must have been massive, how did they know where to look?’

‘Who?’

‘The astronauts?’

‘What astronauts?’

‘The ones in space that saw the explosion.’

‘It was an imaging satellite.’

‘Oh, well that’s still impressive.’

Howie looks back towards the services building and wipes the sweat from his forehead.

‘That’s a lot of bodies,’ he says.

‘It is, Mr Howie,’

‘Must be the biggest amount we’ve killed yet.’

‘Salisbury was a lot,’ Dave replies.

‘True, maybe about even then - mind you, if we add the rats too, then this is the biggest yet.’

‘Yes.’

‘Those rats didn’t last long, did they?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Why did they start dying off and the zombies that came for us were much weaker than we’ve known before? Most of them were dropping from one shot. Do you know mate, it felt like they were coming for us, like it was for us specifically - like we were targeted.’

‘Could be, we have killed a lot of them.’

‘Do you think that’s it, that we’ve angered them somehow with the amount we’ve killed?’

‘Could be, it’s basic strategy to take out your strongest enemy.’

‘Is that what we are now, an enemy? Bloody hell, we’re just trying to survive.’

‘Not really, Mr Howie - those people are trying to survive.’ Dave points up towards the top of the services roof.

‘So what? Because we’ve attacked a few of them - they’re going for us now?’

‘It’s a bit more than a few, Mr Howie.’

‘True, yeah, maybe we have pissed them off, we have killed a shit load of ‘em.’ Howie laughs.

‘I think that’s most likely.’ Dave nods, giving one of his rare smiles.

‘Been bloody good fun though. It seems that every half hour something happens and we just react… normally.’

‘By killing them.’ Dave answers.

‘Yeah, by killing them, by killing all of them, that’s a normal reaction isn’t it?’ Howie says, still laughing.

‘I don’t think so, Mr Howie - I think most people have run away and hidden.’

‘Well, we don’t really have that option do we, mate?’

‘No.’

‘London will be far worse, especially if they are targeting us, there could hundreds of thousands or even millions. Bloody hell, when you think of it like that, it’s quite scary.’

‘Only quite scary?’ Dave asks.

‘Well, maybe a little bit more than quite scary, but nowhere near full terror. I’m not scared of these fuckers, I hate them.’ Howie’s voice hardens and his face takes on a determined look.

‘Fear is healthy, it keeps you alive.’ Dave offers.

‘Yeah, I guess so, but I still fucking hate them. No, hate isn’t strong enough. It’s more than hate but I don’t know what to call it…. I wonder what it’s like,’ Howie continues after a few seconds of silence.

‘What?’ Dave asks.

‘Do they have any memories or thought processes? Do they know what’s happening to them? Maybe they’re trapped inside the body, like when you hear about people going through surgical procedures and being awake the whole time. Maybe they are like that, aware and conscious, but just not in control.’

‘So, who is controlling them?’

‘Whatever the virus or infection is. It’s a horrible thought, being aware of what you are doing and not being able to stop it. It can’t be that, surely they would give some sign.’

‘You said one of them spoke your name on the plains, that night.’

‘I forgot about that, none of these did it though, so I must have been mistaken. Nah, they ain’t aware of anything. Nasty fuckers, but that change last night is still worrying. It’s good if they get weaker, it’ll make them easier to kill, but not so good if they all start chasing us about during the day, too.

‘No.’ Dave agrees.

‘Bloody hell, it’s hot already. I’ve never known it to be so hot and humid.’ Howie moans as he wipes yet more sweat from his forehead.

‘It is unusual.’

‘I’ve got a headache coming, I only get them before a storm though, but that sky is as clear as anything. We’d better get back on the road. No doubt something else will happen before we get a mile though.’

Howie and Dave walk slowly back towards the services building, stepping over the many bodies of zombie people and zombie rats. Towards the front, the bodies are packed so deep they have no choice but to step on them and their boots sink into the soft, torn flesh; coating their feet in sticky gore.

They climb the ladder and reach the roof. Most of the people are already awake from the oppressive heat. Tom, the manager in charge of the services building, approaches them as they walk across the roof.

‘Going to be another hot one then?’ Tom says.

‘Scorcher, feels oppressive though, like a storm is coming,’ Howie answers.

‘Could be, it might break the heat a little,’ Tom says.

‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing, it might give them some refreshment too.’ Howie says.

‘So, I guess you lot will be off soon then?’ Tom asks.

Howie nods in return.

‘What about all of you? Are you going to head for the Forts?’ Howie asks.

‘Yeah, I think so, well we can’t really stay here now, can we?’ Tom says with a reproachful tone.

‘Tom, you weren’t safe here. They would have come eventually, and, like I said before, if not them, then looters would have come,’ Howie answers him.

‘Well, we did okay for quite a while before you lot came,’ Tom says.

‘Since Friday Tom, you hid since Friday – what’s that? A few days? How long do you think you would have lasted?’

‘We had food and drink…’ Tom responds.

‘Yeah, and how long before someone else wanted it, or the fuel that we took. This isn’t going to go away. This isn’t a temporary glitch. Everywhere we’ve been it just looks worse and worse. There’s no police, no Army, no government. It’s all gone. This was safe for a few days, but, believe me, after the things I have seen, you wouldn’t have lasted a week here.’

‘Yeah, well maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter now, does it? We have no choice.’ Tom says bitterly which adds to the frustration Howie already feels.

‘I think they’ve done a sterling job,’ the old man that helped them fight off the hordes of undead during the night stands and speaks, loud enough for them all to hear.

‘I saw them last night, how fast they moved and the way they attacked - and those rats. We wouldn’t have stood a chance without these boys. We owe our lives to them.’ The old man stands proud and looks to the group gathered around him.

‘They wouldn’t have come, if it wasn’t for them.’ Mark says, still dressed in his business suit but now sporting a bruised face, thanks to the punch he got from Blowers during the evening, for trying to manhandle the old man’s wife out of the way of the ladder.

‘Claptrap, utter claptrap and you know it,’ the old man barks at him with a sudden ferocity. ‘You are soft and have no idea what war is like, I’ve served my country and those things are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. They would have come and they would have killed every one of us: me, you and the children.’ The old man storms at them. The children’s mother clasps the children to her tightly, at the sudden mention of a threat.

‘We need to toughen up and get with it, to survive this thing. Where were you last night Mark when they were attacking? I’ll tell you, you were cowering at the back, while the big boys did the dirty work for you. I’m an old man and I was up here with them.’

‘…and very glad we were too,’ Howie interjects. ‘He’s right though; you need to toughen up and get a grip on reality. This is not going away, the quicker you accept it, the greater chance for survival you will have.’ Howie finishes.

‘Great speech, well done,’ Mark says, sarcastically, and gives a slow applaud as he gets to his feet.

‘It’s the truth, you’ve been holed up here and you’ve done well to survive this long. But this place is a beacon to anyone moving along that road and they will come here to find supplies. They might be nice and it could be a good thing, or they might not and they could take what they want - anything they want.’ Howie says, his voice rising.

‘Oh… so the heroes come and rescue us from the bad men, destroy our safety and then piss off, to leave us to rot, thanks very much. Thanks for nothing.’ Marks retorts with a condescending sneer.

‘Now, you stop that, do you hear me,’ the old man shouts at Mark. ‘These boys risked their lives last night. That man jumped off this roof to fight them,’ he points at Dave. ‘This man fought through all of them to get to that machine gun,’ the old man points to Howie. ‘If they hadn’t risked their lives and fought so bravely, while you cowered at the back, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation - because we would all be dead, or worse - we would be one of those things.’

‘Oh, piss off, old man. Did it remind you of your service days?’ Mark shouts and the old man lashes out and punches him hard to the same side of the face that Blowers had struck him the night before.

Mark falls back, but stays on his feet - he rubs his head and steps towards the old man with an angry look on his face.

Then stops as eight, armed, teenage lads and Dave, all step forward at the same time. Mark stops and looks around him.

‘They won’t be here to protect you, all the time, you old bastard,’ Mark shouts with venom.

Dave lunges forward, drawing a handgun from his waistband and slams the hard metal into Mark’s face. He drops to the floor.

Dave kicks him hard in the face, forcing Mark onto his back.

Then, Dave leans down and drags Mark by his hair, over to the edge of the roof and pulls him onto the top of the low wall. Mark waves his arms desperately and screams loudly as Dave pushes him closer to the edge, forcing his upper body over the lip.

‘IF YOU TOUCH HIM, I WILL COME FOR YOU AND I WILL KILL YOU,’ Dave bellows into his face, as he pushes the end of the pistol into his mouth. ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

Mark squirms and thrashes about, until Dave pistol whips him across the face and Mark’s nose explodes in a shower of blood.

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Dave shouts again.

‘Yes, yes, I promise,’ Mark wails.

Dave pulls him up and then shoves him hard, back towards the group. Mark staggers and puts his head down as he gains his posture, then looks up and realises that most of the people are staring at Dave.

Mark passes the old man and gives him a very quick, hard stare.

‘I saw that,’ Blowers shouts and starts towards Mark.

‘Wait, what did you see?’ Howie asks.

‘He gave the old chap a look,’ Blowers stops and stares hard at Mark.

‘A look? What are you on about? I was just watching where I was going,’ Marks protests.

Howie shakes his head staring hard at Mark.

‘No mate,’ Howie says softly. ‘I think we all know what will happen if we leave you with this group - you’re a bully and a coward.’

Silence descends on the group as they all watch Mark. Even the other woman dressed in a business suit - and clearly with Mark - just stares at him and slowly shakes her head.

‘I think Mark will be staying behind, seeing as he likes this place so much.’ Howie says, clearly for them all to hear.

‘You can’t do that,’ Marks shouts in alarm.

‘Watch me. Blowers, you’re on him, I’ll leave it to your discretion if he causes any problems.’

‘Yes, Sir, with pleasure,’ Blowers says and steps very close to Mark, staring hard into his eyes and nodding just once, with a nasty smile.

‘No… just wait…’ Marks starts to plead and Blowers slaps him across the face with an open hand.

Mark puts his hand to his face and stares back in alarm.

‘No, just hang on…’ Blowers strikes him again, harder.

‘They’ll just get harder, mate,’ Blowers says. ‘Please keep going - I want to hit you,’ Blowers smiles at him sweetly and Mark backs away and looks to the rest of the group.

They all look away and start preparing to leave.

‘But… hey.’

Blowers slaps him again.

‘Just fucking stop that!’ Mark shouts and Blowers punches him with a clenched fist.

‘Okay mate, that any better?’ Blowers asks as Mark drops down to the ground.

The group busy themselves and slowly make their way down the ladder and out to the car park. Cookey and Nick Hewitt join Blowers watching Mark, all of them standing expressionless over the prone figure in the business suit.

‘So… what business are you in?’ Cookey asks, after several long and uncomfortable minutes.

‘What?’ Mark stammers.

‘What business are you in?’ Cookey repeats.

‘Banking,’ Mark replies.

‘Ah… what kind of banking?’ Cookey says.

‘What?’ Mark rubs his sore face, not taking in what is being said to him.

‘I said, what kind of banking?’ Cookey asks again.

‘Why? Do you know about banking?’ Mark says. ‘I’m in hedge funds, actually,’ he states.

‘Hedge funds? What the fuck are they?’ Asks Hewitt.

‘I’ve heard about them, aren’t they the things that helped fuck the country up and put us into recession,’ Blowers says.

‘Oh… don’t give me that one,’ Mark sighs.

‘Give you what one?’ Cookey asks.

‘What does he want?’ Hewitt says.

‘He said he wanted something,’ Blowers adds.

‘What did he say he wanted?’ Cookey says.

‘Some cock, I think - I’m sure he asked for some cock,’ Hewitt says, deadpan.

‘Ah… is it some cock you’re wanting, is it?’ Blowers says.

‘W... what?’ Mark looks to them.

‘Don’t be ashamed, mate. Cookey here likes cock too,’ Blowers says, indicating Cookey.

Mark glances across at Cookey, but from his seated position he has to look up.

‘Oi you fucking pervert, stop looking at my crutch - you ain’t having my cock mate, I’m not that kind of bloke,’ Cookey says, in mock indignation.

‘Well… you are really,’ Blowers says and winks to Cookey, discretely.

‘Well, sometimes I guess - and he is wearing a very smart suit,’ Cookey looks Mark up and down. suggestively.

‘What?’ Mark says.

‘Nick, I think maybe we need to give Cookey and Mark some alone time - if you know what I mean,’ Blowers says across to Nick Hewitt.

‘Oh right, well if you’re sure Cookey,’ Hewitt says, seriously.

‘Yes. Mate - I am very serious, but, to be honest lads, he looks like a wriggler to me, you might have to hold him down for me. Are you a wriggler, Mark?’

‘A what?’ Mark says, in fear.

‘A wriggler mate, will I have to get them to hold you down or will you just bend over for me?’ Cookey says, fighting hard to keep his face straight.

Mark looks from face to face, missing Cookey trying not to laugh.

‘Bend over then and drop ‘em down,’ Blowers says.

‘Fucking what?’ Mark says.

‘He says what a lot,’ Nick says.

‘He does, doesn’t he - don’t keep saying what Mark,’ Blowers says.

‘What?’ Mark says.

‘He did it again,’ Nick says.

We don’t have much time Mark, now be a good hedge fund banker and roll over and drop your pants, and don’t say what again or I might have to shoot you,’ Cookey says, lifting the end of his rifle up to wave it a few inches away from Marks face.

Mark freezes and Cookey waves the rifle, indicating for Mark to move. Mark slowly rolls over and gets onto his hands and knees.

‘Well done mate, now drop the pants,’ Blowers says.

‘Please, please don’t do this,’ Mark begs.

‘Now now, shush, just drop your pants down,’ Nick says.

‘Please, please don’t, please don’t,’ Mark begs, as he starts scrabbling at his belt, tears streaming down his face.

‘Bloody hell, he’s a bit eager isn’t he?’ Blowers says in surprise.

‘He is, he must love cock,’ Cookey joins in.

‘Do you know mate, I’ve never actually tried it and they say don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ Blowers says, winking at Nick behind Marks back.

‘Actually lads, I’ve always kind of fancied having a go myself, would you mind if I jumped in too,’ Nick asks.

‘No mate, I’m sure Mark won’t mind - will you Mark?’ Cookey asks.

‘Please stop, please just don’t do this…’ Mark cries, his voice cracking with fear.

‘Come on mate, get them trousers off  - we haven’t got all day,’ Blowers says and Mark slowly pulls them off one foot at a time - until he is bent over in his shirt, jacket, shoes and socks with the little straps on his legs holding the socks up - begging and crying as he does so.

‘Now, best close your eyes mate, this might hurt a little,’ Cookey says, as he unzips the front of his trousers slowly and loudly.

Mark squeezes his eyes tightly closed.

Nick, Cookey and Blowers slowly back away towards the ladder, Cookey taking Mark’s trousers with him. They quietly climb down the ladder and run out of the front of the building, almost bent over with laughter as they go.

‘This is for you,’ Howie says, as he hands a pistol and ammunition to the old man.

‘Thank you - are you sure?’ the old man asks.

‘Yes, you will probably need it, there’s plenty of people like Mark about,’ Howie responds as the old man takes the gun.

They both turn and watch as Nick, Cookey and Blowers run past them, laughing hard.

‘What are you laughing at?’ Howie calls out.

‘Nothing, Sir,’ Cookey says, as he reaches the back of the Saxon and bends over laughing hard next to Blowers and Nick.

‘Right, we’ve got to be off - it was nice meeting you. Hopefully we’ll see you at the Forts,’ Howie says as he shakes hands with the old man.

‘Fuck me, look at that one, he’s a bit late for the party,’ Darren Smith shouts and they look over to see an undead slowly emerging from the access road into the car park, his slow and awkward shuffle bringing each step down heavily. ‘I’ll sort him out,’ Darren shouts and starts jogging towards him with his knife drawn.

‘Jamie, see if you can drop him, before Darren gets there - it’ll wind him right up,’ McKinney urges, as Jamie quickly pulls the sniper rifle out of the bag and raises it up to peer down the sights.

‘Wait until he’s just a few feet away, make him run all the way there,’ Cookey says.

Jamie lines up the sight and waits for Darren to get within a few feet and squeezes the trigger, just as Darren starts to lift his knife up.

The zombie is blown backwards, away from Darren, who stops suddenly and turns back to the group, then sticks his middle finger up. The lads all cheer and start laughing, as Darren starts walking back to them.

Eventually, the people from Burger King are in the cars they arrived in, loaded up with supplies, sourced with help by Tucker - and they move out in a small convoy - leaving Howie, Dave and the recruits standing round the Saxon.

‘So what was so funny when you came out?’ Howie asks again, then stares puzzled, as all three of them double over again with fresh laughter.

Howie looks to Dave who is staring towards the entrance to the services. More of the recruits look over and burst out laughing.

Howie turns to see Mark standing, looking lost and dejected in the entrance, in his suit jacket, shirt and tie, socks and shoes.

‘Where the bloody hell did his trousers go?’ Howie asks, as he starts to smile at the ridiculous sight.

‘Don’t know,’ Nick grips his sides, aching from laughing.

‘Right, well let’s get off, before this gets any weirder,’ Howie chuckles, as he climbs into the back of the Saxon and inches over into the front driver’s seat.

‘Bye Mark!’ Cookey shouts, in his best camp voice.

Nick blows Mark a kiss as they get into the Saxon and slam the doors closed to a fresh outburst of laughing.

Mark stares at his trousers trapped in the back of the door and watches as the Saxon slowly pulls away.

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

As Darren jogged towards the zombie, the infection watched him coming.

This undead is almost finished and has been going all night as the infection fights to keep the body working. One left in this area and it knows it doesn’t stand a chance, but it sends it anyway.

Darren nears the body and starts to lift the knife, just as Jamie Reese squeezes the trigger of the sniper rifle and the bullet parts the air before it, as it flies and strikes the zombie in the forehead.

The zombie was just baring his teeth and a fresh surge of saliva was pumping into his mouth and spilling down his front.

The bullet strikes and pulls the zombie clean off its feet, as the head is thrown backwards. The saliva sprays out with the force of the movement and one tiny drop - invisible to the eye - sprays up high into the air and spins towards Darren; landing on his bottom lip.

The drop is so tiny that Darren doesn’t even feel it - but instead he stops quickly, shocked at the sudden action of the zombie being thrown back.

Darren turns and sticks his finger up at the laughing lads and starts walking back towards them, he can’t help smiling as he walks and admits to himself that he would have done the same thing.

One simple action seals his fate as he licks his dry lips and thinks of having a cool drink in the back of the Saxon.

The infection is within that tiny drop of saliva; it is within every cell of every undead host it possesses. The infection feels the loss of the zombie as it is blown away, but it also feels the relief as the tiny drop rises high into the air and lands on the soft lips of Darren’s mouth. Then the tongue comes out and draws the infection back into the mouth. The infection does what it was bred, designed and cultured to do. It multiplies by its own number again and again and forces those infected particles into the body. The saliva is drawn into the tongue, which absorbs down through the thick muscle and slowly pushes through into the blood vessels. Within minutes, the infection has passed into the blood stream and is free. It is free to forge a path throughout this body and starts to attack the systems, just as it has done with every host body so far.

But then, the infection stops before it starts to kill Darren and it uses something the hosts use.

The hosts have memories and they can think back to something that happened before. The infection realises that it was one of the resistors that came for it just then, and, as the host body dropped, the infection found itself in the body of the resistor.

It can attack this host and take it over within minutes, the infection can stop the heart and infect every cell within this host and make it turn.

But the infection has evolved and learnt and instead of purging this body, to control it fully, it slows the rate of infection down and works slowly to infect it without killing it. The infection still pushes forward and slowly takes over the body, but it does so gently and re-programmes its own very nature.

The infection is on the inside of this group now and it can wait.

The infection gains a hold within the brain and then uses the still living host body to watch through its eyes. It can see the resistors sitting to both sides and opposite - all of them are putting fluids into their mouths and making loud noises as they talk and smile. The infection can feel the vibration of the vehicle, through the body of the host, and can see through the eyes and hear through the ears - and it works hard to understand what it is witnessing.

The memories and images accessed from the billions of hosts it has already possessed make it easier to comprehend and the infection realises that it must stay hidden and be as covert as possible, while slowly taking this body over.

Darren leans forward to ease a sudden dull pain in his stomach and looks to the front of the vehicle to watch out of the windscreen. The infection observes the one they called Howie at the front of the vehicle, operating the controls - the smaller one that does so much killing is next to him.

The infection sends no signals and makes no effort to control any part of this body. It silently slips into the cells and Darren shifts as dull pain hits at different parts of his body.

‘You all right mate?’ Tucker asks him, concerned at the look of discomfort on his face.

‘Yeah, I’m alright mate,’ Darren replies as the pain eases off and he settles back to rest on the journey, as the deadly infection quietly consumes his body from within.

___________________________________________

The Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier moves along the now empty motorway, passing fields of wheat and crops left untended and wilting in the strong sun. The strong bright rays bounce off the bare tarmac, keeping a permanent heat shimmer just ahead of the heavy vehicle and Howie has to squint, due to the bright glare bouncing back at him. Beads of sweat slowly slide down his face and even Dave looks red in the face, for once.

On a normal day, it would take only a few hours to reach London, but, without traffic, hold ups, accidents or the normal day-to-day congestion, they move swiftly.

The rural fields slowly give way to the urban sprawl of Greater London. The houses by the side of the busy main roads are blackened from the constant daily smog of the exhaust fumes. The houses look rundown and uninviting, after the beauty of rural England – their fronts made even worse as the signs of devastation slowly start to appear.

At first, they see doors hanging off houses and windows smashed in. Some of the buildings are burnt out and some still smoulder as the fire slowly eats away, threatening to flare up and re-ignite. As they pass further into the urban mess they see burnt out vehicles and signs of extreme civil disorder; debris litters the road and streets, the front gardens of houses have their contents strewn about and then the bodies start to appear. A few cadavers litter the roadside but, within a short distance, they increase dramatically. Bodies torn apart from horrific injuries tell a tale of extreme violence. Bodies still clutching bats, knives and sticks lie still in pools of congealed blood; swarms of flies buzzing round them and spreading disease from corpse to corpse. The rotting flesh is already falling apart and the rate of decay increases as the high temperature slowly cooks the bodies and provides ideal breeding grounds for the writhing maggots eating them away.

The rats would have slowly eaten everything in sight, until just bones were left. But the rats were taken by the infection. The world’s greatest scavengers have been used up and now their bodies add to the decay.

As the group venture deeper, the visible signs become worse: bodies everywhere and nothing is left undamaged. The area looks like a war zone, with the road pitted and scarred from running pitch battles - bodies left where they fall.

The Saxon follows a clear route through main roads and the numbers of dead increase with every passing minute.

The recruits all fall silent and lean forward to peer out of the windscreen at the horrifying scenes before them, even Howie and Dave remain silent and watchful as they pass through.

‘MOVEMENT,’ Cookey shouts from his position as look-out on the General Purpose Machine Gun, fixed to the top of the Saxon.

‘Where?’ Howie shouts back, easing some of the speed from the vehicle.

‘OFF TO THE RIGHT, SOMEONE SAW US, THEN LEGGED IT,’ Cookey shouts down.

‘Okay. mate,’ Howie calls out. ‘I suppose we’re going to see more people here. I think I’d run away too, if I saw us coming,’ Howie remarks to Dave, who nods back, but remains silent, as usual.

The main road continues towards the City: traffic lights and pedestrian crossings now dull and lifeless.

Houses give way to cheap shops that could not afford the higher rent and rates nearer the City. These too have been looted, trashed and burnt out and the contents thought useless to the looters, have been cast aside on the pavement and road.

‘Fuck me, it’s hotter than hot,’ Howie says to Dave as he breathes in the heavy air.

The heat is made to feel worse by the increasingly oppressive scenes in front and to the sides of them. Thick black smoke plumes into the air from a raging fire that is off to the left, but still they keep going forward further into the densely populated City.

‘WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT,’ Cookey shouts down in alarm.

Dave leans forward and stares at an object leaning against a lamppost, further ahead, down the road.

‘Is that a body?’ Howie asks.

‘Looks like one, Mr Howie,’ Dave answers.

‘What the fuck…?’ Howie questions, as they draw nearer and get a clear view of an adult male hanging with a rope round his neck; the top of the rope is looped over the top of the street light curvature.

‘Is that a zombie?’ Howie asks, to no one in particular.

‘There’s another one,’ Dave points to a second body hanging in the same manner, but on the other side of the road.

‘Who’s done that?’ Howie mutters to himself.

As the road sweeps round the next bend, there are bodies hanging from every lamp post; twisted and gruesome. Some of them are clearly undead from the state of their injuries and the sickening pallor of their skin - some are not so clear. As they drive on, Cookey looks to each body with morbid interest and can’t help but take in the macabre scene unfolding in front of him.

Fear creeps up his spine as he tightens his grip on the handles of the machine gun.

‘This is interesting,’ Howie says to Dave. ‘I bloody said it, didn’t I - every half an hour something happens.’

‘You did,’ Dave replies.

‘Someone has been very busy here,’ Howie says.

‘Some people… one person couldn’t do this,’ Dave remarks, as he looks to the bodies hanging high up the side of the lampposts.

The road sweeps round the next bend, only for the scene to become more horrific.

A large, stately building is on the left, with wrought iron gates and an iron fence running alongside the pavement.

Each iron spike of the fence has a head impaled on it; a myriad of different expressions. One of them is even smiling - most have their eyes open – but not all of them have the red bloodshot eyes of the zombies.

‘This is fucking, gruesome,’ Blowers says, in the silence of the Saxon.

‘Where’s the bodies?’ Tucker asks, as he takes in the impaled heads.

‘The road signs are covered,’ Dave says to Howie.

‘What?’

‘The road signs are covered or painted over, look.’ Dave points to a large sign that once would have depicted the route ahead, but is now covered in a layer of black spray paint.

‘Same over there, Mr Howie,’ McKinney points to another sign off to the left.

‘Are you following the road map, Dave?’ Howie asks, alarmed that they will become lost.

‘I am,’ Blowers says. ‘We need to just keep going straight on and follow the signs for the City…’

‘Well, that might be a bit difficult now, mate - any other ideas?’ Howie says, calmly.

‘Just keep going straight, I think I know where we are on the map and we just stick to the main road. I remember they put the letter ‘C’ on the roads that lead into the City,’ Blowers says.

‘Well… what if they’ve covered them up too?’ Tucker asks, as the recruits in the back all stare at him.

‘What?’ Tucker says, looking back at them.

‘Then we just follow the covered up bits,’ Howie calls out.

‘Oh, yeah - course,’ Tucker says, sheepishly.

‘Why cover the road signs?’ Howie asks.

‘To make people get lost?’ Tucker states.

‘AHEAD ON THE RIGHT,’ Cookey shouts and they look ahead to see a junction on the right is blocked by several burnt out cars pushed end to end.

They pass slowly, expecting to see a barrier formed beyond it, just as Howie and Dave saw in Portsmouth - but the road is clear and empty behind the cars.

Another junction on the left has the same thing, burnt out cars stacked to block the entrance. The Saxon continues on the main road and soon comes to a large roundabout with three exits: one on the left, one ahead and one on the right.

The left and right are both blocked up with vehicles. The road is wide and many vehicles have been pushed together, to fully block the exits.

‘Looks like they’ve been pushed there and then burnt out,’ Howie says, as he looks to the vehicles all melted and fused together, in one big clump.

‘Same on both sides,’ McKinney states.

‘Good job we need to keep ahead then,’ Howie jokes, but it falls flat in the tense environment.

‘Do you think this is being done on purpose to keep us going ahead?’ Curtis Graves asks.

‘They wouldn’t know we were coming,’ Howie replies. ‘Whoever has done this, couldn’t know we were going to be coming along today.’ Howie says, confidently.

The Saxon keeps a steady pace, not too fast that Howie wouldn’t have any reaction time, but not too slow to make them an easy target either.

‘I haven’t seen any zombies yet,’ Howie says, after another few tense moments of driving in silence.

‘No, none.’ Dave replies, flatly.

‘This is getting creepy,’ Tucker says.

‘Getting creepy? It’s been fucking creepy for a long time,’ Blowers says. ‘Are you all right Smithy?’ Blowers adds, looking to Darren.

‘Yeah mate, why?’ Darren asks him.

‘You look pale mate, and you’re very quiet.’

‘Nah, I’m all right, just tired, that’s all,’ Darren says to him as the recruits all look at him with concerned expressions.

‘Honestly, I’m fine - just feeling tired. Didn’t get any sleep last night,’ Darren smiles.

The lads all turn to face forward again and see more junctions blocked off with burnt and molten vehicles.

‘SMOKE AHEAD,’ Cookey bellows out and, within seconds, they see thick black smoke billowing up into the air further up the road.

‘Make ready with your weapons, make sure you’ve got magazines in your pouches and your water bottles are full,’ Dave says to the recruits.

‘Already done, Dave,’ Blowers says and again makes the word Dave sound like the word Sarge.

‘What is that?’ Howie asks as they drive closer and closer to thick black smoke.

A distinct smell hits them, before they get close enough to see what is causing the fire; a smell of roasting, rotting meat.

‘Ah… that’s fucking gross,’ Cookey shouts.

‘Tell him to come down and close the hatch,’ Howie calls out and the message is passed to Cookey who drops down and seals the hatch shut, with a sigh of relief.

‘That fucking stinks up there,’ Cookey moans, then takes a long drink of water.

They reach the area of the smoke and see a large public park on the right side of the road; open gates leading into a big green area with football posts and a children’s play area. A massive mound is burning in the middle of the green area.

‘I guess that explains where all of the bodies went,’ Howie says, as they slowly drive by.

Dave rummages around the switches in the front and finally flicks one on, a whirring noise starts up and cool air is pushed out of the vents.

‘Ah… that’s fucking better,’ Cookey remarks, as he wipes sweat from his brow.

‘Is that to just circulate the air in here?’ Howie asks Dave.

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Not too long then, it’ll burn more fuel,’ Howie says, to groans from the lads in the back.

‘We don’t want to have to blow up another fuel station do we?’ Howie calls out.

‘Would it be bad if I said yes?’ Nick jokes, as the others snigger.

‘You’re all just delinquents,’ Howie replies, as they keep going.

The Saxon continues on the main road, which goes into a nicer area with big, Victorian brick buildings on both sides; coffee shops and expensive boutiques on nearly every corner. Every one of them is looted and smashed in.

The junctions are still boxed off and soon they start to see vehicles positioned on both sides of the road, end to end. Large vehicles, vans and trucks parked up and blocking both sides - just a wide single lane running down the middle of the road. The parked vehicles narrow the road and they see a large truck parked across the road ahead of them. The trucks on both sides now have cars stacked on top of them, forming high walls and a dead end ahead.

‘Perfect ambush position,’ Dave says, quietly.

‘We’re okay in here, aren’t we?’ Howie asks him.

‘From most things yes, small arms won’t be a problem,’ Dave replies.

‘What about the tyres?’ Howie asks.

‘Run flat,’ Dave replies.

‘Okay, at least we can back away, if we need to,’ Howie says, as he brings the Saxon to a halt a few hundred metres back from the truck parked across the road.

They sit in silence.

The cool air blows into the interior and gives them a blessed few minutes of relief from the intense heat. Slowly, they see movement between the gaps on both sides. Shadowy figures move fast between the vehicles, then more movements up high, as people on the other sides climb up the vehicles. Within minutes, they see barrels poking out of the gaps and aiming directly towards them. The barrels waver for a few minutes as the people on the other sides position themselves, then all goes quiet.

‘Has this thing got a public address system?’ Howie asks and Dave starts rummaging round the front again, opening small doors.

He pulls out a truck-style microphone, with a large button on the side. Howie takes the handset and stretches the cord over, he presses the switch on the side and taps the front of the microphone.

‘Nothing - must be a switch somewhere,’ Howie says to Dave.

‘That one there, Dave,’ Nick Hewitt leans forward and points to one of the switches.

Dave presses it and Howie again taps on the handset, a loud thumping noise sounds from the hidden speakers set round the vehicle.

‘Here goes,’ Howie says quietly and presses the switch.

‘HELLO? ANYONE THERE?’ Howie’s voice booms out into the quiet air. ‘WE ARE NOT LOOKING FOR TROUBLE; WE JUST NEED TO GET THROUGH.

Nothing happens, so Howie again presses the button: ‘WE JUST WANT TO GET THROUGH, WE DO NOT WANT ANY TROUBLE.’

‘How many can you see, Dave?’ Howie asks, quietly.

‘At least twenty on both sides and more moving round behind them,’ Dave murmurs.

‘Looks like we got a reaction,’ Howie says, as a figure is seen crawling under the truck parked ahead of them.

The person crawls out and slowly gets to his feet.

‘There’s more behind him, weapons trained on us,’ Dave murmurs again.

‘Bloody hell, mate, you’ve got good eyes,’ Howie says, squinting into the gloom and just making out some movement under the truck.

A very strange looking man stands up and slowly starts walking towards them. He is tall and very thin with long, straggly blond hair hanging limp down at his sides. Black sunglasses on his pale face and dressed in black, with a flash of white socks as he bounces towards them. The man has sets of keys and other objects hanging from his belt.

‘Looks like a fucking day release patient,’ Cookey mutters behind them, as the man slowly walks forward towards the Saxon.

The man stops a few feet back from the front of the vehicle and slowly lifts his hand up to wave at them and smile.

‘What the fuck?’ Blowers states.

Howie waves back and indicates for the man to come closer.

The man steps forward again and Howie waves him round to the driver’s door and cracks the window open a few inches.

‘Hello mate,’ Howie says, through the window - trying to keep his voice friendly.

‘Hello,’ the man says in a high-pitched voice and stands staring up at Howie.

‘Erm, is everything okay?’ Howie asks, unsure of how to proceed.

‘Yes, fine thanks,’ the man says.

‘So… is something wrong with the road?’ Howie asks and the man shakes his head.

‘Erm, it’s just that there’s a big truck parked across it and we can’t get through,’ Howie says.

‘Big Chris put the truck there, I helped him though,’ the man says to Howie.

‘That’s great, it’s a… err.. good truck, it’s just blocking the road at the moment.’ The man nods back at Howie. Howie, in turn, looks over at Dave who shrugs.

‘He’s a fucking nutter,’ Blowers says quietly.

Howie turns back to the man: ‘I’m Howie, it’s nice to meet you.’

‘I’m Damien,’ the man says, simply.

‘Hi, Damien, I would get out to shake your hand, but I don’t want to get shot by your friends,’ Howie smiles and nods up at the trucks parked to the sides.

‘Oh, they won’t shoot you,’ Damien laughs with glee and claps his hands.

‘That’s great… did this Big Chris send you out to speak to us,’ Howie asks.

‘Yep, he said I was the messenger,’ Damien nods, seriously.

‘Well - that’s great Damien, did he give you a message then?’

‘Yep.’

‘And… er… what is the message, mate?’

‘Oh yeah, ha… I forgot to tell you, didn’t I,’ Damien slaps his own forehead and laughs again. ‘Big Chris said to ask you what you want.’

‘Oh, can you tell him we just want to get through,’ Howie says.

‘Okay.’ Damien stands still, smiling up at Howie, not moving.

‘Er… and also that we don’t want any trouble and it would be very nice of him to let us go through,’ Howie adds.

‘Okay,’ Damien says and remains rooted to the spot.

‘I was just thinking, Damien, that I forget messages too, if I don’t hurry and relay them - maybe you should hurry - so you don’t forget?’ Howie says, kindly.

‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ Damien turns and runs back to the truck; like a child with his arms up in the air. He gets to the truck and bends over dramatically and looks to be shouting through.

‘Jesus, he’s a bit special,’ Cookey says.

‘Relation of yours, is he?’ Blowers asks, to a few sniggers.

‘Fuck you,’ Cookey retorts. ‘He’s coming back,’ Cookey adds as Damien runs back to them to stand by the side and stare up at Howie again.

‘Hi, Damien,’ Howie says.

‘Hi,’ Damien replies.

‘Did you tell them our message?’

‘Yep.’

‘Okay, that’s great, thanks mate, what did they say?’

‘Big Chris said to ask you where are you going?’

‘We are going into the City, can you tell him that mate? We just want to get through and be on our way.’

‘Okay.’ Damien replies and again stands still.

‘You’d best rush mate, before we forget our messages,’ Howie prompts and Damien runs off back to the truck.

They watch him bending over and then start back towards them, before being called back and bending over again and then running back to stand beside the driver’s door.

‘Hi,’ Damien waves up at Howie.

‘Hi, Damien, what did he say?’ Howie asks.

‘Big Chris said the City is gone, but I don’t know where it’s gone, he didn’t say that,’ Damien says, looking confused.

‘This is going to take all day,’ Howie says quietly to Dave. ‘Maybe I’ll just go and talk to them.’

‘I’ll come too,’ Dave says, not a question - but a statement.

‘Dave, it might be best if you stay here and watch my back?’ Howie says, concerned that if they both get shot it wouldn’t leave anyone to get to Sarah, and would also leave the recruits on their own.

‘Okay, take Blowers,’ Dave says.

‘Blowers, you happy with that?’ Howie calls back.

‘Yes, Sir. Out the back or over the seat and out with you?’ Blowers asks.

‘Hang on, just a second,’ Howie says and turns back to Damien. ‘Damien, can you tell Big Chris that we will come and speak with him - make sure you tell him we are not armed, can you do that?’

‘Okay,’ Damien says excitedly and runs back towards the truck and bends over to shout the message through, pointing back at the Saxon.

Howie presses the button on the handset microphone still in his hand and speaks into it.

‘TWO OF US ARE COMING OUT. WE ARE NOT ARMED.’ Howie’s voice booms in the enclosed area.

‘I fucking hope he’s not like that fucking bloke in Portsmouth,’ Howie says to Dave.

‘Me too.’

‘What bloke?’ Blowers asks as he puts his rifle down and prepares to climb over the driver’s seat.

‘Tell you later, mate - you ready?’ Howie asks.

‘Yep.’

Howie slowly opens the door and climbs down to stand beside the Saxon, his hands clearly up.

Blowers slowly climbs out and stands next to him, he sees Howie’s arms up and raises his too.

‘Nice and slow mate,’ Howie whispers and they walk towards the parked truck. They both hear as the driver’s door of the Saxon is closed behind them. Howie looks up at the barrels moving along with them.

‘They got a lot of guns,’ Howie says quietly to Blowers.

‘Yeah, they bloody do, and they’re all pointing at us,’ Blowers replies, under his breath.

They stop a few metres back from the truck and wait in silence. Then, Damien stands back up and walks over to them.

‘Big Chris said you can go through and talk to him.’

‘Thanks mate, do we go under that?’ Howie asks, pointing to the truck.

‘Yep, follow me,’ Damien turns and walks to the truck and drops to all fours, before crawling underneath it.

‘Oh well, we’re here now,’ Howie shrugs and starts after him.

Blowers follows and they drop onto hands and knees to crawl under the vehicle; the smell of oil and rubber filling their noses as they proceed into the shade.

They emerge into bright sunlight and look up to see many men staring down at them, all of them armed with various weapons: shotguns, handguns, rifles and even a few machine guns.

One man stands in the centre; he is about average height but is very wide with massive powerful shoulders and thick arms.

Howie looks up at him and notices that he isn’t pumped up like a body builder, just a naturally big man, clean shaved with short, dark, tidy hair.

The big man gives an easy smile as they get to their feet. ‘Just stand still for a moment please, we need to be sure you’re not armed,’ he says, in a firm, but polite voice.

Two men move forward and pat Howie and Blowers down; they are thorough and take the time to check side pockets and waistbands. They move away and nod to the big man who takes a step.

‘So, which one of you is the boss?’ He asks in the same polite tones.

Blowers speaks first, indicating Howie: ‘Mr Howie, is.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Howie. I’m Chris,’ they shake hands and his giant mitt dwarfs Howie’s hand, but his grip is surprisingly light.

‘Hi, it’s just Howie, good to meet you - you must be Big Chris,’ Howie says smiling and trying to avoid the name Mr Howie from catching on again. ‘This is Blowers.’ Chris shakes hands with Blowers and turns straight back to Howie.

‘So… you must be the Army, then?’ Chris says, politely.

‘No mate… we just kind of borrowed one of their vehicles.’

‘In Army clothes? With this one calling you Mr Howie?’ Chris enquires with another rueful smile.

‘Like I said mate, it really is a long story - we’re just trying to get through, but the truck is in the way.’

‘I tell you what, Mr Howie, it’s a hot day and we’re all melting out here, step back in the shade with me and have a drink - then you can tell me that long story,’ Chris turns and walks away from them, making it clear they are in his backyard now.

Howie glances round to see the truck has enough room to roll forward but not backwards and the rows of vehicles are stacked up here too, forming another narrow roadway.

They fall in step, next to each other, and follow Chris further down the narrow lane, the armed men wait for them to go past, then fall in behind them - a few staying behind to man the gateway.

The narrow lane ends suddenly and the wide road and pavement are ahead of them.

Chris leads them to a London pub; hanging baskets filled with flowers droop from iron railings. Wooden benches with sun parasols stretched taught over them, offer a shady relief from the sun’s strong rays.

Howie and Blowers exchange a glance at the people already sitting at the benches and other seats nearby: families with children playing in the road and people walking about, some with purpose and others chatting amiably. The people stop and stare at the uniforms worn by Howie and Blowers. Although they are not in Army greens, they both have tan coloured combat trousers and black tops on, with utility belts hanging from their waists. Howie nods back and smiles at them as he passes, Blowers picks up on this and soon he is offering nods and smiles to the people too.

They seem comforted to see Big Chris with them and, within minutes, they return to what they were doing and the scene switches back to normal. Which is strange, as this road looks normal, with normal people dressed in normal clothes and nobody walking round with horrific injuries. The people look clean and the road and pavements are free from litter. None of the buildings here have been looted and the windows are still intact. Armed men and women patrol through the crowds and Howie watches people stop and talk to them, chatting… normally. No signs of oppression or forced captivity.

The street stretches away and they see more people walking about or sitting in the shade.

‘This looks like a movie set,’ Howie whispers to Blowers.

Chris leads them to a wooden bench and nods at the people sat round nearby, they nod back, and when they see Chris take a seat and motion for Howie and Blowers to sit down, they start moving away.

‘It’s all right, you don’t have to leave,’ Chris calls out and Howie watches them closely for signs of forced behaviour, but they smile back naturally and politely make room.

‘Sit down lads, get out of that sun for a minute,’ Chris says and they both sit down opposite him.

An adult woman strolls out with three bottles of water and hands one to each of them, before smiling and stroking the back of Chris’s neck - he smiles back sweetly and she strolls off back inside the pub. Chris takes a long drink and looks at Howie.

‘So, about this long story?’ He asks.

‘Mate, I’m sorry, but this is staggering,’ Howie says looking about. ‘Not what I was expecting at all.’

‘What were you expecting?’ Chris says, with a slight smile.

‘I don’t know, some kind of enforced camp or something,’ Howie says, still looking about at the idyllic scene.

‘it looks nice doesn’t it, took some doing though, I can tell you, but we’ve got more people arriving every day, and we try to squeeze them in, of course we got to be careful we don’t get too big but we can always expand out a little if we need to.’

‘It’s amazing, Chris, how many people have you got here?’ Howie asks, genuinely impressed.

‘Hmmm, I think the last count yesterday was just over two thousand,’ Chris answers, as Howie’s mouth drops.

‘Bloody hell, two thousand?’ He exclaims.

‘Well, that was yesterday - but more have arrived during the night and more today - so it has gone up a little,’ Chris explains.

‘I don’t know what to say - I went through Portsmouth and some bloke had formed a barricade but he was keeping the people against their will and stockpiling all the supplies for himself and his mates, right nasty bugger he was.’ Howie says.

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, lads, we have strict rules here, I won’t pretend otherwise, but no one is held against their will - they can and come and go as they please. People are going out all the time, going to their houses to get things they want - or trying to find family and friends. We have a procedure though and no one gets back in without going through it.’

‘What procedure is that? If you don’t mind me asking mate.’ Howie says, quickly adding the polite bit on the end, in case he sounded too demanding.

‘It sounds harsh, but we have sterile viewing areas where they have to strip off, but only so we can check them for bites and scratches, and we only use same sex vetting.’ Chris says.

‘We had to do a similar thing when we took refuge in a police station, it seemed horrible but it makes sense.’

‘So, let’s talk about you for a minute,’ Chris says politely. ‘You’re saying you are not from the Army?’

Howie explains how he and Dave started out and how they met the recruits along the way, Chris listens patiently, asking pertinent questions at key points and going over certain bits again - until he is sure he understands it.

‘So… we got this far and then found your truck blocking the road, and if we can’t get through, then I guess we’ll have to go round.’

Chris leans back against a wall and finishes the bottle of water.

‘I see, well it all seems to make sense, of course we have to be careful we don’t let a load of armed soldiers in here, without finding out who they are first,’ Chris says.

‘Honestly, we’re not soldiers,’ Howie protests.

‘Lads, you’re driving an Army vehicle, carrying Army guns and dressed like soldiers - he called you Mr Howie which shows me there is some element of control and discipline within your group. So…  you are soldiers,’ Chris explains, clearly.

‘Yeah… I guess so,’ Howie agrees reluctantly. ‘What about you? How did all this come about?’ Howie asks, eager to find out.

Chris leans forward to speak, but Howie interrupts him.

‘Mate, I’m so sorry, but I just realised my lads are sat in the vehicle out there and it’s sweltering. Can they come through?’ Howie asks quickly.

‘Well, they can - but not with their weapons,’ Chris says, looking directly at Howie.

‘I understand, what will happen to the weapons and vehicle if they leave it there?’ Howie asks.

‘I can guarantee that it won’t be touched. I can have one of my men drive it in and you’re welcome to have your men near it, but not in it and I will have my men nearby too.’ Chris says, firmly.

‘I understand Chris, but we can’t afford to lose that vehicle or weapons, it’s the only chance we’ve got of getting through to the City.’ Howie counters.

‘Sorry Howie, family is important I understand that, but I’ve got over two thousand people relying on me for safety and security, and I don’t think they’ll be impressed if I let a bunch of armed soldiers in here.’

‘They’re just lads, Chris - only eighteen years old, apart from Dave.’

‘Dave?’ Chris asks.

‘You’ll meet Dave, he’s… er… different, an exceptional man, just a bit different.’ Howie says and Chris leans back, staring at Howie as he thinks.

‘Tell you what, let me and some of my men come out and check you all over first, the slightest whiff of bother though and, well I think you’ll know what will happen, is that fair?’ Chris offers.

‘Sounds more than fair to me,’ Howie says, looking at Blowers, who nods in agreement.

A few minutes later, the truck is being pulled forward to save Big Chris having to crawl under it. Damien is still near the Saxon, staring at the windscreen from a few feet away.

‘Who’s he?’ Howie asks, as they walk out towards the Saxon.

‘Damien? He’s all right, can be a bit of a pest, but he’s good at this sort of thing, he hasn’t got a confrontational bone in his body - so he’s ideal as a messenger for anyone that looks a bit naughty.’ Chris chuckles.

A few armed men walk behind them, holding weapons ready, but aimed down, to show they are not a threat, yet. Howie is impressed by the control and discipline.

Back at The Saxon, Howie walks with Chris and holds his hand up to Dave, motioning for him to come out.

Dave opens the driver’s door and Howie calls for him to come out, unarmed. Dave pauses for a few seconds and puts down his rifle and pistol.

‘Chris, this is Dave, Dave this is Big Chris,’ Howie introduces them and smiles as they shake hands and Dave quickly wipes his hand down his trouser leg.

‘Lads, come out the back, but leave the weapons inside for a minute, make sure none of you is armed,’ Howie calls out and hears shuffling noises as the lads move to the back of the Saxon and the rear doors open.

They climb out stiffly, with red, sweating faces.

‘That thing’s an oven,’ Cookey moans, as he steps down.

‘I left the air on for you,’ Howie answers him.

‘Dave switched it off, worried about the fuel,’ Cookey says, but is careful to show respect when mentioning Dave.

The lads walk round to the side as Howie introduces them one by one. Chris takes the time to shake hands with them all, then excuses himself and walks round the back to look in the rear doors, coming back after a few minutes of close examination.

‘Okay Howie, you can come through, but it would make me feel a lot better if the weapons stayed in the vehicle.’ Chris says, finally.

‘I’m not sure, mate. It all seems genuine, but, like I said, we can’t afford to lose them.’ Howie states.

‘I understand, I guarantee they won’t be touched by anyone inside. I’ll have my men guard it.’ Chris offers.

‘How about a few of yours and a couple of mine?’ Howie says, smiling at Chris. ‘That way, we both feel better.’

Chris laughs, with genuine amusement.

‘If that makes you feel better, then okay, but I don’t know what a couple of yours will do against the many we have in there,’ Chris laughs.

‘Ah, keeps the lads busy, if nothing else,’ Howie chuckles back to the groans from the recruits.

‘Okay, come on through then, I’ll get the truck pulled forward.’

‘Curtis, can you drive it through? Blowers and Cookey, you’re first up on guard duty. Get your weapons now but for fuck’s sake keep them lowered and fingers away from the triggers, got it?’

They nod back, as Curtis climbs back into the vehicle and through to the driver’s seat.

Blowers and Cookey both collect their weapons and hold them ready, but lowered, as instructed.

‘You happy with this, Dave?’ Howie asks, as he falls into step with Dave.

‘If you are, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies.

‘It looks really nice inside, wait until you see it.’

They walk through the gap left by the truck and down the narrow lane. Dave and Howie follow Chris, flanked by some of the armed men. The Saxon is following slowly behind them with Blowers and Cookey just in front of it.

Howie glances back and catches them walking at a steady pace, looking about and smiling at the other armed guards. They do look like real soldiers, Howie thinks and is glad he chose those two to take first guard. Their easy manner and banter will show them in a non-threatening manner.

The lane ends and the lads all stare in amazement at the surreal scene in front of them. They follow Chris over to the wooden benches outside the pub and, within minutes, they are sitting down in the shade, drinking bottles of water.

‘Thanks for that, Chris, they won’t be any bother to you, I promise,’ Howie says, in earnest.

‘They seem good lads - young though,’ Chris rubs his chin as he stares at the recruits.

‘So, you were saying how all this came about,’ Howie reminds him.

‘I was… well I was born and raised here, I know pretty much everyone and they know me. I was in this boozer when it started and we got some rough lads that drink in here, lads that can handle themselves - if you know what I mean. So we were able to keep them away, more people joined us in the pub and we fought out and cleared this street here first. Then, as more people arrived, we pushed out and kept gaining ground. We didn’t attack them as much as remove them. I worked on the principal of securing ground and preventing them getting back in. We used local resources to form barriers and barricades and, over the next few days, we found ways of getting our people in and out safely. Then a couple came back bitten and risked everyone else, so we put the vetting procedures in place. We were lucky, as we’ve got a few doctors and nurses and ex-Army medics with us, they are setting up a little hospital. We send foraging parties out during the day with strict instructions not to engage, unless absolutely necessary - their primary function is to gather supplies: medicines, equipment, fuel, food - all the things we need to survive. Even the doctors have no idea how long this will last, so the plan is to keep secure and try to wait it out.’ Chris finishes.

‘And you’re in charge of all this?’ Howie asks and Chris ponders the question.

‘Yes, I am. But only in the sense of putting the right people in the right places and making sure the area is secure. Lads, I come from a hard background, I served in the Forces and then fell into some not very nice things. I’ve had all sorts of jobs and I guess I was just in the right place at the right time when this happened.’

‘What were you in?’ Dave asks, the first time he has spoken since they sat down.

‘I was in the Parachute Regiment, but that was years ago. I did some other stuff with other departments and worked overseas for a while, helping teach guerrilla tactics. Like I said, I came out and did some naughty things and served a bit of time. What were you in?’ Chris returns the question to Dave.

‘I was Special Forces,’ Dave answers and Howie almost spits his drink out in surprise. Dave has always answered: “I can’t say” when anyone has asked him that.

‘I thought you were,’ Chris says. ‘I met a few of them, worked with a few too. Mind you most Special Forces never say they were Special Forces.’ Chris says, staring intently at Dave.

‘I don’t normally, but I can see the regimental tattoo on your arm, and you wouldn’t get that without actually serving. The Regiment lads would never let that happen. I’ve met your lads before and they all have that same look about them too.’ Dave responds, holding direct eye contact with Chris.

‘How many exits have you noted?’ Chris asks, without looking away.

‘There are four immediately obvious. One, the way we came in, but your people are still on those high sides, providing a perfect ambush site, so that exit is negated. My assumption from the way these people are walking about is that the exit points are secure with armed men. Two, these buildings are deep and would lead out into the area you have not secured, and you would be using the natural building line as a barrier. Those windows and doors would lead out. Three, these buildings have connecting roofs, which could be used to move from one to the other, to a non-secure area.’ Dave finishes, still staring back.

‘What’s four?’ Howie asks, they both remain silent for a few seconds, before Chris replies:  ‘I’m four - you take me and you could walk out untouched,’ He slowly smiles.

‘You have a mixture of weapons, and have used the rifles as sniper points, keeping the shotguns further back to make use of the power and keep a clear firing line. The armed people patrolling this area are made up of services and police. The services people hold their weapons in a permanent state of readiness, with the fingers stretched over the trigger guard. The police walk differently, with a steady tread, due to the fact they spend long periods on patrol. You covered the road signs to keep people or those things confused as to where they were going. You strung the already dead bodies up and the heads on spikes to show any possible other survivors that you were not to be messed with, and to send a clear signal to any potential invaders.’ Dave says flatly, to an enormous grin spreading across Chris’s face.

‘Okay okay, well done - you’ve convinced me,’ Chris laughs and finally breaks away from Dave’s intense stare.

‘I see what you mean,’ Chris says to Howie, nodding towards Dave. ‘The heads and hanged body’s send a strong signal, but most of them were dead already. Like I said, I don’t go actively looking for them.’

‘Are they stacked up at the exits?’ Howie asks.

‘Some of them are, massive crowds of them, a few of our exits have been kept quiet though and we use our people to lure them away, when they get too many.’

‘So, what have you heard about the City?’ Howie asks.

‘It’s a few miles from here, and completely over run. Where is your sister?’

‘Canary Wharf,’ Howie replies.

‘That’s going to be hard, very hard. None of us have ventured that deep. I know most of the roads that way are infested.’

‘Well, we have the Saxon and plenty of ammunition, so we should get through.’ Howie says, watching Chris, who seems deep in thought.

‘Have you thought about your route in?’ He asks eventually.

‘We have a road atlas, we’ll work from that,’ Howie replies.

‘Right… I’m thinking of something here, we might be able to help each other out,’ Chris says slowly. ‘Come with me, I want you to meet someone.’ He gets up and starts walking away from the bench.

Howie and Dave shrug at each other and follow him out from under the shade of the parasol and into the hot sun again.

‘Stay here lads, we’ll be back soon.’ Howie says, as the recruits all start getting to their feet.

‘Are you all right Darren? You don’t look well mate,’ Howie stops in front of him, asking with concern at the pale and sweating face of Darren Smith.

‘I’m fine, Mr Howie, just this heat, I think,’ Darren replies, wiping at his forehead.

‘Get plenty of fluids, mate - you might be dehydrated. Stay in the shade too.’ Howie walks off with Dave, following Chris down the street, past the big Victorian buildings and the groups of people walking through the area.

They reach a side street and see the end is fully blocked off with stacked vehicles and other items forming a high and substantial barricade. Armed guards watch from over the barricade, out of open windows, on the adjacent buildings.

‘If we don’t make the Forts, this wouldn’t be a bad second choice,’ Howie says to Dave as they follow Chris further up the street.

‘Seems nice, Mr Howie.’ Dave agrees.

Chris stops at the doorway to a large building and pushes the door open. Two armed guards are outside, leaning against the wall, smoking cigarettes.

‘Come in here lads,’ Chris walks into the gloom of the building, followed by Howie then Dave.

They enter a reception area, with wooden flooring and doors leading off to both sides. A woman appears wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope hanging from her neck.

‘Hi Chris, everything okay?’ she asks, with a genuine smile to the big man.

‘Hi Doc, yeah everything is fine, just showing these lads about. Is Doc Roberts about?’ Chris replies, smiling at the pretty doctor.

‘He’s around here somewhere, make sure you clean your hands, if you go in,’ she disappears through another door.

‘This is the hospital we set up, we’ve got operating rooms and triage points through those doors. It’s very basic but okay for now. Come with me...’ Chris opens a door to the right and walks through; Howie and Dave enter a wooden panelled room with rows of beds on both sides. The beds are occupied by sleeping figures swathed in bandages and dressings.

‘The beds are valuable and only the most seriously injured use them.’ Chris explains quietly as they walk down.

‘Stop right there, please,’ an older man, wearing a white lab coat, calls over in a firm voice. ‘Clean your hands,’ the man gestures for them to go back, waving his arm.

‘Sorry, Doc,’ Chris calls out and takes them back to a desk next to the door they came through, picking up a large bottle of anti-bacterial hand wash and applying it liberally on his hands, before offering the bottle to Howie.

‘That’s Doc Roberts,’ Chris says. ‘He’s in charge of the hospital.’ Chris smiles as the older doctor approaches them.

‘Good to see you, Chris - everything all right out there?’ Doctor Roberts asks; thick grey eyebrows over bright, intelligent eyes.

‘Yes Doc, this is Howie and Dave, they arrived a short time ago from the South. It’s as bad down there as we thought.’

‘Hmmm, I thought it would be, good to meet you.’ The doctor nods at them.

‘You too doctor, have you any idea what’s causing this?’ Howie asks.

‘Not a clue,’ the doctor says. ‘The infection can enter from saliva or blood, and once it’s in the body, it takes everything over, none of us have ever seen anything like it before. But we don’t have the equipment or the means to start examining it properly.’

‘Which is why we have come to see you, Doc,’ Chris says. ‘These lads are going to Canary Wharf , there’s a few of them and armed to the teeth too. Might be a good chance to try for that hospital you mentioned…?’

‘Excellent, I will prepare a list immediately. Ideally, I want to send someone with you but I cannot afford to risk losing any trained people,’ the doctor replies instantly. ‘We need equipment, surgical implements and as many medicines as you can find. I’ll get on it now, my list will be ready in ten minutes.’ The doctor turns and walks back down the room and through another door.

‘Well, that’s that then,’ Chris shakes his head as he leads them out of the hospital and back into the street.

‘Chris, we don’t have time to do a hospital raid for you,’ Howie says politely. ‘If we can get Sarah and bring her here, maybe we can go back, but I have to get her first.’

‘No, that’s not what I’m thinking. I think we could join forces and go with you. That Armoured Personnel Carrier will be an ideal support vehicle, and if we combine our forces we should get through a lot easier.’

‘So how would it work,’ Howie asks, as they walk back down the street towards the pub.

‘The hospital is on the way, well just a very minor deviation, but if you help us get to the hospital, we’ll go with you for your sister. We combine the strength of our forces and work together.’ Chris explains.

‘Why that hospital? London is huge and there must be other ones closer.’

‘Doctor Roberts helped design it and he was in charge of it. It’s brand new and he knows every piece of equipment in there and the exact layout too. Plus, it received a huge funding allowance for infectious disease research so he wants some the equipment from that area in particular.’

‘It does make sense, I guess - how long will it take before you’re ready to go?’

Chris stops to consider the question, nodding his head from side-to-side.

‘An hour or so.’

They agree to meet near the Saxon and Howie returns to the pub and calls Blowers and Cookey over.

‘We’ve got a plan,’ Howie says, once they are all grouped round. ‘We are heading into the City, to the Canary Wharf area, where my sister lives. Chris said the area will be overrun, but we have the Saxon and weapons with plenty of ammunition.’ They nod back at him. ‘Chris wants to do a raid on a special hospital on the way, there’s a doctor here who got some funding for an infectious disease research lab… he wants to join forces and we’ll help him with the hospital and he helps us get to Sarah, I’ve said yes - but I’m open to any questions or concerns from you guys.’ Howie finishes and looks to each of them.

‘I’m happy,’ Cookey offers first.

‘With men’s arses,’ Blowers mutters, to a few chuckles. ‘I’m in too.’

‘Me too,’ Hewitt says. ‘We are coming back through here on the way back though?’

‘That’s the plan Nick; it looks nice here, doesn’t it. I was thinking this would be my second choice if the Forts don’t work out.’

The recruits nod.

The extreme contrast from the incredibly degraded urban area: the battles, the violence and extreme upset they have already faced is stark against this calm area - full of normal looking people going about normal lives and it reminds each of them of what they’ve lost.

‘Lads, this is a personal mission for me, to save my sister, and I’ve said from the beginning you don’t have to do this. Any of you can stand down and stay here, or choose to do what you wish - with no come back from me. You’re all young and your lives have already been devastated enough, you don’t have to keep going with this.’ Howie says, in earnest.

‘Nah, I’m still in, we’ve come this far. It would be a shame to stop now, and, besides, there’s still a shit load of them fucking zombies to kill,’ Hewitt is the first to speak his mind.

‘I’m with Hewitt,’ Cookey adds.

‘In more ways than one,’ Blowers says quickly. ‘Stop with the fucking gay jokes, you dick,’ Cookey says, exasperated.

‘You want dick?’ Blowers retorts, with a smile.

‘Before them two get going again, I want to say I’m in too,’ Tucker holds his hand up. ‘And me,’ McKinney adds. The rest add their affirmation with nods and grins.

‘You lot must be fucking mad,’ Howie says, grinning back at them. ‘But I am glad you’re on my side though, I wouldn’t want to face you lot in a fight.’

‘Fucking right,’ Cookey says, with firm conviction.

Darren Smith works alongside the recruits, unloading the weapons from the Saxon and stripping them down for cleaning under the watchful eye of Dave. He sweats heavily, but then the weather is scorching and everyone else sweats too.

His skin flushes red and, at times, he feels dizzy - but then the others also look flushed and, after everything they’ve been through, Darren puts it down to stress, heat and the constant action.

_____________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection works slower than it ever has done.

Each host it has taken so far has been consumed totally, within minutes; each cell infected and brought to destruction, so the infection can re-start the body, fully in control. But this time is different, it’s Darren’s heart that beats and pumps the blood. It’s Darren’s brain that sends the electrical impulses that drive the body forward and Darren’s mind processes the thousands of images the eyes take in, and this brain matches those eyes to the sounds recorded by the ears. The infection learns how a host controls this body with ease.

The infection resists the urge to take control and instead allows Darren to look where he wants and the infection observes the thousands of uninfected humans just waiting to be taken. The infection looks to the way they move and walk about freely and then uses the eyes of the surrounding host bodies to try and work out their position. But the humans here have been smart and not attacked the hosts in great numbers, so the infection has allowed the host bodies to drive themselves and gather at the points they last saw the uninfected. But now it realises there must be pockets like this all over the world, but it’s only a matter of time before the infection can pick them off, one by one.

The infection feels the reaction with Darren, when the one they call Howie speaks, it observes the chemical reaction that invokes a change and it recognises the thought processes that fly through the mind as Darren listens intently.

Darren deeply admires and respects Howie, and also the small one that is always next to him. Darren feels a great sense of loyalty to this man and the infection picks up on this and knows it can work to learn how to use these chemicals and feelings to control more of the host bodies.

Howie is their leader, but as much as the infection controls the host bodies, they are not led. They are forced to do as the infection wills, but maybe they could use a leader and the infection could make them feel loyalty towards that leader.

It hears the one they call Howie talk about Sarah and a place called Canary Wharf and the City and the infection scours through billions of memories and thought processes to work this out. It slowly begins to understand the area they are going to and, using the memories of infected taxi drivers, bus drivers, policemen and postal workers, it develops an understanding of the route they will take, of the path that lies before them and the end destination.

Within Canary Wharf and the surrounding streets and neighbourhoods, all of the undead stop and turn to face the route Howie and the resistors will take.

Those on the outskirts are sent shuffling in that direction and other survivors are amazed and greatly relieved to see hordes of zombies moving in one mass file towards another area.

The infection has already once made the mistake of making them move too fast too soon and weakened the feeble bodies, but now it will keep them slow, repairing, until the time is right.

The infection has learned to plan ahead and it will do it right this time.

______________________________________________

Sarah wakes up late on Wednesday morning, her head aching as she lifts it from the pillows. Her hair is splayed out and messy and her throat feels dry. She slowly rolls to the edge of the bed and pushes her legs over the side, her feet knocking into the empty wine bottles left by the side of the bed.

With a groan, she looks at the several bottles laying throughout the room and slowly remembers the righteous decision she made to get smashed. Not a heavy drinker anyway, the alcohol had a rapid effect on her, due to her empty stomach, which now heaves in complaint at the harsh chemicals forced into it the night before.

She runs to the toilet and just manages to lift the lid as she vomits into the bowl, retching and dry heaving, until nothing but bile comes up.

She sinks down and rests her pounding head on the cool tiles of the floor, regretting every single gulp of the wine she took. She started off listening to thumping rock tracks on her iPod, but as the alcohol took effect, she selected the slower songs, until she was wallowing in self-pity; listening to power ballads over and over.

She doesn’t even recall getting into bed, but gets flashbacks of dancing naked in the tiny apartment, after stripping off her clothes in the sultry heat of the evening.

Sarah lies on the floor, with sweat pouring off her body and the rancid taste of bile in her mouth. She slowly gets up and crawls to the corner shower cubicle, closing the door behind her. She reaches up and twists the water flow on, giving a scream as the freezing jets of water soak into her, before sliding down to lie on her side and let the water cleanse her.

_______________________________________

Howie drives the Saxon slowly down the main road, nodding and smiling at people as they step out of the way.

Armed guards walk in front and to the sides of the vehicle, re-assuring the residents of the commune that all is okay with their presence.

‘I like that Chris, bloke,’ Howie says to Dave.

‘He seems okay,’ Dave replies.

‘Nice place this.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘So how come you decided to be open about your military background?’ Howie asks.

‘It served a purpose, we needed him on side and the Parachute Regiment always worked well with our lot.’

‘So, it was a tactic?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Smart move mate, and that stuff about the exits was clever too, and the way he realised he was the fourth - that was impressive.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

‘No mate, I mean it… this heat is getting worse, there must be a storm coming.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’ve never known it so hot, even the road surface is melting.’

‘I can see.’

‘Have you known it hotter than this?’

‘A few times,’ Dave replies.

‘Where?’

‘The jungle is hot and humid; it just saps the blokes and drains them. The desert is different; dry heat with no escape.’

‘What do you prefer, heat or cold?’ Howie asks.

‘I don’t mind, I did service in cold places and hot places, it doesn’t bother me too much.’

‘You must have a preference?’

‘Not really, Mr Howie - how about you?’

‘I thought I loved the heat, but I’m having doubts now. Sitting on a beach in Spain with a cold beer is slightly different to running around the country killing zombies.’

‘I guess so, never been to Spain - well I went to Gibraltar once, does that count?’

‘Gibraltar? That’s a British place, but it’s in Spain - so yeah, I guess it does. Where did you go on holiday?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘What about downtime or when you had time off?’

‘I stayed at the base or went back to get ready for the next mission.’

‘Bloody hell mate, never had a holiday?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Well, maybe after this ends, you should take one.’

‘This won’t end,’ Dave says, flatly.

‘It has to end sometime…one way or the other,’ Howie says, quietly staring dead ahead.

The end of the road sees a repeat of the entrance area; vehicles piled high on both sides to form solid walls and another big truck parked across the gap.

The road they travelled down to get here was surprisingly long and Howie realises how much effort and work Chris and his group have put into securing space and then keeping it secure. This is just the main road though, and the safe area extends out to both sides; taking in side streets and more buildings to house the increasing number of people living here. Howie realises this cannot be sustained, after the devastation they’ve witnessed, this place looks like ideal, but with increasing numbers of displaced refugees, there will be increasing numbers of problems.

The food they can source from raiding parties will last for a while. The city housed millions, so finding food for a few thousand will be easy enough for a while, but, after that, they will need renewable supplies.

The water supply is another thing, maintained by experts who clean and sanitize it with chemicals and who keep the flow going. Who will do that now? Who will secure a constant supply of fresh water, not just for drinking but for bathing and cleaning too?

Children will need milk and fresh food and education and as nice as this environment seems now, unless they start long-term planning, they will soon perish.

These people will settle into lives and the pain and loss they have suffered will fade, after that they will become like any other society: greedy, selfish, wanting more and questioning those in charge.

Chris rules the roost now, but it won’t be long before someone else emerges and challenges him. At the moment they look to him for safety and security, and are thankful for the efforts he has taken and the control measures he has put into place. Will he be able to maintain that calm exterior when he’s challenged, or will power corrupt and turn him into a despotic tyrant, enforcing his rule with an iron will?

The truck is already pulled back to reveal the stretch of road on the other side. Chris is positioned next to another large truck, looking up and speaking to someone in the cabin. There are a few four-wheel drive vehicles waiting on the road and more vehicles parked up: vans, sports cars and motorbikes.

There are more vehicles piled high on the sides here too, but the road is wider and Howie realises this is still a sterile area, but used now as a car park for the communes’ small fleet of various vehicles. There is another large truck parked further down the road, forming the end of the barricade. The other side must be the unsecure area.

The Saxon rolls up behind a four-wheel drive vehicle, which is immediately behind the truck. There are plenty of men here with automatic weapons, some dressed in part-police clothing and some in a mishmash of Army and civilian clothing.

‘They’ve kept the best weapons for this lot,’ Dave remarks, looking around at the armed groups.

‘Where did they all come from?’ Howie asks.

‘Most of them look like police issue, although there are some military weapons in there too.’

Chris walks over to them and Howie jumps down to meet him at the front of the Saxon.

‘You all ready?’ Chris asks.

‘Yep, what’s the plan?’ Howie asks as another man carrying a black machine gun walks up to join their group.

Dave slides out of the Saxon and comes round to join them too.

‘Howie, this is Malcolm - he was in the Regiment with me,’ Chris introduces them as they shake hands.

‘I was thinking, Chris - we either need the weight of the truck at the front to plough through them, or the main fighting vehicle, which will be the Saxon here.’ Malcolm says.

‘If the truck is the main vehicle to bring supplies back, then it should be kept safe and protected in the middle,’ Dave says, in a firm voice.

‘Is this the Special Forces guy?’ Malcolm asks Chris.

‘Can’t you tell? You’re getting old and rusty mate,’ Chris jokes.

‘Piss off, you fat bastard,’ Malcolm fires back, as Chris laughs.

Howie watches the exchange and can’t help but be reminded of Blowers and Cookey.

‘He’s right though,’ Chris says. ‘We need the hospital supplies and the truck is the only vehicle they will all fit in. I think we’ll keep it in the middle and use the Saxon as the point vehicle. How much ammunition do you have for the GPMG?’ Chris asks Dave.

‘Plenty, I took all of it from Salisbury.’ Dave answers, as both Chris and Malcolm raise their eyebrows.

‘All of it? Fucking hell mate, you going to war?’ Malcolm asks.

‘Yes.’ Dave answers, to an uncomfortable silence, broken by Chris coughing politely.

‘So, that settles it then, the Saxon in the lead with the truck behind and then the four-wheel drives behind them, as support vehicles.’

‘How many people do we have?’ Dave asks.

‘You have your lot in the Saxon, that’s ten isn’t it?’ Chris asks.

‘Yeah, eight recruits, Dave and I.’

‘We got two in the truck cabin, one is the driver but he’s got no experience of weapons, so we’ve put a bloke in there with him. Then four in each of the four-wheel drive vehicles behind the truck. I’ll be in the first one with three lads, and Malcolm in the second with another three. All of them are handpicked and have served in the military or the armed police.’ Chris explains.

‘Signals and communications.’ Dave says.

‘We got some short wave radios we got from some bouncers, they will work for a few hundred metres, but that’s it. The Saxon is Alpha, the truck is Bravo, I will be Charlie and Malcolm will be Delta – keep it simple, you happy?’ Chris asks the small group.

‘Yep,’ Malcolm answers and both Howie and Dave nod in agreement.

A very large-built, muscular man with a bald head and a tight black tee-shirt approaches them, carrying small, black radios. He hands them out to each of them.

‘They got fresh batteries, use channel one.’ The man says, in a very deep voice.

‘How long will they last?’ Howie asks.

‘They lasted all night on the doors, and that’s with constant use - so they will be good for the day.’ The man answers, before walking off, as he turns, Howie sees a small machine gun hanging from a strap across his back, previously hidden by his immense girth.

‘Did he serve with you, too?’ Howie asks, as the man walks away.

‘Yeah, good bloke. Looks like an animal, but he’s as calm as they come,’ Malcolm answers.

‘Er… what about the route? None of us know London very well,’ Howie suddenly asks.

‘You got that road atlas handy,? Chris asks, as Dave runs back to pull it out from the front of the Saxon. Chris takes a red pen from his pocket and marks along the roads.

‘It’s pretty much a straight run up to Tower Bridge. I suggest we plan an RV just before the Bridge and go from there.’ Chris says, handing the atlas back to Dave.

Howie looks at the marked route which does look like an easy run.

‘Right, we’ll go round to the front - shout when you’re ready to move off,’ Howie says.

‘One more thing, our ammunition is good, but it won’t last for ever - so we’ll be relying on your lads and the GPMG to do most of the shooting,’ Chris says, before walking off with Malcolm.

‘You happy with the plan Dave?’ Howie asks, relying on his military skill and tactical sense.

‘Yes, Mr Howie, do you want me to be ComsOp?’.

‘Er… if I knew what that was, I would answer you.’

‘Communication Operative.’

‘Oh… you want the radio?’ Howie asks as he hands the small device with the stubby aerial to Dave.

Howie drives the Saxon round to the front and pulls in ahead of the truck, while explaining the plan to the lads in the back.

‘So, we’re going right into the City then?’ McKinney asks.

‘Yes, mate… at least we get to see some sights: Tower Bridge, maybe Big Ben, spot of lunch in Covent Garden - take in a show in the West End then into Soho for some fun.’

The lads cheer at the idea and start talking about how many beers they would drink and how many women they would pull.

‘This is Charlie, radio check, radio check, Delta are you reading me?’ The radio crackles to life in Dave’s hand.

‘Delta receiving loud and clear, Charlie.’

‘Charlie to Bravo, radio check.’

‘Bravo receiving loud and clear, Charlie.’

‘Charlie to Alpha, radio check.’

‘Alpha receiving loud and clear.’

Dave answers, in a crisp, clear voice.

‘Roger that Alpha, all units loud and clear - radio check complete. Alpha will maintain point, Bravo to keep a close distance but be ready to hold back, in case of contacts. Ready when you are Alpha.’ Chris’s voice booms through the radio.

‘Alpha to Charlie, do you want notice if we establish contact?’ Dave asks into the radio.

‘Charlie to Alpha, yes if you have time - but all units be aware in case Alpha opens up without notice, do not run into the arc of fire.’

‘Roger that Charlie, moving out now.’ Dave answers and looks to Howie, who slowly drives forward.

The truck blocking the road starts up and gently pulls forward to reveal the clear road beyond.

The Saxon pulls out and proceeds down the road at a slow speed, until the follow vehicles are clear of the barricade and then gently increases the speed.

‘Who’s up-top?’ Howie asks Dave.

‘Hewitt.’

‘Blowers, make sure that Hewitt shouts down, before he opens up on anything - we just want to get there and back quickly.

The signs soon start appearing, first some debris on the road, then bodies lying festering in the high heat. Corpses of rats and people, laying where they dropped. Windows of houses smashed in, burning vehicles and blood everywhere. The already hardened people within the vehicles look out to the extreme scenes and, despite being in countless war zones, each of them feels a sense of loss and pain at the things they see.

Hewitt half pokes out of the hole in the roof of the Saxon, holding onto the handles of the GPMG tightly; partly for balance but also for comfort.

An eighteen-year-old man, in charge of a heavy calibre machine gun, while riding as point vehicle for an armed convoy, undertaking a daring raid and rescue mission.

The Saxon reaches a junction and Dave indicates to take a right turn, within minutes, they start to see undead zombies all shuffling in the same direction that they are going.

‘AHEAD SIR.’ Hewitt shouts down.

‘The priority is to get there, but fucking look at this lot, why are they going in the same direction as us?’ Howie calls out.

‘I don’t know, they’re not even turning to look at us,’ Dave answers.

‘Dave, let them know we’re opening up and someone tell Hewitt he can crack on and slaughter as many as he can.’ Howie calls out.

‘Alpha to all units, large groups ahead and to the sides, we will fire on them, over.’

‘Hewitt, Mr Howie says to crack on and get as many as you can,’ Blowers shouts up.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Hewitt mutters and racks the bolt back to engage the chain, a grim smile forms across his face as he squeezes the trigger slowly. He feels the pressure as the trigger depresses under his finger and the machine gun comes to life, spewing hot lead into the backs of the zombies as they shuffle in front of the Saxon.

The massive bullets rip into them, shredding their bodies and ripping them apart as the General Purpose Machine Gun roars with vengeance.

‘Sir, can we open the back doors and shoot them down.’ Cookey shouts out.

‘Fucking do it, kill ‘em, kill them all.’ Howie bellows.

The rear doors burst open and recruits lean out to fire, left and right at the slow shuffling undead zombies; ripping them apart and wreaking revenge.

‘What the fuck are they doing?’ Chris shouts from his position as passenger of the four-wheel drive vehicle.

‘Having fun, by the looks of it, Chris.’ One of the men in the rear says.

Chris spins round to see them both grinning and he shakes his head, as a slow smile spreads across his face.

‘Fuck it, why not,’ he says, as he winds the window down and points the end of his assault rifle out.

The Saxon leads with the recruits taking it in turns to man the GPMG and slaughter the undead from the top position, the rest take turns to shoot from the rear doors, yelling and cheering as they take them down. The ones closest to the back doors are gripped from behind by the recruits further in, to save them falling out.

The passenger of the truck is leaning out of the window, firing down into the hordes as they pass. Both of the four-wheel drive vehicles have barrels pointing out of the windows and firing into the dense hordes.

There are thousands and thousands of zombies slowly staggering into London, strung out in long shuffling queues.

‘MY FUCKING TURN, BRACE YOURSELVES,’ Howie bellows.

‘BRACED.’ Blowers shouts back, as the recruits all grab a handhold and the ones closest to the doors step back inside.

Howie gently veers to the side and inches closer and closer to the zombies that are strung out ahead of them.

The solid plated, heavy Saxon clips the first one, who gets spun off, taking out more undead next to him.

The Saxon holds a steady course, as Howie slams its front right wing into the backs of the horde, pulverising them and sending them splattering off. The vehicle takes the punishment without hesitation and they leave a broken and bloody trail of mashed up zombies behind them.

Howie pulls off to the left, creating a bloody slick behind them.

He keeps going for several minutes as the GPMG starts up again and, through the view of the windscreen, he sees bodies burst apart; blood spraying high and slamming into the thick glass screen. The recruits resume their killing from the rear doors as they slaughter every one of the zombies that they can hit.

Many escape the deadly firing, but many more are cut down and left to rot on the road.

‘AHEAD.’ McKinney shouts from his position up-top.

Howie and Dave both lean forward and peer down the road to another junction; completely blocked by a massive horde. They are trying to walk into a smaller side street, but the immense size has clogged them at the junction, and more join the back of the crowd, pushing forward.

‘It feels like they know where we’re going,’ Howie says to Dave.

‘I agree.’ Dave answers.

‘We’re definitely being targeted.’

‘Looks like it, Mr Howie.’

Howie brings the Saxon to a slow crawl, just back from the massed horde, all facing the other way at the junction.

‘Alpha to units, road is blocked ahead.’ Dave transmits over the radio.

‘We’ll have to take them out.’ Howie says, staring at them and his left hand drops down to touch the top of the axe handle sticking up. Dave catches the movement and looks at Howie.

‘Alpha to all units, we’re going to take these out,’ Dave says, still staring at Howie.

Charlie to Alpha, are you using the GPMG, we can’t hear it, is there a problem?’ Chris asks.

Dave pauses to look at Howie, at the darkness starting to seep in across his face. Dave notices Howie’s breathing has become slightly faster, as he stares intently at the horde facing them.

‘Alpha to Charlie, negative, we are doing this the old-fashioned way, standby.’

Dave drops the handset next to me, but all I can see are the hundreds of zombies stacked up in front of me. They are targeting us, going to our location; somehow knowing where we are heading and trying to get there ahead of us.

They have taken my mother and father, and now they threaten to destroy the rescue attempt of my sister. No, this isn’t a rescue attempt - this is a rescue. I will get to her and I will find her. These things will clearly do everything they can to stop me, but I will prevail.

My breathing increases and I feel him inside me. He went away after the last battle, but now he’s back and he wants another payment. Anger is knocking at the door again and he’s brought his associates Fury and Rage with him. They want payment too and they won’t stop until they get it.

I pause at the door, my hand resting on the handle, I know what will happen if I open the door. I can see what will happen. I want that to happen. I want it more than anything.

My hand grips the axe handle and I look across to Dave who is staring at me intently. There is a look in his eyes that I haven’t seen before; the anger is within him too. I can hear it knocking at his door and demanding payment.

I twist slowly in my seat and look into the rear of the Saxon: eight, young faces, stare at me with grim expectation.

Eight faces watch me and I see those eight faces struggling to contain the violence that is threatening to burst out.

Eight young faces that have seen more violence and destruction than most see in a lifetime:  Blowers, McKinney, Cookey, Smith, Tucker, Hewitt, Reese and Graves all stare back at me.

No one speaks, for we can all hear the anger and the rage and the fury knocking at the doors.

Our hands rest, waiting for the second when we can open the door and unleash hell.

I look back to Dave slowly and stare into the killer’s eyes. I nod to him once and watch as he slowly draws breath in.

‘FIX BAYONETS.’ Dave roars at the top of his voice: a drill sergeant voice, a parade square voice that booms round the buildings and the horde start shuffling round to face us.

‘Ready, Dave?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Ready, lads?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’ They roar and I’m out flying through the air with my glorious axe in hand.

Dave has done the same, both of us leaving our assault rifles in the vehicle, as I swing my axe in preparation and Dave turns his knives back against his wrists, so that the blades rest up against his forearms.

We pause, as the recruits pile out of the back and stand behind us, a thin line with me and Dave out front.

The horde turn and start their shuffle towards us. We wait. They shuffle and groan and we wait. I hear clicks as bayonets are fitted. I turn to look and see a few of them have left their rifles in the vehicles and are just holding their long, deadly, bayonet knives down at their sides. Jamie Reese has one in each hand, like his idol Dave.

They shuffle and we wait.

Chris bursts out of the four-wheel vehicle and starts walking forward, past the truck. His men join him, just as Malcolm and his group run to catch up.

‘What are they doing?’ Malcolm asks.

‘They said the road was blocked,’ Chris replies.

‘Why aren’t they using the GPMG then?’

‘’I don’t know, fuck me…’ They all stop to stare at Howie and Dave standing in front of the recruits.

Howie holding a long-handled axe down at his side. Dave with a long-bladed knife in each hand, the lads stood behind them with a collection of knives and rifles fitted with bayonets.

‘Crazy bastards…’ Chris says, in a shocked voice and looks back to his men all staring forward at the small group of men facing down a massive horde that is slowly shuffling towards them.

I am death.

I come for you.

For every innocent man woman and child you have taken.

I come for you.

For every life you have ruined.

I come for you.

For my parents you have already taken.

I come for you.

For my sister who still lives.

I come for you.

I am death and I come for you.

I roar as the fury explodes out of me. I hear Dave unleash his anger and his voice joins mine and together we roar our defiance and rage at this evil things.

Behind me, I hear doors opening as the anger is released and comes forward for his payment, and together we stand and we scream at them.

We draw breath and we roar our rage into the air.

I charge forward, with my axe held out to my side. I charge at a solid wall of zombie undead who want to bite me, who want to kill me - but I am death and I come for you all.

Their teeth bare as one, as we slam into them. Ten men against hundreds of vile creatures, but we have righteous glory on our side and we will not be defeated.

Dave drops down and charges forward into the massed line, steaming through them and using sheer momentum to split them apart. The gap he created is filled by screaming recruits who pour into the front line: slashing, hacking and tearing flesh apart. Roaring with anger, roaring with fear and driving forward.

Bayonets slice through necks and split throats apart. Chest cavities are punctured again and again, as the lads use the simple techniques shown to them by Dave.

They work together and they work alone.

Jamie has watched Dave fight and has taken to this new skill like a duck to water. His arms blur and wave through the air, as he fights into the horde with desperate fury.

I scream as my axe whirls, decapitating the first one in front of me. I lash out to the left and right, driving them back and embed the sharp blade into their heads. Skulls are cleaved apart and brains burst out, but this isn’t enough for me; not by far - and I keep swinging as the glory of battle surges through my veins.

Bodies drop in front of me and the heavy blunt end does as much damage as the sharp blade, as I bludgeon and shred them.

Two line up for the lunge and I take a massive swipe and cleave through the first neck and bite deep into the next one. The axe head jams into the spine and I drive my forehead hard into the zombies face and drop him down, leaving my axe free. I use the handle end to lash backwards into the nose of another one lunging at me, and I smash his face in. More are coming, but I want them to. I want all of them to come. I spin round with a huge strike and take out several at the same time and I drive forward into a gap and turn to hack them from behind. Arms are torn off and legs are cut through, as the bodies continue to fall.

‘They must be fucking nuts,’ Chris says quietly, watching with horrified shock.

‘Ten men against an Army,’ Malcolm muses, as he watches them hack the undead apart.

‘Hardly seems fair…’ The big bald-headed man says from behind them as he pulls the strap of the machine gun over his head and rests it down on the ground, then, draws a massive knife from a sheath on his belt. More of the men take their weapons off and draw bladed and pointed weapons from various pockets.

Chris watches them and feels the urge of battle calling. He slowly lowers his weapon and reaches behind him, to draw two deadly looking knives out.

‘Watch the weapons,’ Chris stares hard at the truck driver who stares back, in absolute terror, buts nods vigorously.

The men start stalking forward, rolling shoulder joints and twisting their necks, to warm their muscles. Chris starts walking faster and they all move to keep up. Chris starts jogging and they all do. With a hundred metres to go, Chris turns to grin at Malcolm.

‘Just like the old days, eh, mate.’ He doesn’t wait for a response, but charges forward, screaming at the top of his voice. The others join him, the experience of their age showing as they spread out into a line and charge into the fray.

I hear screaming behind me and hack down the closest zombie to create space, so I can turn. I look back to see Big Chris and his men charging towards the horde. Rifles gone and all of them holding weapons to fight hand to hand. They roar as they strike and I feel a fresh surge of adrenalin rip through me. I scream out with a primeval roar and I hear my men, my warriors, take up the voice and join me, more voices join in and now we are not ten men.

We are more… and we will slaughter every one of you.

We are death and we come for you.

I swing the axe round with fresh energy and take them down, I split them apart and bodies fly before me.

Dave is fighting off to my side and going deeper into the horde and I fight my way towards him; savaging the creatures as they lunge for me. A strong uppercut and I cleave into the pelvis of one of them, I kick out and send him back to the hell he came from. I swipe out to my right and take another two down. We fight and we push forward and the bodies rack up behind us. I get to Dave’s side and, together, we clear a small space. Blowers and Cookey burst through and join us in the slaughter, as our ground grows larger.

Jamie Reese is next and doesn’t hesitate as he plunges at the line of zombies encroaching on us. The recruits pile in, until we are all in the small clearing.

A loud roar sounds off to the side and I see the big, bald man charging through them with his head down, using his almighty size and strength to drive them apart.

He bursts into the clearing, just as Big Chris and his men get through, until we are all there.

We wait for a second, drawing breath. None of us speak and we gather round in a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder. The undead gather round us and slowly inch forward; saliva drooling down their mouths.

We wait for them to draw closer and then, as one, we roar out and charge back at them. The circle is suddenly made much wider as the zombies fall back from the furious onslaught. We keep to the circle and let them come to us. We rip them apart, as they step forward. Brains and bones are splintered onto the floor, innards of stomachs fall out from the vicious stabs and slashes and we work on in silence.

This is our ground now, this small circle right here is our ground.

It is holy and sacrosanct and these evil demons, spawned from the devil himself, shall not touch it.

You shall not live nor breathe the air in our circle while we hold it and, to the last man, we shall fight you.

The circle grows wider and wider as we slaughter them. They keep coming, but we move amongst the front line, keeping them in the rough, circular shape around us.

Dave, and some of Big Chris’s men, move beautifully with their knives and blades; experienced and tough, they do what their country told them to do. They do what their country demanded of them and they did it without question and, when the time came to return to normal life, they were the freaks and the killers that people avoided.

Dave has always done what was required and, despite all the glory and praise it brought him, he was alone in those battles - and he was alone when the fighting ended. But these men can now use those skills they honed for so long, they can use the skills and the tactics and the outright violence they were so encouraged to have.

Throughout time, men have stood together in battle and they have fought for what they believed was right and proper. Now they fight for survival, to protect their loved ones and destroy this common enemy.

The recruits fair well; their youth, vitality and street-wise nature, make up for their lack of knowledge and experience. But they have already proved they are capable, by surviving in the plains through the first weekend - and now they just get better.

I can now judge the amount of force needed and can preserve energy to sustain myself during the long minutes of battle.

Fighting this way is a paradox, it seems to go on for hours, but then it’s over in minutes and, one by one, we stand down and stagger backwards; chests heaving for air as we look about at the sheer devastation we have wrought.

We have hacked them down until the road is clear and just one small group remain. Still they shuffle towards us, despite the huge losses brought to their kind. We look to one another to see who will go for them, but Dave is already there, dispatching them with cold efficiency, slicing their throats open, until the last one drops with blood spurting from his jugular. Then, Dave drops down to wipe his knives on the bodies.

I look round at the men, all of them covered in gore, with the undead’s blood still dripping from their weapons. I look down at myself and see I am also covered in the filth.

‘The road is clear now.’ I say to Chris and start back towards the Saxon, as the recruits slowly follow me.

Chris and his men turn and walk back to their vehicles, each of them nodding respectfully towards us as they pass.

Before long, we are driving again, the lads in the back cleaning themselves off with wipes.

‘Fucking hell, Jamie, you took a few down then,’ McKinney says to the quiet lad and I imagine him blushing furiously.

‘He bloody did, well done mate,’ Blowers adds and I know Jamie will now be extremely uncomfortable, but grinning back at them.

‘Better than Cookey, anyway, I saw him trying to grope their arses instead of killing them,’ Blowers says.

‘Fuck off, Blowers, I stabbed loads,’ Cookey retorts.

‘Yeah, but not with your knife though,’ Tucker cuts in, to guffaws of laughter.

‘Oh, don’t you start too, Tucker,’ Cookey groans.

‘Feel better?’ Dave asks me.

‘Yes mate, much. You?’

‘Much better, Mr Howie, much better.’

_______________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

Through Darren’s eyes, the infection sees the slow march of the undead shuffling towards the City in preparation for the resistors. The infection had made Darren feel sick as it penetrated into the body and it knew that the others were becoming concerned, so it pulled back on the rate of infection and released hormone chemicals to make Darren feel well again.

The infection watched through thousands of eyes, as the vehicles went thundering past and then they opened with their tools to start cutting the host bodies down. Through Darren’s ears it heard the thundering rattle of the machine gun on top of the vehicle and, at the same time, it felt the bullets rip through the host bodies. The humans in the back then pushed the doors open and fired more bullets into the hosts. The infection watched and heard and felt this punishment cutting it down and it had an almost overwhelming desire to unleash Darren now, but it knows he would be cut down instantly and serve no purpose - so it must wait and do as the others do.

Darren takes his turn at the rear doors and the infection feels the pressure of a hand gripping Darren from behind, it feels as Darren holds the weapon and looks down the sights to the passing undead and it feels Darren apply pressure to the trigger and then the weapon kicking in his hands.

The infection feels the gun firing at the same time as it watches the vehicle thunder past and then it feels the bullets striking the hosts. The infection can see, hear and feel all of these things at the same time, from the thousands of hosts in that area.

The infection watches with interest as the hosts are cut down and it knows that the road ahead is already blocked by the hosts it has sent into the City.

As the Saxon comes to a halt and the firing stops, the infection watches the one they call Howie through the eyes of Darren. It allows Darren to be himself and he feels adrenalin coursing through his system and Darren knows that Howie wants to fight them in person. The infection observes Howie turn and stare back at the resistors and it feels the nervous energy, fear and thirst for vengeance flood through Darren; a marvellous mixture of chemicals that cause a massive reaction.

The small one’s voice booms out and the infection hears it from hundreds of points and turns the host horde to face them. The resistors line up and roar defiantly at them and the infection is absorbed to feel Darren roar and his system flood with rage, fury, fear and adrenalin. Then they charge. Through the eyes of the hosts and through the eyes of Darren it watches the two come together and can feel Darren fight with fury and power, using his body as a tool to cut the hosts down.

The infection is both appalled at the losses it suffers but is also thrilled to be watching this happen and can see now how slow the hosts are and how easy they are to cut down. The infection watches Howie, Dave and all of them work and it feels the pain of each blow but it watches and it learns.

These resistors call to each other, just as the infection makes the hosts do as night falls. But this noise they send to each other causes more of the chemicals to be released in Darren’s body and drives him to work harder and faster and generate more power with each swipe, thrust and cut.

The hosts are cut down, until just a few are left and the infection watches with cold detachment as the small one slaughters those few precious remaining hosts. It feels the exhaustion flood through Darren’s body and it knows that it could release different chemicals to make this feeling go away, but by doing so, it would draw attention from these humans, so it stays almost dormant and it watches as they get further into the City.

_______________________________________

Sarah slowly gets dressed, feeling dizzy and light headed, as the after effects of so much alcohol purge through her system.

Last night saw an explosion of emotions: anger, hurt, loss, isolation, fear and desperation. But today she feels flat and numb, void of emotion, with a dull headache and an upset stomach. In a way she feels a bit better, drained, but somewhat relieved that those emotions came out and, despite the heavy drinking and crying, she coped with them and is still here. She could have plunged to her death from the balcony, or cut her wrists or ran crying through the corridors, screaming for someone to help her, but she didn’t, she remained in her apartment and kept to herself.

After dressing, she walks through the lounge to the kitchen and, instead of her normal method of putting her hand into the cupboard with the tins and taking the first one she touches, she opens the doors and looks through the selection, choosing fruit salad, canned meat and small potatoes.

Today she needs sustenance and fuel to help her think a way out of this.

The time for depression and self-pity is over, now is a time for action.

_______________________________________

The convoy drives further into London, going past well-known places and delving further into the grotty inner city areas. These places were rough already before the event. The red brick of Victorian England mixed with greys and browns of post war Britain; urban decay and millions of people living hard lives, in one of the world’s fastest moving cities. New buildings of glass and steel, sporadically placed, only serve to make the rest look like the grimy places that have come to be.

There was constant civil disorder here before, caused by huge numbers of disaffected young people left with a weak education system, a poor social structure and zero employment opportunities -  who were left to grow in an area that didn’t want or need them, and didn’t know what to do with them.

Undead zombies slowly shuffle through the streets and roads, all of them still heading in the same direction as the convoy, but, instead of the open, main roads, they use side streets, drawn from the memories of host locals.

Howie drives the Saxon, with Dave next to him and both of them peer out of the toughened glass at the passing streets. The battle left all of them tired and even the boastful laughing of the recruits soon drifted into silence as they each cleaned their weapons and clothing, from the gore and splattered blood.

The convoy passes over the distinctive red and yellow curves of Vauxhall Bridge and the famous River Thames, sliding slowly underneath. A tourist boat has broken free of its moorings and drifted down to rest against the high walls; the sides scraping along the concrete embankment.

‘We are over the River Thames,’ Howie calls out, as the lads move forward to see out of the windscreen at the grey-blue water.

‘Oh… I would like to swim in there, it looks inviting,’ Tucker says with a sigh, sweating heavily from the heat.

‘A swim would be fucking lovely,’ McKinney answers.

‘I wouldn’t swim in that filth,’ Cookey calls out. ‘Probably get bitten by a mutant turd,’ he adds, to sniggers from the others.

They cross the Bridge and head into the main road on the other side, travelling through Lambeth, towards Tower Bridge.

‘There’s shit loads of them again,’ Howie says to Dave, looking at the long queues of zombies walking along the same route. ‘Get Jamie on the GPMG to start cutting them down,’ Howie calls out.

‘Alpha to all units, large numbers in front. Opening fire on them now.’ Dave speaks into the radio.

Charlie to Alpha, Roger that - are you sure you don’t want another knife fight instead?’ Big Chris asks and Howie smiles broadly.

Jamie opens up on the GPMG, firing into the long drawn out queues of zombies.

‘It’s like culling really,’ Howie remarks.

‘What is?’ Dave asks.

‘Shooting them like this.’

‘Why is it like culling?’

‘We’re reducing their numbers; culling the density of them.’

‘Oh.’

‘More we get now, the less we have to deal with later.’

‘Or the angrier they will get!’ Dave replies.

‘Talking of angry, did I see you a bit angry back then?’

‘A little.’ Dave admits.

‘A little! Looked like a lot to me… Jamie is doing well.’

‘He is.’

‘He takes after you.’

‘Do you think so?’ Dave asks.

‘Oh, no doubt, did you see him with the two knives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who do you think he learnt that from?’

‘Well, I guess from me…’

‘No, guessing needed, mate – he is now Mini Dave! But he’s got some skills though.’

‘He moves well, just needs to plan ahead a bit more and hone his use of force.’

‘Show him then.’ Howie says.

‘Okay, Mr Howie - you still like the axe then?’

‘No. I love the axe - knives are too fiddly for me, I like the power and strength of the axe.’

‘Like a Viking.’

‘Yeah, I’m gonna grow a big beard and put plaits in it and have a horned helmet.’

‘Talking of axes…’ Dave points out of the window to a row of shops, one of them clearly a large DIY and garden store.

‘Does anyone want an axe?’ Howie shouts out, jokingly, but hears a chorus of approval.

‘Seriously?’ Howie asks.

‘I want an axe, I’m no good with the knife and the rifle feels, I don’t know… it feels too cumbersome,’ Nick shouts out.

‘Dave, let them know we’re having a quick pit stop and someone shout up to Jamie about the plan.’

Dave speaks into the radio, as Howie slows the Saxon down. Jamie concentrates his fire on the undead that are anywhere near the DIY store, cutting them to pieces and clearing some space.

‘Right, let’s be quick,’ Howie shouts, as he jumps out of the vehicle.

‘Those not going for a new weapon, make a cordon round the vehicles,’ Dave calls out as he gets down and holds his assault rifle at the ready.

The truck pulls up behind them and, after a few minutes, Big Chris and his men are stepping over the bloody bodies and walking towards the Saxon.

‘What’s going on?’ Chris calls out.

‘Mr Howie and a few of the lads are getting some hand-held weapons.’ Dave replies and nods to the DIY store.

‘Lads, if you need anything, you’ve got five minutes,’ Chris says to a few of his men, who oblige with smiles.

The DIY store door’s get kicked in by joint, choreographed kicks from Howie and Blowers and soon burst open in a shower of glass. The lads pile in and all start heading towards the hand-tool section.

‘What about a sledge hammer?’ Cookey calls out.

‘Tried it, not bad, but it’s very heavy and gets tiring after a few minutes,’ Howie replies. ‘I tried two lump hammers as well, but their range is too short. The chainsaw was good, but it was petrol driven and ran out of juice too soon,’ Howie explains and realises that everyone has stopped to stare at him.

‘What?’ He asks defensively, as they turn back to the shelves. He finds the axe section first and starts looking through the racks.

‘Oh my… look at this beauty,’ Howie whispers to himself, as he pulls off a long-handled axe with a double-bladed end - each blade covered with a leather sheath.

‘It suits you,’ Howie looks up to see the massive, bald-headed man standing next to him, staring at the axe.

‘Do you think so?’ Howie asks.

‘Oh yes, very you.’ The man mountain nods firmly.

‘There’s another one left, if you want it.’ Howie asks, pulling the last of the double-bladed axes from the section and handing it over to the big man.

‘Oh, that feels nice.’ He says appreciatively, weighing it his giant hand.

‘The single-bladed axe was good with the sharp end and the blunt end, but this is much better.’ Howie says, admiring the metal blades.

‘I’ve always been a knife man myself,’ the big man says. ‘But I saw you with the axe back there and I thought that I’ve got to try one.’

‘They are good, I tried the knives, but I lack the precision and finesse they need. I like the power of slamming them down with these things.’ Howie says.

‘Yes, I can see what you mean… tell me, do you use a constant, swiping action or more of a chop?’ He asks.

‘Well, it depends on the situation - a good swipe will clear space and take a few down, but a solid chop down into the head is lovely. Even better, if you chop or slice down, is the uppercut into the groin, but the head can bite into the bone and get caught.’ Howie explains, going through the motions of the swipe, chop and uppercut, as he describes.

‘Ah, yeah, I can see that - I suppose a foot into the stomach pushes them off then?’ He asks.

‘Yeah, that does it, a big guy like yourself could do some awesome damage with one,’ Howie says.

‘To be honest, I’ve always wanted to try it, but the Army would get a bit funny if we all started carrying them around with us, I reckon.’

‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Howie says.

‘Bloody hell, are there any more of them left?’ Blowers asks.

‘No, sorry mate, we got the last two. Plenty of the single-bladed ones though, don’t dismiss them - I was just saying that the blunt end can do a good amount of damage too,’ Howie explains, as Blowers pulls them out and hands them round to the others.

‘Do you keep the end covered, all the time?’ The big man asks.

‘Not really, I clean it after each fight and I know Dave keeps a knife sharpener and he sharpens it for me.’ Howie answers.

‘Right, good point.’

The men all stand in the aisle, taking practise swings and commenting on each other’s pose and grip, until Big Chris enters to stand in the doorway.

‘When you lot have finished fucking about…’ He shouts out.

‘Sorry mate, my fault, just getting a new axe,’ Howie says, as they all start to leave, carrying long-handled axes back out into the sunshine.

Soon the Saxon, leading the convoy, heads off towards Tower Bridge.

The convoy continues along the main road, going through the Elephant and Castle roundabout and off towards Tower Bridge Road. The exodus, or invasion of zombies is even more prevalent on the road to the Bridge, with massive numbers stretched back in solid lines, seven or eight deep. The General Purpose Machine Gun does a good job of cutting them down, but the thickness of the lines means many on the inside escape uninjured and continue on their slow shuffle.

‘Charlie to Alpha.’ The radio crackles in Dave’s hand.

‘Alpha receiving, go ahead, Charlie.’

‘Charlie to Alpha, this area looks too hot for RV, I suggest we move to a quiet, side street, you choose.’

‘Roger that Charlie, stand by,’ Dave answers.

‘This place is crawling with ‘em,’ Howie mutters, but loud enough to be heard over the constant thumping of the machine gun above them.

‘Over there, Sir,’ Blowers points, leaning forward to indicate a side street with a constant stream of zombies going past the entrance.

The Saxon slows down and Howie peers over to see that the road looks wide enough to take the truck but is quiet enough to move down.

‘We’ll go through here, get Jamie to stop for now,’ Howie calls out and the machine gun ceases firing as Cookey yells up.

‘Alpha to Charlie, side street identified, moving in now,’ Dave reports to the others as Howie turns the wheel and ploughs through the lines of undead; the solid front end of the Saxon easily squashing some and shoving the rest out of the way.

‘Bloody hell, they didn’t even slow down,’ Howie shouts, as he looks in the side mirror to see the zombies still slowly marching forward - not breaking pace to turn or look.

The Saxon is followed by the truck and then the two four-wheel drive vehicles, as they proceed a safe distance down the quiet street and finally pull over.

‘Blowers, get some lads out front and to the sides mate,’ Howie asks as he drops down from the cabin and walks back along to meet Chris and the others.

‘Will do,’ Blowers calls out as he and the recruits pile out of the back and spread out ,as directed.

They meet near the front of the truck: Big Chris, Malcolm, Howie and Dave. A few of the others are standing nearby but clearly distancing themselves from the immediate group.

‘That Bridge will be full up,’ Malcolm says, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘We can get through them easily enough,’ Howie replies.

‘We can - but there are thousands heading that way. They seem to know where we’re going and I don’t like that fact one bit,’ Big Chris says.

‘How can they know?’ Malcolm asks and they both look to Howie, who shrugs back at them.

‘I don’t know, it seemed they were coming for us last night at the services too, like we were being targeted, but I don’t know how.’ Howie says, thinking hard.

‘Unless they’re going into the City for something else?’ Malcolm asks.

‘Not likely, every time we’ve met any hordes they turn and come for us, these aren’t doing that, they’re intent on getting somewhere. This could get very messy if we are anywhere near this place at sunset,’ Howie replies.

‘We can get through them, no problem, but then we have to stop at the hospital with this lot still coming behind us. Even the GPMG can’t cut that many down, and we don’t know how many are coming from other directions,’ Chris says.

‘What choice do we have?’ Howie asks.

‘Lift the Bridge,’ Dave says, quietly.

‘Lift the Bridge?’ Howie asks.

‘Of course, Tower Bridge lifts, we could raise it up after us,’ Malcolm says excitedly.

‘How will we do that? Does it need power, do you know how the controls work?’ Howie asks, liking the idea.

‘Mate, we were Para-Reg…’ Malcolm smiles.

‘It must have a separate power supply, in case of blackout or something, and the controls can’t be too complicated,’ Chris muses, rubbing his chin.

‘So, we get across and then work how to raise it, to stop this lot getting across. Then we just have to worry about the rest on the other side.’ Howie says, looking between them all.

‘Yep, that’s about the size of it,’ Chris nods.

‘Okay, where do you want us?’ Howie asks.

‘Keep the Saxon at the end of the Bridge, on the other side, to keep them back, while we work out how to get the thing lifted - with the truck behind the Saxon,’ Chris says.

‘Are you leaving a unit there, so we can drop it again for the egress?’ Dave asks.

‘I think we’ll need every one for the hospital and then your sister,’ Chris replies.

‘Okay,’ Dave says.

‘Everyone happy?’ Chris asks, looking between them all, as they nod and depart back to the vehicles.

The vehicles all move off and follow the side streets round, until they come back out onto Tower Bridge Road, again using the front of the Saxon to mow down the chain of zombies trudging across the junction.

The last stretch of road brings the Bridge into view; the massive towers rising up high into the blue sky.

‘Hold off on the GPMG until we get across, we’ll be wasting ammo if we can get that Bridge lifted,’ Howie calls back and hears the machine gun stop suddenly.

‘Who’s going to lift the Bridge, Mr Howie?’ Nick Hewitt shouts out.

‘I don’t know, one of the others,’ Howie replies. ‘Why? Do you fancy a go?’ he adds, remembering Nick’s passion for mechanical and electrical things.

‘I’d love to,’ Nick shouts back.

The Saxon powers through the middle of the road, entering the Bridge. The road is so clogged with zombies and the Saxon has no choice but to plough through them, sending them scattering off to the sides. Still the zombies keep dead ahead and none of them turn to look or alter course.

‘This is fucking freaky,’ Cookey says, in the quietness of the Saxon.

‘It ain’t right, is it,’ McKinney responds.

‘Why aren’t they turning or doing anything else? They’re just heading the same way as us,’ Tucker says.

‘It’s eerie, they must know something we don’t,’ Darren Smith says.

‘You feeling better now, Smithy?’ Howie calls out, on hearing his voice.

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Howie, much better. Guess I was just tired, or had a bit of heatstroke or something,’ Darren replies.

‘Or cockstroke, in Cookey’s case,’ Blowers says.

‘What? How did you make that connection?’ Cookey exclaims. ‘Smithy’s talking about heatstroke and you turn it round to a gay joke… Cookey says.

‘Just comes naturally mate, either got it or you haven’t,’ Blowers says, in a modest voice.

‘You’re a prat… Tucker, you got anything to eat, mate? I’m starving,’ Cookey asks.

‘Yes mate, I got loads of stuff from that services shop,’ Tucker pulls out a carrier bag and hands it round as the lads dig in for snacks.

‘Be quick, lads, we’re almost there,’ Howie shouts, as he hears packets being ripped open and loud munching noises.

The Saxon roars over the central part, between the towers, and through to the north side; pulling to a halt, where the normal road joins the Bridge.

‘Clear the area and keep them off the Bridge,’ Howie shouts, as he jumps down with his assault rifle.

The lads spread out and open fire on the undead, as they continue to proceed off the Bridge, still heading towards the City.

Despite the firing and the stationary positions, none of the zombies turn or change direction, but continue onwards, away from the Bridge. The truck pulls behind them and Howie glances back to see the four-wheel drive vehicles stopping by a structure on the Bridge with glass windows going round it.

‘That must be the control room,’ Howie shouts to Dave, as the recruits fire into the backs of the zombies.

The end of the Bridge is cleared and the lads all turn and start on the oncoming zombies that are streaming down the Bridge towards them.

‘Charlie to Alpha, we are at the control room, but it’s going to take longer than we thought.’

‘Alpha to Charlie, received the last, do you need support?’ Dave answers.

‘Negative, they’re just going straight past us, not even looking, it’s very weird.’

‘Dave, tell them I’m coming up with Nick,’ Howie shouts.

‘Nick, you’re with me in the Saxon,’ Howie shouts to him, as they jump in and drive the short distance back to the control room; the zombies shuffling round them, without so much as a glance.

‘This is fucked up Mr Howie, what’s going on?’ Nick asks.

‘I don’t know, mate,’ Howie replies, as the Saxon comes to a halt and they get out; readying themselves to fight through the zombies, but none of them stop, look or even bare their teeth as Howie and Nick stand and watch them.

Howie reaches out and pushes one on the shoulder, forcing him to stagger off to the side and knock into several others.

‘Nothing,’ Howie says, as the zombie just continues on its path.

‘They fucking stink,’ Nick says, covering his nose at the stench of decaying flesh.

They run over to the side, weaving through zombies and still being guarded, in case they turn and attack and they eventually find their way to the control room.

Some of the armed men from the four-wheel drive vehicles are standing outside, vigilantly watching the hordes shuffle past.

‘Bloody hell, that’s a lot of buttons,’ Howie says, as he gets inside and looks at the complicated array of switches on the control panel.

Nick’s eyes light up and he rushes forward to start examining them.

‘This is awesome,’ Nick says quietly, as he looks over the panel.

‘It’s more complicated than we thought,’ Big Chris says to Howie.

‘Just give him a few minutes,’ Howie motions to Nick, who is absorbed, muttering to himself.

‘I can’t believe they haven’t turned on us,’ Howie says, looking out at the zombies going past.

‘Something’s not right,’ Malcolm says.

‘Maybe that’s it, they’ve given up and stopped eating people,’ Howie jokes, the awkward silence that follows it, only broken by Nick exclaiming loudly.

‘You got something, mate?’ Howie asks, relieved by the distraction.

‘Yep, got it, there’s a power supply and a series of safety switches that have to be done in the right order before the hydraulics’ start lifting the Bridge,’ Nick says, excitedly.

‘Bloody kids, too much Xbox, if you ask me,’ Malcolm jokes.

‘Right, you ready, Mr Howie,’ Nick asks and Howie feels a touch of pride at being asked, instead of Big Chris or Malcolm.

‘Yes, mate, go ahead.’

Nick presses and flips a series of switches, then starts pulling back on a small black lever. An alarm sounds outside and the Bridge starts to lift smoothly; separating in the middle as both sides lift.

The action is surprisingly quick and the men watch as zombies start staggering faster as the Bridge lifts and then gravity takes over and they start tumbling into the backs of each other, causing a concertina effect as the momentum picks up.

The men smile and laugh as the zombies are sent plummeting down onto the road surface.

‘The other side are still walking off the edge,’ Nick laughs, watching a number of black and white monitors above the control panel.

The men wait for a minute, as some of the zombies pick themselves up and start their shuffling again; many stay on the ground in a tangled mess of arms and legs. Before long, the hordes have shuffled off down the Bridge and the men leave the control room to slowly walk behind them.

‘If this keeps on, we’ll have an easy time at the hospital and then going for your sister,’ Big Chris says, as he stops by the door of his four-wheel drive.

‘I bloody hope so,’ Howie replies. ‘But knowing what seems to happen to us every half hour, I very much doubt it.’ He adds, before walking back to the Saxon with Nick.

_____________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection pushes the hosts towards the City, using roads, streets and the underground rail network. Zombies pour down the steps onto the platforms and drop down onto the inert rail lines and shuffle through the darkened tunnels to emerge closer to their destination. Never has London seen such a densely packed crowd before, all moving as one, without aggravation. No fights or pushing and shoving. Just undead bodies all being told to move to this location as they slowly pile into Canary Wharf and the surrounding streets, until every inch of pavement and tarmac is covered.

The bodies still have the craving for flesh, but this is overcome as they move slowly past Howie and the resistors. The temptation to turn and lunge for the bite is almost too much to control, but the infection holds them back and waits. It knows how they can fight back now and, unless the numbers are overwhelming, they can be cut down too easily.

On the Bridge, the infection almost decides to make the host bodies move fast and go for the attack, but the big vehicles are nearby, with one of the resistors sitting on that devastating machine gun, so it keeps to plan and waits for them to come.

_____________________________________________

Sarah finishes her meal and drinks plenty of water to re-hydrate, after the heavy drinking the night before.

Then she carefully fills her pots, pans and receptacles - while the water supply still works, thinking there must be a massive tank at the top of the building to keep a building that size supplied.

Dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, with her hair pulled back, she looks serious and determined - determined to do something to help her situation, but not knowing what that should be.

She opens the patio doors and steps out onto the balcony and takes a sharp intake of breath as she looks down.

There had been crowds of them on the road and pavement below, but now the whole area is covered in them. The street below her is packed and she can see into side streets further up and the junctions at the end of the road. There are undead bodies packed in like sardines, shuffling and rippling, like one giant snake.

The intense heat and stillness of the air sends putrid and fetid odours wafting up on the thermals created by the packed bodies and Sarah almost gags as she covers her face and mouth with her hand. The stench of the decomposing bodies is awful and she imagines the skin hanging off and maggots writhing in the open wounds.

The strong sense of purpose and determination ebbs away, as she realises there is no way out of the building.

The sheer amount of them could push through the main front doors with ease, if they put their zombie minds to it, and she steps back, as she suddenly realises they could be at her door within minutes, if they chose. She slowly pushes the patio doors closed and realises that from her position on the balcony she can’t see the main doors and they could already be inside now.

She creeps over to her front door and rests her ear against the cool wood; intently listening for any noises, but there is only silence.

_____________________________________

‘Charlie to Alpha.’

‘Alpha receiving, go ahead Charlie.’

‘We have identified a secondary route, using side roads, slow down and let us take the lead from here.’

‘Roger that Charlie, slowing down now for you to take lead position.’

The four-wheel drive vehicle pulls out from behind the truck and shoots past the slowing vehicles, slotting in front of the Saxon. The men in the rear of the vehicle look back and nod to Howie and Dave in the front.

Howie nods back and raises his hand, as Dave keeps scanning the area.

‘Bloody hell, this is packed with ‘em,’ Howie says.

‘It is, Mr Howie.’ Dave replies.

‘And it’s getting worse the further we go in.’

‘It is.’

‘Here we go,’ Howie says as the four-wheel drive turns a sharp left, mowing down several undead crossing the junction and sending the bodies spinning off.

The rest keep going across, as the Saxon takes a turn to run some over.

‘They don’t know the Green Cross Code, do they?’ Howie says.

‘The what?’ Dave asks.

‘The Green Cross Code.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ve never heard of it? Everyone knows the Green Cross Code,’ Howie says.

‘I don’t.’ Dave replies, flatly.

‘Lads, you’ve heard of the Green Cross Code, haven’t you?’ Howie calls out.

‘What’s that?’ Voices shout from the back.

‘Well… you’re all just youngsters really - you must have heard it from school, Dave.’

‘No, Mr Howie.’ Dave answers.

‘What did they say as they taught you to cross the road then?’ Howie asks.

‘Look left and right.’ Dave answers.

‘Well, yeah - but what about the big bloke in the cape?’

‘Superman?’ Dave asks.

‘No, he had a green cape, I think.’

‘Superman had a red cape, Mr Howie.’

‘I know that Superman had a red cape, I meant the Green Cross Code man - he had a green cape, I think.’

‘I don’t know him.’ Dave says.

‘No… hang on, he didn’t have a cape - he had a white top with big shoulder pads and a big green cross on his chest.’ Howie says, looking across at Dave, who shakes his head.

‘The Green Lantern wears green.’ Dave says.

‘Yeah, I know he does, but I’m on about the Green Cross Code man.’

‘The Incredible Hulk was green too.’ Dave adds.

‘I know. But he isn’t the one I’m on about.’ Howie says.

‘The Incredible Hulk? I never liked him that much,’ Tucker says, leaning forward to join the conversation.

‘Why not?’ Dave asks.

‘I was always into Batman,’ Tucker says.

‘Early Batman or late Batman?’ Curtis Graves, cuts in.

‘Oh… has to be early Batman,’ Tucker replies.

‘No way, the last Batman movies were the best,’ Curtis replies.

‘Batman didn’t wear green.’ Dave adds.

‘Spiderman is the best one,’ Cookey says, leaning forward too.

‘Yeah, I like Spiderman, but I never liked spiders - so they always put me off him,’ Tucker replies.

‘Spiderman didn’t wear green, either.’ Dave says.

‘Iron Man was the best,’ Hewitt shouts out.

‘He wasn’t a superhero, he was a normal bloke in a special outfit,’ Tucker replies.

‘Well, Batman was too, then,’ Curtis says.

‘No, Batman had special powers,’ Tucker says.

‘No, he didn’t, he was a normal bloke who just did loads of training,’ Curtis retorts.

‘The Thing from The Fantastic Four was my favourite,’ McKinney calls out.

‘The Human Torch was the best one.’ Blowers joins in.

‘They didn’t wear green,’ Dave says.

‘The Green Cross Code man wore green,’ Howie says.

‘Mr Fantastic was way better than either of them,’ Curtis replies.

‘You’re telling me that being a bit bendy, like Cookey, is better than being able to burst into flames?’ Blowers asks, indignantly.

‘What can you do with fire, other than make things hot?’ Curtis asks.

‘Well, you can set things on fire, for a start,’ Blowers says.

‘And?’ Cookey asks.

‘That’s cool enough,’ Blowers says, defensively.

‘I got a plastic lighter in my pocket that can do that,’ Hewitt says.

‘Yeah, well he could move fast too,’ Blowers shouts.

‘So would I, if I was on fire all the bloody time,’ Tucker laughs.

‘I liked Wonder Woman,’ Jamie Reese joins in, to a stunned silence from the rest. ‘She was bloody gorgeous.’

‘Yeah, fair one… I would,’ Blowers agrees, as most of the lads nod.

‘Fair point mate, she was crumpet,’ Cookey says.

‘She didn’t wear green,’ Dave says.

‘Have you got a favourite one, Dave,’ Cookey asks.

‘Yes,’ he replies.

‘Who?’ Howie asks.

‘Wolverine.’

‘That figures,’ Howie says, as the lads all nod in agreement. ‘Is that the hospital?’ he adds, as they come onto a wide road leading to a large, modern looking building.

‘Yes.’ Dave replies, as the large sign saying “Canary Wharf Hospital” comes into view.

‘Yeah, thanks for that Dave,’ Howie says.

The access road leading to the hospital is long and goes round the back of a large visitor’s car park with a surprising number of cars still parked there. The access road then leads on and curves off into large ambulance bays, outside a set of immense double doors.

‘Charlie to all units, we are going with Bravo to the side entrance to gain access as directed by Doc Roberts. Alpha you cover the front, unless we call for help. Delta, you check the rear and then go to the far side.’

The units all respond with affirmations and the four-wheel drive vehicle and the truck drive on down the access road and bear left, disappearing down the side. The Saxon pulls up tight to the front of the building.

‘Can you ask Darren if he’s got a good view from up there, or does he need it moved?’ Howie asks and hears Darren reply that he can see fine.

‘Right lads, spread out across the entrance here and keep a good eye out,’ Howie says.

‘Where are they all?’ Tucker asks, leaning forward to look out of the windscreen.

‘I don’t know, mate - I guess this is off the main road or the centre or wherever they are going, but it won’t take them long if they want us, Howie replies and gets out of the vehicle with his assault rifle, checking his webbing belt pouches for magazines.

The recruits climb out from the rear doors and start moving out to form a wide line, spread across the front, facing out onto the main road.

‘You like that sniper rifle then?’ Howie asks Jamie, as he walks down the line, checking the lads are all okay.

Jamie has the rifle up and is looking through the scope, down towards the building line, the SA80 strapped to his back.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Jamie answers.

‘You’re getting very good with it too, mate,’ Howie says.

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

‘You’ll be giving Dave a run for his money soon mate, especially if you carry on like that with the double knives.’

‘Oh, do you want me to just use one, or the bayonet on the rifle instead?’ Jamie asks, concerned.

‘No, no, mate, it was a compliment - even Dave said how well you did with them.’ Howie says, as Jamie blushes bright red and stammers a thank you.

Howie walks down to the end and stands next to Dave.

‘It’s very quiet, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, in hushed tones.

‘Oh, you’ve said it now…’ Howie groans.

‘Charlie to Alpha, multiple contacts inside, request immediate re-enforcements, we are on the second floor at the rear of the building,’ Chris’s voice booms out, with the sound of gunshots in the background.

‘See what I mean, you had to say it, didn’t you,’ Howie admonishes jokingly. ‘Blowers, you hold out here, I’ll take Jamie, McKinney and Dave with me. We’ve only got one radio, so stay safe and get back inside the Saxon, if it gets too much,’ Howie calls out.

‘Yes Sir,’ Blowers answers as Jamie and McKinney rush over towards the front doors to join Dave and Howie.

‘Jamie and Dave at the front, as you’re the best shots, me and McKinney will go behind and cover the rear… er… if that’s okay with you, Dave?’

‘That’s fine ,Mr Howie,’ Dave answers, respectfully.

‘Okay, let’ go.’ Howie says, as they push the doors open and enter.

‘Use the rifle for now, but be prepared to swap for the assault weapon, if it gets hot - single shot to the head and watch out for our guys,’ Dave advises Jamie, as they take the lead and start moving down the wide central corridor and past the reception desk.

The interior already looks looted, with debris littered everywhere and dried blood stains smeared down the polished and gleaming floor of the new hospital. Waiting room chairs are strewn about and the contents of the desk look to have been thrown out into the main room.

‘Looks like someone tried to fight them off,’ Howie remarks, as they step round the items on the floor.

Dave pauses and raises a hand up in the air, first in a clenched fist and then with one finger raised - then pointing off to the side.

‘Oh, not this again,’ Howie mutters, as they pass the area where Dave was indicating and see a dead body halfway out of a toilet door. The face is bitten away and a large pool of congealed blood is under the head.

They walk quickly down the central corridor, passing doors and waiting areas on both sides. Signs hang from the ceiling, giving directions to the various departments.

As they get towards the rear of the building, they hear the sound of muffled gunshots and start moving faster. Dave and Jamie walk in front, Dave with his assault rifle raised to his shoulder and Jamie with the sniper rifle.

Howie and McKinney keep scanning to the sides and checking the rear, as they progress quickly but quietly.

The sniper rifle coughs as Jamie sweeps quickly to the right and a zombie falls out of a concealed side corridor; the back of his head blown away. Jamie racks the bolt quickly and continues moving forward, hardly breaking stride. Two more shuffle round from the end of the corridor towards them and are quickly dispatched by a single shot to the head each. The quiet noise of the sniper rifle suppressor is deadened by the loud retort of the assault rifle, fired by Dave. The zombies are both blown backwards as the four men keep stepping forward to the end of the corridor and identify the stairwell doors.

Dave enters first, sweeping up the stairs with his rifle aimed high and taking each step carefully, but still moving with speed.

‘Clear,’ he says quietly but clearly, as the others follow him to the door leading onto the second floor.

Dave and Jamie pause for a second at the double doors, as Dave pushes gently to test they open inwards. He nods to Jamie and indicates for him to check right and he will check left, then turns to show Howie and McKinney to cover the front.

Then Dave nods and he and Jamie push the doors open quickly and burst out into the corridor; Dave turning immediately to face left and Jamie to the right.

Howie and McKinney step forward to the long corridor facing them and the several undead shuffling in the other direction. They both open fire using single shots, to drop the zombies in the back and Howie hears both Dave and Jamie firing. Once the corridor ahead is clear, Howie looks across to see Jamie and Dave have both dropped several undead each.

‘Alpha to Charlie, we are on the second floor at the rear stairwell, confirm your location,’ Dave asks into the radio.

‘Charlie to Alpha, we have got most of them down, hold there, until we make our way back to you,’ Chris answers.

‘Roger that, holding position at the rear stairwell doors, on the second floor.’

The four of them hold position, occasionally firing, as a zombie appears from one of the many side entrances that branch off.

Eventually, they hear banging noises from the corridor ahead of Howie and McKinney.

‘Charlie to Alpha, we are approaching your position now, be aware, be aware.’

‘Roger that Charlie, acknowledged.’

The noises increase as Big Chris and several of his men run into view from a side entrance, each of them carrying large items and boxes in their hands; their weapons strapped across their backs or shoulders.

‘There were loads of them up here,’ Chris shouts, as they draw closer.

‘Are you all okay?’ Howie asks.

‘Yeah, no injuries, bloody close call though. We went into a wrong room and it was packed, I mean fucking packed with them. They couldn’t get out, until we opened the bloody doors then they just started pouring out of everywhere.’ Chris answers, as they stop by the stairwell doors.

‘Did you get everything?’ Howie asks.

‘Nope, we have a load more to get yet. Can we borrow two of your blokes to cover us, while we carry this lot out,’ Big Chris asks.

‘Dave, do you want to go with Jamie? Me and McKinney can wait here.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave answers as he and Jamie go down the stairwell ahead of the group, leaving McKinney and Howie on the second floor.

Several minutes pass in silence as they wait for the group to come back.

‘Looks like they got them all,’ Howie mutters.

‘Yep, erm… would you mind if I had a smoke, Mr Howie?’ McKinney asks politely.

‘Smoking in a hospital? You’ll get in trouble for that, mate,’ Howie jokes.

‘Oh, okay, I can wait,’ McKinney answers.

‘I was joking mate, crack on if you want.’

‘Thanks, do you want one?’ He offers and Howie is very tempted, despite having stopped smoking before the zombie invasion.

‘No, thanks mate, if I start now I will never bloody stop and I’m already too unfit for all this running about.’ Howie says, will power winning over temptation.

McKinney lights up and Howie smells the smoke wafting over, further tempting him. They hear the others coming up the stairs.

‘Smoking in a hospital! You’ll get in trouble for that,’ Big Chris calls out, as he walks off.

‘That’s what I said,’ Howie mutters quietly and waits in position, until they come back past them again, carrying equipment and boxes.

‘I think it’s pretty clear up here now - how was the front?’ Chris asks, as he moves past them again.

‘Quiet when we left, no sign of them anywhere near us,’ Howie answers.

Darren Smith grips the GPMG from his position as look-out on the Saxon, slowly moving left to right, looking for movement. He is completely unaware of the infection inside him alerting all the hosts in the area to their location.

The main road runs left to right beyond the car park in front of them and the building line is beyond the road. Big, tall office blocks are mostly joined together to form a continuous line, but with some walkways, alleys and side streets connecting the main road to the hospital area.

Blowers, Cookey, Graves, Tucker and Hewitt are stretched out in a line across the entrance, smoking cigarettes, while watching the perimeter.

‘They’re taking a while,’ Cookey calls over to Blowers.

‘Probably had to get a lot of stuff,’ Blowers replies.

‘CONTACT,’ Darren shouts from behind them.

‘Where Smithy?’ Blowers shout back as they all start looking more intently.

‘Building line, small alley off to the left,’ he shouts back, as a single adult undead slowly emerges from the shade.

‘There’s only one of them,’ Hewitt calls out.

‘Who wants him?’ Blowers offers.

‘Let me try for a head shot,’ Cookey says, as he raises his assault rifle and aims down the sights.

‘You’ll never get him from this distance,’ Hewitt says, as Cookey pauses for a few seconds then slowly squeezes the trigger.

The rifle fires and the bullet flies through the air straight at the zombie and straight past him -going into the wall, a few feet beyond.

‘Ah, fuck it,’ Cookey says, as the rest start laughing.

‘Let me try,’ Hewitt calls out and repeats the same action as Cookey, aiming at the shuffling zombie’s head and firing, after a few seconds pause.

‘Ha, you fucking losers,’ Blowers laughs as the shot misses. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

Blowers takes a few seconds to line the shot up and fires the rifle, the bullet just clips the zombie on his upper arm making him spin round and bang into the wall behind him.

‘I fucking got him,’ Blowers exclaims.

‘No, you didn’t, he’s still coming,’ Darren shouts over, as the zombie turns back towards them and continues shuffling.

‘My turn,’ Tucker says and lines the zombie’s head up between the sights and fires. The round strikes the zombie in the centre of the forehead and the back of his skull explodes in a pink cloud, as he slumps backwards onto the ground.

‘Fucking hell, Tucker - well done mate,’ Hewitt shouts out.

‘Did you bloody see that?’ Tucker’s mouth drops open as he lowers the rifle and looks over at the others.

‘Good shot, mate,’ Blowers says.

‘He was a lot closer though,’ Cookey adds.

‘Fuck off, he was shuffling slowly, he did about four steps in total and he got knocked back by Blowers’ shot,’ Tucker shouts.

‘Nah, he was a lot closer, almost halfway, I’d say,’ Hewitt joins in, laughing.

‘He fucking was not, he was still in the same place,’ Tucker yells back, offended.

‘They’re joking mate, it was an awesome shot,’ Blowers says. ‘Even if he was a lot closer,’ he adds.

‘Oh, piss off, you wankers,’ Tucker pouts.

‘OH SHIT! TO THE RIGHT,’ Darren shouts alarmed, as a massed horde start shuffling into view, coming from a side street to the right.

‘That’s a lot of zombies,’ Cookey mutters, looking at the front of the thick horde.

‘LEFT SIDE, TOO,’ Darren shouts again and the lads look to see another horde coming out of a side street.

‘MAIN ROAD TO THE RIGHT,’ Darren shouts again as another huge horde come into view on the road they had just driven along a few minutes ago.

‘This is going to get interesting,’ Blowers says. ‘Let’s pull back a bit, so we are out of the firing line,’ and they pull back towards the Saxon.

‘That’s enough lads,’ Darren calls out when he’s sure he can fire at the hordes over the top of them.

‘Oh well, best get on with it then. Smithy, you take that lot on the road to the right, we’ll take the other side street to the right, they’re both closer than the left side.’

‘Okay mate,’ Darren says and turns the heavy machine gun to face into the horde and opens up on them.

The GPMG bursts to life, spewing rounds into the front of the horde who start dropping instantly.

Blowers and the rest start firing single shots into the front of the horde coming from the right side street; the effect is less dramatic than the GPMG, but they still start to wither away at the front  of the horde.

_________________________________________

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection watches through simultaneously through Darren’s eyes and the eyes of the hosts as they start towards the resistors.

The weapons are doing their deadly work already and many hosts are being cut down. The infection has the whole area packed with undead hosts but the losses are too great already and it knows they will be cut to shreds, before they get anywhere near the hospital.

_________________________________________

‘Fuck me, they’re moving faster,’ Blowers shouts, unheard over the constant firing of the machine gun behind him and the assault rifles to both sides.

The hordes had suddenly increased their pace, not by much, but there is a definite increase from the slow shuffling to an almost normal walking pace.

‘Fuck it, they’re getting faster,’ Cookey yells out.

‘I just said that,’ Blowers shouts back as they continue to fire into the hordes, and, instead of picking their shots carefully, they now fire directly into the front of the crowd, hoping that any shot will drop them or slow them down enough to buy time.

Inside the hospital, at the rear stairwell on the second floor, the thick walls and dividing rooms suppress the sounds of firing from the front of the building, as Howie and McKinney hold their position, waiting for the others to load more equipment and medicines into the truck.

‘I never liked hospitals,’ McKinney remarks.

‘A lot of people don’t, mate,’ Howie replies.

‘Too clean and sterile and full of sick people.’

‘True, but where else should the sick people go?’ Howie asks.

‘I spent ages in them, when my mum got sick - different hospitals, all over the place,’ McKinney says.

‘What was wrong with her?’ Howie asks.

‘Heart problems, she died a few months ago,’ McKinney says, quietly.

‘Oh, mate - I’m really sorry about that,’ Howie says.

‘Thanks, Mr Howie, but it was probably for the best, got to be better than going out in all this mess and turning into one of them.’

‘Yeah maybe, still, tough thing to have to deal with though.’

‘Yeah, Dad didn’t cope very well, started drinking a lot and just went downhill,’ McKinney says, in a soft voice.

‘That’s awful, mate, but I guess grief will do that.’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ McKinney replies. ‘How do you think the others are getting on out front?’ He adds, trying to change the subject.

‘I bet Blowers is taking the piss out of Cookey and Hewitt is smoking a shit load of cigarettes,’ Howie says, as McKinney laughs, a little forced, but at least he laughs.

Malcolm bursts through the doors behind them, panting from running up the stairs.

‘Lads, there’s shit loads of firing coming from the front, you’d better get back,’ he says, as Howie and McKinney run down the stairs and back along the corridor towards the main entrance.

The sounds of the GPMG and the assault rifles get louder as they approach. They burst outside into the bright sunshine and the sight of several hordes walking at a steady pace towards them. Most of them are already halfway across the road and getting closer to the edge of the car park.

‘They’ve got faster again,’ Blowers shouts, as Howie gets to his side.

‘I can see. Shit! Dave still has the radio,’ Howie says as he and McKinney start firing into the encroaching hordes.

The ground is littered with bodies torn apart by the constant fire rate, but the supply of zombies seems endless.

Darren moves round to start on the hordes pouring in from the side streets and alleys to the left; tracer fire flashing through the air and shiny spent casings jingling onto the ground.

Within minutes, they reach the edge of the car park and are soon starting to cross.

Darren adjusts again and concentrates on the ones getting closest, bursting them apart, with the large rounds ripping into them.

‘MAGAZINE,’ Darren yells, as the machine gun clicks empty.

‘Fuck it! Focus on the ones getting close,’ Howie yells, as they start shooting into the car park.

Dave and Jamie come running round from the side of the hospital and see the immense crowds surging across the road and car park towards the hospital. Jamie runs to join the others, switching from his sniper rifle to the assault weapon on his back. Dave runs to the rear of the Saxon and climbs in, going straight to one of the compartments and pulling out a canvas bag. He then jumps down and runs round to stand behind the others. Reaching into the bag, he pulls out a hand grenade, pulls the pin and throws the grenade high into the air. It spins and lands in a cluster of cars.

‘GET DOWN.’ Dave’s voice booms out as they all drop down onto the ground.

An immense explosion rips the air apart, followed by several more as the fuel tanks of the vehicles explode from the shrapnel and the heat and fire of the grenade. Chunks of metal fly off into the air, taking out more of the undead in the car park and a huge fireball scorches up into the sky as the fuel burns up.

Dave gets back to his feet and throws another one at parked vehicles and the others all drop down again, covering their heads with their arms as the explosion booms out. Then the fuel tanks go again - creating another enormous fireball.

The GPMG starts up again, after Darren changes the magazine, and then the zombie slaughter continues.

‘Alpha to Charlie, we have heavy contact, repeat… we have heavy contact, holding for now, how long will you be?’

‘Charlie to Alpha, a few minutes is all we need, keep holding them.’

Dave puts the radio back into his pocket and selects another hand grenade, this time throwing it directly onto the massed hordes coming across the main road. The effect is amazing as a large circle of zombies are suddenly thrown away from the blast, spinning and crashing into more of the undead around them. Dave keeps throwing the grenades, carefully selecting his spots to create the most damage.

The combined efforts of the GPMG, the assault rifles and the grenades being thrown keep most of the zombies at bay, dropping huge numbers. The sides of the buildings, side streets and access points are thick with undead bodies walking towards them and, slowly they gain ground, inch by inch. The body count climbs swiftly higher and the zombies are forced to clamber and climb over their fallen comrades.

Darren continues to fire, choosing the densest parts of the crowd to achieve the maximum amount of damage.

At first, it was thrilling to be able to cut so many of them down and then it became a job; a necessity that had to be done for survival. But now there is another feeling; a feeling that sends signals to his brain, suggesting that maybe he is doing the wrong thing. These were people, they look like people and he is killing them without mercy. These were people who had children, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Normal people with lives and he is just slaughtering them. Darren starts to see the effect of the deadly fire and seems to become aware of the bodies being ripped apart and torn, limb from limb. Tears start forming in his eyes and slowly drip down his cheeks, he tightens his grip on the trigger as he battles within himself. Knowing that this has to be done in order to survive but slowly that feeling gets stronger; like a voice in his head, gently telling him to stop.

The voice of his father, telling him this is wrong.

Darren releases his grip on the trigger and freezes, unable to resist the voice any more and stops watching the advancing horde.

‘SMITHY! WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED,’ Howie shouts over, but gets no response, as Darren just stares ahead, with a frozen expression.

‘SMITHY, YOU HAVE TO KEEP FIRING, THEY’RE GETTING CLOSER,’ Howie yells, his voice taking on an angry tone.

‘BLOWERS, GET ON THAT GUN,’ Howie orders, as Blowers runs to the rear of the Saxon and climbs into the back.

‘Smithy, mate, get down,’ Blowers calls up.

He gets no response and calls out again, tugging at Darren’s legs and yelling louder and louder.

‘Smithy, for fuck’s sake, you’ll get us all killed, get down now or I’ll fucking move you myself,’ Blowers yells up.

He is forced to strike the back of Darren’s knees and his legs buckle as he drops down from the look-out hole.

Blowers grabs at his shoulder and pulls him away, dumping him on the floor of the Saxon. He climbs up through the hole and takes position on the GPMG, instantly opening fire on the hordes now back in the car park and gaining ground.

Howie’s face creases with concern for Darren, but his main priority are the thousands of zombies pouring across the road towards them. The pause between Darren stopping and Blowers taking over, has allowed them to get so much closer and they are spread out across the whole of the area now; the weapons cannot cut them down quickly enough.

‘Alpha to Charlie, we are being forced back, we have to move, repeat we have to move,’ Dave shouts into the radio, over the constant firing all round him.

‘Charlie to Alpha, Roger that, we have enough, move out - I repeat, move out.’

‘BACK TO THE VEHICLE,’ Dave shouts out and they all move backwards, still firing as the closest zombies reach the edge of the car park, only a few metres away.

They turn and run to the rear, covering each other as they clamber in and then over  Darren, who is lying on the ground. Cookey and McKinney pick him up to push him into a sitting position as Darren stares blankly ahead.

Howie climbs into the driver’s seat and fires the massive engines up, pulling away, just as he hears the rear doors slam.

Howie drives the Saxon straight into the closest zombies and lets the solid metal plating and huge tyres create a gap as they are mown down and forced apart.

The GPMG is still firing away above him and it cuts them down in droves. Howie forces the vehicle onto the road and then straight through them; engaging the four-wheel drive capability to keep the power high. The vehicle forces its way through the still upright zombies and over the already downed zombies. The Saxon bounces as it climbs and drops, but does not slow down; taking the obstacles with ease.

‘We’ll tuck in behind the truck,’ Howie yells out to Dave.

‘Alpha to Charlie, we are behind Bravo, we will hold this position.’

‘Roger that Charlie, moving out now.’

The truck pulls out, following the two four-wheel drive vehicles, and heads away from the hospital. Within a short distance, the hordes are left behind and Blowers releases the trigger on the GPMG.

‘Is Smithy okay?’ Howie calls out.

‘Smithy… Darren mate, are you okay?’ Tucker leans forward, waving his hand in front of Darren’s face.

Darren slowly comes to and focuses on Tucker.

‘Wha… what happened?’ Darren stammers, quietly.

‘You froze up mate, stopped firing and just froze.’ Tucker says, gently.

‘Jesus, I don’t know what happened - I don’t remember,’ Darren says, shaking his head.

‘Shock mate, it’s just shock, after everything that’s happened. Take it easy, here… have some water.’ Darren takes the bottle and drinks slowly at first, then drinks big gulps and belches loudly. He smiles back at Tucker.

‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened,’ Darren says, looking at the concerned faces of the lads staring back at him.

‘Don’t worry, mate, you were feeling rough earlier.’ Tucker continues, in the same gentle tones.

‘I’ll be okay, I am sorry, it won’t happen again.’

‘Don’t worry mate, just relax for a bit,’ Howie calls back as he follows the truck into the maze of side streets.

___________________________________________

Sarah’s head pokes out from the line of the door, peering out down the corridor, looking left and right. No sign of any zombies, no noise either and she gently creeps out to move down the corridor to the stairwell door.

She leans forward to look through the glass pane and pushes the door open to listen for any sounds. Satisfied, she enters and steps quickly down the stairs, checking each window of the doors as she goes.

She gets down to the level that Charlie lives on and inches her way to the door and looks through the window. Her breath catches in her throat as she sees the corridor is packed with zombies all clustering round Charlie’s front door.

Silly bloody fools, she thinks to herself. Their shouting has drawn every undead from the building, but then, if every zombie is in here, then the rest of the building might be clear.

She keeps to the stairs, moving quickly and checking each window. She didn’t intend to come this far and didn’t bring a weapon, but the urge to check the ground floor is strong and she wants to see if they are through the main door yet.

At the ground floor, the door doesn’t have a window, so she crouches down to push the door open and peer out from a few inches above the floor. The lobby is clear but she can see to the main doors at the front. The glass is opaque, but she can spot the hundreds of silhouettes on the other side; just a dense, gently moving, mass, blocking the light; casting the lobby into shadows.

She closes the door and gets back to her feet, biting her bottom lip as she wonder what to do.

There must be a rear entrance? The fire safety officials would have insisted on it, surely. Q

Quietly cursing herself for not knowing the layout of her own building, she crouches down again and slowly crawls out of the door and into the lobby. Moving slowly and watching the front door, she moves towards the ground floor apartments. She reaches the corridor leading to the flats and looks to the fire escape door at the end. This door has clear glass and leads out onto a small, grassed area, that looks clear.

Sarah moves quickly down the corridor and reaches the door, there is a safety bar on it, simply push and walk out. She tries to peer to the left and right, both sides look clear and to the front is the small lawn separating this block from the next one.

She pushes the bar down, the door opens silently and she breathes in almost fresh air; it is tainted by the acrid aroma of the undead that walk around, a few metres away.

This is it, the way out. But if she steps out now, the door will close behind her and she will be stuck, weaponless.

Sarah eases back inside and heads over to the stairwell.

Climbing quickly back to her own floor, she heads inside her flat and starts preparing to escape. If they are massed to the front, she might be able to find a way out of the City, going in the other direction.

It’s a crazy plan and she knows it, but she also knows if she waits, she will go mad within days or just become trapped.

At least this way she is doing something of her own choice.

___________________________________________

‘Did you get everything you need?’ Howie asks Big Chris and the others.

They have stopped in a quiet street to discuss the next phase of the plan; armed men and the recruits stand out on point duty at either end of the small fleet of vehicles.

‘Not quite, Doc Roberts gave us a massive list, we got most of it though and loads of medicines from the pharmacy department,’ Chris replies.

‘At least that’s something then, we can always try more hospitals away from the City later, if you need to.’ Howie says and Chris recognises the genuine offer.

‘We’ve worked well together so far, Howie. Your lot did a good job of keeping them suppressed,’ Malcolm says.

‘It was bloody close for a moment or two, one of our blokes seized up, he just froze, poor lad,’ Howie says, dropping his voice down.

‘It’s normal, Howie - they’re just kids. The basic training would have assessed them to see what they were like under stress, but they never got that far, did they? It happens sometimes, and those things are still people sort of and that will play havoc to a young mind that’s already suffered from all this.’ Chris explains calmly, the voice of experience. Howie can see how he came to be such a natural leader.

‘Just take it easy with him and keep an eye on him, maybe get one of the other lads to pair up or something,’ Malcolm offers.

‘Yeah, I’ll get one of them to stick close to him, in case it happens again. I do feel for them but there’s no hiding from this, it’s happening and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.’

‘Right, so where does your sister live?’ Big Chris switches back to business.

‘Dave, have you got that address book,’ Howie asks as Dave pulls it from his bag and hands the brightly covered, small, hardback book over to him.

Howie flicks through the pages with pain in his heart from seeing his mother’s handwriting again, and the names of relatives now gone.

‘Millennium Towers, just off Westferry Road,’ Howie reads out and looks up to see Chris and Malcolm examining a road atlas.

‘I got Westferry Road, it’s this big, straight one here,’ Malcolm traces the road with his finger. ‘Any idea which street it is?’ He asks.

‘Smithson Street, Mum wrote it down the side,’ Howie says, his head down.

‘Yeah, got it, right we can go straight down Westferry, it looks long and straight or we can work in from the back roads,’ Malcolm says.

‘We can get to Westferry Circus roundabout and recce from there. If Westferry Road is no good we can go round, but there’s this bloody big bit of water in the middle and only one other road leading over it, at the other end,’ Chris says.

‘Try for the roundabout then and see what it’s like, I guess,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, slight change to the formation. Saxon up front as lead vehicle Alpha. I will take second position as Bravo and the truck third as Charlie, with you, Malcolm bringing up the rear as Delta again, this gives us two lead support vehicles and offers greater protection for the truck,’ Chris says, looking round at them.

‘If the truck is that valuable, send it back now and don’t risk taking it further into their ground, we’ve still got three vehicles left,’ Dave says.

‘He’s right Chris, the truck is big and strong and good for ploughing through them but we can’t risk losing it now. I think we should send it back, all those things were coming this way, so it should have an easy ride home,’ Malcolm says, looking directly at his old friend.

‘Howie, what do you think?’ Chris asks, to Howie’s surprise - he is just a supermarket manager not a military strategist and he feels honoured to be asked his opinion.

‘I have to agree with Dave and Malcolm; the truck’s contents could save many lives. Sarah is my sister but she is one person.’

‘Okay, agreed, we send the truck back, which makes the Saxon Alpha, me Bravo and Malcolm as Charlie, we head on this route to the roundabout and see what happens from there.’ Chris says and they part company.

Howie and Dave walk back to the Saxon, with Howie hoping he can remember the new call signs.

He thinks of Sarah and the long days she must have been waiting in her apartment.

‘I hope she’s all right mate,’ Howie says.

‘Me too,’ Dave replies.

‘Gonna be a hell of a scrap getting through them.’

‘Not the first one though, is it Mr Howie?’ Dave says, giving one of his rare smiles and Howie laughs.

‘No mate, I guess not.’

The vehicles drive back to Tower Bridge and escort the truck to the control room, the main road is still clogged with undead, but they plough through as Tucker uses the GPMG to cut them down as they go.

Back on the deserted Bridge, Hewitt goes into the control room and lowers it. The two halves drop down, until they connect and the road is normal again.

Rows of zombies that got stuck from the Bridge going up, start shuffling across again as Hewitt raises it a few inches to watch them struggle walking up-hill, then he waits until they almost reach the middle and raises it higher, so they all tumble back. He laughs loudly as he watches the monitors above the control panel.

The others all hear him laughing and cram into the small room to watch him do it again..

‘That’s fucking funny,’ Blowers laughs, wiping tears of merriment from his eyes. Big Chris and his men have crammed in and are laughing too.

Hewitt lowers the Bridge and examines the control panel more intently. The zombies all start forwards again, trampling over the increasing numbers of squashed undead as they go.

‘Ha, watch this,’ Hewitt shouts out.

The zombies walk over the first half of the Bridge and, just as they get to the middle, Hewitt raises the closest half, which lifts up a few feet and blocks them from walking forward. The momentum of the zombies is too great and the first few rows get crushed as more keep trying to walk forward. Everyone in the control room laughs as Hewitt lifts it another foot or so and they watch the zombies getting crushed, on the monitors.

Hewitt then drops the Bridge back down to normal level and they all fall forward as the barrier holding them in place is suddenly taken away. The room erupts in laughter as the zombies all fall forward onto their faces and Hewitt quickly raises the Bridge again, to stop them coming on to this side.

‘Hang on, I’ve got another one,’ Hewitt laughs, as he waits for the bodies to press against the slightly raised nearest section again.

The bodies keep pushing forward, until there is a massive horde pushing and trying to walk forward.

Hewitt suddenly raises the nearest half of the Bridge and the bodies tumble forward and down into the river, as the barrier is once again released.

Howie bursts out laughing and looks at Dave as they remember doing something similar with a smaller bridge in one of the villages they passed through.

The bodies keep pushing forward and stepping out onto thin air, as they are pushed from behind by the pressing horde.

‘They just keep going,’ Hewitt says, bent over double, laughing, as they keep walking and shuffling  forward and dropping down into the river with a splash.

Big Chris, Malcolm and the big bald man are all laughing hard at the ridiculous sight, even Dave smiles as he watches the spectacle, until the last of the undead falls off the edge and down into the River Thames.

‘That was bloody brilliant,’ Chris says, with an enormous smile, showing his white teeth.

They all laugh and then start applauding Hewitt as he turns and takes a mock bow to them, laughing himself.

But, Darren is at the back, watching the undead fall off the Bridge, he smiles along with the joke, but, inside, he feels different.

This isn’t funny and they shouldn’t be doing this.

Suddenly, he feels very alone.

He smiles and goes along with it, but his eyes are not laughing.

The truck moves off along a now clear Bridge and the men file back to their vehicles, laughing and joking. Howie gets into the driver’s seat as Tucker shouts down:  ‘What were you all laughing about and why did the Bridge keep going up and down.’

‘Nick was playing with the zombies on the other side, making them fall into the river,’ Blowers calls up, as he settles into the back of the Saxon.

‘That was bloody funny,’ McKinney says.

Howie had taken McKinney to one side, as they walked back to the Saxon.

‘McKinney, can you do me a favour mate?’ Howie asked him.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ McKinney replied.

‘I’m worried about Smithy, can you pair up with him and keep an eye on him, just in case he freezes again.’

‘Yeah, no problem, does he know you’ve asked me?’ McKinney asked.

‘No, I don’t want to make him think we’re watching him or anything like that, just keep an eye out - so he doesn’t get hurt or something,’ Howie says quietly, as McKinney nods and climbs into the back of the Saxon.

‘Right, you ready for this Dave?’ Howie asks, as he starts the engine and turns the Saxon in a wide arc to drive back down the Bridge.

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’ Dave replies as they move off, slowly waiting for the two four-wheel drive vehicles to catch them up.

They head back onto the main road to follow the route they agreed on. Within minutes though, the road is full of undead, back to shuffling slowly and again moving in the same direction as they are.

‘They’re ignoring us again, what is going on? They were going nuts for us at the hospital and now they’re not even looking at us.’ Howie says.

‘Maybe they know where we’re going and want to use their speed, only when we are static,’ Dave answers.

‘As crazy as that sounds mate, it does make sense. They ignored us all the way here and only came for us when we stopped at the hospital, and they did speed up. That could have got very messy if they had started running.’

‘Maybe moving faster makes them weaker,’ Blowers adds, from behind them.

‘I’ve been thinking that… at the services they were running and we were putting them down with ease, did you notice if they were weaker today?’

‘No, not really,’ Blowers answers.

‘But, if they only just started moving and it was only a bit faster, it might not be enough to make them weaker that quickly,’ Dave says.

‘Okay, that makes sense, but how do they know where we are, or where we’re going?’ Howie asks, to silence.

‘It can’t just be a coincidence, we are specifically going for Canary Wharf and they are certainly heading that way now,’ Howie adds. ‘They haven’t attacked Chris’s commune in large numbers or with the ferocity they’ve shown us.’

‘We’ve killed many of them, Mr Howie, that’s the only link, we’ve cut them back and they don’t like it,’ Dave says.

‘Well, do you know what I think about that?’ Howie asks. ‘I think fuck ‘em, I’ll keep killing ‘em every chance I get, until the last one fucking drops.’ Howie spits out his words, with venom in his voice.

Darren listens intently, a feeling of alarm inside him from Howie’s words. He respects this man deeply and would follow him anywhere. But now there is doubt creeping in, Howie wants to slaughter every one of them and that isn’t right. They don’t deserve that, do they? The voice in his head, the voice of his father speaks out, telling him this is not right. Howie has no right to do this. If he left them alone they might have left him alone. Howie is leading them all to danger with his reckless actions and will cause the death of all these people.

The voice carries on and Darren sits quietly in the back of the Saxon, with his mind deep in conflict.

‘Bravo to Alpha.’

‘Alpha receiving, go ahead Bravo.’

‘The road looks almost blocked, can you make it through?’

‘Affirmative, we are moving through them, without issue.’

‘Roger that, we will close the gap and travel right on your tail to keep a solid line. Bravo to Charlie, close up on our tail and keep a solid line.’

‘Charlie to Bravo, Roger that, closing up now, nose to tail.’

‘Bravo to Alpha, we are nose to tail on you now, Bravo out.’

Dave climbs out of the passenger seat and gets Tucker down from the GPMG, so he can climb up and look out.

Once up-top, he scans the road ahead and the solid lines of zombies traipsing in the same direction as them.

The front of the Saxon pushes them aside or knocks them flat and the Saxon rocks with the constant bumps from the bodies it runs over. The power of the vehicle is immense and they force an easy enough path through.

Dave drops down and pulls out another canvas bag full of grenades from a compartment and climbs back up to the look-out position, resting the bag between his body and the edge of the hole.

‘Alpha to units, be aware, be aware, grenades being thrown behind the convoy, be aware.’

Dave speaks into the radio and hears both units confirm their acknowledgment. He then looks back to see Big Chris’s vehicle within inches of the back of the Saxon and Malcolm’s vehicle within inches of Chris’s; keeping a solid line to prevent the hordes from slipping between the vehicles and isolating them.

Dave pulls out a grenade and pulls the pin; he looks at the sides, the front and then back at the rear and the solid mass of zombies swarming into the wake left by the vehicles.

He pulls his arm back and launches the first one high in the air. It lands far beyond the back of the last vehicle. Within a few seconds, a muffled explosion booms out and bodies are seen flying up into the air and Dave can see a wide circle form as the deadly shrapnel rips through the densely packed bodies.

He repeats the action; launching grenade after grenade behind the vehicles and, before long, he can see a distinct gap forming behind him.

Each grenade takes out several undead immediately, but the shrapnel takes more down with horrific injuries and those bodies are sent hurtling into others. Dave empties the bag of grenades and looks with satisfaction at the huge holes now forming behind them. He then turns and grips the GPMG and focuses it on the ones in front of him. He takes a practise sweep from left to right, aiming directly in front of the Saxon, then, nodding to himself, he squeezes the trigger and sweeps back right to left; aiming directly at head height and watching as skull after skull explodes like a row of melons. Brains and bones burst up into the air.

Dave extends the aim and keeps going, focussing, to keep the machine gun at head height and take as many heads off as possible.

‘Fucking hell, look at that,’ Blowers shouts from his position in the front passenger seat next to Howie.

They hear the muffled pops of the grenades thrown by Dave and then the sudden whump whump of the machine gun above them.

The closest zombies are all mown down by the hail of bullets and Dave starts on the next load, taking heads off with each accurate sweep.

‘He’s getting bloody head shots with a heavy calibre machine gun!’ Blowers shouts, as the lads all pile up front to watch the work being done by Dave. All of them cheer as the heads pop like fireworks, one after the other.

Dave keeps the motion going, sweeping steadily side-to-side, and cutting down swathes of undead. He extends his range and is soon taking them out at the sides too. A look of intense concentration is on his face as he aims directly at the heads and sweeps the bullets across to see head after head popping open and the bodies slumping down.

The shooting to the sides means that Chris and his men see the awesome display being put on by Dave and they cheer and shout as they watch the skulls bursting open in precise lines.

‘Only fucking Special Forces would do something that crazy,’ Chris mutters to himself, but can’t help grinning at the sight of the craniums being popped open.

They reach the Westferry Circus roundabout and wait in situ, as Dave continues with the machine gun, sweeping low at first and taking the closest ring out, then lifting the aim higher and higher with each sweep, until there are almost concentric circles of decapitated bodies lying all round the vehicles. Eventually, he stops and climbs back down into the Saxon, to a roar of cheers from the recruits and gives a slight smile, as he climbs back to the front seat, respectfully vacated by Blowers.

‘Bravo to Alpha, nice display.’

‘Charlie to Alpha likewise.’

Small words, but big compliments coming from such hardened and battle experienced men.

The Saxon sits on the exit road to Westferry Road, facing in the direction they need to go; at  a solid massed gathering of undead, stretched out as far as the eye can see. It is an undulating carpet of bodies once killed and now brought back to semi-life, with a hunger for human flesh. They hold position and don’t move an inch towards the Saxon.

Howie gets out of the Saxon and walks round to the front, staring hard at the blocked road. His eyes move along the front row, sweeping across the horde. Dave joins him and they look ahead silently. The recruits come out to stand to the sides of them, one by one. Big Chris and his men, Malcolm and his men, all step out of their vehicles and walk forward to the front of the Saxon and stand with Howie.

They stare at the lines ahead of them.

An enemy holding position in readiness for battle.

Thousands of enemy undead, waiting for these few to try and take them. They know these things can now move fast, if they want to, that they can change within a split second and become deadlier than the slow shuffling things they have faced already.

‘How far up is it?’ Howie asks.

‘Third on the left,’ Malcolm replies.

‘They can move fast now and they can change. They will change and they will come for us.’

‘Do you have a plan?’ Malcolm asks.

‘Yes,’ Howie replies.

‘What is it?’ Chris asks.

‘To go and get my sister,’ Howie replies.

‘How?’ Chris says.

‘Go in there and get her out,’ Howie replies.

‘There’s a lot of them,’ Malcolm adds.

‘There is.’ Howie replies. ‘Listen, you’ve all helped me get this far, but this is my issue. None of you have to do this with me, you don’t have to risk your lives for this.’

‘You’d go on your own?’ Chris asks, quietly.

‘Yes.’ Howie replies, instantly.

‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Dave speaks, with a firm voice.

‘Not without me, either,’ Blowers says.

‘Me, too,’ Cookey adds.

Howie looks back to the lads standing to the sides of him, they look to him and nod firmly.

‘All of us.’ Blowers speaks for the group.

‘Okay, how?’ Chris asks.

Howie looks back at the Saxon, then to the horde waiting for them.

‘We’ll charge them,’ Howie says.

‘The other vehicles won’t get more than a few metres into that lot,’ Chris says.

‘Then we all go in the Saxon,’ the big man with the bald head says.

‘Good plan, I’m in,’ Chris adds.

‘Me too,’ Malcolm says.

‘Fuck it, let’s load up then,’ Chris says, as they all turn and walk back to the Saxon in silence.

Howie sits in the driver’s seat, slowly increasing the pressure on his right foot and making the engine roar loudly.

Big Chris clambers through and gets up on the GPMG, his large frame barely fitting into the hole.

The Saxon surges forward, Howie working through the gears, as the engine increases in pitch,  racing towards the waiting hordes.

Big Chris opens up on the GPMG, sweeping across the front ranks and cutting them down with a deadly hail of lead. The ranks get cut down from the ferocious firing, but they hold position as the bullets rip through them.

At the last few hundred meters, Chris aims directly in front of them, making small movements left and right; chopping them down and creating a hole for the Saxon.

The Saxon slams into them with enormous power and speed. The impact jolts each man inside, but Chris braces his powerful legs and absorbs the blow into his large frame; his hands never leaving the machine gun and he spins round, cutting them down, then sweeps back to the front and works to carve a hole for the Saxon.

The vehicle ploughs into the bodies and Howie selects the four-wheel drive to keep the vehicle surging forward.

The huge tyres keep the grip and bounce over bodies; crushing them into a pulp. The vehicle keeps going further and further into the bodies and the engine screams, as Howie applies more power to his foot, forcing the heavy vehicle to slam them down or send them spinning off to the sides.

Within seconds, they are deep into the horde and ramming the zombies away, as they keep pushing towards the third junction on the left. The first one passes and the Saxon powers on, taking each body down with ease. The GPMG spews a hail of rounds into the bodies in front of the vehicle, as they gradually work closer and closer.

They pass the second junction and suddenly the massed horde surge forward into the path of the Saxon. The bodies push and press and the gaps between them close up, as they become a solid object.

The third junction gets closer and closer as the vehicle keeps going, punishing the zombies for daring to be in the way.

The undead keep pushing forward, forcing more and more bodies into the path of the vehicle. More bodies push them from behind too and the zombies stretch away for miles in every direction.

The Saxon reaches the junction and starts to slow, as the sheer weight of bodies prevents it from advancing. Howie pushes his foot flat to the floor and the Saxon’s engines scream out and they gain ground, inch by inch, slowly crushing the bodies in front of them. The GPMG sends a withering hail into the zombies and they drop down, allowing the Saxon to keep pushing forward, but the horde is relentless and keeps pushing back.

A solid object against an immovable force.

The competition goes on, as the machine gun rips them apart and creates small gaps for the Saxon to push into.

‘You’ll blow the engine,’ a voice shouts from the back and Howie is forced to ease off.

The sudden reduction in power brings the Saxon to a halt; jammed in a sea of zombies pushing closer and closer into them.

‘I’ll cut down a gap then we’re out and fighting for it, make ready,’ Chris yells down and commences firing again; moving slowly round in circles to create an ever-increasing gap round the Saxon.

He spins and the constant rain of bullets shreds the zombies to pieces. The bodies rack up and form a barrier to those behind and he keeps spinning round, as the circle surrounding the Saxon gradually grows more and more.

‘Make ready,’ Chris bellows, as the men inside the vehicle prepare for their big moment.

_________________________________________

Sarah empties her gym rucksack on the bed, sending white socks, deodorant and a small make-up bag over the crumpled bed sheets.

She grabs two bottles of water - the only two actual water bottles she has in the apartment - and pushes them into the bag.

Next, she goes to the cupboard and looks at the tinned food. Tins are heavy and too many will slow her down, plus the bag isn’t that big, and also they will clunk together and make noise as she moves.

But she needs food and everything else has been eaten. After minutes spent deciding, she finally chooses three tins and takes them to the bag, then runs back to take the tin opener from the drawer.

‘What else will I need?’ She mutters quietly, having learnt years ago that talking to herself

calms her down and helps to rationalise her mind.

‘Water, food - got them… what about clothes?’ She puts in clean panties and a pair of socks, then quickly pulls them out, chastising herself. Within minutes, she puts them back in and stands back to stare at the bag, waiting for inspiration to strike her. ‘That’s it then… all I need, water, food and clean pants…’ She mutters again and closes the bag up, before shrugging it on her back; feeling uncool for using both straps, then laughing at herself for the ridiculous thought.

She gathers up her homemade spear - the broomstick with the long knife attached to the end -and walks towards her apartment door; pausing to listen, before she opens it.

A noise. Some kind of bang. She drops her head down to listen harder. There it is again - a muffled, constant thumping.

She moves away from the door and back into her apartment, and the noise gets louder. A fast banging noise that’s familiar but not quite there in her head yet. She moves to the patio door and slides it open. The noise floods in and she looks down onto the solid crowd of zombies jammed into the pavement.

Her eyes follow the line of them, realising they are all facing in the same direction; down to the main road… they are all facing and pushing towards Westferry Road.

She leans out to try and see down to the junction and gasps, as she takes in the amount of undead crammed into the area. Every single one of them is pushing towards the main road. She waits, leaning over the balcony; the broom spear stick still in her hand.

Slowly, the noise gets louder, until an Army type vehicle comes into view. Even from this distance she can see the outline of the giant vehicle and someone standing halfway out of the roof. Bright flashes flare out from the top of the vehicle and she realises that the man is firing a machine gun into the zombies.

Her heart races as she watches the desperate struggle, the vehicle inching forward, bit by bit, as it gets closer to her junction. It looks like it’s trying to turn into her road, then comes to a halt as the pressure of the bodies force it to a stop.

The man on top spins round and Sarah watches a space slowly being created around the vehicle, as the machine gun cuts them down.

Hope was surging through her, but it starts to ebb away as she realises that the vehicle is stuck and can no longer move forward.

Sarah watches as the firing stops and the man drops out of view. Then, another man climbs out and stands on the top of the vehicle. He is followed by the first man again.

It looks like the man standing up is holding a large bag, he rests it down and she watches as he takes something out of it, then throws it high into the air.

Sarah hears a loud bang and sees bodies flying upwards. The man throws something again and, after a few seconds, she hears another loud bang and more bodies are shot up and away.

‘Grenades, he’s throwing grenades,’ she whispers quietly.

The man is throwing them down into her road, and making a point of making them land at different points. Each throw is followed by a loud explosion and she watches as gaps start forming, where the bodies are blown away and more are felled by the blasts.

The machine gun keeps firing and more and more of them are cut down, the machine gun appears to be focussing on keeping them away from the vehicle, while the grenade man is launching them down her road. Slowly, the gaps get bigger, as more damage is reaped on the undead.

She wants to scream and wave to tell them she is here, but she can see the hopeless situation they are in and she watches in silence, willing them to break free somehow.

The anger bursts inside me, filling me with rage and cold hard fury. We are stuck in an ocean of never ending undead zombies. I fucking hate them. I fucking hate zombies. I hate the way they shuffle and groan. I hate the way they move fast without warning and change the rules as they go along. I hate their decomposing flesh and their rancid, putrid breath. I hate the drool that drips from their mouths and their red, bloodshot, dead eyes.

Everything around me slows, the firing above my head becomes a slow thump thump and I see shiny spent casings spinning down gently past the window. I see a grenade rolling, end over end, through the air, until it drops down out of sight and an eternity passes before the slow explosion erupts ahead of me.

Bodies are floating through the air, limbs detached and flying off and drops of blood are strung out and arcing high.

My eyes follow another grenade that spins in the air above me, going down into the road. As I follow the trajectory I see the tall apartment blocks further up the street and the outline of a person standing on one of the balcony’s facing towards us.

My eyes fix on that spot and I feel the person is staring straight at me. Suddenly, it’s not just anger inside me, there is hope too.

I snap back to reality as I realise there is a gap in front of us, created by the GPMG spinning round and I engage the gears and push the Saxon and bounce high over the many fallen bodies. Just in those few metres we gain enough speed to slam into the crowd and send them backwards.

The grenades thrown by Dave have created gaps that we can use to our advantage, by pushing the zombies back. We gain a little more distance and I see Chris is firing directly in front of us again – he has created small gaps for the Saxon to power into.

Little by little, metre by metre, we gain ground and I keep looking up to see the person still watching us from the balcony.

I select reverse gear and slam the Saxon back into the crowd behind us, crushing yet more of them and gaining a little space in front, to gather some speed, before I use the front as a battering ram to drive further into them.

The machine gun and the grenades do an amazing job of making little pockets of space which I use to force them back. The vehicle is tonnes of solid steel with more weight added by the numbers of people inside and, although the crowd is incredibly dense, they cannot withstand the force of the vehicle repeatedly hammering them.

The progress is painfully slow but at least we have progress.

‘PULL BACK AND HOLD FOR A SECOND,’ Big Chris yells and I change into reverse to force the Saxon backwards, impacting on the crowd that is surging forward to fill the gaps.

‘HOLD,’ Chris yells and the GMPG remains firing directly ahead of use, making little sweeps left and right at the same width as the vehicle.

The bodies are decimated right in front of me, torn limb from limb and cut in half, as the rounds slice through them with ease. Chris holds the firing position as a large hole is made with fallen bodies lying like felled trees on the ground.

The GPMG clicks empty as Chris roars ‘NOW.’

I push my foot down hard and the vehicle pulls ahead with amazing speed and crushes the bodies under the huge tyres. We bounce up high from the impact on so many corpses, but the vehicle slams back down and keeps pushing forward. That extra speed we used has gained the momentum to drive us further ahead than I had hoped for and I look up to see the person waving from the balcony, as we get closer and closer. Then we are close enough to see the front of the building and a large plaque reading: “Millennium Tower” and that hope inside me gets stronger with every inch of ground we gain.

The horde suddenly surges forward, moving with speed as they slam into the front of the Saxon, the bodies pushing hard against each other to make a solid wall.

Something is wrong with the GPMG, as it doesn’t resume firing from running empty. I try to pull back, but the Saxon moves inches, before losing power - such is the force of the bodies pushing against us.

‘We’re bogged in,’ I yell out. ‘We’ll have to fight through on foot.’

I clamber out over the seat and try to get in the back, but there are too many people; no room to manoeuvre.

‘Get a few on the roof, to shoot down, then more at the back - doors ready,’ Dave yells out, as some of the recruits and Chris’s men clamber up through the GPMG hole and start firing down into the surrounding hordes.

I glance back through the windscreen and can see the zombies are stretching their arms up now and trying to reach up to the men on the top, their teeth bared; almost angry expressions on their rotting faces.

‘When I shout - push those doors open and fire out,’ Dave yells down.

‘Get to the back, two lines, with front line crouching and rear line standing,’ I yell out, as they try to organise themselves in the confined space, pushing and shoving, until they are formed up and ready.

One of Chris’s men at the front shouts for the rear line to move backwards, so the hot casings don’t land on them.

‘Make ready,’ Dave yells down, above the constant firing of assault weapons.

‘We’re making a bit of room at the back, you’ll have time for one round of firing to cut more down and then we have to charge them,’ he adds.

I see the big, bald man work his way back to me, with his axe in his hands.

‘When they stop firing we’ll burst out with the axes and try to clear them back,’ he says to me.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Blowers adds, grabbing his axe.

The rest of the axes are stacked up and ready to be taken by the others.

‘Us three first and then this lot, behind us - we’re heading for Millennium Towers, it’s just up a bit and on the left,’ I shout out, so they can all hear me and I hear Dave repeat my words to the lads on the top.

The firing continues and I see knuckles going white, as the men in front of me grip their weapons tightly; face’s serious. They stare forward with fear and terror but, above all else, they have courage. The courage to face down an enemy that outnumbers them thousands to one. The courage to stand firm and not fold or back away; hardened men, tough men - relying on each other and their natural born instinct to fight and survive.

They have a reason to fight, a purpose, something to believe in and we stand together, ready to charge to our deaths, if needs be, ready to lay our lives down for the right to live how we want.

We repel the idea of these foul things that have tainted this earth and caused the deaths of so many innocent people.

‘I don’t know your name,’ I say to the big man with the bald head.

‘Clarence,’ he replies, looking me dead in the eye.

‘Good to meet you, Clarence.’

‘You too.’

Dave lightly drops down onto his feet and draws his knives. He holds them with the blades upright and reversed, to press into his forearms. The action sends a fresh surge of adrenalin through me and I see Blowers grip the handle of his axe; a dark look crossing his face. That action by Dave has preceded every fight so far, and it signifies our readiness for battle.

Our willingness to do battle.

Our right to do battle and do so on our terms - for we have taken the fight to them today.

They are thousands and we are few, but we came for them.

They stood and waited and we charged them.

This battle was ours for the choosing and we took that choice.

My breathing gets faster and my chest rises. My hands were shaking a little, but now they are steady and my legs feel firm and strong. My grip won’t fail me and I know what needs to be done.

I hear that knocking again.

I am Howie.

I know who you are, we’ve met many times recently.

What do you want?

I want to come in.

Why?

Because you need me.

I rely on you too much.

You can’t do this without me.

Maybe I can.

Without me you will die and Sarah will die, because of you.

I can’t keep using you like this.

Why not?

The more I use you, the more you want.

I want payment.

It’s too much.

Just let me in.

I want to, I like it when you come in.

So?

That’s the problem, you’re addictive and it’s dangerous.

But you wouldn’t have got this far without me.

I know that.

So let me in.

Do you want to come in?

Yes.

What if one day I can’t shut you out again.

Worry about that later, you need me now more than ever.

Okay, but this has to stop soon.

I understand, but not now.

Okay, come in.

I’ve brought some friends with me, can they come in too?

Who are they?

You’ve met them before, we all work together.

Okay, I’ll let you in, I will let you all in, get more of your friends and bring them too. I want you all.

You are right, I am addictive, aren’t I?

Yes.

But you need me, don’t you?

Yes.

You need all of us.

Yes.

Open the door wide, Howie, so we can all come in.

It’s open…

‘NOW,’ Dave roars the word so loudly that every zombie for miles must be able to hear him. The back doors are thrown open wide and the firing commences, as eight men open fire with fully automatic assault rifles. Four crouched and four standing, shoulder to shoulder, jammed in tight and deafening each other. The immediate ground at the back of the Saxon is already clear from the men firing from the roof. The split second timing works perfectly as the men in the rear and the men on the top all fire into the packed horde.

The effect is devastating as the first few ranks are cut to pieces and the force of the rounds drives them backwards into the zombies behind them.

I hear the guns click empty and the men burst two to each side as they create a gap wide enough for one man to go through.

I am that man and I run through them and launch myself high out of the back doors with my beautiful, double-bladed axe wide out to my side. I land with my feet planted apart and sweep in a wide arc as I slice through several necks extended in front of me. I take a step forward and swing backwards, cleaving more of them open with the deadly blades.

My voice roars as I take those first swipes and I feel the glory of the first death from my hands sweep through me.

I scream out and plunge forward, swinging the axe round with fearsome power and speed. I hear voices behind me and the recruits and men are pouring out to charge into the lines of zombies.

You are thousands and we are few - but we fucking charge at you with axes and knives.

We fucking take you on with the weapons we hold and we will defeat you.

I hear the glorious sound of Dave roaring at full volume and I lift my voice to join his.

I see him off to my side as he launches himself fully into them, his arms spinning with grace and supple power as he bends and flexes to slice their throats and then drops down to cut through Achilles tendons, and they fall from their weakened legs.

Clarence stands back and swings his double-bladed axe high above his head; a Viking warrior, a berserker of gigantic size - and he steps forward with long strides. His almighty power sweeps the axe through many bodies as he swings out and then back again as he takes another big step.

We roar and we fight, and more of our voices join in and we take the fight to them. My two-headed axe doubles my ability to kill them and take them down. Bodies fall about me as we fight our way through. We arrange ourselves with the axes to the front and Dave takes them down to fight a path through. The others behind us keep our backs and sides clear as they hack and cleave the bodies down.

They push forward, but we fight harder than they can surge, they try to surround us but we keep fighting and we make progress through these evil things as they fall under our righteous blades.

The battle is brutal but we fight and power on and each step we take brings us closer to the building. I glance up and see a figure waving down and screaming at us. I raise my axe high and bellow a cry: a cry of war, a cry of violence and, for a second, my comrades join me and we raise our weapons up and scream into the air.

We are coming… we are fighting for you.

We will kill every one of them to get to you.

We are coming and we are bringing death with us, as we slaughter, hack, slice, chop, cleave, slice, cut and kill the zombie undead.

Two sides fighting, but our small size means they can only present a limited front and we can fight that front and we do - we cut them down in droves and keep pushing, as our hands and arms become slick from the blood we spill.

Sarah watches the men climb onto the top of the Army vehicle and they start firing down at the zombies, keeping the fire pouring onto the undead at the rear.

She watches with bated breath as the rear doors burst open and a withering fire from within and the top is sent towards the undead. They burst apart and are sent flying back from the almighty hail sent their way.

The second the firing ends, a man launches himself from the back of the vehicle, swinging an axe above his head and Sarah’s mouth drops open, as she realises they are taking on thousands of zombies in hand to hand combat.

Men surge from the back of the vehicle and they bravely charge into the lines. Even from her high position she can hear the men roar as they offer challenge to the undead Army. The men from the top jump down and they too charge into the melee.

The effect is mesmerising; these men, these few men, kill many of the zombies as they fight to gain a circular shape. Men with axes take them down, and others work to the sides and the rear, as that tiny clear circle of men starts to move through the undead throng.

These men are killing machines and they move with deadly purpose, each of them advancing with speed and power and the killing goes on, as they leave a bloody wake of broken bodies behind them.

Sarah watches the man in the front centre swing his axe; a giant of a man next to him, cleaving the bodies down.

She screams, to tell them she is watching; their brave actions have not gone without witness. The man in the front centre looks up and raises his axe high in the air to her, he roars and every one of those brave warriors stop and hold their weapons high and roar their defiance as they look up at her. Then, as one, the weapons drop back down and they fight with renewed purpose to slaughter the undead.

They have seen her.

They are coming for her.

Howie.

It must be Howie.

Her heart races as she runs to the front door, not bothering to stop, look or listen and she charges down the corridor and into the stairwell.

As she gallops down the stairs, an undead staggers out from a door in front of her and Sarah charges the point of her spear deep into its throat.

‘FUCK YOU,’ she screams and pulls the spear out, running down the flights of stairs.

We keep moving forward and our fighting shape holds. We suffer our first loss as one of Chris’s men slips on the bloody ground and falls down.

We all turn to help, but it’s too late and the zombies drop down on him, burying their faces into his stomach and legs.

He screams with impotent rage and Dave quickly drops down to slice a blade deep across his throat.

‘Sorry,’ Dave whispers in his ear and then is back up fighting.

The loss hits us. We fill with rage and fury and fight with a consumed anger that burns our hearts.

We have lost one of our own to you and, for that, you will pay with hundreds now.

We won’t stop until you all die and cease to be on this earth.

‘ALMOST THERE,’ Dave bellows, his enormous voice drowning the grunts and growls of the men as we fight.

We push out harder now, in sight of the doors that lead into Millennium Towers.

I look up and see the doors burst open and a woman comes out, screaming with fury. My heart soars as I see my sister, Sarah, marching out, holding the end of a hose, like a machine gun.

‘SARAH,’ I scream and she stops to stare straight at me.

Just a few lines between us now and we hack them down. I thought Dave was fighting with awesome speed before, but he goes into overdrive now; his arms spinning with fury as he cuts a path through them and breaks free to race towards Sarah. My world is complete.

The toughest, bravest man I have ever known is now by my sister’s side. She is safe and will live, as I know that small man will kill anything to protect her. He is my friend. Sarah will live, she will survive and I smile - staring hard at them as I begin to laugh.

‘I WIN, YOU FUCKERS,’ I scream out and charge with every ounce of strength I have, as the hose opens up.

Sarah steps forward slowly as the immense jet of water sluices into the horde and knocks them down.

We burst sideways, as Sarah walks further towards us. The power of the life giving water is with us, the clean water is on our side and that simple thing repels them and forces them back as they lose grip and slide down.

We fight to the sides and, one by one, we burst out of them. Then, as one, we turn and form a line in front of Sarah.

They keep coming and we kill them, the power is on our side now as they fight to gain ground and we fight to protect what we have taken.

Dave stands by her side, his knives held ready as he stares with deathly calm to the horde.

The powerful jet pushes them back, as we start to retreat and I see Clarence take the hose from her and walk closer to the horde, using the extreme power of the water to send them staggering backwards.

‘Howie,’ Sarah yells, as I rush to her and wrap my arms around the only surviving member of my family.

‘Sarah, thank God you’re okay,’ I shout back, over the noise. ‘We need to get out of here,’ I glance back at the horde and then to the building.

‘We can’t lose that vehicle, we’ll never get out of here alive without it,’ I shout to Dave.

‘Then we fight back to it, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, loud enough for them all to hear. The men and recruits all stop to stare back at me, looking at Sarah and nodding to her.

‘We have to fight back,’ I shout out loudly. ‘That vehicle is ours and we must take it back.’

Big Chris stares at me, then looks at the horde.

‘I hate to say this, but you’re right. We have to fight back… get your sister in the middle and we’ll fight the way we came in,’ he shouts, with a ferocious look on his face.

‘Sarah, get in the middle. Dave… stay by her side.’

He looks at me and nods once, taking a step to stand just in front of her.

‘FORM UP,’ Dave bellows and the men drop back to form a ring round Sarah. She looks to me in horror.

‘We can’t go into that lot…’ she says, terrified.

‘We have to Sarah; there’s thousands of them all round us. The only hope is to get back to our vehicle. Just stay with Dave.’

‘Who?’ She asks, confused.

‘Sarah, this is Dave… Dave, this is Sarah - now let’s go.’ I take front, centre position again and we start to step forward as Clarence drops the hose, to fall back into step by my side again.

Within seconds, we are back in amongst them, fighting and slicing our axes into their soft decaying bodies. We have our prize; we have the chalice we came for.

We are warriors and all that we need is something to believe in. To protect those that need protection, to have that principal and to fight for it with every breath we take. Not one of us flinches or questions this, for, in our hearts, we know the reason we are here. To stop the evil from taking her.

We fight you to give her life and we will carry on to be sure that happens.

Our shape holds as we battle on. They can push as hard as they like, for all they do is force the ones at the front onto our deadly blades and axe heads.

Clarence swings the axe with his almighty strength and heads are sent spinning in the air, as he chops through necks. Dave sticks by Sarah’s side, taking small lunges, if one pushes through a gap left by the men at the sides.

Our tactic works and, once again, we make progress - slowly gaining back to the Saxon.

Darren fights with courage and bravery; the infection pulling back to watch him during this battle.

As the Saxon powered closer and closer to the building the infection made a conscious decision to watch from within and learn from his natural reactions. Darren feels his uncertainty just leave him and, once again, he feels the surge of adrenalin as the last seconds before the battle slowly tick away.

He fires from the back of the Saxon and then moves aside to watch with pride as Howie launches out to attack them single-handed.

He slots the bayonet on his rifle and bursts out with his mates and the other men to charge into the undead. Feeling hatred and glory he fights to follow Howie and Dave. They saved him and gave him respect and protection, they made sure he was okay and they did so many small things that grew a deep respect in him. For that he fights, and the infection learns the mixture of chemicals pouring into Darren’s system that make him feel like this.

Darren hacks away at the zombies and grimaces with determination as they fall under his blows and swipes; aiming for the throat and thrusting deep into their necks. The infection floods every zombie in that area with an image of Darren and makes it clear that they should not touch him.

As they gain ground, Darren feels invincible as he cuts down zombie after zombie; not realising they lunge at him but hold back from biting. Several chances present themselves as his increasing reckless bravery leaves him open, but they suppress the urge to bite, as Darren becomes the safest man on earth at that moment.

They start fighting back towards the Saxon and the infection plans for the next phase. It floods Darren with adrenalin and a feeling of confidence. Darren laughs as he attacks them; feeling that he cannot be touched. The infection increases the flow, as Darren surges into them for the attack. The infection has learnt what chemicals to release to flood a body with that same feeling of: love, pride and devotion towards another body, and it keeps Darren safe, as they fight their way back to the vehicle.

Within a few metres of them reaching the vehicle, the infection pulls them all back and makes every undead step away and leave their path clear.

We fight on, getting closer and closer to the Saxon, when they suddenly pull back and step away from us. Mid-swing they move as one and there is open space in front of me as the axe rotates and almost takes me over with it.

‘What’s going on?’ Blowers shouts, in alarm.

‘They’re pulling back,’ Tucker shouts, with victory in his voice.

‘No, it must be something else, we haven’t won this,’ Big Chris, shouts.

‘STAY TOGETHER AND KEEP IN FORMATION,’ Dave shouts, as we move through the clear path, towards the Saxon.

A noise. I look over to see Darren laughing with unrestrained glee.

‘We’ve fucking beaten them, the fucking pussies are giving up,’ he shouts.

Dave glances at me and I shake my head.

I look over to McKinney and put my fingers to my eyes, then point at Darren: ‘Watch him,’ I mouth, and McKinney nods and steps closer to Darren.

‘Ha! You fucking losers, we win, we fucking win,’ Darren screams out.

‘Darren, calm down mate,’ I call out as we keep stepping towards the Saxon, only a few metres away now.

‘Why? We’ve won, we’ve fucking won, we’re untouchable, we can’t be beaten,’ Darren shouts louder and laughs.

We get to the Saxon, the rear doors still open.

Dave climbs in first, as I help Sarah up.

Dave goes straight to the GPMG to try and get it working again. The lads and men start piling in, as Darren stands away from us all.

‘COME ON THEN, COME AND FIGHT ME,’ Darren goads them and holds his rifle above his head.

‘Smithy, get back here now,’ I shout out, but he’s too far gone.

‘FUCKING COME ON THEN, COME AND TAKE ME, YOU CUNTS,’ Darren screams and suddenly drops the rifle and charges into them.

‘SMITHY, STOP,’ McKinney shouts and runs after him.

‘NO, STOP,’ I shout, but Darren runs and starts attacking them, taking swipes with his bayonet and thrusting forward to stab them.

McKinney catches up with him and tries to pull him back. McKinney tries harder and Darren swings out hard, knocking McKinney to the ground.

‘DARREN, STOP,’ I shout and start forward, as the horde suddenly approach and start grouping round Darren.

‘YOU FUCKERS,’ I shout and charge forward.

The zombies drop down onto McKinney who is trying to crab away; within seconds, he is swamped with zombies that bite into his legs and stomach. I reach them and swing the axe out to cut them away. McKinney screams from the pain of the bites. I kill those on him and they suddenly draw back again. I drop down to McKinney’s side and watch as the blood pours from his mouth. I look down at his savaged body and see his innards spilling out of the ragged wound to his stomach.

‘Mr Howie… I’m sorry, Mr Howie…’ McKinney whispers, as more blood cascades out of his mouth.

‘It’s okay, mate, I’m sorry. You’ve fought so bravely. You are so very brave,’ I feel tears spilling down my face, as I cradle his head in my hands.

‘Mr Howie, kill me - don’t let me become one of them,’ he speaks slowly.

‘I can’t, you’ll be okay, we can get you help,’ I weep as I speak, trying to offer him some comfort.

‘Kill me, don’t let them take me,’ his voice grows weaker, as Dave drops down to my side and stares at me.

‘Don’t you fucking touch him,’ I snarl at Dave. ‘Don’t you lay a hand on his fucking head,’ I scream out, as strong hands grip me from behind and pull me away.

‘DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HIM,’ I scream at Dave, who stares back at me. I see a tear spilling down from his eye, but I keep yelling.

‘Easy, Mr Howie, take it easy,’ Clarence’s deep voice fills my ear, as he pulls me back.

‘DAVE, DON’T FUCKING DO IT, DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE,’ I scream and I see more tears fall down Dave’s face.

He drops his head and cradles McKinney in his arms. He holds him close, as I scream and fight to break free.

Dave gently sweeps his blade across McKinney’s throat and I see the red blood pouring out from the open artery.

‘DAVE, NO,’ I scream and my legs go out from under me.

Clarence grips me hard and pulls me back and I hear Sarah’s voice but can’t make out any words.

Dave gently places his hands on McKinney’s face and I watch as he closes McKinney’s eyes, then he slowly stands and looks at me, his cheeks wet from the falling tears.

Seeing McKinney die and then Dave crying, breaks my heart and I feel myself being pulled into the back of the Saxon. Dave climbs in beside me.

‘Where’s Darren?’ Tucker asks, in a quiet voice.

‘They took him,’ Clarence says.

I hear sobs breaking out round me and I watch as Dave’s face remains expressionless, but he is still crying.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Howie,’ Dave says quietly, staring down at the floor.

I see the hardest man I have ever met, crumbling in front of me, from that simple act to fulfil a dying man’s wish - and I fight my emotions back under control.

‘No, Dave.’

He looks at me with fear in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say gently and I hear more sobbing break out round me.

The rear doors are pulled closed and the engine starts.

The road must be clear, because we pull away and I feel the motion of the vehicle. Sarah drops down at my side and she holds me as I fight to keep the tears from coursing down my face.

Dave and I stare at each other as we drive away.

Darren is pulled into the horde and fights with fury, still thinking he can take them all on.

As Howie weeps over the dying McKinney, the infection floods Darren’s system with images and voices that tell him he is the leader now. The infection floods through him, taking him over and turning him. Darren feels the pain course through him as his systems shut down, his heart slows and he dies quietly from the deadly infection; whilst being held gently by the many hands of the undead round him.

His eyes close as he ceases to be. His life is over and he is gone. Then they open quickly and Darren Smith stares out from red, bloodshot eyes, as his heart starts again and the blood is pumped round his now undead body.

The infection floods him with a feeling of confidence and strength.

The infection floods the horde with the same feelings that Darren used to have: devotion and pride. Now it is no longer targeted towards Howie, but to him, Darren Smith. The undead back away from their new leader and hundreds of red, bloodshot eyes, stare at Darren as he slowly gets to his feet.

They back away and create space round him. Darren stands and looks out to the dead form of McKinney. Then, as the zombies fall back to stand in a long line behind him, he stares up at the retreating Saxon and watches as it slowly drives away, through the gap left by the zombie undead.

Darren Smith stands and stares; thousands of undead all round him, gazing at him with devotion and love. Chemicals are sent coursing through thousands of bodies and a different set of hormones and chemicals are sent through Darren.

I am Darren.

I am death and I will come for you, Howie.

I am death and I will come for you, with my army.

DAY SEVEN

Thursday.

High above the surface of the Earth, water vapour forms in the troposphere and white clouds expand and quickly cast shadows over the already darkening land.

Those clouds form and move with the wind and soon cover the once vibrant city of London.

The already grim looking streets and buildings appear more despondent, as long shadows form over the bloodstains and the rotting corpses that litter the ground. The abnormally high temperatures of the last week have scorched this normally wet land. Swarms of flies and insects drift round the streets, moving from corpse to corpse, laying eggs. Those eggs soon hatch in the perfect breeding ground and the corpses look alive as thousands of fat, white maggots writhe and burrow their way through the skin.

The first drops of rainfall drop through the warm air to land on the windscreen of the Saxon Armoured Personal Carrier driving through those grim city streets, back to Tower Bridge.

By the time the Saxon enters the Bridge, sheets of rain are covering the surface with spray. Visibility is instantly reduced and the Saxon slows to a stop. One by one, the men climb out from the vehicle and stand under the purifying downpour; letting the water cleanse them from the dirt of battle. Crimson pools form at their feet as the blood is sluiced from their skin and clothes. They hold their heads back, open mouthed, and drink the cascading, cool water. They wipe their hands, pull fingers through their hair, and then wring their clothes out, to rid themselves of the filth and gore.

The three losses they suffered are heavy on their minds and hearts and their tears blend with the rain as they cry silently. Now they can grieve and mourn those losses. They know more hardship awaits them and later there will not be time for mourning.

Sarah stands close to the doors of the Saxon, sensing the bond between these men and realising this experience is not hers to share. She watches Howie closely, and can already see the change in her brother. The goofy, playful, sweet-natured man has been replaced by a hardened warrior. She doesn’t know how he came to be here or what happened along the way, or why the men follow him, but she saw the reaction Howie had to the dying lad and felt the emotion in all of them as they watched him die.

Sarah held Howie as he wept in the back of the vehicle and looked round to see them all with tear-filled eyes, and that small man called Dave... he stayed by her side throughout the battle back to the Saxon and the way he moved was extraordinary. It’s clear to Sarah that there’s a deep connection between her brother and Dave.

Now, standing at the back of the vehicle, arms crossed and sheltering from the rain, she watches them, as they stand in silence, letting the rain pour down on them.

‘What the fuck happened, Dave?’ Howie asks.

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘We were doing so well,’ Howie says shaking his head. ‘I know we lost one on the way in, but I thought we’d all be slaughtered - there were so many of them.’

Dave nods as Howie speaks.

‘Why did they suddenly stop?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And what happened to Darren? He just charged them on his own and I told McKinney to keep an eye on him and stay close… and now he’s dead,’ Howie said, holding his hands to his forehead.

‘It’s not your fault, Mr Howie, some people just react that way,’ Dave replied, with a rare troubled look on his face.

‘No, that was something else, mate,’ Howie shakes his head. ‘It was as if he was possessed or something. I know he’d been feeling rough, but he fought well, he was a brave lad and to end like that was awful. Poor McKinney, did you know his mother died just a few months ago? He told me, when we were in the hospital. He said he hated hospitals because they reminded him of when his mother was sick. I took him to his death for my own gain; I led them both into it and now they’re gone.’

‘Something wasn’t right with Darren,’ Dave says, quietly.

‘Yeah, he was sick and we took him into that fight,’ Howie snaps back.

‘No, I mean something wasn’t right with him,’ Dave replies, his voice trailing off.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know, he was reckless and taking stupid risks and he hadn’t fought like that before, he kept putting himself at risk and getting away with it.’

‘We all put ourselves at risk, it was a monumentally stupid thing to do…’

‘No, they had chances to take him, I took a couple out, but I saw them holding back.’

‘What do you mean?’ Howie says.

Dave shrugs and shakes his head.

‘They could have had him, they had chances, the way he was over-extending himself and lunging too far forward.’

‘Dave, what are you saying?’ Howie asks, concerned at the tone of his friends voice.

‘You said that he was sick…’

‘Yeah, well we knew he was sick,’ Howie says, confused.

‘He looked sick and he said he felt sick, then he started going crazy and they were holding back on him.’

‘Maybe they were holding back on all of us? I mean, they stopped and moved back, didn’t they… no, they certainly weren’t holding back on me,’

‘That’s what I mean, they took one of Big Chris’s men down, and they took McKinney down in seconds, so why not Darren?’

‘They did take him…’ Howie starts to say.

‘Did they? I didn’t see it, I saw him being taken by them, but I didn’t see them bite or attack him, they just enveloped him and he was gone… and when he charged and attacked them, they didn’t react, not one of them went for him, but when McKinney got to him they had him instantly.’

‘Dave…’ Howie says, shaking his head. ‘Spit it out, mate.’

‘I don’t know, but it’s like they didn’t want to take him. Think, Mr Howie. I know you were upset about McKinney, but you saw it, you were the closest to them,’ Dave says, firmly.

Howie looks down to the water, thinking back to just a short time ago. Darren had become very strange, screaming abuse at them and goading them to fight him, he did charge at them and he can’t remember Darren being attacked.

He clearly remembers seeing McKinney on the ground with zombies biting into him and then Howie was there with his axe, knocking them back.

‘I didn’t see Darren being attacked, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t,’ Howie says.

‘They were both there at the front. Darren was attacking them and McKinney was trying to stop him, we all saw that, so why kill McKinney and not Darren? I ran to them and couldn’t see Darren, he was gone.’ Dave says.

‘Is this a private conversation?’ Big Chris asks, as he walks up to them.

‘Chris, did you see what happened to Darren?’ Howie enquires.

‘Those things had him,’ Chris answers, confused at the question.

‘What did you see, Chris?’ Howie questions, staring hard at the big man as Malcolm and Clarence walk over to them.

‘Lads, come over here,’ Howie calls out to the rest and they start drifting closer, until they’re all standing round Howie and Dave, in the pouring rain.

Sarah moves closer, watching the group and the serious expression on her brother’s face.

‘Listen, I’m sorry for what happened back there, both of our groups lost people and watching McKinney die like that was truly awful,’ Howie watches as the recruit’s eyes drop down, fresh tears falling. ‘I know it’s painful, but did anyone see what happened to Smithy?’ Howie instantly regrets using the nickname they had all used for Darren.

‘He went fucking nuts and got McKinney killed,’ Cookey spits out, with a flash of anger and Howie watches a few of them nod, in agreement.

‘We need to think about this clearly. He was sick right? Then he felt better and then he was laughing and shouting as we fought. I haven’t seen him do that before, but you know him better…’

‘No, he never did anything like that before,’ Blowers answers.

‘Right at the end, when he charged them on his own, what did you see?’ Howie presses them.

‘Sir, he ran forward screaming, then he started attacking them, they didn’t react though. They just stood there and took it, then McKinney tried to pull him back and he got pushed off, then he tried again and Darren knocked him down,’ Jamie says. ‘Then they went for McKinney and Darren got pulled in.’

The rest of the group all stare at him and he blushes from the sudden attention.

‘Jamie… you saw all of this?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes, Mr Howie. They didn’t bite him or anything, they just grabbed him and he was gone.’

‘Did anyone see Darren getting bitten?’ Howie asks the group.

‘What’s this about, Howie?’ Chris asks, with a serious expression.

‘Dave says that Darren was fighting recklessly, putting himself at risk, but those things didn’t go for him, they were holding back.’

‘You think he’s one of them?’ Malcolm finally voices the unspoken thoughts.

‘I don’t know, but he was sick, then he went nuts and they didn’t go for him,’ Howie shrugs.

‘Fuck me…’ Blowers says, reeling from the idea.

‘No way,’ Tucker adds.

‘He stopped firing on that fucking GPMG at the hospital too,’ Blowers suddenly adds.

‘He did what?’ Chris asks, turning on Blowers.

‘While you lot were inside, we had a massive contact at the front, Darren was on the GPMG and just froze up. I had to drag him down to take over.’

‘But anyone infected just goes down… I’ve seen it too many times,’ Clarence rumbles.

‘It’s a possibility, but I don’t know how. He hadn’t been bitten or scratched… that I saw,’ Howie says.

‘So, worst case scenario, he’s one of them?’ Chris asks.

‘We have to consider it,’ Dave says, firmly.

They stand in silence, absorbing the idea and its implications.

‘So… if he is one of them, does that mean anything to us?’ Cookey asks.

‘Yes,’ replies Dave.

‘He knows our numbers, strengths, where we’re heading, the route we took, the access and egress points…’ Chris says.

‘So why aren’t they attacking?’ Blowers asks.

‘I don’t know, they stopped back there and just let us go,’ Howie says.

‘Maybe they stopped so Darren would go for them,’ Dave adds.

‘That would be suggesting it has some form of intelligence,’ said Malcolm.

‘They knew where we were going, they massed in the exact place we were heading for, and if Darren was one of them, that explains how they knew where we were going,’ Howie theorised. ‘Which shows a form of intelligence.’

‘If they have intelligence, then they pulled back as a tactic - they used strategy to take what they wanted,’ Chris says.

‘What for? Why would they want Darren?’ Tucker asks, trying to keep up.

‘If he was the only one infected, then it would have to be him,’ Howie says.

‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ Nick Hewitt suddenly adds. ‘They’re just fucking, mindless zombies, that’s all. They can’t plan or make tactics, they were walking off the fucking Bridge, for God’s sake!’

‘It makes sense - perfect sense,’ Sarah cuts in, as they all turn to stare at her. ‘Those things were outside before you came but nowhere near the numbers they are now, they must have known where you were going and flooded the area, ready for you, and, if they knew that lad was infected, then why not take him - he’s one of theirs,’ she continues.

‘They came for us at the services, they sent loads after us and those people said they had gone unnoticed before we arrived, and we already said it was like we were being targeted,’ affirms Howie.

‘Then they know about our place,’ Chris adds.

‘Your place?’ Sarah asks.

‘They’ve rigged up a sort of commune a few miles out, there’s about two-thousand survivors there,’ Howie explains.

‘So… if this Darren knows about the commune, are they safe?’ Sarah asks.

‘We left them alone and didn’t go in for the mass killing, like these boys here,’ Chris says.

‘We have to accept that they are able to change, we’ve seen them change at night, and now during the day too… they can get faster when it suits them,’ Howie says.

‘Howie,’ Sarah says urgently, causing them all to turn and look at her. She is staring at the Bridge. They follow her gaze and look down to see the entire road blocked with undead, a solid and mighty gathering, assembled where the Bridge meets the road.

‘Fuck me, they did that quietly,’ Chris mutters.

‘They’re just standing, watching…’ Cookey says.

One of them takes a few steps forward and comes to stop, just over the Bridge line; a symbolic passing of the threshold.

‘That’s Darren,’ Dave says quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

‘All the weapons are in the vehicle,’ Howie murmurs. ‘Dave, are you sure that’s Darren?’

‘Yes,’ Dave replies.

‘It is Darren,’ Jamie says, with confidence.

‘Look at the way they’re formed up, perfectly spaced,’ Malcolm says, stepping forward to peer through the rain.

Darren takes another few steps forward.

‘What’s he want?’ Tucker asks, with fear in his voice.

‘Fuck it, I’ll go and ask him,’ Howie says angrily and starts striding towards Darren, as the rest of the group follow in his wake.

‘Wait there, I’ll go on my own,’ Howie calls back, as Dave joins him at his side.

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, ignoring him.

‘No point asking you again, is there?’

‘Not really,’ Dave answers.

They walk down the Bridge, through the rain, drawing closer to Darren, seeing the perfect lines and spaces between the undead massed before them. All of them have their heads erect as they watch the small, advancing group.

Howie and Dave halt a few steps away from Darren and they all observe one another. Darren looks pale and drawn, his normally ruddy complexion already gone and the skin pulled tight across his face. He looks almost normal - other than that – apart from the red, bloodshot eyes that stare intently at Howie.

‘Mr Howie…’ Darren says, with a sneer, drawing the sound out.

‘Nice to see you too, Darren,’ Howie replies casually. ‘How are you, mate?’

‘Great, better than ever,’ Darren replies quickly, with a strong voice.

‘You don’t look it mate, you look rough.’

‘No, Mr Howie,’ he replies, drawing the sound of his name out again. ‘I feel great, fucking wonderful,’ he adds, forcefully.

‘Darren, you’re infected mate - but you’re still talking… maybe it’s not too late. We’ve got that doctor back in the commune and all that equipment now. If you’re the first that can communicate with them and tell them how it is, they might be able to help,’ Howie says.

‘Spare me the goody speech, Mr Howie; I don’t need your fucking help. I think I have enough at the moment,’ Darren smiles and motions towards the huge horde massed behind him.

‘So, what do you want then, mate?’ Howie asks.

‘You.’

‘Me? What for?’ Howie replies.

‘All of you, I want all of you and especially you,’ Darren stares at Howie.

‘What for, Darren?’ Howie asks.

‘I want you to fucking die. I’m going to kill you all slowly and turn you and I’ll keep a part of you alive, so you know what’s happening when you come back,’ Darren says, grinning menacingly.

‘Why, Darren?’ Howie asks, forcing himself to keep his tone steady, despite the anger rising inside him.

‘You have taken so many of my kind down, too many, but the tide has turned, Mr Howie, oh yes. I’ve got an army now, and not just a bunch of fucking idiots chasing you round the country.’

‘Your kind? Darren, listen to yourself, you were part of this just a couple of hours ago, you killed them, just as we did. They took our lives and our families and everything we loved, they are evil Darren, and you don’t have to be part of them. Come back with us, mate.’

‘No, I am not with you or your ragtag bunch of misfits. I killed them because I followed you. They only kill them because of you. Just because they took your parents, oh poor Howie lost his parents and now they’re zombies, poor Howie is all alone, so he decides to kill every living thing to try and rescue his whore sister,’ Darren laughs as he shouts. ‘His fucking, whore sister, dirty fucking sister. He killed everything and risked the lives of everyone to rescue his dirty, fucking, cunt of a sister just because his parents died.’

Any icy hand grips Howie inside, but he remains motionless, watching Darren shout and laugh, as he starts to walk back and forth between Howie and the massed zombie mob behind him.

‘Oh look, here come Howie’s heroes, a shambling fucking mess, look at them,’ Darren laughs, as Howie turns to see the rest of the group walking down to stand behind Howie and Dave.

‘Oh no, Howie’s heroes have come to get me, oh no someone save me, maybe your dirty, cunt, whore, slut, sister will come and rescue you, Howie,’ Darren screams out.

Howie remains still, and, despite the growing rage inside of him, he keeps his face neutral. The rest pick up on Howie’s lack of reaction and remain quiet.

‘Oh… hi Jamie,’ Darren waves at the quiet lad. ‘Have you fucked Dave up the arse yet? You know you want to… oh and there’s Tucker the fat fucker. Hey Tucker, how many pies have you eaten yet, you fat roly poly cunt. Ha! That’s fucking funny - Tucker the fat fucker,’ Darren throws his head back and laughs.

Then he suddenly turns back to the undead and shouts: ‘LAUGH,’ and thousands of undead voices start laughing hard.

Darren spins back to face Howie and the group, smiling as the forced laughter erupts from behind him. He slowly raises his hand and clicks his fingers; the laughing stops instantly.

‘Oh and there’s Nick - thick cunt who can’t read or write… can you, Nick? You never got past “Spot Goes To The Beach” did you mate? Still playing with the Join The dots Books, eh, Nick?’

‘Yes, Darren,’ Nick replies, quietly.

‘Yes, Darren,’ Darren mimics Nick, in a high-pitched voice.

‘And then there’s Blowers and Cookey, what a pair of utter cunts, fucking playing at soldiers… yes, Mr Howie and no, Mr Howie and can I suck your cock, Mr Howie? ’ Darren shouts as he walks back and forth, spittle flying from his mouth. Then he stops and stares directly at Dave.

‘Hello, Dave,’ Darren says with a mock, friendly tone. ‘How are you Dave?’

Dave remains void of expression, his cold, hard eyes staring directly at Darren.

‘Oh… are we playing the staring game, Dave? Okay mate, let’s do that,’ Darren takes a step forward and stares hard into Dave’s eyes.

Dave doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t move a muscle, and no hint of emotion escapes his cold eyes.

‘You are a fucking, little, runt,’ Darren explodes in fury as Dave stares back, without moving.

‘You just want to fuck Howie up the arse - you fucking fag. You want to do a reach around with Howie while his dirty cunt sister licks your arse,’ Darren turns and starts thrusting his pelvis back and forth, while stretching one arm out.

‘That’s fucking, brilliant,’ Howie bursts out laughing, as Darren spins round to face him. Howie starts applauding him, while laughing.

‘Very good mate, have you finished?’ Howie asks.

‘Don’t fucking laugh at me, you cunt. I’ve got an army and I will not be laughed at,’ Darren screams and clicks his fingers.

The massive horde all take a step forward, perfectly in time, and stamp their feet down, which booms out in the quiet air.

‘Very impressive, mate!’ Howie smiles. ‘Can you make them dance too?’

‘I don’t think you should be mocking me, Mr Howie,’ Darren says, through gritted teeth.

‘What do you think Dave, should we be taking Darren seriously?’ Howie asks.

‘No, Mr Howie, I don’t think we should,’ Dave replies.

‘But he has got such a big army behind him though, what do you think, lads? Should we be taking Darren and his army seriously?’ Howie calls out, behind him.

‘I think they look a bit gay,’ Cookey replies.

‘You’d know,’ Blowers replies, quick as a flash. ‘Have they set off your gaydar?’

‘Blowers, it’s time you stopped hiding behind the gay jokes and came out mate,’ Cookey retorts.

‘You want to hide behind me, that’s for sure,’ Blowers replies, to a few sniggers, and Howie smiles inside.

‘Oi… Tucker, have you got any mince pies, I think Blowers wants one,’ Cookey says, laughing.

‘Hey Darren, do you get to choose the ones you want to bum?’ Nick shouts out, to more sniggers and Howie watches Darren’s face grow darker.

‘Chris, did you ever see such an impressive army mate?’ Howie asks, drawing the big man into the conversation.

‘Oh no, they’re the biggest and bestest I ever did see,’ Chris replies, scathingly.

‘And the uniform is the best we’ve seen yet,’ Malcolm adds.

Darren takes a sudden step forward, with his fists clenched; the group drop the laughing and take a step towards him, which, in turn, makes the massive horde take another step forward.

Howie and Darren lock eyes, both breathing hard and staring, with fixed intent.

‘You come for me, Darren. I’ve killed many of them and I won’t stop. I’ll fucking slaughter every single one of them that I can find, so you come for me and see what happens, mate,’ Howie says, quietly.

‘Oh, I will, Mr Howie, and I’ll turn every person I can find and… along the way, I will leave this land ravaged and destroyed,’ Darren snarls back at him.

They stand with eyes locked and Howie visualises ripping his throat out there and then.

Night hits and, as one, the undead look to the sky and howl into the air; thousands of voices filling the night sky, sending shivers down the spines of all the men that watch them. They start to back away but Howie stands his ground for a few more seconds, watching a slow smile form across Darren’s face. Then Howie leans forward and stares hard at his former friend.

‘Roar,’ Howie says simply and walks away, showing his back to the horde and praying they don’t cut him down.

‘Am I the only one that wants to fucking leg it,’ Cookey says, as they all walk steadily back to the Saxon.

‘No, I certainly do,’ Big Chris adds.

‘So why are we walking then?’ Tucker asks.

‘Don’t give them the satisfaction,’ Clarence rumbles.

‘FUCKING RUN!’ Howie shouts as he sprints past them, causing them all to break out and start running. Howie dives into the back of the Saxon and clambers through to the driver’s seat as the rest climb into the rear.

‘They’re fucking running at us,’ Blowers shouts as he pulls the rear doors closed with a slam.

Howie starts the engine and pulls away with a jerk, sending them all lurching backwards and Sarah falls into the laps of the men. Soon, she gets her balance and stands back up, suddenly becoming aware of the big men in the confined space and the very wet tee-shirt that she is wearing.

‘Err, does anyone have a spare top?’ Sarah asks sweetly, a dozen tough men start scrabbling about quickly in the tight confines.

‘Here you go, Miss,’ Clarence speaks first, holding out a dry top to Sarah, as the others all stare daggers at him.

‘Is that my top?’ Nick asks, recognising the clothing.

‘I don’t know, is it?’ the massive man stares innocently back at Nick.

‘Er... maybe not,’ Nick adds quickly, looking up at Clarence.

‘Chris, does that truck driver still have one of the radios?’ Howie shouts back.

‘Yes, but they’re only short range things, do you think they’ll go for the commune?’ Chris shouts.

‘I’m sure of it - is that GPMG working now?’ Howie yells.

‘I’ll get on it,’ Dave replies and climbs up to start working, as the Saxon speeds up through the dark city streets.

No street lights come on, none of the shops are illuminated, and there is no warm light spilling from houses or apartment blocks any more. The rain clouds cover the night sky and cast the streets into absolute darkness.

The powerful headlights shine out like beacons in the darkness, and the zombies surge towards them like moths. The solid plated front of the Saxon hardly rocks, as they plough through body after body. The zombie’s bare their teeth as they lunge to the front of the vehicle.

‘Should we be shooting them down from the back doors?’ Tucker asks.

‘No, we’re going too fast and it’s not worth it, for dropping just a few of them, we need to get back as soon as possible,’ Chris says, with worry clearly in his voice.

‘How secure is it Chris? Will it withstand a mass attack?’ Howie shouts back.

‘No, we can hold against a few of them at a time but we’ve only been going a few days, a big push would get them through easily.’

‘Can we make it more secure?’ Howie asks.

‘If they’re coming for us with large numbers, we’ll have to bug out, we can’t repel ‘em and we don’t have time to secure it more,’ Chris shouts back.

‘How soon can they made ready to leave then?’ Howie asks.

‘It’ll take hours, we don’t have enough vehicles, and we’ve got kids and sick people too.’

‘I don’t think we’ll have hours Chris, they move fast at night and he knows where it is now, he can send them in to attack it.’

Chris looks to Malcolm and his men; they have families and friends. Fighting huge hordes of the undead in hand-to-hand combat is one thing, but now there is a direct threat against the people he offered safety and security to.

‘Are those Forts big enough for all of us?’ Malcolm calls out.

‘I don’t know, it depends how many have already gone there; how full they are. They are big though, especially the main one,’ Howie replies.

‘Is there anywhere else we can go, easy to defend and hold many people?’ Clarence asks.

‘Probably loads of places, but I don’t know of them,’ Howie shouts back.

‘We need to make a decision, Chris - we’ll have to move out as soon as we get back,’ Malcolm says.

‘Okay, we’ll go for the Forts. Women and children into whatever vehicles we can find, there’s still space in the truck we can use.’ Chris says.

‘They’ve probably started to unload it already,’ Clarence joins in.

‘We’ll have to take essential equipment only and use the rest of the space for people, we’ve also got the trucks that we used as barriers across the access roads,’ Chris says, thinking as he goes along. ‘Right, Malcolm, I want you to arrange the vehicles, get those trucks ready and lined up on the exit road. Clarence I want you to sort the hospital out, don’t take any shit from Doc Roberts and make sure he only takes essential items,’ Chris barks out.

‘Got it,’ Clarence nods.

‘Howie, can we use the Saxon at the rear access road to cover, if we get the GPMG working again,’ Chris asks.

‘I’ll get it working,’ Dave calls down.

‘Okay, Saxon at the rear with Nick on the GPMG, Jamie as sniper. Blowers, Cookey and Sarah I want you with the vehicles to help load the people up, they will be scared and confused, so be nice, but get them moving,’ Howie calls out, to nods and yells of affirmation.

‘Chris, do you have a stores area?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes,’ he replies.

‘One of our blokes excels in that area, can you make use of him to help organise?’

‘Yes, definitely,’ Chris shouts back.

‘Tucker, that’s you.’

‘On it,’ Tucker shouts back.

‘Dave, me and you will stick with Chris to work from a central point, we stay put, so everyone knows where we are so they can come to us, that okay with everyone?’

Sarah watches as the men and lads all shout out in acknowledgment, then she looks at Chris; a naturally big man with a dark beard and very white teeth – he has an air of natural leadership about him. He and the older men are clearly ex-soldiers, when they took their tops off in the rain she saw the scars on their bodies; bullet holes and knife slashes. Long healed but still very visible. Clarence is a huge man-mountain with muscles on top of muscles, but with a kind face. Then she looks to her brother. Less than a week ago he was working nights in a supermarket. Always a kind man, fun loving and very caring but now there is a hardness to him and these men respond to him and listen to what he’s saying. Her brother is giving orders in a manner that just makes them want to follow him.

She had watched as he stayed at the front fighting towards her, and then went back again, swinging that axe with a look of pure fury and hatred on his face and these battle hardened men and young lads are following him.

She can see the difference in him, the way he uses humour and kind words, but then gives an order that leaves no doubt it will be followed, and the thing is, it all makes sense. He shows respect to Big Chris, knowing that the big man is the leader of his group - but Sarah suspects that even if he hadn’t shown that respect, they would have still accepted what he said.

Life has changed, the whole world has changed, and her brother has changed the most.

He walked alone towards a huge horde of undead back on the Bridge, maybe he did feel fear, but he faced it and walked towards it. She knows he came for her and now that he has saved her, he could turn tail and run far away, but even now he’s accepted the responsibility of trying to save those other people. They are nothing to him, and these young lads don’t hold any loyalty to them or Howie. But they accept what he says without question.

She feels an immense sense of pride in her brother; she felt pride in him before, just for being a good person. But now... now he shines with a glowing light. He is amazing.

‘He’s a good man.’ A rich voice intones, and she snaps out of her reverie to see Clarence smiling at her.

‘What?’

‘Your brother, he’s a good man, a natural leader,’ he repeats.

‘Yeah, I guess he is,’ she smiles back at him.

‘HOLD ON TIGHT,’ Howie yells, as the Saxon slams into a horde gathered in the road, the impact at such high speed sends the Saxon rocking on its suspension causing them all to slide and fall in the back.

A huge hand shoots out and grabs Sarah round the waist to prevent her falling back.

‘Thanks… again,’ Sarah says to Clarence.

‘THERE’S MORE,’ Howie bellows and the Saxon rocks and jolts as it slams into body after body, pulverising them instantly from the raw power of the impact.

The Saxon careers through the streets, as Howie negotiates the bends and turns. Zombies launch themselves into the oncoming vehicle screaming, as they run and lunge forward; only to be splatted against the front, like flies.

‘BIG GROUP,’ Howie yells, as the lights pick up an oncoming horde, running full tilt at the Saxon. Howie pushes his foot down hard and the big engines roar out into the night, as the vehicle surges forward. Howie grips the wheel and growls deep in his throat.

‘BRACE,’ he screams as they impact.

A horde of undead zombies play chicken with a armour plated military vehicle. The result is devastation with bodies exploding as they strike the corners and skulls imploding on the solid metal being driven into them at speed.

‘They really don’t like us anymore,’ Howie shouts back, as they continually slam into the living corpses.

‘Have we done something to upset them?’ Cookey asks.

‘They got fed up with you touching them,’ Blowers says, to loud groans from everyone else. He smiles round at them, ‘What?’

‘Please don’t start that again,’ Tucker whines.

‘Hey, don’t tell me, tell Cookey - I’m only saying what I see,’ Blowers replies.

‘Blowers, you are homophobic and I find it offensive,’ Cookey says, in a serious tone, causing a few of the others to burst out laughing.

‘Homophobic! Me?’ Blowers says back at him.

‘You are homophobic and you offend me and you could offend some of these new people with those nasty comments,’ Cookey says, retaining his serious tone, to more laughs.

‘Who am I going to offend?’ Blowers laughs back at him.

‘Me,’ a rich, deep voice says from behind him.

Blowers turns to stare up at Clarence, who, in turn, stares back down with a very serious expression.

‘You?’ Blowers asks. 'You’re not gay!’ he adds.

‘Aren’t I?’

‘Err… are you?’ Blowers asks, looking up at the huge man.

Clarence stares back in silence, a silence that is only broken by the thumps and bangs as the Saxon hits more zombies.

‘Err… I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean anything, I... was just... um,’ Blowers stammers, unaware of Big Chris, Malcolm and the other men all smiling behind him.

Blowers keeps going for several seconds, stuttering and stammering his words, while staring up at the imposing face of Clarence.

Clarence suddenly bursts out laughing, like a braying donkey with his deep voice and they erupt as Blowers glares round at them.

‘Piss off, I knew he wasn’t gay,’ Blowers shouts out.

‘You shit yourself mate,’ Cookey says, wiping tears from his eyes, even Sarah laughs at Clarence’s deep braying.

‘Never seen you nervous before, Blowers,’ Nick laughs at him.

‘Yeah, very funny, very funny,’ Blowers mutters and starts laughing himself.

The Saxon drives through the night, until it reaches the road leading to the rear of the commune. Within seconds of arriving in the area, the undead suddenly stop attacking them; standing still, but leaning forward to scream and bare their teeth as the vehicle roars past them.

‘Why are they holding back?’ Sarah asks, leaning forward to look through the windscreen.

‘We’re right near the commune, they must be waiting to gather more numbers, before attacking,’ Howie shouts back. ‘There’s no other reason I can think off.’

‘The entrance is in sight Chris, are we safe to go straight in?’ Howie yells.

‘Yes, they’ll recognise the vehicle,’ he shouts back.

‘GPMG is sorted,’ Dave says, as he drops back down. ‘I’ve cleaned it the best I can, too.’

‘Right, if they’re starting to mass we need to move very quickly. Nick get on that GPMG, you’re with Jamie here, the rest need to get moving,’ Howie shouts as the vehicle pulls up in front of the truck parked across the road.

Big Chris jumps out of the back and shouts for the truck to be moved, as he strides forward. Within seconds, the gap opens and the Saxon pulls through.

‘We’ll leave it here, Curtis, you stay with them, mate, they might need a driver for it,’ Howie says as they all get out and start moving off to their allocated positions. Chris is surrounded by people coming to greet them, he silences them all by holding his hands up in the air.

‘We will be attacked very soon,’ he says loudly and simply. ‘We have to get everyone out and we need to do it now, get those trucks turned round and every vehicle we have down to the front,’ Chris turns to a few of his men.  ‘I want you to start sweeping down, do it quickly but thoroughly, get everyone you can find to help you, get them all to the front ready to get on the vehicles. Women and children first, no stopping to get toys or clothes. We will be overrun very soon and we must move quickly, do it now,’ Chris urges, as they start sprinting away.

He turns back to the guards still standing by the access point: ‘You lads, you heard what I said, we’ve got the Saxon here and a couple of lads with it, but I need you to stay and hold this area. Take this radio and keep me updated if you get contact, got it?’

They nod back and turn to stare out, as Nick climbs up through the look-out position and turns the machine gun round to face back down the road. Jamie and Curtis sat inside the back of the vehicle, facing down the road, with their rifles aimed and ready.

Howie, Dave and Big Chris start striding down the main road as his men move quickly ahead of him, darting in and out of the buildings.

All down the wide main street, people start running about with panicked looks, grabbing at children and pulling them along; as soon as Chris comes into view they aim straight for him.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this, get ready and get down to the front,’ Chris repeats over and again, his voice staying calm.

The truck they used to transport equipment from the hospital in Canary Wharf back to the commune is resting in the main road. The rear doors open wide and half the equipment has already been carried into the makeshift hospital. Howie looks over at the building as they pass and sees the shaggy eyebrows of Doctor Roberts peering out at them.

‘Chris, what’s going on?’ Doc Roberts walks swiftly towards them, his long white coat flapping out behind him.

‘Doc, we’re going to be overrun very soon, get loaded with whatever you can grab and get down the front,’ Chris calls back.

‘Right,’ the doctor calls out, without breaking stride; a man used to processing information very quickly and reacting without panic. He turns to stride back inside the hospital, barking orders to people as he goes.

They reach the pub on the corner, amidst scenes of bedlam; people shouting and torches flashing, as men run back and forth. The refugees scurry towards the assembly point, all of them clearly terrified, children scream and cry as desperate parents snap and cajole them to move faster and keep up. Armed men and women run through the masses towards Chris, taking instructions and are told where to position themselves. Howie assists where he can, diverting questions from terrified residents and urging them to move quickly.

The truck from the rear entrance point drives slowly past them, followed by more vehicles taken from the commune’s hastily gathered collection.

‘I think you’ll be needing these,’ a woman appears, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of coffee, a small pot of sugar next to them on the tray. She puts the tray down on one of the wooden bench seats outside the pub and Howie sees Chris smile for the first time since they got back.

‘Thanks love, are you ready to go?’ Chris asks gently, drawing the woman into his arms.

‘I’ll be ready when you are,’ she replies, smiling up at him.

‘I suppose there’s no point in asking you to get down the front is there?’

‘I suppose you know the answer to that,’ she replies quickly, but still with the smile. ‘How was it out there?’ She adds.

‘Bloody awful,’ he replies.

A man marches towards Chris. Howie steps out to intercept him, trying to give the big man a moment of privacy.

‘Hi, can I help you?’ Howie asks, in his best supermarket manager’s voice.

‘I want to know what’s going on. We were told we were safe here…’

‘CONTACT AT REAR ENTRANCE,’ Dave’s and Chris’s radios boom out.

‘Chris to rear entrance, what have you got there?’

‘Lots of zombies, they are staring at us, at the end of the road, looks like they are getting ready. Permission to engage.’

Extract from Howie’s Journal:

The infection has mutated far beyond anything it was ever designed or cultured to be. Up until now, each host has been completely consumed by the virus working into every cell of the body. This method worked well but it had limitations, that the infection was only too aware off. But now the mutation has become extreme. Darren has ceased being a human and has been completely infected, but rather than destroying every part of Darren, the infection worked to integrate with him. Keeping memories, skills and a lifetime of learning and allowing Darren access to anything that will help the cause, while denying any sense of guilt or remorse.

The greatest advancement by the infection has been the ability to strictly control the flow of memories and instincts, but, more than this, it is the mastering of the chemical hormones that control these bodies.

These chemicals excreted throughout the human system control every emotion and every possible feeling that can be experienced. The infection has learnt that these bodies can be controlled by using electrical impulses to the muscles and they can be given a primary function of seeking new hosts. But those hormones and chemicals make the difference between a human and a deeply, feeling person.

Every pocket of resistance around the world, suddenly finds themselves facing a disciplined and organised army of undead. Hordes gather at the entry points and rather than attacking prematurely, they wait in silence and with patience; concentrating on the resistors who have killed the most hosts, for they must be stopped.

In London, Darren walks with a fast pace through the streets, towards the commune at the head of a huge trailing army of zombies. Each of them walking with purpose and a fixed stare. The infection floods them with chemicals that make them aggressive and angry. They growl and roar as they stalk through the streets, fighting the ever increasing urge to break free and race forward to take the resistors down. The zombies ahead of them hold and wait for the head of the army to pass, roaring out with loyalty as Darren walks by them. He doesn’t flinch, but stares ahead with a determined glare on his face, fixed on images of Howie dying painfully and that whore sister of his being ripped apart; Dave being slowly tortured and begging for his life with his dying breath.

Darren also conjures up images of Blowers and Cookey being made to humiliate and degrade themselves with disgusting sex acts, before they too become killed and are turned into his loyal subjects. Jamie Reese having his eyes gouged out. Tucker being force-fed human flesh. One by one, he thinks through his former comrades and dreams of ways of torturing and killing them slowly. But the one that matters the most is Howie, and Darren will not stop until he can slaughter his sister in front of him, slaughter every one of them in front of him and then slowly turn Howie.

The infection inside him revels in the power and the sudden organisation using this host has brought, and it knows the resistor’s time is now very limited.

Darren sends the undead to the access points of the commune and holds them in position, he has learnt that a co-ordinated and focussed attack on many points will be far harder to repel. Learning the skills of survival, strategy and tactics from Dave, he now puts those to use and holds the undead army in the shadows. Darren knows that the increasing numbers standing just close enough to be seen will send fear and dread through the people in the commune. They will be panicked and make mistakes and be far harder to control.

Not like his loyal subjects, they are easy to control and bend to his will. But those people, those feeble people will panic and scream in fear, which will only make his zombie warriors fight harder to get at them.

The infection has also learnt that the more speed he applies to the hosts, the less power and strength they have. Even at night, if the infection can hold them at a steady pace, rather than an all-out, reckless charge, they will have greater energy for the killing and the taking of more hosts.

_____________________________________

Big Chris, Howie and Dave stand outside the pub, receiving a constant flow of intelligence from the eyes and ears placed all round the perimeter. The undead are massing at nearly every access point but they hold and wait. This knowledge spreads like wildfire through the area and people start running and screaming in panic, fearing they will be attacked, at any minute.

‘That fucker knows what he’s doing,’ Howie says bitterly. ‘Maybe we should open up on them, start cutting the numbers down.’

‘I think we should, better than waiting for them to go for us,’ Chris says.

‘No, we’ll keep loading the people up - if they attack now and break through, we’ll get overrun. Every minute they hold off, buys us time,’ Dave says, firmly.

‘Chris to all units and access points, do not engage until they attack, do not prompt them to attack, hold positions and wait.’

‘I’m going down the front to see how they’re getting on,’ Howie says, feeling frustrated. He walks off with Dave, stepping beside him.

‘Mate, this is nuts,’ Howie says, shaking his head.

‘It is.’

‘Fucking Darren, did you see him back there? He was fucking demented and twisted up, poor lad.’

‘Do you feel sorry for him?’ Dave asks.

‘Sort off, don’t get me wrong though, I’ll fucking kill him the first chance I’ll get, but still…’

‘Still what?’

‘You know, we knew him, he was one of us and that doesn’t just go away.’

‘Oh, yes of course,’ Dave replies.

‘Dave, have you ever had anything like this happen before?’ Howie asks.

‘You mean having the world end from a zombie outbreak and fighting across the country in an Armoured Personnel Carrier training vehicle in order to rescue a woman and then fighting back out, while one of my men gets turned into one of the aforementioned zombies, no… I haven’t?’

‘Funny fucker, I meant have you ever had one of yours turn against you,’ Howie laughs.

‘Yes, it does happen. Blokes get paid off, or offered other things to go rogue,’ Dave replies.

‘What did you do?’

‘I killed them,’ Dave says.

‘Makes sense,’ Howie nods, as they reach the end of the row of vehicles and sees Blowers and Cookey urging people into a line and then sending them forward to the vehicles as they pull forward.

‘How’s it going lads?’ Howie asks, as he walks up.

‘Bloody nightmare, Mr Howie, everyone’s going crazy. We got them in a line here and send them forward to Sarah at the vehicles, she’s helping them get loaded and shouting when the next one is ready,’ Blowers replies.

‘We got loads into the first truck, if we can get them down here, we’ll shift them a lot quicker,’ Cookey adds, as he waves the approaching people into the line, ‘MOVE OVER TO THE LINE PLEASE, WE WILL GET YOU AWAY VERY SOON,’ he yells out.

‘Howie to Chris, we need the trucks down front, we've got too many people here waiting for vehicles,’ Howie says into the radio.

‘Chris to any units listening, get those trucks down to the front as a priority,’ his voice returns on the radio.

‘Clarence to Chris, I’m on it now, Doc Roberts has got half his truck filled, I’ll get them down to you now,’ Clarence’s deep voice booms out.

Within minutes, the huge bald man is walking down the road ahead of two trucks, he steps aside and waves them towards the front of the vehicle line. Sarah steps out of the vehicles and stands in front of the first truck, waving her arms high to stop it.

‘HOLD IT THERE, BLOWERS AND COOKEY, GET THOSE PEOPLE INTO THE BACK OF THIS ONE FIRST,’ she yells out, with a calm and confident voice.

‘GOT IT,’ Blowers shouts back. ‘Your sister takes after you then, Mr Howie,’ Blowers says, with a smile.

‘She’s bossier than me, mate, she’ll be running the show, within an hour,’ Howie laughs back.

‘OKAY, LISTEN IN PEOPLE. WE NEED TO GET YOU INTO THE TRUCK. WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST, STAY CALM,’ Cookey shouts out, as the crowd start surging towards the rear.

Howie walks round to see Clarence and Sarah at the back doors of the truck, helping people up; a constant surge against them as the panicked people try to clamber in.

‘MOVE BACK AND WAIT,’ Clarence shouts out, to no effect and Howie nods at Dave.

‘YOU WILL WAIT AND MOVE CALMLY,’ Dave’s voice booms out into the air, silencing the entire area, as everyone turns to look.

‘Cheers Dave,’ Clarence rumbles with a smile, as he and Sarah return to helping lift people up into the back.

Questions are thrown at them, and children scream as they are pushed up into the darkness of the back of the truck. The first vehicle gets filled and Sarah rushes to the front, to wave it on, while Clarence waves the next one in.

The rear doors are already open with Doctor Roberts standing there, still in his white, lab coat.

‘My staff are already in here, we’ll stand across the back to protect the equipment,’ Doc Roberts says, not so much a question as a statement.

‘We’re doing well,’ Sarah calls out. ‘Considering how many people are here and the lack of time.’

‘Chris to all units, the access points are reporting mass numbers now, get them people out, do it now,’

Urgency in his voice: ‘I’m sending more vehicles down now.’

On cue, headlights appear down the road: diesel engines of vans and small delivery trucks. The group wave them down and send the people into the back of them. The waiting crowd has thinned down considerably, which makes it easier to manage the loading.

Latecomers run down to the area to join the people cramming into vehicles. A small truck then appears, it pulls up next to Howie and Sarah; Tucker’s face peers out from the passenger window.

‘Supply vehicle, Mr Howie,’ Tucker says.

‘Bloody hell, mate, that was quick,’ Howie answers, impressed.

‘They were well organised, well sort of, they are now anyway,’ he laughs. ‘Is it okay if I stay with this vehicle, they will need an armed escort,’ Tucker asks.

‘Good idea mate, get in the middle somewhere. Do not be the first or last vehicle in the convoy,’ Howie yells, as the vehicle rolls forward.

There are many vehicles stretching back into the main street, loaded with refugees and headlights shine into the night, casting deep shadows and making the guards cover their eyes as they look up and down.

A deep roar splits the air from all around them. Deep and guttural and truly terrifying.

‘Here they come,’ Howie calls out as the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The roaring ends as the sound of gunfire erupts from all the access points at the same time. Small arms automatic weapons spitting out, alongside the distinctive sound of the GPMG, at the far end.

‘FORM A LINE ACROSS HERE,’ Howie bellows out, pointing at armed men and indicating a section of road back from the refugees who are still waiting to get loaded.

Men and women run into position and stand across the road, facing out with grim faces and shaky hands.

Cookey and Blowers run in the middle. Now experienced and hardened from the battles they have faced, they stand still, calmly. Both of them feel the exhilaration and excitement that comes the minutes before the fighting starts. Without speaking they take magazines from their bags and lay them down face up on the road in front of them, checking their rifles and assuming a kneeling position.

The experienced ex-soldiers and police officers look down to see their actions and quickly copy them.

Within minutes, there is a line of armed men and women stretched out, kneeling in front of spare magazines, weapons ready.

‘Cookey,’ Blowers says.

‘Yes, mate,’ he answers.

‘Don’t try and bum them this time.’

‘Ah, that’s not fair,’ Cookey says.

‘Well, maybe just one, then.’

‘Okay mate, just one, I promise.’

‘Thanks mate.’ Blowers replies, as the rest of the men and women look down at them, joking with easy banter, knowing what they are about to face.

Howie looks at them, with an immense sense of pride.

‘Clarence, you and Sarah keep loading those vehicles, we’ve got seconds now,’ Howie shouts back at them from position behind the line, Dave standing at his side.

‘Rear access point to all units, we are getting overrun. We are pulling back. We will move slowly down the main road, there are fucking thousands of them.’

‘Chris to all units, start pulling back towards the vehicle form up point, staggered fall back, keep them suppressed.’

‘Malcolm to Chris, we are running out of room in the vehicle form up point, we need to start pulling out, but once we start we are not stopping.’

‘Chris to Malcolm, Roger that. Chris to Clarence, are we loaded and ready?’

‘Clarence to Chris, we are not loaded, but we are almost there. Clarence to Malcolm, start rolling out slowly, keep it slow - we’ll throw them in as you move past.’

‘Malcolm to Clarence, Roger that - we are starting to roll out now, I need guards to the front.’

‘Chris to units, get guards to the front, in support of Malcolm on point position.’

‘Clarence to Chris, I cannot spare any guards from my position, can you take them from the access points.’

‘ Chris to Clarence, that’s a negative, they are doing a fighting withdrawal, they are swamped.’

‘Howie to Chris, we can send every third person from our line and move them to the front, that gives you about four guards, is that enough?’

‘Malcolm to Howie, Roger that, just send two. We will work on speed and momentum. Get that Saxon to the front when you can.’

‘Howie to Malcolm, Roger that. Two guards on way to you now.’

‘Chris to rear access point Saxon, did you copy the last from Malcolm?’

‘Rear access Saxon to Chris, Roger that, fighting retreat down the road and then we move to point position.’

‘Blowers, get two from the line and send them to the front, in support of Malcolm, until the Saxon can take point,’ Howie shouts out, as Blowers jumps up and indicates to two people within the line.

They are both much older than the nineteen year-old Territorial Army recruit, but they accept his orders without question and sprint down towards the front of the vehicles.

Howie stands watching back down the road, then turns to see Clarence and Sarah pushing people into the backs of vans and small trucks and shouting at the drivers to move on. The fleet starts to move slowly, being held by Malcolm at the front.

‘MOVE,’ Clarence’s voice booms out, as he starts picking people up to push them into vehicles, Sarah lacks the physical strength but her strong character and force of personality achieves the same aim and she shouts, bellows and urges them into the vehicles.

‘HERE THEY COME,’ Blowers shouts from the line.

Howie spins round to see the Saxon slowly rolling towards them, the GPMG firing constantly from the top.

‘WE HOLD THIS LINE,’ Howie shouts out. ‘LET THE SAXON THROUGH AND WE HOLD THIS LINE UNTIL THOSE PEOPLE ARE LOADED. WE WILL NOT FAIL. WE WILL HOLD.’

‘YES SIR!’ Blowers and Cookey chorus back.

‘DO YOU HEAR ME? WE HOLD THIS LINE.’

‘YES SIR,’ voices from the line shout back at him, as Howie feels the adrenalin start to surge through his system.

He spins back to look at Clarence. They make eye contact and Howie raises two fingers to his own eyes and then points at Sarah, you watch her for me. Clarence nods once and goes back to pushing people into the vehicles.

‘WE ARE NOT SCARED. WE DO NOT FEEL FEAR. WE ARE GOOD AND THEY ARE EVIL AND WE WILL NOT FAIL. WE WILL HOLD THIS LINE.’ Howie roars out.

The Saxon draws close and flashes the headlights; Cookey and Blowers move to the side and create a gap for the Saxon to pull through.

Once the back of the vehicle passes the line, they close up and form a kneeling position. Howie and Dave run to the line and take up positions between Blowers and Cookey; kneeling down and looking up to the solid wall of undead zombies marching towards them.

‘FUCKING HAVE IT,’ Howie roars and opens up with his assault rifle. The GPMG pauses as Nick bellows, ‘MAGAZINE.’

The line opens up as every weapon starts firing; bright muzzle flashes and the oncoming horde start dropping. Bullets rip through the zombies, tearing them apart. They drop many and keep killing as they get closer and closer.

‘MAGAZINE,’ Blowers shouts and, within seconds, he has expelled one and snatched one from the ground, rammed it home, slammed the bolt back and opens up.

‘WE ARE COMING IN,’ Chris shouts down the radio, as Howie sees groups of men and women running into the main road from the side junctions, firing behind them.

‘CEASE FIRE,’ Howie shouts and the line all drop their weapons but Howie can see the reduction in fire rate stops the killing and every step of the zombie army brings them closer and closer.

‘WE ADVANCE ON ME,’ Howie stands and pauses for a second, to allow the men and women to grab the magazines in front of them.

Howie paces forward with deliberate steps, watching as the line walks with him.

The guards from the access points run down the road with Big Chris leading them, turning to fire back as the side junctions, suddenly become stacked with zombies marching out to meet the main horde.

‘HOLD,’ Howie shouts and they all drop down again as the access point guard’s stream past them.

‘FIRE,’ Howie roars and they again open up in the horde, giving the retreating access point guards a few seconds to move back to the Saxon.

‘PULL BACK,’ Chris shouts out and, as one, the line stands to start stepping backwards, each man and woman firing as they go.

Voices shout magazine as they eject and ram new ones home. The fire rate is devastating and the front ranks of the zombie army are torn down under the deadly hail of bullets.

‘HOLD,’ Howie shouts as they reach the back of the Saxon. ‘ARE YOU READY NICK?’ Howie shouts behind him.

‘YES,’ Nick shouts down as the GPMG opens up.

One heavy calibre machine gun, and two lines of men and women firing automatic weapons slaughter the oncoming zombies. They are shredded as they walk and the massive fire rate devastates them.

‘ATTACK FROM THE REAR,’ Dave’s voice booms out and Howie spins to see zombies surging into the vehicle area.

‘CHRIS, GET THOSE VEHICLES MOVING NOW,’ Howie screams as he leans into the Saxon and draws his axe out, he pauses and grabs the other double-bladed axe and starts running towards Clarence who is fighting them with his bare hands.

The huge man grabs them as they swarm at him, throwing them aside as he roars and screams with violence.

Dave is at Howie’s side, his knives drawn, Cookey and Blowers run on the other side of Howie, bayonets in hand.

Howie looks ahead and watches Sarah pushing the last few people into the backs of vehicles. They run faster, seeing more of the zombies going towards Sarah, as she pushes the last one into the vehicle and slams the rear doors closed.

‘SARAH, GO WITH THE VEHICLE,’ Howie bellows out, she turns back to see four undead striding towards her, she backs into the vehicle, becoming trapped against the closed doors. The zombies spread out in a line only a few steps away from her.

Howie screams and sprints with all his strength.

A deep roar drowns every other noise as Clarence picks a zombie up and throws him high into the air then charges the line of four undead with his shoulder dropped down. The man mountain powers into the first one and drives through the rest, scooping them up on the way. Clarence bowls them over so they are underneath him and his arms pull back and start piling in massive punches to the zombie heads beneath him.

Clarence roars and those fists lift up and drive down again and again as he pulverises the skulls. They don’t stand a chance and the big man kills them all, before standing up to run back to Sarah. He lifts Sarah by her waist and opens the rear door of the van and pushes her in, then takes a small black item from his back pocket and presses it into her hand before slamming the door closed.

‘MOVE NOW,’ Clarence slams his hand on the side of the vehicle causing it to rock on its suspension and the vehicle pulls away with squealing tyres.

Finally he looks back at Howie and they nod once to each other, as Howie hands him the axe. They turn to face out at the oncoming zombies, both holding their axes with intensity in their faces.

Howie launches forward and starts driving them down, swinging the blades through their heads and necks. Brains burst apart and blood pours out from necks, as Dave whips through them, slicing them apart.

Jamie comes running in with his knives held the same way as Dave; he drops down and starts slicing into the backs of legs, cutting through tendons and ligaments. Zombies drop down from the deadly wounds to writhe on the floor, only to be stamped on by Clarence’s huge boots.

The vehicles slowly pull away, as the men fight amongst them, battling to keep the zombies away from the vehicle and the people within them. The last vehicle leaves the compound, a row of bright red lights reflecting off the wet ground and headlights dimming as they draw away into the inky night. The small group backs away towards the line behind them, keeping pace with each other and fighting out as the zombies come at them sporadically.

Howie slashes out, swinging the axe in a vicious uppercut and driving the blade straight through the thrusting chin of an undead male; bursting his face apart in a spray of blood, bone and teeth.

They reach the Saxon and Howie looks out to see the carpet of slaughtered undead.

‘They’re pulling back,’ Chris shouts over, as the group take position round the Saxon.

‘I’m not surprised, you’ve bloody killed ‘em all,’ Howie shouts back, to see Chris give a big grin; his white teeth gleaming in stark contrast to his dark beard.

‘The Saxon can’t fit us all in, we need more vehicles,’ Howie shouts, his voice is drowned out by the weapons firing all around him. He walks round to stand near Chris and repeats his concern.

‘There’s a couple of things we might be able to use at the end of the barricade; we left the keys in the glove boxes of the ones we might need,’ Chris replies.

‘But they’re all piled up, they’ll be fucked,’ Howie says.

‘No, there’s some right at the beginning, I know which ones, we’ll have to work out way down there,’       Chris says: ‘There’s not so many of them now,’ he adds, looking up the road.

Howie looks up to see small groups still advancing but nothing like the volume that were coming just a few minutes ago.

‘CEASE FIRE,’ Chris calls out, the ones closest to him hear and respond immediately, but the GPMG keeps going and the ones further down the line do not hear.

‘CEASE FIRE,’ Dave bellows, the firing stops immediately as they all turn to look at him.

‘KEEP THE GPMG GOING AND MOVE ROUND THE SAXON TO MOVE DOWN THE ROAD,’ Chris orders as they start re-grouping.

‘Curtis, are you okay to keep driving, mate?’ Howie shouts over.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Curtis responds and clambers into the back and through to the driver’s seat.

They start grouping round the Saxon, as Nick aims the fire into the last few groups of zombies struggling over the fallen and mashed up bodies on the road ahead of them.

The GPMG falls silent after a short time, as Nick calls out the all clear.

‘MOVE OUT, STAY CLOSE TO THE VEHICLE,’ Howie shouts and the Saxon starts moving with the armed men and women standing shoulder to shoulder round the vehicle.

They inch down, sacrificing speed for the ability to stay to together as one unit.

‘CONTACT,’ someone shouts from driver’s side of the Saxon and weapons fire as the zombies are cut down.

‘TO THE REAR,’ Jamie shouts and more weapons open up as zombies continue to push out from the darkened buildings and run into the road towards the vehicle.

‘KEEP GOING, YOU’RE DOING WELL,’ Chris shouts out and slowly they move step by step down the road.

The constant contacts keep them busy as they fire into zombies pushing in from the sides, the rear and then, as they near the section where the truck was used to block the road, they start coming from the front.

‘NICK, FOCUS ON THE FRONT, WE NEED TO KEEP OUR ROUTE CLEAR’ Howie shouts out, Nick spins round to face the road ahead, his face grim from the constant use of the machine gun.

The recruits and guards shout out directions as they spot zombies flitting through the shadows.

The contacts suddenly cease and a silence descends, only broken by the low rumble of the heavy diesel engine of the Armoured Personnel Carrier.

‘Why have they stopped?’ Nick shouts out, spinning round to get a full view. ‘I can’t see them anywhere,’ he adds.

‘They’re still there,’ Jamie calls out. ‘They’re keeping pace with us in the shadows.’

‘Dave can you see them,’ Howie asks.

‘Yes,’ Dave replies.

A small child walks slowly out from the shadows towards the passenger side of the Saxon; a long white nightgown and flowing blond hair.

She stops just ahead of the vehicle and holds her arms out, offering an embrace, with no sign of injury.

‘Come here, darling,’ one of the male guards shouts out and rushes forward, the girl looks normal and terrified as she holds her arms out and glances round behind her.

‘DON’T,’ Howie yells, as the guard scoops the girl up and starts running back with her, but he screams as the girl sinks her teeth into his neck, savagely tearing the soft flesh apart with a violent gnashing.

Her face is instantly soaked as the artery is opened and the hot red liquid spurts out. Two more guards rush forward; one of them grabs the girl and starts pulling her away. She wraps her arms round a head, clinging on, as she devours the flesh with frenzied biting. A small horde of zombies then rush out from the shadows, taking advantage of the distance the guards have created between themselves and the Saxon.

They are on the guards instantly, pulling them to the floor and sinking teeth into the flesh. Screams erupts, as more guards rush forward to beat them away.

‘STOP,’ Chris shouts, as they are set upon by more zombies surging out of the darkness.

‘CUT THEM DOWN,’ Dave booms out and opens up with his assault rifle, firing indiscriminately into the melee of fighting bodies.

More guards scream out as they see their comrades being cut down by Dave. More zombies rush in, flying into the frenzied attack; their screams rip the air apart.

One of the guards lunges at Dave, desperately trying to stop him shooting down his mates. Blowers steps in and pushes him away. The guard staggers, but lashes out with his fist, knocking Blowers back. Cookey strides forward and slams the stock of his rifle into the guards face, dropping him instantly. Clarence grabs the back of his collar and drags him round to the back of the vehicle and launches the unconscious form into the rear.

‘NICK…’ Howie shouts out.

Nick grimaces and slowly shakes his head as he aims down to the struggling mass of bodies. Some of the attacked guards are clearly still alive.

‘Fuck it,’ Nick mutters and squeezes the trigger. The GPMG roars as it fires solid rounds into the mass of bodies, cutting them down instantly.

Sobs sound out from the guards as the zombies and their friends are killed by the firing.

‘KEEP IT TOGETHER,’ Howie shouts. ‘STAY WITH THE VEHICLE.’

Shots sound out from the driver’s side as the zombies show more intelligence by attacking that side with force, while the resistors are focussed on the passenger side.

Nick spins round to see a mass of undead coming from the shadows at full pelt.

He opens fire, trying to shout a warning at the same time.

The zombies impact within seconds and more guards are taken down as their assault weapons become useless in the close quarters combat. The brawling bodies are right at the side of the vehicle and Nick pushes the machine gun over, but can’t get the angle to fire down. Dave runs round the back of the vehicle, throwing his assault rifle into the rear, as he passes the open door and draws his knives from the back of his waistband.

Within short steps he reaches the scrabbling line.

The first guard is pinned against the side of the vehicle with zombies savaging her face, she screams and thrashes, but the body weight is too great.

Dave steps behind them and draws a knife across each of their throats. Hot, infected, blood bursts out into the female guard’s face. Dave slips one of the knives between the gap of the zombie’s bodies and pushes the sharp tip into her chest, pushing down until the blade cuts through her heart. Killing her instantly, Dave twists the handle with a violent motion and pulls the blade out, before spinning round to drive the two blades into the neck of a lunging undead female then steps back, as the zombie falls beside him.

He works along the side of the still moving Saxon, cutting down zombies and injured guards alike. At the last one, he spins through the air, slicing the throats open of the remaining zombies as his blade comes to rest millimetres away from the throat of the last guard.

They keep walking sideways, keeping pace with the vehicle, as the guard tries to push himself backwards into the solid metal side of the Saxon.

‘ARE YOU BITTEN?’ Dave roars into his face, terrifying him even more.

‘No, no they didn’t get me,’ he stammers back.

‘I AM WATCHING YOU,’ Dave says and promptly pulls away, ‘THIS SIDE IS UNGUARDED,’ he bellows out.

Howie comes round the side from the front and looks back at the fallen bodies of the guards and zombies, as they slowly advance down the narrow lane of the stacked vehicles.

‘Fuck me…’ he mutters, taking in the now unguarded side of the vehicle, apart from Dave and one shaking guard who keeps glancing at Dave with a terrified expression.

‘Are they all gone?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Dave answers, as he stalks next to the vehicle; his knives upturned against his forearms.

‘LOAD UP NOW,’ Howie shouts out, as Chris appears from the rear of the vehicle.

‘What the fuck…’ Chris’s mouth drops as he looks back at the fallen bodies.

‘We need to load up and go,’ Howie shouts down, aware they will now fit in the vehicle as so many of the guards have been taken down.

Chris nods back in silent agreement.

They load up one by one, covering each other as they work back down the side of the vehicle and into the rear doors of the moving Saxon. Howie is the last to load and pulls the doors closed.

‘ALL IN, he shouts. ‘Catch up with the convoy, Curtis! Someone take over from Nick, give him a break,’ he adds, sinking down onto one of the side benches in exhaustion.

The Saxon increases in speed, as Curtis works to catch up with the fleet; the vastly reduced numbers are exhausted from the sustained battle. The remaining few guards weep and sob at the loss of their fallen friends.

Howie looks up to Blowers and Cookey, both sitting forward with their heads down. Nick is slumped, leaning back with his eyes closed.

Jamie and Dave are both sitting straight, eyes open and staring ahead, out of the windscreen. Howie ticks them off in his mind as he goes; the mother hen counting the brood: Curtis driving, Tucker with the supply vehicle and Sarah in the back of the last vehicle. He looks over at Clarence, the big man taking the space of two people with his enormous frame and leaning back with his eyes closed. Howie remembers him saving Sarah and offers a silent prayer of thanks that he was in the position to react so quickly. Other than Dave, none of them would have been able to take so many down with their bare hands and walk away, unscathed.

Finally, he looks to Big Chris. They lock eyes; two leaders who have suffered losses and taken the responsibility of so many lives and have fought to keep those people safe. One a former soldier and criminal, the other a supermarket manager. Something passes between them - a meeting of minds, an unspoken contract that they will do anything to ensure the survival of the people that have trusted them with their lives.

Sarah stands, with her head resting against the inside of the door. The last image as the doors were slammed was of Clarence staring hard at her and a scene of utter carnage behind him; Howie sprinting towards her, carrying two axes.

She realises that she is holding something in her hand. The inside of the van is pitch black and she feels round the object, it feels like a knife handle but there is no blade. Her fingertips brush against a small button on the side. She looks back up to the door as she realises what he gave to her. She quickly tucks the item into her back pocket, as she turns round.

The motion of the vehicle and gentle sway as it turns, increases her sense of fear; any notion of space and dimension disappear and she stretches her arms to press her hands against the insides of the vehicle.

She feels the heat from the bodies pressed tightly into the back of the van and sweat starts to forms on her face. Then she feels something small pressing into her and reaches down with a hand to feel a small head with long hair.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ Sarah says softly, as the small body flinches away from her hand.

A tiny hand reaches up to touch hers, fingertips brushing gently, then gripping tightly.

‘Mummy?’ A small voice says.

‘No, I’m Sarah, where is your Mummy?’ She asks.

‘I don’t know,’ the child whimpers.

‘Hey everyone, there’s a small child here, missing her Mummy,’ Sarah calls out to the darkness.

‘Who is it?’ A female voice answers from somewhere near the front.

‘What’s your name, sweetie,’ Sarah asks the small child.

‘Patricia,’ the small voice replies.

‘Her name’s Patricia,’ Sarah calls out.

‘What’s her mum’s name?’ The same female voice answers.

‘What’s your mum’s name, sweetie?’ Sarah asks.

‘Jane.’

‘Her mother’s called Jane,’ Sarah says.

‘I don’t know her, does anyone else?’ The female voice calls out, to no reply.

‘What about your Daddy, what’s his name?’ Sarah asks Patricia.

‘I don’t know,’ Patricia whimpers, her voice small and weak.

‘Come here, Angel,’ Sarah says, as she drops down low and draws the small girl into her body, the child throws her arms round Sarah’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.

‘I wanna go home,’ Patricia says, quietly.

‘I know sweetie, but we’ll be okay, it won’t be dark for long,’ Sarah replies, rubbing the girls back.

‘Is there a light in here?’ The female voice from the front calls out.

Sarah listens to the rustle of hands feeling alongside the sides and roof of the van, scrabbling about in the pitch dark.

A feeble light switches on from the front.

‘Hey, look over there,’ Sarah says softly, the girl turns slowly to see the very soft yellow light illuminating the many faces packed into the van, all of them women.

A few of them smile down at the girl hugging Sarah.

‘See, we’re not in the dark anymore, and soon we’ll be able to get out, we just have to wait,’ Sarah assures the girl.

‘Will those things get us?’ Patricia asks, with fear in her small voice.

‘No sweetie, they won’t get us,’ Sarah says, as Patricia pushes into her shoulder to cover her face.

‘Do you promise?’ Patricia asks.

‘I promise, I know the men looking after us and they’re very, very brave. They won’t let anything happen to us,’ Sarah says.

‘Will they stop those things?’ Patricia asks.

‘Yes, they will stop them and they will keep us all safe, I promise. They’re big and strong and brave, and we’re in here and those things can’t get us in here.’

‘How do you know them?’ One of the women asks.

‘My brother is one of them,’ Sarah replies.

‘One of the guards?’ Another asks.

‘No, Howie is with the army vehicle, he’s in charge of them,’ Sarah replies with pride.

‘HOWIEEEEEEE,’ a woman screeches out from the far corner of the vehicle, heads turn at the sudden noise as the voice screeches again.

‘HOWIEEEEEEEE.’

A commotion breaks out as another woman screams.

‘She’s biting her, she’s one of them,’ a voice shouts out.

Sarah catches a glimpse of an old woman sinking her teeth into the neck of a younger woman and blood pumping out.

The packed bodies try to push away, as others try to push in, to stop the attack.

‘GET HER OFF,’ Sarah screams out, as a hand reaches out to grasp the hair on the back of the head of the old woman, pulling her away with a violent yank.

The attacked woman drops to the floor, as women start pummelling into the freshly turned zombie and she goes down in the packed confines, as the women scream with fear. Feet start stamping down, desperately trying to kill the old woman.

‘SHE GOT ME,’ one of the women screams out, as her ankle is bitten into.

She drops down to beat the old woman away, until more boots and shoes can stamp down on her head and neck.

‘IS SHE DOWN?’ Sarah calls out.

‘Yeah, where’s the other one that she bit?’ Another voice shouts in panic.

‘She’s on the ground, she’s not moving,’ someone answers.

‘Kill her, she’ll come back as one of them,’ the first voice shouts.

In the dim light, Sarah makes out women pushing and scrabbling to get away from the fallen woman, some of the braver ones fighting to get to her, none of them able to move much, because of the small space.

The woman with the bitten ankle screams and sobs as she clutches her ankle: ‘I’ve been bitten, I’ve been bitten,’ she repeats over and again.

Sarah pulls the girl closer, her hands going round her chest in a protective embrace.

‘Go behind me, sweetie,’ Sarah whispers in her ear and pushes the girl round.

Another scream pierces the air as the savaged woman rises up and lunges with bloodshot eyes, sinking her teeth into the closest leg.

Hands start beating at her as the van erupts in panic.

Screaming, pushing and pulling as the woman fights to get away. More of them fall down from vicious bites, as zombie teeth tear flesh apart.

Women start slipping over, as the wooden base of the van becomes slick with the spilled blood, more women are bitten and go down onto the ground.

Sarah watches as the bodies fight and writhe on the ground. She slips her hand round and draws the handle from her back pocket, feeling for the small button. She holds it down at her side with her finger pressed gently on the button.

The driver of the van hears the screams and bangs clearly, his hands grip the steering wheel as pure terror grows inside him.

He leans forward to stare at the red light of the vehicle in front. He knows he’s the last in the fleet and if he stops now, he will be left behind; defenceless in the dark streets of London, surrounded by the undead.

The bangs and screams increase as he drives and hot tears start spilling down his face, he beats his hands against the steering wheel, imagining the scenes breaking out just inches behind him.

Instinctively, he reaches for the radio and presses the on switch; static fills the air. The driver finds a CD in the cubby-hole of the dashboard and tries to force it into the CD slot, his hands shaking.

The CD refuses to budge and it takes minutes for him to realise there is already a CD in the player. He throws the CD down onto the floor, frantically pressing buttons, as the screams and bangs get louder from the rear.

The driver finally presses the right button and loud rock music bursts out of the speakers, he twists the volume knob until the sound is so loud it comes out distorted. He looks up to see he has drifted off to the side in his panic to fill the van with noise. He over reacts and yanks the steering wheel hard, the van swerves over and then back again as he fights to get control.

Sarah watches as the biggest bitch fight in the world breaks out in front of her, then she lowers down to speak into the girl’s ear: 'Put your hands over your eyes, sweetie, and keep them there.’ The girl does as she is asked and pushes her small hands over her tightly closed eyes.

‘I’ll be right back, I promise.’ Sarah whispers, while watching the unfolding mess in front of her.

Half the women in the van are bitten and the rest are fighting like troopers to protect themselves, falling and tripping over the bodies wrestling on the floor.

An infected woman stumbles backwards, having been thrust by a large built woman at the front. The zombie stumbles into Sarah who reaches round to grip her arm across the neck, squeezing tightly. She presses the small button on the handle, a shiny blade slides out instantly, and Sarah digs this into the throat of the woman, while gripping hard. Blood pumps out, covering her hand and arm. She pushes the body away, just as the large woman sends another one her way. Sarah steps forward and grabs the fringe of zombie and pulls her head forward, as she sticks the knife deep into her throat, then twists the handle left to right and back again, tearing a ragged hole in her windpipe.

Loud rock music booms out from the front, drowning out the screams, grunts and groans of the women trying to kill each other.

Sarah drops the woman down and lunges for the next one, as the van swerves violently, causing all the women to fly into one side, landing in a crumpled heap, with Sarah at the bottom of the pile.

Pinned to the floor by bloodied bodies, she thrashes her legs, frantically trying to prevent any of the undead from biting her ankles. The bodies fight and writhe about, as Sarah struggles for breath under the heavy weight, the van swerves again, as the bodies slide across the slick floor to ram into the other side. Sarah is now free and rises up to see red, bloodshot eyes pushing towards her.

She yells as she sticks the blade into the throat, missing and stabbing the woman through the cheek instead. She pulls the small handle back and lashes out again and again, swiping the blade back and forth across the throat.

Another one pushes her head out of the mess of limbs and Sarah rams her foot into the face, feeling bones crunch underfoot.

She tries to roll away, as the van swerves again and they slide back across the floor to pin Sarah against the side.

Once more trapped under the bodies, she fights to draw her legs into the foetal position, hoping the press of bodies will protect her. She feels the blade sinking into the back of another woman pressing into her, with no idea if she is stabbing a zombie or another survivor. She tries to pull the knife away, but her arm is pinned into position as the body writhes on the blade.

Another swerve sends them back across the floor and Sarah loses grip on the knife, as they slam into the other side. She crabs backwards as a body drops down on her, blood pouring from a deep bite wound to her neck. Sarah cranes her neck, trying to keep her face away from the blood and she rolls hard to displace the body, pushing it aside, as she gets back to her feet.

Another zombie comes from the right and Sarah quickly ducks down and moves behind to wrap her arms round her neck. Sarah squeezes with all her might as the body staggers forward with arms flailing. A woman in front of them turns round to bite into the mass of bodies and Sarah sees the knife sticking out of her back. She reaches out to grab the handle as the zombie pulls away, Sarah squeezes hard and pulls her upper body backwards, forcing the zombie to fall down. Sarah slams her booted feet down again and again on the face, just as the one with the knife stuck in her turns to Sarah with bloodied teeth bared.

Sarah slams her fist into the side of its face, snapping the head away.

Then Sarah side steps and finally gets grip of the knife, she pulls it out and forces the blade into the side of the zombie’s neck, sawing and hacking away, until a large, ragged hole forms in the soft flesh.

She turns to see an undead lunge at Patricia, still cowering in the corner with her hands over her eyes. Sarah dives forward onto the floor and grabs the ankles, pulling them back as hard as she can. The zombie slams down face forward into the floor as Sarah clambers over its back to grab the head and slam it down again and again into the hard flooring.

Remembering the knife in her hand, she repeatedly stabs into the rib cage, breaking bones and puncturing the lungs. The body eventually goes still, as Sarah rolls off to find another one bearing down on her.

She lifts her feet up and takes the weight of the zombie body on its chest. Her boots push into the zombie’s breasts as she tries to force it away. The zombie is heavy and fighting forward and Sarah feels her legs starting to buckle; she rolls to the side as the body falls down, just missing her.

She slams her arm down and forces the blade into the back of the neck, before the zombie can roll or turn towards her.

Sarah keeps fighting and knifing the zombies down, as they are bitten and turned, one by one. She fights out with desperation, until she is side by side with the large built woman from earlier. The large woman wraps her arms round a zombie, pinning her against the side of the van.

‘STAB HER,’ the woman yells, as Sarah lunges forward with the knife to slice open the undead's throat.

They back away, as the body slides down onto the already crowded floor.

The large woman thrusts her arm out to grab the hair of a zombie about to bite Sarah from the other side, yelling a warning as she fights to pull the undead woman away. Sarah sticks the small blade deep into the exposed neck.

They keep going, until the last one drops down onto the  top of the gory pile of corpses; both of them soaked with blood and filth.

They back away, until they are both standing protectively in front of Patricia, Sarah hands the other woman the knife and drops down, so she is eye level with the little girl.

‘Sweetie, I want you to turn round and face the other way now.’

‘Can I take my hands away?’ Patricia answers.

‘Yes, but only when you’ve turned round.’

‘Did those things get in here?’ Patricia asks. ‘You promised they wouldn’t.’

Sarah looks up to exchange a glance with the other woman. ‘Just turn for me Patricia, there’s none of them in here now, it’s safe,’ Sarah says, as she turns the girl round.

‘I’m Mary,’ the large built woman says when Sarah stands up. ‘Nice to meet you, do you want your knife back?’

‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ Sarah replies. ‘Nice to meet you too, Mary,’

‘You’re better with it than me, I’ll grab ‘em and you stab ‘em,’ the large woman jokes.

‘Deal,’ Sarah replies, as they stare down at the bodies piled in front of them.

‘There they are,’ Curtis says to Howie who is now in the passenger seat.

‘Nice one mate, just need to get to the front now,’ Howie replies.

The taillights disappear round a bend in the road, but soon come into view again as the Saxon speeds up.

Curtis drives up close behind the last van, the one containing Sarah, Mary, Patricia and the pile of zombie bodies.

They flash headlights to alert the driver they are going round, as Curtis pulls out to start overtaking them.

One by one, they drive past the fleet of vehicles, Howie giving a wave or a thumbs up to the drivers while wondering how they will feel when they find out most of their guards have been wiped out.

‘Which Fort are we heading for?’ Chris calls out from the back.

‘There’s quite a few of them, but I reckon we should go for Fort Spitland, it’s the biggest one that I know off and it’s been maintained,’ Howie shouts back.

‘Have you been there before?’ Chris asks.

‘Yeah, but years ago, we went with school and then a couple of times later. It’s huge and the rear wall goes straight onto the sea, from memory it had open flat land all around it too.’

‘Let’s just hope it’s not full then,’ Chris says.

The Saxon weaves its way past the fleet of vans, cars and trucks, until it eventually reaches the front; a long convoy, snaking out of London into the pitch black of the countryside.

Howie checks and re-checks the map, planning ahead and making sure they stick to major roads, so the big trucks can fit through.

‘Malcolm to Chris, we are being flashed by headlights from behind; there must be an issue. Can we find a safe area to pull up?’

‘Chris to Malcolm and all units, Roger that. I know this road, there is a section ahead with high concrete walls on both sides, we will stop there.’

‘About a mile or so further, Howie, you’ll see big walls on both sides, we want to stop there,’ Chris shouts forward.

‘Got it mate. Curtis, make sure you keep to the middle lane, so we have equal distance on both sides,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Within a few minutes, the Saxon is slowing down as they enter into a very long, straight section of the motorway. High concrete walls create a tunnel effect from the headlights and the dark sky.

‘Who’s on the GPMG?’ Howie asks.

‘Jamie,’ Blowers answers.

‘Right, I want us out, down the sides, keeping watch, and Curtis, I want you to drive forward a short distance, so you Jamie can get a good view of the sides, everyone ready? Good, everyone out then,’ Howie shouts as he jumps down and runs back to meet Chris.

They stride down the left flank of the convoy, pausing as Malcolm jumps out from the front vehicle to meet them.

‘What’s up?’ Chris asks him.

‘I don’t know, we were getting constant flashes from behind,’ Malcolm replies.

They walk to the next vehicle and shout up to the driver. He leans out of the open window with a cigarette hanging out his mouth.

‘Everything all right?’ Howie calls up.

‘We’re fine, we were getting flashed from behind, so I passed it on.’

They walk to the next vehicle to find Tucker climbing down from the passenger door and stretching out.

‘That looked a bit nasty back there, Mr Howie,’ Tucker says.

‘It was mate, was it you flashing?’

‘Nope, came from behind,’ Tucker replies.

They walk down the fleet of vehicles, with each driver giving the same response.

With only a few vehicles left in the fleet Howie looks back to see the driver of the last vehicle running towards them, waving his arms in the air.

‘That’s Sarah’s, vehicle,’ Howie yells, as he starts running forward; Big Chris and Dave sprinting beside him.

‘They were screaming and banging, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to get left behind,’ the driver sobs as they run past him.

Howie twists round the back of the van and wrenches the rear doors open to see Sarah standing, facing him, covered in blood. A small knife is held tightly in her right hand, her left hand grips the fingers of a small girl who is also holding hands with a large-built woman. The three of them drip with blood and gore.

‘Sarah! What the fuck?’ Howie stammers, as he jolts forward, picking the girl up to pass back to Chris.

As Sarah and Mary step down, Howie’s mouth drops open as he looks at the utter scene of carnage in the back of the van. Dead bodies strewn and piled up, thick pools of blood shimmering on the floor and smeared up the sides, dead human eyes, dead zombie eyes and dead mouths hanging open.

‘What happened? Howie says to the women.

‘One of them turned and it just sort of exploded from there,’ Sarah replies calmly. ‘This is Mary – Mary, this is my brother, Howie.’

Howie stands speechless as Mary calmly says hello.

Dave then steps forward to peer into the back of the van. He gazes at Mary and Sarah, then down at the small knife, then finally back to the bodies.

He looks at Howie and nods, clearly impressed at the work completed.

‘Who is the girl?’ Howie eventually asks, when his brain catches up with the sight before him.

‘Patricia, she lost her mum,’ Sarah replies, still in the calm voice.

Mary steps forward to take the child from Chris, who is also standing with his mouth hanging open.

‘We’ll come with you,’ Sarah says, flatly.

‘We don’t have a lot of room…’ Chris starts to say.

‘She said we’re coming with you,’ Mary glares at Chris.

‘Yeah, fine, no problem,’ Chris replies quickly, holding his hands up.

The vehicles move off again, the Saxon in the lead, with Sarah and Mary sitting in the hastily vacated seats, using wet wipes to clean themselves and Patricia of the blood and filth.

Hardened and battle experienced men watch them with keen interest. They work with purpose, chatting to the small child, as though nothing had happened.

Chris had got to the vehicle ahead of them and quickly whispered what they had seen before the women arrived. Clarence had moved quickly to Sarah, on seeing the state she was in, asking her again and again if she was okay.

‘You can have your knife back now,’ she offered, as the huge man fussed round her.

‘No, you keep it, in fact…’ Clarence said, as he unbuckled his belt and removed one of the large sheath knives from it, before handing it to Sarah. ‘You’d better have a bigger one.’

‘How does it go on,’ Sarah said, taking the big knife and pulling it from the sheath to admire the weapon.

‘Here, let me,’ Clarence said, as he unbuckled Sarah’s belt and pulled it free from the loops, then, suddenly realising what he was doing, he looked down to see her smiling at him.

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to…’ He blushed bright red, to Sarah’s delight.

‘What didn’t you mean to do?’ She asked, mischievously.

‘Err... undo your belt,’ he stammered.

‘But you did undo my belt,’ She replied.

‘Yeah but, you know...’

‘I know what?’

‘I…err, well, didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Like what?’ She asked innocently and laughed, as he went even redder.

‘I’m only joking, thank you for the knife,’ she said, touching him on his massive forearm as his face split apart with a huge grin.

Howie had taken over the driving, seeing Curtis looking tired and drawn and suggesting he get some rest in the back.

‘Did you see those bodies?’ Howie asked Dave, as they continued driving.

‘Yes, Mr Howie, I was there,’ Dave replies.

‘Oh, not this again, I meant…  did you see how many there were?’

‘Yes. I was there.’

‘Do you do this on purpose?’

‘Do what?’

‘Answer each question literally.’

‘How do I answer that?’

‘What?’

‘You asked me if I answer each question literally, so in order to give you an answer, I would have to be literal - which would then suggest that I do, in fact, answer each question literally.’

‘You never cease to amaze me, Dave.’

‘Thanks, Mr Howie.’

The crowded Saxon settles into near silence as they travel towards the coast. The exhausted survivors try to sleep in whatever space they can find.

Patricia dozes fitfully, snuggled into Mary in one rear corner while Sarah rests in the other.

The others find space where they can, Clarence and Chris both remain standing near the front, leaning in towards Howie and Dave and chatting in muted tones.

‘Have you seen any yet?’ Chris asks.

‘Nope, not one, fuck knows where they’ve all gone,’ Howie replies.

‘Can’t be a good thing,’ Chris says.

‘Darren knew all along we would be heading for the Forts, but I don’t think I ever said which one,’ Howie says.

‘So there’s no doubt they’re going to be coming for us then,’ Chris says.

‘He’ll come - it just depends how long it takes him, and we haven’t seen any for a long time, so I reckon they’re massing again,’ Howie says.

‘Or waiting for him to pass through, so they can join in,’ Chris says.

‘Jesus, there’ll be thousands of them if he collects them all on the way,’ says Clarence.

‘More than that,’ Chris says.

‘I was wondering if he would try to use vehicles, he’s obviously got control over the rest of them somehow…’ Howie says.

‘Yeah and if he can tap into their memories and knowledge, then it wouldn’t be hard to get the keys for the vehicles and move down here quickly,’ Chris interrupts.

‘He’ll come on foot,’ Dave says, in his normal flat tone.

‘How do you know?’ Howie asks.

‘They’ve been going for a week now with no sign of slowing down. They’re decaying, but still moving. I haven’t seen any of them eat or drink, so they don’t need sustenance, which also means time is not relevant to them. He held them outside the commune until he thought there were sufficient numbers but he held himself back away from harm - which shows he has awareness for his own safety. They also massed in Canary Wharf when we went for your sister, so the biggest single tactic deployed by them is high numbers. Logistics for any army on the move is difficult at the best of times, and will be even harder using vehicles…’

‘Not if they have collective intelligence,’ Howie cuts in. ‘And it does look like they have. Darren snapped his fingers and they all started laughing, then he made them take a step forward perfectly in time. With that kind of power and control they could find it easy.’

‘I don’t think they will,’ Dave replies. ‘That would mean having every one of them have access to a vehicle and be ready in the right place at the right time to slip in with the main fleet. Even if they share intelligence, that is an extremely hard thing to organise. A forced march is the best way for them to pick them up as they go.’

‘So, if they have a collective intelligence or consciousness, then they would know the route they are taking and would just have to wait at those points,’ Chris says.

‘Yes,’ Dave responds.

‘So why not get vehicles and wait at those points?’ Howie asks.

‘Their motor skills have got better, but, during the day they shuffle, and become slow and are not able to control their own bodies that well. We saw them increase speed during the day, but that made them weaker. Darren will have no choice but to keep them moving at a set pace that can cover ground but will conserve energy to prevent them weakening,’ Dave explains clearly.

‘Okay, so how long will it take to walk that distance?’ Howie asks.

‘They can go as the crow flies, in a straight line, so that would be about 50 miles or so,’ Clarence says.

‘If they shuffle along, like they do during the day, then a couple of days at least, if they move fast the entire time - it could be as little as 16 to 20 hours - but we know that weakens them. But if they have enough… err… people, I guess, then they might not worry about being weaker,’ says Chris.

‘People!’ Howie laughs.

‘Yeah, I know, I don’t like the other word though,’ Chris replies.

‘What? Zombies?’ Howie asks.

‘Yeah, it seems like a movie or something when I use that word,’ laughs Chris.

‘What do you think, Dave?’ Howie asks.

‘About the word zombies? It doesn’t bother me.’

‘No,’ Howie laughs again. ‘About the speed they’ll move at.’

‘Oh, sorry. I don’t think time is an issue for them, so they will do what all big organisations do.’

‘Which is?’ Clarence asks, after a lengthy pause.

‘They will work out the best speed to make the best distance using the least amount of fuel, like airlines do, or shipping companies,’ Dave replies.

‘Sounds ridiculous when you say it like that,’ Howie says. ‘But I guess that’s about right though.’

‘Well, we have no answer to the question then, we don’t know when they’ll turn up,’ says Chris.

‘In short, nope,’ Howie replies.

‘Brilliant, we have a huge army of dead people marching through the country specifically looking for us and we’re heading for a 150 year old Fort, somewhere on the coast, with a handful of men able to fight… I like those odds,’ Chris laughs.

‘Stuff ‘em,’ Clarence says, in his deep voice.

‘Stuff ‘em? What kind of an insult is that?’ Chris laughs, looking at the huge man mountain.

‘Well there are ladies and a child present and I didn’t want to be a potty mouth,’ the deep voice rumbles, as the rest burst out laughing.

‘Potty mouth!? That’s even worse,’ Howie says laughing, ‘I just watched you take four of them down with your bare hands…’

‘Yeah, well, there’s no need for foul language in the presence of ladies,’ Clarence replies, defensively.

‘I think your sister has an admirer, Howie,’ Chris says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

‘No, just hang on,’ Clarence tries to interrupt, going red in the face.

‘Oh really, you fancy my sister do you?’ Howie asks, pretending to be offended.

‘No one said anything about me fancying your sister, Mr Howie,’ Clarence says.

‘Oh, he’s Mr Howie now, is he? Trying to win him over are you?’ Chris laughs again, as Howie bends forward, trying to stop laughing so loud.

‘No, he is Mr Howie, everyone calls him that,’ Clarence says, in a more defensive tone.

‘So… you don’t fancy Sarah, then?’ Chris asks, unable to stop goading him.

‘No, of course I don’t,’ Chris replies, going even redder.

‘Where’s your knife then?’ Chris asks, innocently.

‘My what?’ Clarence replies, his voice going higher, as Howie starts to laugh harder.

‘Your knife, I gave you that knife years ago, after you broke that cheap thing you had.’

‘Well… err… well she only had that little knife.’

‘That little knife that you gave her, and now you’ve given her your big knife, what’s next? The axe?’ Chris says, between laughing.

‘Oh, just fuck off,’ Clarence finally snaps, his voice louder.

‘Language please, there’s a child back here, keep that potty mouth for later,’ Mary calls out, as Howie and Chris burst out laughing even more, even Dave chuckles, as Clarence drops his head into his hands, groaning.

‘What’s so funny?’ Sarah asks, clambering over the legs of sleeping forms to get to the front.

‘We were just talking about Clarence,’ Chris replies, still chuckling.

‘Oh, what about?’ Sarah asks, stretching.

‘Chris…’ Clarence growls his face bright red and tries to turn away from Sarah.

‘Just about the knife he gave you,’ Howie cuts in, tears streaming down his face.

‘Oh, that was sweet, thank you again, Clarence. You’ll have to show me how to use it though, it’s very big,’ Sarah replies, smiling at him. ‘Howie, are you all right?’ Sarah asks, as Howie’s body heaves with laughing, bent forward enough to be almost biting the steering wheel.

‘Fine, I’m fine,’ Howie whimpers.

‘Clarence was just saying how he wants to show you some moves,’ Chris says, innocently.

‘That’s great, thank you, Clarence,’ Sarah says, placing her hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s no problem,’ Clarence replies.

‘Are you okay? Your face is very red,’ Sarah says with concern. ‘Are you coming down with something,’ She presses the back of her hand to his forehead.

‘No, no, I’m just very hot in here,’ Clarence replies, very softly.

‘Okay, well I’ll leave you boys to it and try to get some more rest,’ Sarah says, as she clambers back down the Saxon.

‘Okay, we’ll be quieter now, Sarah,’ Chris smiles, as she goes then looks down at Clarence bent over resting his head on the back of the seat, his face now beetroot coloured, but his forehead tingling from where she touched him.

‘Poor Clarence, are you okay?’ Chris says, in a sweet voice, and puts his hand on Clarence’s face.

‘Fuck off, you wanker,’ Clarence whispers.

‘Oh, poor Clarence, come here you big, teddy bear and give me a cuddly wuddly,’ Chris laughs, as he tries to wrap his arms round Clarence’s huge shoulders.

‘I said fuck off, Chris,’ Clarence whispers, as he starts laughing, trying to squirm out of the manly embrace.

‘So, how do you feel, Howie, about Clarence showing your sister some moves with the knife?’ Chris asks.

‘Me? I’m fine with it mate, you carry on,’ Howie replies, still chuckling.

‘Really?’ Clarence looks over at him, as Chris laughs again. ‘You don’t mind, then?’

‘No mate, but Dave’s the one with the knife skills, maybe he should do it,’ Howie says. ‘What do you think, Dave?’

‘I think your sister would like Clarence to do it,’ Dave replies, showing a rare ability to pick up on a social situation.

‘Cheers, Dave,’ Clarence says, softly.

From the motorway, the convoy takes a slip off to pass quickly through rural villages as the night sky starts to lift.

The lush landscape of rolling hills, wooded copses and cultivated fields soon becomes flat, open heath land; the first signs they are nearing the coast.

The Saxon leads the vehicles through an industrial zone with large hanger-style buildings; signed for  marine engineering. Expensive looking powerboats and luxurious yachts loom high on giant stands,  dotted about the area.

‘This is the road in to the Fort,’ Howie reports back to rest. ‘As far as I can remember, this is the only road in.’

The convoy drives through the industrial units and into a country lane, bordered with high hedges.

Within a few minutes, they enter a housing estate; full of large, detached houses.

The road passes through the middle of the estate, which abruptly ends with lines of dwellings stretching out on both sides, bordering open heath land.

Howie explains that the landscape changed abruptly, one hundred and fifty years ago, when the Fort was constructed, to allow the defenders a wide view of the entire area. Thickets of trees and undulating hillocks had been flattened, and now the area remains wide open.

Lights shining in the distance are the only sign of the Fort ahead of them.

‘Can you slow down please, Mr Howie,’ Dave asks, quickly.

‘Do you see something?’ Howie replies quickly, as he slows the vehicle down, causing a long line of red brake lights to shine out behind him.

Dave looks to the rows of buildings stretched out on both sides, then out to the flat land; the sky getting lighter with each passing minute.

‘Is the Fort down there, where the lights are?’ Dave asks, pointing down the road, away from the estate.

‘Yep, you can see it clearly during the day,’ Howie replies.

‘Okay, thanks Mr Howie,’ Dave says, apparently satisfied.

‘Chris, can you hear me?’ Howie calls out.

Chris lumbers back to the front and leans forward, ‘What’s up?’ he asks.

‘Chris, when we get there, we need to make sure we are isolated if we discuss anything…’ Howie whispers just loud enough for Chris and Dave to hear.

‘We don’t know how long Darren was infected before he turned, and we don’t know anything about the people here,’ Howie adds, as they both nod, understanding.

‘How do we know none of us are infected,’ Dave asks.

‘Well, I know I’m not,’ Howie replies, quickly.

‘Darren would have said that too,’ Dave says.

‘True, so how can we be sure?’ Howie asks.

‘Check for bites and scratches, any open wounds?’ Chris says, quietly.

‘How about we get Doc Roberts to check us over, to be sure?’ Howie suggests.

‘Sounds good, I’m okay with that,’ Chris replies.

‘Dave, that all right with you?’ Howie whispers.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Dave nods.

They drive forward on the straight road as night transforms to morning. The rain clouds of the previous day have now drifted away, to leave a beautifully clear sky.

The flat grassland suddenly rises into steep embankments that stretch out to both sides with the road cutting through the middle of them.

Once past the grass banks, they see another stretch of flat grassland, then another high, steep embankment, which drops down into a wide ditch on the reverse side. The ditch is cut deep into the earth and is at least ten feet in width, with sheer sides.

‘So we’ve got the first high bank, flat land then another high bank dropping down into a deep ditch, then more flat land,’ Chris voices his thoughts out loud, as he takes the scene in. ‘It looks like the banks stretch out to both sides of the spit, so does the ditch. Is that an outer wall or just the main wall?’ he asks Howie.

‘Err… I think it’s an outer wall,’ Howie replies, trying to remember. ‘From memory, the rear of the Fort has a high wall that drops down straight into the sea. The land was dug out, so the sea is very deep straight away, with no beach - I think there’s a rear access point though,’ Howie explains. ‘The rear wall runs the length of the rear section and then curves back round with the natural lay of the spit. The front section here isn’t a straight wall. It has two sections that jut out, one on each side where the wall starts coming back inland, and then there’s the long, straight bit we can see here,’ Howie finishes.

‘We’ll need a good look round, as soon as possible,’ Dave says.

‘Ah… you mean we need an advanced recce reconnaissance pathfinder,’ Howie jokes.

Dave smiles back at him, remembering the previous conversation of a few days ago.

‘Hello, we’ve got company,’ Chris point up to the high walls to see heads moving about, peeking over and then dropping back down.

Howie brings the Saxon to a halt a few metres back from the gates.

‘I’ll go and say hello,’ he says, opening the door and dropping down to stretch his arms out and arch his back.

‘Ah… that feels nice,’ he mutters, Dave jumps down and walks round to join him at the front.

‘Well, we made it, mate,’ Howie says, as they walk towards the gates.

‘We did, Mr Howie, and we got your sister,’ Dave replies.

‘It’s all good in the hood mate - apart from the zombie army coming to eat us.’

They stop a few feet back from the gates, looking at a single door cut into the solid metal plates. A small hatch opens from the inside and a pinched face looks out.

‘Are you bitten?’ A high-pitched, female voice calls out.

‘Oh yes, we are bitten all over and completely infected,’ Howie smiles broadly. ‘I’d recognise that voice anywhere, hello Debbie.’

‘You have to strip off again,’ the voice laughs back from the hatch.

‘Now stop being a pervert and trying to look at Dave being naked and let us in, we’re gasping for a brew,’ Howie says, laughing.

The single door swings inwards and Sergeant Debbie Hopewell walks out, looking neat and tidy and still wearing her all-black police uniform.

‘Hello, Mr Howie,’ Debbie smiles as she reaches them, genuine pleasure on her face.

They hug briefly.

‘It’s good to see you Debbie, I somehow knew you’d be at the front gate,’ Howie says.

‘Well, we can’t just have anyone at the main entry point now, can we,’ Debbie says, turning to Dave and giving him an awkward hug, which makes him blush bright red.

‘Let me guess, you had a meeting and got it submitted in triplicate and posted the rota on some wall - somewhere,’ Howie jokes.

‘Oh yes, there must be order, Howie,’ Debbie smiles back.

‘Hello ‘ello, there’s a couple of ugly faces I wouldn’t forget in a hurry,’ a loud voice booms out into the quiet morning air.

‘Ted! Hello mate, it’s good to see you,’ Howie calls out, as he steps forward to shake hands with the former policeman.

‘You too, Mr Howie… hello Dave, you’ve kept him alive then,’ Ted says, looking at Dave, but nodding towards Howie.

‘Hello Ted,’ Dave leans forward to shake his hand but stops midway. ‘Did you wash your hands this time?’ Dave jokes.

‘Bloody hell, someone’s taught him a sense of humour,’ Ted says, as they shake hands.

‘So, you made it down here okay, then?’ Howie asks them both.

‘Easy run really, we just kept going, despite young Tom whining that he needed to pee,’ Ted replies.

‘You should have seen the state of the place though,’ Debbie cuts in. ‘Absolute bedlam, people arriving every few minutes, there was no order, no rationing, no lists, nothing. It’s taken days to get things ship shape,’ she adds.

‘Well, we’ve got a couple of thousand tired, scared, hungry and thirsty people crammed into these vehicles,’ Howie says, turning back to look at the vehicles and seeing Chris, Clarence and Sarah walking towards them.

‘We’d better get them inside then, they’ll have to come in on foot, we don’t have the room for the vehicles,’ Debbie responds, in a business-like fashion.

‘Ted, Debbie, this is Chris, Clarence and my sister Sarah. Chris had set up a safe area in London, but it got overrun last night as we left,’ Howie introduces them, as they shake hands with polite greetings.

‘Right, we need to get the people out and filing in here,’ Howie says. ‘No room for the vehicles though, have you set up a vehicle area?’ Howie asks.

‘Not inside, I made them take the vehicles out and put them into the estate,’ Debbie replies. ‘We have kept a few for patrolling and gathering supplies though,’ she adds.

‘Okay, how do you want this done?’ Howie asks.

‘We’re recording the names, date of birth and last address of everyone entering and then allocating them a specific place inside the compound. We also record any specific skills such as butchery or carpentry, that kind of thing,’ Debbie replies.

‘We’ve got doctors, nurses and some hospital equipment with us,’ Chris adds.

‘Brilliant, we’re desperate for medical personnel. Right, I suggest you get them out of the vehicles and line up in front of the gates. I’ll get some people out to distribute water, while they wait,’ Debbie says.

They depart from the brief meeting, as Debbie and Ted head back inside to prepare for the incoming refugees.

Howie and his small group walk back to the Saxon and Howie calls the recruits and guards over. Chris calls out on the radio for all guards to make their way to the front. Within a few minutes, the small force are all assembled in front of Howie and Chris - Doctor Roberts and a few of the medical team stand to one side.

‘Right, they’ve got enough room for everyone, but we have to line them up for details to be taken. We need a perimeter set up and Curtis, I want you to take the Saxon and go to the rear, keep sweeping back and forth across that area. Nick, I want you on the GPMG. Blowers and Cookey, you’re both at the gates being nice to people again, Sarah would you mind going with them?’ Howie asks.

‘No problem, I’ll take Mary with me,’ Sarah replies.

‘Be on the lookout for anyone with cuts, bites or any open wounds,’ Howie continues.

‘What if we see any?’ A voice asks.

‘They need to be isolated, but do it quietly with no fuss and do not create panic,’ Chris cuts in. ‘Doc, can you set something up inside to check people over as they enter?’

‘Yes,’ Doc Roberts replies curtly, and moves off with his team.

‘Jamie, I want you up high somewhere with the sniper rifle,’ Howie says, to the quiet lad as Jamie looks about.

‘Go in and get up on the inside of the outer wall,’ Dave says to him.

‘Right, spread out, stay sharp and get those people out,’ Howie calls, out as they depart. Jamie runs back to the Saxon and draws the sniper rifle from the protective bag. He loops the bag over his shoulder and starts jogging towards the gate.

‘Tucker, we’ll get that supplies vehicle up front for unloading. Can you get inside and see what the situation with supplies is like. I would imagine Sergeant Hopewell would have a tight grip on it,’ Howie asks him.

‘Okay, Mr Howie, I’m on it now,’ Tucker replies and starts striding after Jamie to the gate.

Doc Roberts and his team walk past, carrying armfuls of equipment and soon disappear into the gate too.

‘Mr Howie!’ A voice calls out.

Howie turns to see Tom Jenkins and Steven Taylor walking towards him, both of them with huge smiles.

‘Hello Tom, Hi Steven, good to see you lads, again,’ Howie smiles, as they shake hands with genuine warmth.

‘I knew you’d make it,’ Tom says excitedly, looking back at the armed guards. ‘Wow, you got more soldiers with you, are they SF too?’

‘Err, no. Some of them are ex-soldiers, police officers, like you, and some Army recruits we... sort of found,’ Howie says.

‘Wow, and you’re in charge of them all,’ Tom looks at Howie with awe.

‘Well… I wouldn’t say that…’ Howie starts.

‘Yes, Mr Howie is in charge, with that man over there,’ Dave says flatly, pointing at Big Chris.

The vehicles are slowly unloaded; scared and terrified survivors drop down from the trucks and squint in the bright sunlight, or slowly emerge from cars to stretch wearily.

Howie watches as Sarah and Clarence work their way back along the fleet, telling the people to move down to the gates where Blowers and Cookey are standing smiling and joking with their assault rifles strapped to their shoulders.

Howie, Chris and Dave stand near the front, watching the Saxon drive off with Nick waving at them from the top, smiling as they go back down to the rear.

‘They’re good lads, those recruits,’ Chris says.

‘Very good, considering what they’ve been through,’ Howie replies. ‘Bloody brave, too.’

‘We need to start thinking about defence,’ Chris says, turning to look at Howie.

‘No time like the present then,’ Howie replies, as they make their way over and finally step through into Fort Spitbank.

They step into the shadow of the gate and pause for a few seconds to allow their eyes to adjust. The outer wall behind them stretches off in both directions with a gap wide enough for a few vehicles to drive abreast, before the inner wall looms up.

‘Bloody big walls,’ Chris mutters.

‘Good job really, we should just close the door and hide,’ Howie replies, to see Chris smiling back at him. ‘Well, we could, but where would the fun be in that,’ says Chris.

‘Hello gentlemen,’ a voice calls out from behind them.

They turn to see an old man walking towards them, wearing a blue jumper marked with the English Heritage badge. A cravat is tucked into the front of the v-neck jumper; grey roots showing in his thinning, dyed, ginger hair.

‘Hi,’ Howie responds as the man draws closer, they shake hands and Howie watches as the man turns to Chris and Dave in turn; Dave quickly wiping his hand, immediately after the shaking.

‘So, which one of you is Mr Howie?’ The man asks, looking at them each in turn.

‘Err, that’ll be me,’ Howie says.

‘Name’s Hastings, Roger Hastings, as in the famous battle,’ the man smiles at Howie.

‘Oh, err, nice to meet you, Mr Hastings,’ Howie replies.

‘Oh now, call me Roger,’ the man beams back at him.

‘How did you know my name?’ Howie asks.

‘There’s been some talk of you in here - quite some talk of Mr Howie and Dave rampaging round the country killing off the heathen undead,’ Roger talks quickly, with an effeminate voice.

‘Oh, err, really? Well…’ Howie stutters, unsure of how to respond.

‘I think there’s quite a few of the people you’ve met already in here, I keep hearing stories of the famous Mr Howie and Dave and here you are in the flesh,’ Roger speaks, waving his hand as he talks.

‘Now Roger, they’ve only just arrived, so take it easy with them,’ Ted calls out, walking over to them.

‘Howie, this is Roger Hastings, he was the principal guide here for the guided tours. Apparently he’s been here since the place was first built,’ Ted adds, smiling at Howie.

‘Oh, stop it, Ted, you big brute,’ Roger simpers, smacking a limp hand on Ted’s old but still solid shoulder.

‘Excuse me for interrupting, but your doctor has set up an initial screening room, just off to the right, inside the inner wall, the people are getting processed fairly quickly and we should have them all inside quite soon. Debbie has got a few of her team getting details as they come through,’ Ted says.

‘Thanks Ted, appreciate the update. How many people are already here?’ Howie asks.

‘You’ll have to ask Debbie for the official figures, but with your lot coming in, I’d say that puts us to maybe seven thousand,’ Ted replies.

‘Seven thousand?! In here, bloody hell,’ Howie exclaims, looking at Chris who looks equally stunned.

‘Word spread quickly, people met up on roads and told each other about it and well, they just kept coming. It slowed right down yesterday and the day before, but, obviously now we’ve got a lot more coming in,’ Ted shrugs his shoulders. ‘Listen, I need to get back and help Debbie before young Tom and Steven drive her mad, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Roger for the full experience,’ Ted winks at them, as he turns away.

‘Thanks Ted,’ Howie calls out.

Ted waves back at them.

‘Are you all ready?’ Roger asks, hand on hip and head cocked to one side.

Howie glances at Chris, then looks to Dave, who is staring wide-eyed at Roger.

‘Err, yeah I guess so,’ Howie says.

‘Okay boys, follow me please,’ Roger says as he starts to walk towards the inner wall.

They follow behind, exchanging glances and shrugging shoulders.

Stepping away from the gated section of the outer wall, they walk through a large gap in the inner wall and enter the Fort proper. The sight that greets them is staggering and they stop to take in the view.

Ahead of them lies the interior of the Fort; open land with the thick, inner wall running around the entire perimeter. The wide open grassed area of the Fort is thick with tents and marquees. Some wooden structures have been hastily erected amongst them. Tents of all size and shape have been placed into the grounds. At first it looks to be a mess of canvas and modern tents, but Howie quickly realises there has been order in the layout.

‘Right gents,’ Roger drops the effeminate speech as he launches into full tour guide mode. ‘Initially we were using the buildings built into the Fort walls. As you can see there are doors and gated entrances built into the inner wall. Within those doors and gated entrances are many rooms and tunnels. They were originally designed for ammunition storage, food and supplies, also barracks, sergeants and officers’ quarters; there were hundreds of soldiers based here. They had to live and work within the Fort, so everything they needed was within these walls. There is even a fresh water well here.’

‘Does it still work?’ Chris cuts in, quickly.

‘Oh yes, we’ve been using it constantly. They knew what they were doing back in those days, the site was very carefully chosen  - they would have needed fresh water in the event of a siege, which they fully expected,’ Roger continued. ‘Anyway, we were using the buildings and rooms within the Fort walls as accommodation, until we started getting more and more people arriving. Some of those people were surveyors and architects, so we were able to start designating the grounds to be used. We have sectioned off small areas, to the best of our ability, so we can keep walkways and avenues running between them.’

‘It looks impressive,’ Howie comments.

‘It took some doing, but Sergeant Hopewell was very good at getting the right people into the right roles. We were cooking from a central point, but as the population grew, we had to separate that into several smaller cooking points. Each person or group that arrives only gets entry on the basis that they hand over their supplies, to make sure the distribution is fair.’

‘Has anyone refused?’ Howie asks.

‘A few got upset, which is understandable, but we were able to convince them to leave the supplies outside and step in to see it was a good set up and they were not going to be robbed. Most of them are just glad to get somewhere safe.’

‘I can imagine, so have you got many supplies then? A population this size will need a lot of food,’ Howie says.

‘Well, as soon as we got some organisation in here, we started sending out armed foraging patrols. They were tasked to gather supplies and avoid contact at all costs. They have been bringing back tents, sleeping bags, wet weather clothing, bedding, food, medicine and anything that will help us. They’ve been raiding every outdoor and camping shop for miles. In terms of food, we are okay, not brilliant, but with careful rationing we have been able to make sure everyone at least gets something,’ Roger explains as they walk into the grounds and stroll down the wide central path.

People scurry about, or sit looking forlorn outside of tents. They all stare at Dave, Howie and Chris as they walk through, and Dave picks up on some nudges and whispers.

‘Are the Fort buildings in use now?’ Chris asks.

‘Sergeant Hopewell uses one as admin offices, there is a larger section of rooms built into the south side that have been taken over as a hospital. The rooms are the biggest, cleanest and most recently repaired. In fact, most of the rooms and sections built into the south side are being used, we have the supplies section in there and the armoury.’

‘The armoury?’ Dave asks immediately, upon hearing his favourite word.

‘Yes, we have sourced some items, shotguns, rifles and quite a lot of ammunition. It’s where we stored the black powder for special events,’ Roger explains.

‘Black powder?’ Dave asks again.

‘The Fort has retained some of the original cannon and armaments, which one of the historical societies still use for events and public displays.’

‘How much black power do you have?’ Dave asks, staring hard at Roger.

‘Quite a lot,’ Roger replies. ‘So that’s the south side. Over towards the east section we have the visitors centre, gift shop and café. We are using that as a meeting place and information point.’

‘This is great Roger, really very good and well organised,’ Howie says, genuinely impressed.

‘We’re not even at the start yet,’ Roger replies, immediately back in his camp voice, as they enter the visitors centre.

There is a quiet calm inside the building, and Howie recognises the young lady sitting behind the reception desk, speaking to a few people.

‘Hello Terri,’ Howie calls out to the female police officer that he met in the police station.

‘Mr Howie, wow I heard you arrived,’ Terri smiles sweetly, rushing round the desk and running to hug Howie.

Howie responds, slightly embarrassed, as the pretty blonde girl squeezes him tightly.

‘Err, so how have you been?’ Howie asks, unsure of what to say after the display of affection.

Howie had thought of Terri Trixey as stuck up and prudish, when they had first met.

‘Well, apart from Tom and Steven being a pain in the arse, we’ve been very well,’ Terri smiles back at him, finally releasing him from the hug.

‘Hello Dave, lovely to see you too,’ Terri turns on Dave, stepping forward to embrace him. Howie holds his laugh in, at the look of pure terror on Dave’s face as he squirms uncomfortably.

‘Terri, this is Chris,’ Howie introduces them. ‘Chris, this is Terri Trixey, she’s a police officer from Portsmouth.’ They shake hands formally, then Terri immediately turns back to Howie.

‘I heard you brought loads of people with you?’ Terri asks.

‘Yeah, Chris was in charge of a sort of commune in London that got overrun, so we managed to get them out and down here… listen, we need to have a look round with Roger, can I catch up with you in a bit?’

‘Yes, of course, come back for a coffee as soon as you’ve finished,’ Terri smiles at him.

‘Err, right, yes of course, a coffee sounds nice,’ Howie says.

‘She seemed nice,’ Chris smiles at Howie as they step away. ‘Going for a coffee later then?’ he jokes, putting emphasis on the word coffee.

‘Piss off Chris, you did that with Clarence and my sister, don’t bloody start on me,’ Howie laughs at the big man.

‘Right gents, up here please,’ Roger cuts in, back to business.

Roger leads them up a flight of metal stairs, across a small landing area and then up onto the top of the inner wall.

‘The Fort was commissioned in the 1850’s and completed in 1858. The Fort was designed primarily as a motor battery with over fifty mortar placements, which could be angled to fire both out to sea and inland. The smaller sections we will see are for the mortar placements. These are primarily on the south and north walls. The larger sections are for the RML’s, which means…’

‘Rifled Muzzle-Loaded guns,’ both Dave and Chris say, in unison.

‘Very impressive,’ Roger responds quickly. ‘These forts, especially the larger ones like this, used new techniques and equipment that had never been deployed before. Those small metal rails that loop in the half circle round this section were used for the loading of the cartridges,’ Roger keeps the information flowing, as they slowly walk round the walls to the south side.

‘The ground at the rear of the south wall was dug away, so the sea comes straight up to the side of the wall - it gets a bit shallower when the tide goes out and, over the years, the sediment and mud has built back up - but it’s still pretty deep down there.’

‘How deep?’ Chris asks.

‘At high tide it’s well over head height, at low tide it’s probably chest height,’ Roger admits.

‘We’ll have to have look-outs posted at the rear then,’ Howie says.

‘Why? Are you expecting trouble?’ Roger asks.

Chris gives Howie a warning look.

‘We’ll talk later mate, let’s keep going,’ Howie replies.

‘As you wish,’ Roger says. ‘After the threat of French invasion finished, the Fort was used as public grounds and then re-commissioned for the First World War. By 1920 it had passed back into public control. Then the Fort was re-commissioned in 1939 for the outbreak of the Second World War - during this time, the Fort was taken over by the Navy and re-named HMS Spitbank. It was mainly used as an anti-aircraft site, but there were also radar installations and, due to the close proximity of the sea, it was used for the designing and testing of landing craft. Then, in the early 1950’s it again passed into public hands. English Heritage acquired the site during the late 1980’s. By that time, most of the interior had fallen into disrepair. Work conducted by English Heritage and the historical societies brought it back to the present glory you see today.’

‘You said that you had cannon,’ Dave says, once Roger finished speaking.

‘Yes we do, two on the south wall and two on the north wall, they are not the originals - but the type they would have used in that era,’ Roger replies.

‘And they can be fired?’ Dave asks.

‘Yes, they can, but only by members of the historical society - but none of them made it here and I don’t think anyone else has the knowledge,’ Roger says.

‘I can work it out,’ Dave says.

‘Cannon are very difficult to use,’ Roger says, with a concerned expression.

‘I wouldn’t worry - Dave likes blowing things up, did you know he once blew up a cow?’ Howie says lightly.

‘A cow?’ Roger asks, aghast.

‘Oh yes, you should hear some of the stories Dave has told me, incredible really,’ Howie says, looking about, nonchalantly.

‘Oh really, sounds fascinating,’ Roger says, back in the camp voice.

They reach the north wall and stand looking out. The view takes in the vista of the flat land, stretched out in front of them. From the other side it appeared that the outer wall was higher, but the design was well thought out and the inner wall is raised slightly higher to allow a clear view; but with the ability to drop down to a lower section. Two sections of the front wall jut out, with large, flat platforms situated on top of the inner wall. A huge cannon rests on each buttress, the wide dark mouth facing out to the flat lands.

‘Big cannon,’ Howie remarks.

Dave examines the cannon closely, feeling along the surface and peering at the rear end, finally he stands back up and nods.

‘Roger, I apologise for being rude, but can you give us a few minutes, please,’ Howie asks.

‘Why, yes, of course, call me when you’re ready,’ Roger walks off a respectable distance and turns to face the other direction.

‘They’ll come from that direction for sure,’ Howie remarks, looking out to the houses in the distance. ‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if they come round the back, too,’ he adds.

‘If the tide is low enough,’ Chris says. ‘But that’s only a matter of six hours or so.’

‘Priorities… we need to make everyone aware of what’s happening, we don’t tell them details of how we plan to deal with it, just what the threat is. We know Darren was turned for a while before we knew about it, so we have to assume any of these could be turned too. I think we’ll tell everyone what the threat is then we make secretive arrangements.’ Howie says.

‘It’s actually an old tactic,’ Chris explains. ‘In old days, when kings suspected a traitor, they would give each general a set task, some of them would be fake tasks and some real. All of the generals were told not to discuss their tasks with any of the others.’

‘Can we do that?’ Howie asks.

‘No reason why not,’ Chris replies.

‘Right, so we’ve got a massive zombie army coming for us, what do we do?’ Howie asks, staring out over the walls.

‘Thin the numbers down, before they get here,’ Dave replies. ‘And we keep thinning the numbers down until we can either meet them equally in battle, or they leave.’

‘I don’t think they will leave, and the numbers will be huge by the time they get here. We need scouts out there, so we get notice of when they arrive. We should gather all the weapons in and see which ones will be best; make sure ammunition is distributed evenly. Dave these cannon can be fired, but I guess they don’t actually fire cannon balls, can we use something else?’ Howie asks.

‘Grapeshot, lots of little metal things that will spread out, like a shotgun,’ Dave replies.

‘Good, how about the GPMG, can we get that up here to fire down? Or is it better on the vehicle?’

‘There’s a long slope over there, we should be able to get the Saxon up here,’ Chris replies, looking back  towards the south wall. Howie turns to see a long, wide, grassed slope leading up from ground level to the top of the inner wall.

‘Perfect, we can get the Saxon up here with Jamie sniping, see if he can take Darren out early in the game,’ Howie says.

‘If we organise quickly we can dig pits, use spikes and caltrops. If there is enough black powder we could rig something up in the housing estate, too,’ Dave says.

‘Caltrops?’ Howie asks.

‘Sharp metal spikes hidden in the ground, that pierce the feet, it won’t kill them, but it will cause horrible injury and slow them down,’ Chris replies, for Dave.

‘I like it, and the spikes?’ Howie asks, again.

‘Put them in the ditch and cover them with something, or dig pits and cover them up,’ Chris explains. ‘They’re called Punji sticks.’

‘Punji sticks? Sounds nice,’ Howie says. ‘Oh, like the sharpened bamboo canes?’

‘Yeah, wood or metal will do it.’

‘We’ve got a lot to do and not much time to do it in, if you’re both happy we’ll get everyone together, tell ‘em what’s happening and sort how who can do what, according to skills and materials we have available. Once we’ve done that we’ll set up in one of those rooms and use runners to tell them what we want done,’ Howie says, the confidence and natural leadership showing in his voice.

‘Agreed,’ Chris responds and Dave nods firmly.

‘Roger, thanks for that mate. We need to get everyone together, how can we do that?’ Howie calls out.

‘Everyone? That’s a lot of people,’ Roger replies, businesslike, rather than camp.

‘Yep, I know, but it’s very important. The Saxon has a loud speaker on it, can we get that inside and everyone gathered round, somehow?’

‘Right, yes of course. Leave it with me, I’ll get some people on it now,’ Roger replies quickly, before scampering off back down to ground level.

‘It’s gonna be a big fight,’ Howie says, after a pause.

‘It will be, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies.

‘How many of these fights have you had so far?’ Chris asks.

‘A few,’ Howie replies quickly.

Chris looks to Howie and Dave to see the dark looks on their faces.

‘There’s gonna be a whole lot of them,’ Chris says ,softly.

‘Fuck ‘em, we’ll win,’ Howie says, in a firm voice.

I stare out at the flatlands and look to the housing line in the distance, Dave is by my side, Chris a few steps away.

I hear noise behind me, and turn to see Clarence and Malcolm climb up, to stand with us. No words are spoken. We look to the view before us and each of us thinks of what is to come. After a few minutes, I hear more noise behind me; Blowers and Cookey coming to tell me they have been relieved by some of the Fort’s guards. They are joined by Tucker, chasing after them noisily to try and catch up. They sense the mood and join us looking out, spread out in a line. I almost don’t hear the stealthy Jamie, until he is standing at the end of the line, sniper rifle hanging from his shoulder.

We stare at what we know is coming our way. What we know is coming to wipe us out. The hatred they have for us, for me, is incredible and thoughts pass through my head that maybe if I offered myself to them they would leave the rest alone. But I know that isn’t true, they won’t stop, until every last one of us is taken and turned.

Can I do this? Can I fight these things again? Maybe we should turn and run, but the sea is behind us and there is nowhere to run to. We could take boats and ships and sail away, but more of them will be there to meet us, wherever we go. We don’t have boats or ships for several thousand people. Running is useless. Even if we used every vehicle we could find, they will seek us out. We need food, water, warmth and rest. They need nothing.

Injuries hurt us, blood loss makes us weak. Nothing less than death stops them.

My head spins, I feel like I’m drowning. I’m in too deep and I can’t go anywhere or do anything else now. I dragged Dave across the country to get Sarah and I picked those lads up on the way. Why did they follow me? I’m not a leader, not a soldier. I can’t do this. Self-doubt and fear grow in me. I had Sarah to fight for before, I had something to keep me going, but she is safe now and without that driving motivation I don’t know if I can do this again. The cost is too much. If I fail, then they all fail, they all die. I think of McKinney. Poor McKinney, he followed me and I let him down. He died because of my mistakes. I taunted them and fuelled my revenge by killing too many. The loss of my parents provoked me and I went after them. Poor McKinney followed me and did what I asked and I watched him die, I held his sweet face and he knew he was dying.

I feel sick, weak and pathetic. But then I look to my left and to my right and I see those men and boys staring out. The fixed eyes, the set expressions.

No words are spoken.

No words are needed.

I look behind me to the people going about mundane tasks in the Fort: washing clothes, playing with children and walking between the tents. Smoke drifts up lazily from the cooking points.

The people look like normal people, trying to make sense of their worlds torn apart and destroyed. They are not safe, Sarah is not safe. None of us are safe. The Fort won’t protect us forever. At some point they will get through and then we will all be taken.

The men beside me look resolute and ready, but I feel anything but that. I don’t feel ready for this. We turn and start walking back down the slope. Each step feels heavy and wrong. I feel fake. These battle-hardened men keep looking at me like I have the answers. These are soldiers that have fought in proper wars; they were trained and taught tactics and strategies. I am a supermarket manager; I don’t belong here on this slope with these men. I belong down there with the other survivors. Who am I to take this on and show the way? Who am I to think I could even breathe the same air as these professionals.

As we stride down, the people of the Fort stop and watch us. The sounds of the camp all cease, conversation stills into silence and children stop playing. The new arrivals lining up for checking and details all stand and watch. We are higher than them; we stride like warriors. They know we have fought and will fight again, but they don’t know what’s coming. They look up and I see many faces looking directly at me. Don’t look at me, I am nothing. I shouldn’t be here, let alone out in front with these men following me.

I can’t do this.

Chris can lead, he’s a proper leader and he should take this from now. Not me.

We keep walking and I notice Dave glancing at me, but I feel ashamed and I can’t look back at him. The others walk in silence behind us.

We get to the bottom and then have to walk through the camp to get to the front area. I can’t help but look to the people standing, watching me as I pass. Their faces look drained and old. Their skin is taught and tight from the lack of food and sleep. Dirty children with unwashed faces stand and stare at the hero’s as they pass. The hero’s led by a phoney, a fake, a nothing.

I can feel my leg swinging with each step, I am aware of each step and the thousands of eyes standing in silence to watch me. I understand that Roger has spread the word that we need to speak to them all, but suddenly I am not the man to do it. The pressure of so many lives depending on me is too much. Just Dave and I running round quiet streets was one thing, nothing can touch Dave and there was no risk to him, so there was no pressure, all I had to do was get to London and get Sarah, but I made the recruits think I was something special; that I could lead them. I made them believe in me.

We reach the Saxon and I see Curtis Graves standing by the open driver’s door, he nods at me as I get closer and respectfully moves out of the way; showing deference to the leader, showing that he was in my place but now that I am back, he will stand aside.

I am a joke and none of these men should show respect to me.

I turn to see the thousands of Fort occupants walking towards us, crowding round the Saxon to hear what we have to say. My stomach flips and I feel sick, my throat is instantly dry. There are thousands of eyes all watching me, waiting for me to speak and more are coming.

The new arrivals move away from the line, I recognise some of their faces from the night before. I see Sarah pushing through the crowd to stand by the side of Clarence. Clarence is a man-mountain. He looks the part, big and tough. He should do this; he has a deep voice and looks hardened from years of fighting. Chris is a big man too and looks like a leader. But they both look to me; Chris has shown deference too. He could step forward and do this and these people would listen to him and believe in him. Why has he stepped back? Why is he doing this? Can’t he see I’m a fake and out of my depth.

Leaning into the Saxon to draw the handheld microphone, feels like swimming through mud. My hand reaches out through treacle to switch the microphone on, as Nick drops down from the look-out hole on position with the GPMG.

‘You should climb up top, Mr Howie, so they can all see you,’ Nick smiles at me, as he clambers out of the rear doors.

I pull the cord and realise it is very long, long enough for me to climb up on the top. I wish it wasn’t. I wish I could sit in here, hide away and close my eyes and they would all go away. But instead, I persist in continuing my farce and I clamber out onto the front of the Saxon and then up onto the top. I stand up straight and my legs feel like they will buckle; as I look out at the thousands of faces all staring at me.

The whole fucking lot of them are staring at me, watching and waiting for the promised speech, the news they have been told I will deliver.

I lift the microphone to my mouth. My thumb is pressed on the button. I look down, Dave is looking out to the crowd. Everyone else is watching me: Cookey and Blowers, Tucker, Sarah, standing next to Clarence, Chris and Malcolm, with arms folded and legs apart.

Jamie, Curtis and Nick stand together. They are closer to the Saxon then the rest, separating themselves from the main.

I hesitate, as my thumb starts to depress the button. I freeze. I can’t speak. I look at Sarah and I see a proud look on her face. Her brother is standing on top of a military vehicle addressing a crowd of thousands. Why can’t she see I’m a fake, she must see I have frozen. What do I say? What do I tell them?

There is a massive army of undead zombies coming to eat you, but don’t worry, I’m here and even though I have no training or skills I will protect you.

Fuck off. Get off Howie, get down and let a real warrior do this, I scream at myself, as I feel the panic rising within me.

I scan the crowd as the fear threatens to consume me; faces old and young waiting patiently. It feels that I look at each and every face in that crowd and they see me for what I am. I look down and see Dave staring at me.

His eyes lock on mine. He knows I am freezing, he can see right through me. Our eyes lock and something passes between us. A warrior born to fight staring at me hard, passing a message. His gaze is intense, so intense. He nods at me, just once and that’s enough.

I look back up at the crowd and press the button down, my voice booms out, strong and confident:

‘There is an army of thousands of those things coming for us. Tens of thousands, maybe more. They are coming and they won’t stop, until every last one of us is dead and turned into one of them.’

Concerned expressions, this isn’t why they came here; this isn’t what they were expecting.

‘They are coming and nothing will stop them from getting here. The army has gone, the police are gone. There is no government and no one is coming to save us. Behind you is the sea and there is nowhere left to run. This Fort is strong, but they will get through and they will kill every last one of us.’

Fear and panic grips them and tears start streaming down faces, as parents clutch their children close.

‘We have all lost loved ones. Just in one week we have lost everything we knew. Our friends and families have been taken from us and they will come and try to kill us. The way of life we had is gone and will never come back. All that remains is what we have here and now, this is it. There is no rescue party coming, no fighter jets or warplanes that will wipe them out. This isn’t a nightmare that will end, this will happen.’ I wait and let those words sink in; they need to know how bad this is.

‘We are few, compared to the size of them, we are tiny, but there is one thing we have that they don’t. We have life. We have life within us and if you want that life to continue, then we have to fight.

‘One week ago, I was the same as you, living normally and working towards the future. But in that one week I have changed. I decided not to just wait and let them come for me. I fought back. I met Dave and then together we fought back and, since then, we haven’t stopped killing them. These brave young men you see in front of me, they joined Dave and I, and together we fought back and we took them down. We took them down for killing our families and taking away our loved ones. We did not run away and hide. We went to them and we fought and… we are still here. We learnt that if we stand together we can survive.

‘We went to London and our small group joined with Chris. Then, together, we fought against thousands of them. One small group of men took the fight to them and we walked away from it. We lost men, but only a few, and for each one of ours they took, we took down many of theirs. We showed them we are not scared and we do not fear them. Our small group took hand weapons and attacked them. They are dead already and they don’t feel pain. Blood loss doesn’t hurt them like it hurts us. If we bleed we get weak, they don’t. The only way to kill them is by a massive loss of blood or by taking out the head and the brain. We learnt that, so we adapted and we took them down.’ I can feel my voice rising.

‘ Now we are here, with you., and this is clear; if we hide they will find us. If we run they will catch us. If we stand still and let them, they will take us. So what else can we do? I’ll tell you what I want, I want to show them we will not hide and we will not run and we will not stand still. We will fight. We will take as many of them down as we can. We may lose, but, to the last man, we will fight back. They are undead. They are evil. They do not have the right to walk amongst us or take our air. They have taken everything from us, but this place, this place here, this is ours, and they will not take it from us without a fight. These men in front of you have stood on the line and survived. On this occasion, we got beaten back, but ,many times before, we took ground from them; not only surviving but winning.

‘When they come we will be ready. We will prepare and do whatever it takes to make ready. Not one person here will sleep or rest, until we are ready. There is no choice in this. Every man, woman and child must be prepared to fight. There is no hiding away and letting the bigger boys fight for you. We will meet them and we will fight them and the last one standing will go down fighting.’ I roar out at the crowd.

Chris smiles and turns to stare out at them, Clarence follows his lead and I see all of them turn to face the crowd. I see defiance creeping in; firm looks, as expressions harden. Men cross their arms and women lift their heads to stand proud.

‘We have the right to be here and they do not. This will be hard. Harder than anything you can imagine, but we will work and prepare and then we will meet them and show them no fear, for we shall stand proud. What do we need to do this? We need tools, weapons, we need to know who can make things, fix things, engineers and mechanics. We need foraging parties to go out and bring us the things we need to prepare, we need you to listen to the instructions we give and accept those instructions without argument. We need you to work and toil and then, at the end of that, we will need warriors, fighters, brawlers and scrappers and, most importantly… we’re gonna need  buckets of coffee to keep us awake,’

I get a few smiles and nods from this.

‘We can do this, we few here at the front have shown that we can fight back. We did not roll over and accept it. We are humans and, throughout history, we have fought with each other. But now, at this time and at this place, all differences are set aside and we stand together and we fight together and if needs be, we will die together, but they will know that we did not weaken and we did not run.’

I see the change in them, faces look ready, men look to one another with pride on their faces and women stand straight and true, ready to fight to protect their own.

‘Stand with us and show those things that we are not to be touched.’ I nod once, firm and strong and start to clamber down, to an explosion of cheering.

‘Thanks Dave,’ Howie says quietly, after jumping down from the Saxon and sidling over to the small, quiet man.

‘What for, Mr Howie?’

‘You know very well what for,’ Howie smiles at him.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Dave replies.

‘Okay mate, thanks anyway.’ Howie says again, still smiling at the glint in Dave’s eye.

There is a sudden excitement and air of action within the group. Howie’s words have stirred them, motivated them, and, given the opportunity, they would charge out of the Fort now and attack the zombie army with just forks and spoons.

‘Good speech, Howie,’ Chris calls out over the noise from the thousands of voices, all speaking at the same time.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Howie replies.

‘Seriously, I’ve heard some corkers before, normally from some officer who will be safe in the base when we charge out, but that was good. You told them the truth and then got them going,’ Chris says, closer now, but still having to raise his voice.

‘Yeah,’ Howie says, feeling just a little embarrassed.

‘Honestly Howie, it was good. Typical British spirit that was,’ Malcolm joins in.

‘Well I had to tell them something,’ Howie says. ‘And the microphone is still there, mate, you can have a go, if you want.’

‘No no, honestly it was good stuff,’ Malcolm, laughs.

‘Hey Howie, that was great,’ Sarah appears at his side, still accompanied by the giant Clarence.

‘Thanks, Sis,’ Howie replies, uncomfortable with all the praise that is being heaped on him.

‘Right, we need somewhere private to work,’ Howie says to Chris and Dave, they both nod in return and Chris strides off to find Roger.

‘Why the secrecy?’ Sarah asks, concerned.

‘That lad, Darren, he was turned for some time before we knew, any one of these could be the same, so we can’t risk everyone knowing exactly what we are doing.’

‘Oh, that makes sense…’ Sarah looks round, staring at the many faces.

‘It’s possible, there’s too many here to check everyone and Darren wasn’t bitten or scratched, that we knew about,’ Howie says. ‘So, for safety’s sake, we have to assume any of them could be.’ Howie looks round at the crowd. Their faces suddenly look sinister; plots being hatched and plans being made.

‘Howie, Roger has a room for us that we can work from. You ready?’ Chris calls out, walking towards him.

‘Yes, mate, I’m ready. Who are we taking with us?’

‘I was thinking you, me and Dave definitely - I would like Malcolm and Clarence too, if you’re okay with it, any of yours?’ Chris answers.

‘Blowers is good, but then we’d have to ask Cookey too, that pair are joined at the hip. I think we’ll get them initially, then stick them on the door, to prevent anyone else walking in, that sound okay?’

‘Hmmm, maybe we should just go with you, Dave and me then,’ Chris rubs his bearded chin.

‘I know what you mean, but Malcolm and Clarence are good, experienced blokes - it would be good to have their input,’ Howie replies.

‘What if they’re infected though,’ Chris asks.

‘True, any of them could be, fuck it, any of us could be, for that matter,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, so we get Doc Roberts in with us initially, he checks us over first, then a visual check on each other and we crack on?’ Chris suggests.

‘Yep, sounds good to me. We need everyone to meet over at the south wall, so we can talk quietly,’ Howie replies.

‘You go, I’ll round them up and send them on,’ Sarah says.

‘Thanks, Sarah - are you sure you don’t mind doing that?’ Howie asks.

‘No it’s okay, I’ll get Clarence to stand over them, while I smile sweetly,’ Sarah laughs, leading the big man away, with her hand on one of his meaty arms and his face going bright red again.

It takes many minutes to walk to the south side of the Fort and the rooms set aside by Roger. Survivors stop to shake hands with Howie and Chris at every few steps, patting them on the back and calling out as they pass. At first Howie tries to move on quickly, but after the first few people, he gets a mischievous glint in his eye.

‘Hey, don’t just thank me, Dave and Chris here did as much as me,’ Howie replies, then watches as the people move on to offer handshakes to Chris and Dave.

Chris takes it in his stride, smiling good-naturedly and making comments, while looking them in the eye - inspiring confidence and looking every inch the warrior leader. Dave, on the other hand, looks aghast at the many hands being thrust in front of him, knowing that to refuse would cause offence, but clearly hating the idea of touching so many people.

‘Don’t forget to smile, Dave,’ Howie calls out, as they work their way through the crowd.

Dave glares back as he frantically wipes his hand on the back of his trousers between each handshake.

Howie and Chris both laugh as they watch Dave trying to smile, the corners of his mouth turning up and showing teeth, which looks very strange on the normally impassive face.

Eventually, they break through to the far side, as Dave pulls a bottle of anti-bacterial spray from his pocket and starts cleaning his hands.

‘Sorry Dave, I couldn’t resist it, your face was a picture,’ Howie laughs, as Dave offers him the spray bottle.

‘It’s okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, vigorously rubbing his hands.

‘Is it here?’ Chris asks, looking at the south wall looming above them. Several doors set into the wall are spread along the ground floor.

‘I don’t know, where’s Roger?’ Howie replies.

‘Coo-eee gentlemen, over here,’ Roger calls out, leaning out of a doorway further up and waving an arm at them.

They walk up and enter the door; the room is big and square with a solid looking, old table in the middle. Large, rolled up sheets of paper, lie on the top of the table. Howie looks up to see a single, electric bulb hanging down.

‘You’ve got power?’ Howie asks, as Roger turns the switch on.

‘These rooms have a dedicated generator supplying power, you can’t turn all the lights on at the same time, but it will mean you can work privately with the door closed, if you need to,’ Roger replies. ‘Through that door are more rooms, some of them have old camp beds and chairs, if you need to rest - let me know if you need anything.’

‘This is great, thank you Roger, where will you be?’ Howie says.

‘Just a few doors down, that’s where Sergeant Hopewell is working from and the hospital is further down,’ Roger replies. ‘Oh, there’s more of you,’ Roger adds, backing away from the door, as the recruits and more of Chris’s men start piling in.

They chat quietly, as they wait for everyone to arrive.

‘Nick, can you nip down a few doors and see if Sergeant Hopewell and Ted are there, please mate,’ Howie asks.

‘No worries, Mr Howie,’ Nick calls out, disappearing out of the door.

Howie looks amongst the group crowded into the room. The recruits are chatting to each other and now mingling more with Chris’s men and women left from the commune. Howie thinks of the losses they took last night and the image of McKinney flashes back into his mind.

‘We can grieve later,’ Howie mutters.

‘Did you say something, Howie?’ Chris asks.

‘No mate, just talking to myself,’ Howie replies.

‘First sign of madness,’ Chris smiles, as he looks back to the room.

‘Don’t even joke about that,’ Howie laughs.  ‘What are those on the table, Dave?’ Dave has unrolled some of the large sheets and is bent over, studying them.

‘Maps and plans of the Fort and surrounding areas,’ Dave replies.

‘Hello, what’s all this then,’ Ted booms out, as he strides confidently into the room, followed by Sergeant Hopewell and Terri, who immediately smiles at Howie.

‘You never came back for that coffee,’ Terri admonishes him.

‘Hi Terri, err, well, kind of been busy,’ Howie replies, feeling Chris and a few of the others watching him.

‘That’s okay, I heard your speech. It was amazing,’ Terri says, staring with big blue eyes directly at Howie, her pink lips revealing perfect white teeth, as she smiles again.

‘Oh, yeah, err, thanks Terri,’ Howie feels himself starting to blush.

‘Hi, I’m Sarah, Howie’s sister,’ Sarah steps forward, becoming aware of her brothers discomfort, they start chatting as Howie discreetly steps over to Chris.

‘I don’t know you very well, Howie, but I’ve not seen you nervous before,’ Chris says, quietly.

‘I always get nervous around pretty girls,’ Howie whispers back, as Chris throws his head back laughing loudly and drawing attention from the whole room.

‘I’ve seen you charge into thousands of those things,’ Chris says, still unable to use the word zombies. ‘And then give a rousing gung ho speech to thousands of people and you get nervous round one pretty girl?

‘Shush, keep your voice down, oh, bollocks, I think she heard you,’ Howie mutters, seeing Terri staring over at him.

‘I think we’re all here,’ Malcolm says, as Doc Roberts enters the room with his white lab coat flapping open.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Howie mutters again, grateful for the reprieve. ‘Can someone close the door, thanks. Right, most of us know what’s coming our way and these people will be looking to us for confidence and re-assurance. I know we’re all tired and have had enough, but without us they don’t stand a chance. The plan is that a few of us will be working from here and sending out instructions for what’s needed.’

‘And we expect you to see them through,’ Chris steps in. ‘From now on, only those with a reason are to go up onto the walls, and I expect each of you to try and make sure that happens. We know that people can be infected and either not know it or hide it very well, so we will be taking every precaution to prevent all of our plans from becoming known. If you are given a task, please do not question it or discuss it with anyone else.’

‘Debbie, we will need a list of skills, and we are going to need runners too, people that can run out and pass messages, or find the people we need,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, I’ve got more lists than you will ever need and I’m only a few doors down. Also, we’ve got a pool of bored, older kids that need something to do; we can use them as runners. I’ll organise that and have them nearby,’ Debbie replies.

‘Good, we also need guards on the gate, I don’t want to tell the people out there what they can and can’t do, but for now, we need to restrict who goes in and out,’ Chris continues, after Sergeant Hopewell finishes.

‘There’s some rooms back there to relax in, or outside, but stay close and wait for further instructions. Has anyone got any questions?’

‘Weapons Sir, we’ve got some, the people out there have some too, and I think there’s probably some more knocking about… are we going to centralise them and work out who has what? One of Chris’s men shouts out from the back.

‘Good point, we’ll cover it and make sure they are distributed to the right people and in the right place,’ Chris answers.

‘We’re going to need sleep, we’ve been going all day yesterday and all night - if we work through the night and then fight tomorrow, we’ll be dropping like flies,’ a man says from the front, half dressed in police uniform.

‘Try to sleep when you can, rest when you can, but, ultimately, tough shit. If they come and we’re not prepared, we’ll die, simple as that,’ Howie replies quickly, and without humour.

An awkward silence follows with the armed men and women looking down at their feet, avoiding Howie’s intense stare.

‘But… Mr Howie, we’re exhausted, we’ve been fighting and going for a long time, we can’t keep going like this,’ the man whines, rubbing his forehead.

‘Okay mate, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you fuck off and get some sleep then, go and sleep and feel sorry for yourself and whine that no one is giving you a suitable rest period. Even better, we’ll send someone to the massive zombie army and ask them nicely to please wait, so we can all have a nice sleep,’ Howie’s voice rises as he speaks and the darkness spreads across his face quickly. ‘I’m sorry zombie army, but we’re tired and you’re pushing us too hard. Get this mate, we are all going to die and become brain eating zombies if we don’t do whatever it takes.’

‘Yeah, I get that, but listen, there’s only so much we can take, before we just drop…’ the man carries on, oblivious to the whining tone of his own voice.

‘MAN UP AND DEAL WITH IT, OR DIE,’ Dave’s voice booms out, suddenly causing everyone to jolt backwards, the man goes to speak again, but Dave steps forward with lightning speed and stands nose to nose with him. ‘WHAT? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO SAY?’ Dave roars at him.

‘…no, nothing,’ the man replies, avoiding Dave glaring at him and starts staring down at his own feet.

‘DO YOU WANT TO DIE?’ Dave bellows.

‘No.’

‘DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?’

‘Yes,’ the man replies, quietly.

‘MOANING AND WHINING IS MORE INFECTIOUS THAN THOSE THINGS OUT THERE, IF I HEAR YOU MOANING AGAIN, ME AND YOU WILL HAVE AN ISSUE. IS THAT CLEAR?’

‘Yes,’ he mutters. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to whine, I lost some good mates back there and I’m in shock, but you’re right and I apologise to you and everyone else in here,’ the man says, turning back to face the room with a look of shame.

Another one of Chris’s men steps forward and rests his hand on the man’s shoulder, nodding gently at him.

‘Debbie, can you get on to those lists and have the runners ready… Tucker, would you mind arranging for some food and cleaning supplies to be brought over?’ Howie asks, breaking the silence.

‘Yes, of course… err… is there anything else?’ Debbie asks.

‘No, that’s it - get some rest while you can, but stay close,’ Howie says.

The door opens and Debbie files out first, followed by Ted.

Howie turns to see Terri coming back into the door, the sunlight catches her golden hair, framing her soft skin and casing an angelic halo about her. Howie finds his breath catching in his throat, as she smiles at him. She is beautiful, he thinks, staring at her with an open mouth.

‘You’ll catch flies,’ she says, quietly.

‘What? Eh?’ Howie says quickly, snapping back to reality.

‘Sarge said for me to stay close and act as your liaison officer,’ Terri says. ‘Are you okay, Howie?’

‘Yep,’ he replies, too quickly.

‘Now, I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, as I’m not a bloody secretary, but I’m going to get you some strong coffee and stay here while you drink it, got it?’ she says, seriously.

‘That sounds lovely, Terri… we need to speak to Doc Roberts for a few minutes, anyway,’ Howie replies.

‘Did someone say something about coffee,’ Chris calls out, looking up from the maps on the table.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Sarah interrupts, knowing what the men need to do.

They leave the room and Howie calls out for Blowers, asking him to prevent anyone coming in from the back rooms for a few minutes.

Blowers nods once and turns to face the other way, standing with his arms folded and blocking the door.

‘Doc, shall we?’ Chris asks.

‘Shall we what, Chris? You asked me to come here, but I don’t know why?’ Doctor Roberts snaps back in his usual, clipped tones.

‘Doctor, we need to make sure, as best we can, that none of us three are infected. Darren, one of my lads was infected for a while before he turned, and we can’t risk any of us three turning, while we are planning…’ Howie explains, as the doctor holds a hand up to stop him talking.

‘Right, got it, I understand gentlemen. You are going to be planning the defence from here and if one of you is infected, then you could potentially let the other side know about the plans, is that it?’

‘Yes,’ Howie and Chris say in unison.

‘There is no sure way of checking without blood tests, but we don’t have time for that. There are some telltale signs we have learnt, an increase in body temperature and increased heart rate. I’ll do the best I can and check you visually. Strip off,’ the doctor commands.

Howie and Chris shrug at each other and start to slowly peel their clothes off. Dave doesn’t hesitate and is stripped naked within a minute.

Doctor Roberts starts with Dave, checking his temperature first, and then listening to his heart rate. He examines his eyes closely, shining a bright light into the pupils then into his ears. After that, the doctor conducts a very close visual check, examining each inch of skin to check for scratches or open wounds.

‘Turn round,’ the doctor orders and starts checking Dave from behind, first his back, then down to his buttocks and then his legs.

‘Bend over,’ the doctor commands, shining a torch into Dave’s backside.

‘I can see that light shining out your mouth, Dave,’ Chris jokes.

‘Clean and healthy, as far as I can tell… Chris you are next…’

The doctor drops down onto his knees to examine Chris’s legs and, after a few minutes, the doctor pauses and stares up at Dave - Howie and Chris realise the same thing and both stare over at him.

‘You can get dressed now, Dave,’ the doctor says quietly, as the door opens and Terri steps in, holding a large, metal flask.

‘Oh, my God!’ Terri fumbles with the heavy flask staring at the three naked men standing behind the table.

Howie and Chris both quickly cover their privates as Dave spins round to face the other way.

‘Err, I’ll leave this here,’ Terri says flustered, as she walks further into the room and places the flask on the table, glancing at Howie as she does so.

‘We’re just being examined by the doctor,’ Howie says, feebly.

‘All at the same time?’ Terri says quickly, then sees the doctor crouching down, examining one of Chris’s kneecaps.

‘Oh, hi, Doc’ she says and smiles at Howie trying to cover his bits with both hands, ‘I’ll leave you to it!’ she smiles and walks out, as Chris bursts out laughing.

‘That wasn’t funny,’ Howie groans, to the sound of Blowers stifling laughter from the doorway.

‘I think she enjoyed it,’ Chris laughs.

‘Stop laughing and stand still please, now turn round and bend over,’ the doctor orders, oblivious to the interruption.

‘They have to approach from the front, the Fort is built onto this spit,’ Chris says running his finger round the outline of the land on the map. ‘They cannot attack from the sides or rear in any great numbers, so at least we know to expect a frontal attack.’

The three of them pour over maps, drinking strong coffee, after being left with explicit instructions from Doctor Roberts to report any changes in body temperature, and to watch each other closely.

‘Okay, so we know which way they are coming, we’ve got a large, open, flat land in front of us with two big banks, one of which drops down into a type of dry moat. Before that, we’ve got the housing estate,’ Howie continues, describing the area.

‘If I can use that black powder I should be able to rig up some traps within the housing estate,’ Dave cuts in.

‘What sort of thing?’ Howie asks. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any cows to blow up.’

‘I’ll have to have a look round and see what’s there first, but the amount of numbers they’re bringing means they will have to funnel through the estate,’ Dave replies.

‘Cows?’ Chris asks puzzled.

‘Dave once blew up a cow to take out an enemy target,’ Howie explains.

‘Oh, was that you? We heard about that,’ Chris says.

‘And a refinery too,’ Howie adds.

‘You did the refinery? We were on standby for that, Christ that went up, didn’t it - you should definitely rig the estate then,’ Chris says.

‘How many will you need?’ Howie asks.

‘Just one other, Jamie?’ Dave replies.

‘Yeah, good idea, how about you take a few more and place them for spotters, put them out as far as you can,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, Mr Howie, we’ll take a couple of vehicles and use one of them as the furthest obs point - do they have any spare radio’s here?’

‘Check with Debbie, those radios that we used yesterday… will they reach into the estate from here,’ Howie asks.

‘Not likely,’ Chris replies, shaking his head.

‘Dave, see if you can source some more, we will need constant radio contact with you and make sure you can get back quickly, if it goes bent,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies, gathering his backpack and assault rifle, before heading out the door to find Jamie who is sitting patiently in the sun.

‘You’re with me,’ Dave says to him.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies, instantly on his feet and ready.

Howie walks into the back room to find several of the recruits and Chris’s guards dozing quietly.

‘Blowers, can you get Cookey, Nick and Curtis to come in, please mate,’ Howie asks, keeping his voice low.

‘On it, Mr Howie,’ Blowers replies, instantly awake and alert.

Within minutes, he rounds the others up and leads them back into the room with Howie and Chris.

‘Lads, between the four of you I want to make sure the top of the walls stay clear from anyone else. Curtis, I want you to get the Saxon up onto the inner north wall, the slope is wide enough to drive up, position it so that the GPMG can fire down onto the flat lands. Nick and Curtis, you take the Saxon and swap round between manning the GPMG and making sure no one else goes up on the wall. Blowers and Cookey, I want you both on the front gate, making sure no one goes outside. Blowers, find a couple of Chris’s guards and get them positioned at some of the access points up onto the walls, to politely discourage anyone from going up. Got it?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes, Sir,’ Howie gets a chorus of replies as they ready themselves and move out of the room.

‘So that’s Dave and Jamie taking care of the estate and putting spotters out, and then the walls and look-outs taken care off. What’s next?’ Howie turns to Chris.

‘Weapons,’ Chris replies and steps out of the door to call Malcolm inside.

‘Malcolm, find Roger and get a suitable place to work from. Get an inventory of all the weapons we have and ammunition. Do it as quickly as you can, also try and find out if there are any gunsmiths anywhere near here that we can raid or make use off,’ Chris says to him.

Malcolm nods back and is gone within seconds.

Chris disappears into the back room and drags two chairs over to the table, placing one on each side.

Howie pours more coffee and they sit down, examining the maps closely, while drinking the strong java.

‘I remember reading historical novels about cannon firing grapeshot…’ Howie says. ‘If Dave can get those cannon working, we can use them from the tops of the wall.’

‘Good idea: chains, nuts and bolts, anything will do for them,’ Chris replies, leaning forward to look closely at Howie. ‘Listen, we can go for a siege situation and pick them off bit by bit, maybe we don’t have to go out and meet them face to face, Howie.’

‘It won’t work, Chris, if we bed in and one of these thousands of survivors in here turns, all it would take is for them to infect a couple, those couple get a few each and, within minutes, we’re attacked from inside and outside with nowhere to go. I honestly think we should do what we can to reduce their numbers and pick them off, but then we end it, once and for all,’ Howie replies, staring back at him.

‘I do agree with you and I think it’s the right thing to do, but I want to be sure we know what we’re getting into.’

‘I know, mate; I think we need to choose our ground. We can use the estate and flat lands to lay traps and pick them off, the banks and the deep ditch we can use too. That open land between the ditch and the outer wall, that should be our ground,’ Howie says, indicating the area on the map.

Chris nods, looking down at the area Howie traces with his fingers.

‘It gives us some cover from the cannon firing overhead, plus we get to use the banks and ditches to slow them. It’s a big enough area.’

‘There it is then, our ground,’ Howie says quietly, they both stare down at the map. Just marks on paper showing the outline of the Fort walls and the positions of the embankments and ditch.

‘Who’d have thought it, one hundred and fifty years ago this was built to protect us from the French, and now it’s being used again to stop a zombie army,’ Howie chuckles.

‘I hate that word,’ Chris mutters, with distaste.

‘We could dig some ditches along the edge of the flatlands, by the estate, then put the spikes down in the longer grass and then something after the first bank…’ Howie says.

‘If we put vehicles on this side of the first bank they wouldn’t be seen, until they’re coming down the sides,’ Chris cuts in.

‘Okay, so a load of vehicles set to explode, then they go up the second bank and they’ve got the deep ditch, fuck it, let’s fill it with petrol and blow the shit out of ‘em,’ Howie laughs.

‘Why not? As long as we’re far back enough, it’s a good idea,’ Chris replies, seriously.

A knock at the door interrupts them and Terri walks in.

‘You’re dressed, then?’ She asks, lightly. ‘Dave asked me to give you this, he’s got one and said to tell you the spotters have them too.’

‘Ah that’s great, how many more have we got?’ Howie asks.

‘I don’t know, Malcolm came in and took all the radios into one of the other rooms further down,’ she replies.

‘Okay, Terri have we got any diggers or plant machinery here?’ Howie asks, taking the radio.

‘I’ll find out, the Sergeant has lists of everything,’ Terri answers, before smiling at Howie again and heading for the door.

‘That coffee was really nice, by the way,’ Howie calls out, she turns and smiles back again before closing the door behind her.

‘Howie to Dave,’ he speaks into the radio, holding the big side-button down.

‘Dave receiving, go ahead, Howie.’

‘Radio check, receiving you loud and clear.’

‘Dave to Howie, Roger loud and clear this end, out.’

‘Right, let’s go and find Malcolm and see what he’s got,’ Howie says.

They step out into the bright sunlight to find guards lazing about, stretched out in the warm sun, leaning against the wall or chatting to each other and the survivors.

Howie and Chris stroll down, until they reach Sergeant Hopewell’s office; they see her sitting at a desk and looking up at Terri.

‘Hi, Mr Howie,’ Howie turns to see Tom Jenkins and Steven walking towards him, from the main camp area.

‘Hey mate, everything all right?’ Howie replies.

‘Yeah, the Sergeant’s got us patrolling the camp to show a presence - everyone keeps asking us when the fighting starts, or if they can have weapons,’ Steven answers.

‘Steven, Mr Howie was asking me, not you,’ Tom says, petulantly.

‘No, he wasn’t, he was asking both of us,’ Steven fires back.

‘I’m the policeman, you’re just a community officer, so leave the serious stuff to us.’

‘No, Tom, you were a police officer, but Mr Howie said there isn’t a police force anymore, so if there isn’t one, how can you be a police officer? Ha, we’re both the same now.’

‘No, I’ve been trained more than you,’ Tom says, defensively.

‘Trained in what? How to take a statement? Custody procedures? That doesn’t really help us now, does it?’

‘I’ve got more unarmed defence training than you, Steven.’

‘No, you didn’t, we both got the same, you just got taught how to use your baton and pepper spray - I know, because we partnered up for the training, you bloody idiot.’

‘Lads, listen, I think it’s probably fair to say that you’re both the same now, but you’re both very valued and it’s good you’re going round the camp and letting people know you are there,’ Howie says, diplomatically.

‘Ha, fuck you, Tom Jenkins,’ Steven shouts, triumphantly, as Tom stares at him in horror.

‘I’ll leave you to it, lads,’ Howie chuckles and steps into the office, Terri and Sergeant Hopewell both stare out, shaking their heads.

‘They’ll never bloody change that pair,’ the Sergeant mutters.

‘They seem good lads, though,’ Howie laughs. ‘Did you find out about the diggers or plant machinery Terri? Oh, hi Sarah, I didn’t see you there.’

‘My job was mainly administration, so I thought I’d put myself to good use, besides, Patricia here was feeling a little lost, so I said she could stay with me,’ Sarah replies, indicating the girl sitting further in the room, drawing on some paper.

‘Where’s the other woman that was with you? Mary wasn’t it?’ Howie asks.

‘She’s getting cleaned up, then is coming over here,’ Sarah says.

Howie turns back to see Terri standing at a desk loaded with thick piles of paper.

‘Bloody hell, that’s a lot of lists,’ Howie says.

‘Language, Howie,’ Sarah warns.

‘Sorry, err, so… about the diggers?’

‘Right, so we have compiled a list of all the people within the Fort: name, date of birth and last known address. We added work skills and any former military training or firearms experience, pistol or rifle clubs - that kind of thing. We have divided and sub-divided the interior of the Fort into sections and allocated people into those sections, so we know roughly the area they should be in. We also appointed a contact person within each section that we can go to and find out where the section residents are. The idea is that each resident of each section reports to the section contact where they will be, in case they are needed,’ Terri explains. ‘We have also listed every vehicle in the area, and if they are usable or if we have access to them with keys. We categorised each vehicle into commercial or non-commercial, with a reference to how much fuel the vehicle has, and, of course, which fuel type. So, in answer to your question…’ Terri pulls a clipboard from the pile and starts flicking through the lists.

‘You’ve listed the people that have military experience or firearms knowledge?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes,’ Terri answers, without looking up.

‘Can you get that list to Malcolm, he’s setting up an armoury here, somewhere - I don’t suppose you recorded what kind of firearms they have previously used, have you?’ Chris asks.

‘Of course we have,’ Terri replies, still not looking up. ‘We’ll get that to him straight away, ah here it is, yes we have access to three diggers and a cross reference to the people that can operate them.’ Terri looks up and smiles, her blue eyes twinkling.

‘Wow, that’s great,’ Howie says, amazed at the volume of work they’ve undertaken already. ‘Can you get those digger drivers to us, as soon as possible.’

‘Of course, Mr Howie,’ Terri says mock demurely, as she steps outside. ‘Can I have three runners in here please,’ Terri calls out.

Within seconds, three slim, teenage boys run into the room, almost standing to attention in front of Terri, who runs her finger down the list of vehicles and then starts flicking through the pages of names of the Fort occupants.

‘I need you to find George Kimberly from Section 2, Martin Aylesbury from Section 7 and Mark Donovan from Section 18. Bring them back here, as soon as possible, thank you,’ Terri looks up with a stern face, nodding at the boys to get moving.

They run into the thick crowds and weave through the tents and structures.

‘That’s brilliant,’ Howie says, watching the lads sprint away. ‘Is there any kind of blacksmith’s here or workshops?’

‘There’s workshops, quite well equipped too, from what Ted told me,’ Sergeant Hopewell replies.

‘Terri, can you also find engineers, mechanics and metal workers and send them up to us?’ Howie asks.

‘Of course, leave it with me, I’ll get more of those runners out,’ she replies, examining her lists.

‘Those runners are great,’ Howie says, admiringly.

‘Oh, those boys all like our Terri here, especially when she smiles at them,’ Debbie says, without looking up from the papers in front of her.

‘I bet they do,’ Howie says, then instantly blushes, as he realises what he said. ‘I mean, err, I’m sure they… do… shall we go and see Malcolm then?’ he says, turning to Chris, who is smiling broadly and leaning against the wall.

‘Or we could stay here and watch you trying to pull your foot out of your mouth,’ Chris replies.

‘Very funny, thanks for the list, Terri, err... we’ll be off then,’ Howie says, turning to see Sarah leaning back in her chair, watching him with amusement.

Howie steps out, rubbing his face, groaning softly to himself. Chris comes out, shaking his head silently. They walk down a few steps to find an armed guard outside a set of solid looking metal gates, that lead into a tunnel.

‘Is Malcolm in here?’ Chris asks the guard.

‘Yes, Chris, down there to the right,’ the guard opens the gate to admit Howie and Chris.

They enter the short tunnel and turn right into a large room. Natural light trickles in from barred windows set into the wall. Long workbenches run down one side, weapons of all types are stacked up next to boxes of ammunition. Malcolm and Clarence work their way through the weapons, checking and clearing.

‘Hi Chris, we’ve got quite a lot here really,’ Malcolm says, straight to the point. ‘We’ve got some decent rifles, which will be good on the walls for longer range, we’ve separated the assault rifles, some of them are only 9 millimetre, which is no good for longer range, loads of shotguns too.’

‘How about ammunition?’ Chris asks.

‘You can never have enough rounds,’ Malcolm replies. ‘We’ve got quite a lot, but it’ll soon go if we get into a period of sustained firing.’

‘Did you find out if there are any gunsmiths nearby?’ Chris asks, picking up one of the rifles from the bench.

‘There’s a few actually, all in a ten mile radius,’ Malcolm replies.

‘Clarence, can you get some people together and a couple of vehicles - vans would be good - we’re going to need a foraging party. See Sergeant Hopewell next door, I bet she’s got a list of them somewhere,’ Chris says to the huge man.

‘Got it,’ Clarence rumbles, putting down an assault rifle. ‘What else do we need?’

‘Any kind of weapon you can get: guns, knives, swords, axes - anything we can use. Also, we’ll need nuts, bolts and short chains, to make grapeshot for the cannon.’ Chris explains.

‘Clarence, try and get some more arrows too,’ Malcolm calls out.

‘Arrows?’ Chris asks, looking about.

‘There’s quite a few competition level archers in here, have you seen the range and power on modern bows?’ Malcolm replies, indicating the end of the bench and the modern bows racked up next to a pile of arrows.

‘Fair enough, get whatever you can, Clarence,’ Chris says.

‘On it,’ Clarence replies and steps out of the room.

Back in their planning room, Howie and Chris sit down and go over what they’ve already set in motion, discussing the finite details. There is a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ shouts Howie.

‘Hi, we were asked to come here?’ A middle-aged man enters, followed by two younger men.

‘Hi, thanks for coming, excuse me asking but who are you?’ Howie stands, holding his hand out to the closest one.

‘I’m George,’ the first man answers, the other two introduce themselves as Martin and Mark.

‘Ah, you must be the digger drivers then,’ Howie asks.

‘Yeah, we are, not just diggers, but anything like that really,’ George answers.

‘Do you know each other?’ Chris says, watching the men closely.

‘I’ve known Martin for years, we worked together before, err, before this - we only met Mark here though.’

‘When did you arrive?’ Howie asks.

‘Saturday afternoon, we heard the broadcast and came straight here, me and Martin didn’t have far to come, we live near each other too, well we lived near each other…’

‘Mark, when did you arrive here?’ Chris takes over the questions.

‘Sunday morning, Sir,’ Mark answers, in a polite tone.

‘I apologise if this is an insensitive question, but did you come with your families?’ Chris asks.

‘I’ve got my wife and son with me, Sir,’ Mark says.

‘We’ve got our wives and children here too,’ George adds.

‘Have any of you been bitten, scratched or had any direct contact with those…’

‘He means the zombies, have you had any contact with the zombies?’ Howie finishes off for Chris.

‘No, Sir, I saw them, but we hid in the house and then got down here quickly, they were in the street when we left, but it was daytime and they were slow,’ Mark says first, Howie looks to George and Martin.

‘Well, we had a spot of bother getting out of our road, there was a couple of them in the way…’ George says, nervously.

‘What did you do?’ Chris asks.

Martin and George look at each other, then back at Chris.

‘We, err, well we run them over with the van,’ George says, after a pause.

‘You were all in one van and you ran them over? Did you make contact with them physically, get any blood on you or get cut, bitten or scratched, or did any of your families?’ Chris says, staring hard at them.

‘No, Sir, nothing like that, the van got blood on it, but none of us did,’ George says, as Martin nods in agreement.

Chris looks to Howie, nodding once.

‘Okay, sorry about the questions, but we had to be sure none of you were infected or ran the risk of being infected. We have a task for you, but before we say anything about it, would you all be willing to have a full medical examination?’ Howie asks.

They each nod and reply that they would agree to the exam.

After the men are thoroughly examined by the doctor, Chris starts to explain.

‘Okay, gentlemen, we need some trenches dug into the ground near the housing line, but we want to do it so we can hide them afterwards, or, at least, cover them up, so they’re not easily visible, is that possible?’ Chris says.

The three men look to each other, thinking, until George takes a small step forward, nominating himself as the unofficial spokesman.

‘It depends on how deep and how wide?’ George replies. ‘The grass is long enough out there to cut some down and lay the cuttings across the top, that would cover it and blend in somewhat, but only if it’s not too wide or deep.’

‘We want it roughly two yards wide, so it’s not easy to step over or jump, and deep enough to put either some spikes in or some flammable material,’ Howie replies.

‘Oh, I get it, like a trap for the zombie army,’ Martin cuts in. ‘Yeah, that can be done… for spikes you would want a decent drop in there, for the body to be impaled though.’

‘Yeah, a few inches wouldn’t do it, unless they were razor sharp that is, otherwise you’d need a couple of feet at least,’ Mark adds.

‘I reckon we could dig ‘em out about three feet deep and a couple yards width and be able to cover them over, it won’t be pretty, but I reckon we know what you want and we’ll do the best we can,’ George says earnestly, as Martin and Mark both nod.

‘Good, we’ll have some guards go out with you to give you some protection; we need to do this now though. The most important thing is that you do not mention a word of this between here and getting outside the gate, that is vitally important, is that clear?’

‘Sir, we won’t say anything, but could you let our families know we’ll be back a bit later, they’ll only worry otherwise,’ Martin replies.

‘Of course we will, Chris will show you on the map exactly what we need and I’ll be back in a minute,’ Howie says, ushering the men over to the table.

Chris indicates the area of flatland immediately in front of the row of houses.

‘We need it all the way across the entire width of the spit, will three of you be enough to do this?’ Chris asks.

‘Yes, Sir, the digging won’t take long, cutting the grass and laying it across will take the longest part, err, may I ask how you are going to fix the spikes in?’ George asks.

‘We’re going to speak to engineers next and ask them to arrange it,’ Chris replies, looking at the experienced man.

‘That’s a long strip you’re planning Sir, right across the width of the spit and the spikes will need to be driven in quite a way to hold fast, but done without blunting the ends, especially if you’re using metal. Also, where will you get the spikes from?’

‘There’s a workshop here; we’ll find some engineers and mechanics to try and sort them out. You think spikes will be hard to do then?’ Chris asks, openly taking their advice.

‘Not impossible, but certainly difficult, we’ve got enough people here to do it, but if you’re concerned of some of them being infected, then it will be bloody hard for you to trust that many to go outside,’ George says.

‘Okay, good point, we’ll see if it can be done. Where are the diggers?’

‘Over on the west side, stacked up between the two walls. We managed to get quite a few vehicles in the gap.’

‘That’s good thinking, keeps them safe,’ Chris says.

‘I’ve got runners telling your families you’re busy for a little while, they can go to Sergeant Hopewell next door if they’ve got any concerns, and I’ve jacked up some guards to go with you. I’ve had to use some of your people Chris, mine are all tucked up, but I’ve briefed them to what’s needed,’ Howie says, coming back into the room. ‘Whenever you’re ready gentlemen.’

Howie leads the men out of the planning room and down towards the gate, stopping to speak to Blowers and Cookey, who are leaning against a post, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Their assault rifles are strapped across their shoulders, allowing the rifles to rest at the front.

‘Lads, how’s it going?’ Howie asks, as they walk closer.

‘Mr Howie, we’re just having a coffee,’ Cookey replies, guiltily.

‘No worries, lads, you don’t have to apologise, I know you’ll stay alert. Has anyone tried to get in or out?’

‘Nope, we’ve had a lot of people come and ask us questions,’ Blowers says, stubbing his cigarette out.

‘How do they seem when they’re speaking to you?’ Howie asks.

‘Nervous and pumped up, to be honest, Sir, like they want to be doing something, rather just waiting,’ Cookey replies.

‘Okay. Just to let you know that we’re taking these chaps out into the flatlands with some plant machinery, in case anyone questions the noise or anything,’ Howie explains, as Cookey opens the small walk-through gate for them.

They step into the wide lane between the inner and outer wall. The concrete walkway is now covered with a cropped layer of grass. They turn left and walk down into the area that runs between the two walls; the plant machinery and other vehicles coming into view, as the lane bends to the left. Several armed guards are recognised by Howie, from back in the commune, and, already spoken to, follow at a discrete distance; their weapons gripped and ready.

Howie pauses to let the three men walk on to their vehicles: ‘Okay, so you know what they’re doing, keep a close eye on them and make sure they don’t leave their vehicles and go into the estate. We’ve got a couple of our people already in the housing area, so be very careful if you have to venture in. In fact, I would say, don’t go in there, unless absolutely necessary and make sure you let us know on the radio… got it?’ Howie says to the guards who nod back, as the nearest of the diggers starts up with a noisy roar.

‘We might be sending more people out , but I’ll let you know if we do,’ Howie says, leaving them to it and walking back to the gate.

Once inside, he walks slowly back towards the south wall, thinking of the plans they have put in place; a visual image forming in his head.

We’ve got spotters out front, so we should get notified when they arrive. There could be undead already in the estate watching us, but we can’t afford the time or people to sweep it clean, and Dave is in that area rigging some traps up. The zombie army has to come this way, so they have to go through the estate. Dave blows some of them up and slows them down. Then they push into the flatlands and into the trenches, with either spikes, or something else, to hurt and hamper them.

After that, they have to negotiate the first bank and, hopefully, a load of vehicles set to explode; then the second bank and the deep ditch. After that, we’re on our own. How many will they bring? Will they be armed? Fuck, what if they’re armed? We’ll be slaughtered. Nothing we can do about that, I suppose we can fall back into the Fort, if we have to, but it won’t take long for them to get through. Mind you, we’ve got the Saxon up top with the GPMG; we can put more rifles and weapons up there and hopefully the cannon with grapeshot, if Dave can sort them out.

Thinking all this through, Howie realises how much they’re relying on the quiet man. Leaving him to rig the estate, which must be a hell of a task, then needing him to work out the cannon too. If they didn’t have Dave, they would be at a loss. Howie knows he would have been dead a long time ago, if not for Dave.

Thoughts race through his mind, as he slowly paces back towards the south wall, oblivious to the many people who stop and stare at the man with the dark hair and dark features. There is something about his manner and appearance, the way he walks slowly, planting each foot in turn; the faraway look on his face, that puts them off from disturbing him. A few of the less sensitive ones step forward to interrupt his thoughts, only to find strong hands placed on their arms from the more astute people; holding them back with discretely shaking heads.

Children go quiet as Howie walks through the camp, his mind racing with a thousand images and thoughts but his face is stony and grave; eyes down and subconsciously avoiding trip hazards and guide ropes stretched out from the many tents.

To Howie, it’s like a movie in his mind; an image of grotesque decaying forms racing through the estate with sharpened, yellowing teeth. The traps fail to go off, then they leap over the pits and surge too quickly past the non-exploding cars, only to fall on the weak lines; devouring and wiping them out instantly.

Keep them coming, keep them running after them, until they eventually fall down and die again.

But then he has an overwhelming desire to fight them. To stand on that line and face them down. Howie thinks back to the feeling of battle; the horror and the fear, the blood and gore, the knowing that, at any point, he could be taken down and killed - only having his own strength and speed to rely on. The feeling of glory, the sense of doing something that is right; standing with his people and fighting with them, charging into almost certain death, but doing so knowing you’re all in it together.

The pull of that feeling is hard to ignore and Howie accepts that there is a big part of him wanting that  final showdown.

Take as many down as you can Howie, and then fight them. They don’t think of fairness or equal sides, so hurt them, cut them down and do what it takes, because that fight will be the end.

Howie snaps back to reality, to find that he is in the middle of the camp. There is silence all around him. Howie lifts his head and nods once to the mass of people who stand and stare at him, before walking quickly towards the south wall and back to the reality of planning the impossible.

‘You’re with me’ Dave says to Jamie.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies, getting to his feet.

‘You… you… and you two - come with me,’ Dave points to several of the guards nearby, handpicking the ones he had seen fighting; serious men with calm expressions, fit and athletic. They get up and make ready, without question.

‘Get some fluids and food, meet us at the gate,’ Dave says, walking away towards the Saxon, Jamie following behind him.

They reach the Saxon, just as Curtis and the rest come out of the planning room. Dave opens the rear doors and climbs in, rummaging through the bench seat cupboards, to pull two heavy, bulging canvas bags out. Dave then exits the Saxon, to see Jamie staring at the bags.

‘Grenades,’ Dave explains.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies.

‘Leave both of your rifles here, take this and put it on,’ Dave says, handing Jamie a pistol pouch with belt loops at the rear; the black stock of the handgun poking out.

Jamie hands over the two rifles; Dave slides them into the rear, as Curtis arrives at the vehicle.

‘We’re leaving our rifles here, take care of them,’ Dave instructs Curtis.

‘Yes, Dave,’ Curtis replies, still making the name Dave sound like the word Sarge.

‘Ammunition,’ Dave says, handing Jamie spare clips for the handgun.

‘I’ve never used a handgun before,’ Jamie says.

‘I’ll show you,’ Dave replies.

‘Okay,’ Jamie says, looping the heavy pouch onto his belt, to his right side.

‘Ready?’ Dave asks.

‘Yes, Dave,’ Jamie replies.

They walk towards the gate in silence, each carrying a bag full of grenades over one shoulder; two quiet men with pistols strapped to their sides, walking silently through the camp. They reach the gate and wait in silence for the other guards to catch them up.

Ted appears, smiling.

‘Going anywhere nice?’ Ted asks.

‘No,’ Dave replies, flatly.

‘Oh, right,’ Ted pauses, the smile slowly disappearing.

‘We need some vehicles,’ Dave says.

‘Okay, how many do you need?’ Ted asks.

‘Three,’ Dave replies.

‘Anything in particular?’ Ted asks.

‘No,’ Dave answers.

Ted walks away into a nearby room, selecting keys from a key cupboard.

‘Can you drive?’ Dave asks Jamie.

‘Yes,’ Jamie replies.

‘Good,’ Dave says.

Ted returns, handing the keys over, as the four guards reach the gate, each of them with a rucksack on their backs.

‘The vehicles are between the walls, to the left,’ Ted says, as they step through the gate.

‘Okay,’ Dave answers.

‘Funny bugger, that one,’ Ted says, closing the gate behind them.

They walk down the lane, until they reach the vehicles; Dave stopping to look at the keys, then at the vehicles, trying to figure out which key fits which vehicle.

‘You’re going on point duty - you each get a radio. One of you has to go to the furthest point out that the radio will reach, keep checking in on channel two, until you lose signal, then come back. The other two, I want on the sides and out as far as the radios will reach. Got it?’ The guards nod back, as they take the radios and switch them to channel two, using the small dial at the top.

‘The one furthest out takes one of the vehicles. The other two, out to the sides… one gets a vehicle and you arrange where the other gets dropped off and the pick-up points, in case it goes bent - we keep the other vehicle. You will be there for some time, I will try and get relief for you, but that may not be possible. You are the advance contact points, without you we will not have advance warning of when they come. Do not engage and give away your positions. Report back at the first sight and pull back to the Fort. Got it?’ Dave says, they each nod.

‘Stay alert,’ Dave says, handing all of the keys to one of the guards. The man sorts through them then hands a set to Jamie.

‘For that one,’ the man points to the first vehicle.

‘You get the vehicle ready,’ Dave says to Jamie.

He nods in return and walks over to get into the driver’s side, adjusting the seat and checking through the controls. Jamie glances out to see Dave speaking intently to the other men. Finally, they nod back, with very serious faces, and break away, heading for their vehicles.

‘Okay,’ Dave says, getting into the front passenger seat.

Jamie starts the engine and pulls away slowly. They get to the big vehicle gates on the outer wall then Dave gets out and pushes the gates open, waiting for the vehicles to drive through. Jamie pulls over to allow the other two to drive on down the road.

Dave closes the gates and gets back into the vehicle.

‘Where are we going?’ Jamie asks, as he pulls away.

‘Into the estate, we’re going to set some explosives,’ Dave answers. ‘We also need to sweep as we go.’ Dave thinks of all that Mr Howie and Chris have to contend with; he didn’t need to ask if they wanted the area swept, they have enough to think about.

Jamie drives down the long, straight road, past the banks and then through the flatlands, finally reaching the housing estate.

‘Drive down to the right,’ Dave instructs, as Jamie turns the wheel, going down the road between the two rows of houses - one row on the flatlands side.

‘Park at the end,’ Dave says.

Jamie pulls the car up at the end of the cul-de-sac. They get out and walk round to the back of the vehicle. Dave pulls his pistol out and indicates for Jamie to do the same. Dave then shows Jamie how to load the ammunition clip and pull the sliding top back, to engage the first round.

‘They kick quite a lot, use a two-handed grip, same as the sniper rifle - squeeze and fire,’ Dave says.

‘Can I fire here?’ Jamie asks.

‘Yes, they won’t hear from this distance,’ Dave answers.

Jamie raises the pistol and copies Dave; firing once - the loud retort sounding out into the quiet air.

‘Good, you anticipated the kick without dropping or lifting the weapon. Two shots per target, like this,’ Dave says, lifting his own pistol and walking towards the front door of the nearest house. As he steps onto the garden path, he fires two shots very close together. The rounds strike the door at mid-height, millimetres apart.

‘Got it,’ Jamie says, walking towards the same door and firing twice into the same height as Dave hit, both rounds hitting within millimetres.

‘Good, we call it a double tap, aim for the head, if you can, and be ready to re-load quickly. Don’t be afraid to put it away and go for bladed weapons, if you need to.’

‘Okay,’ Jamie answers.

‘Show me a re-load,’ Dave instructs and watches Jamie eject the clip, catch it with one hand, drop that same hand down and swap for a fresh full clip and slam it home; racking the top back - all within a second or two.

‘Sorry, that was slow,’ Jamie apologises.

‘That’s okay, you’ll get faster the more you do it,’ Dave answers. ‘We’ll do the first house together.’

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies.

They move up the path, until they reach the front door. Dave steps close to the front door and stares at Jamie.

‘How many windows to the front?’ Dave asks.

‘Two on the ground level, two on the first floor,’ Jamie replies, without breaking eye contact.

‘Describe them,’ Dave asks.

‘The ground floor, far left, appears to be a lounge window; net curtains restrict the visibility, but the curtains are drawn back, which indicate the people are either not at home or were not home when the event happened. The other window looks similar, so it might be a dining room - it does not look like a kitchen,’ Jamie replies.

‘Upstairs?’ Dave asks.

‘The far left has partial net curtains with curtains drawn back, but there is no view of the inside from ground level. The right side is the same, but the curtains are half drawn across.’

‘Are the windows closed or are any of them open?’ Dave asks.

‘I think they are all closed,’ Jamie replies.

‘Okay, it’s your first time, so I will allow for that, but, in future, remember this - we don’t think, we know. Got it?’

‘Yes, sorry,’ Jamie replies.

‘Good, now the door. Tell me about it?’

‘Wooden, inward opening and hinged on the right,’ Jamie replies, looking straight at Dave.

‘Good, how many locks and where are they?’

‘Central lock on the door handle to the left, letterbox is situated at standard height - I was unable to tell if there are any further locks.’

‘Good, how can we tell if the door has further locks?’ Dave asks.

‘I don’t know, pressure?’

‘Yes, push against the door next to the door handle, does it yield?’ Dave asks and watches Jamie push hard.

‘No,’ Jamie answers.

‘Now, push at the top of the door, does it yield?’

‘Yes slightly,’ Jamie answers, then pushes at the bottom. ‘The base yields too; no locks on the top or bottom.’

‘Good, so we know that to force entry we aim for the central lock… now, do we use a shoulder or a foot?’ Dave asks.

Jamie considers for a split second. ‘A shoulder will risk injury and I don’t think people our size could generate enough force… the foot?’ he asks.

‘Correct, men the size of Clarence and Chris can use shoulders, as they have huge amounts of power and strength. Men our size do not, so we use our feet, but, before we do that, what should we do first?’

‘Look for a key?’ Jamie replies.

‘Good, and also…’ Dave pushes the handle down and the door opens slightly. ‘We check to see if it’s actually locked first.’

‘Got it.’

‘Room clearance,’ Dave says, as they step into the hallway. ‘Working together we clear as we go, one remains at the door facing out, the other enters, we do not lean around corners with our weapons held out ready to be taken off us. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

‘Good. We walk in fast, with the weapon held ready to use, we face forward and sweep, like this,’ Dave says, as he enters the first room on the right, pushing the door open with his foot and stepping in quickly.

He holds the pistol in the two-handed grip and sweeps the room rapidly; the gun rising and falling as he looks up and down, left to right.

‘Got it,’ Jamie says.

‘You do that one,’ Dave says, nodding towards the lounge door opposite them.

Jamie mimics Dave, pushing the door open with his foot and sweeping the room quickly, the weapon tracking his facial direction.

‘Good, now, if we both proceed to the ground floor rear, we leave the stairs behind us and we do not know if upstairs is clear. So, one holds at the point of risk, while the other advances. I’ll hold, while you clear the rest,’ Dave says.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies, stepping down the narrow hallway and entering the kitchen. He disappears from view and is gone for several seconds. He walks back out with the weapon slightly lowered, but still held correctly.

‘Clear,’ he reports.

‘Good, stand behind me,’ Dave asks, as Jamie walks to stand behind him.

Dave raises one hand and makes a fist.

‘This means hold,’ Dave says, then extends one finger. ‘This means one target, two for two targets, three for three - all of the fingers extended means multiple targets.’

‘Got it.’

‘Good. If I point the finger like this, it means the target is that direction, if I point one way, then another, it means one target that way and one target the other.’

‘Okay.’

‘Good, we’ll stick with that for a minute. Going upstairs, we keep the weapon raised to strike the target at the top, taking into account the height difference. Place your feet to the sides of each step, there is less chance of creaks that way.’

‘Okay,’ Jamie says, as Dave lifts his weapon and advances up the stairs quickly and surely, reaching the top and pausing to sweep down the hallway.

‘Corridor ahead, loops back to the front bedroom, another room on the right, appears bathroom at the end, I’ll hold, you clear the front,’ Dave says, quietly stepping aside to allow Jamie to move along the few steps to the bedroom.

He walks inside and re-appears within seconds.

‘Clear,’ he reports quietly, and moves.

On the second floor, he repeats the action, then moves along to the bathroom: ‘Clear.’ He then returns back to Dave, weapon lowered.

‘Good,’ Dave replies.

They exit the house and move outside, to the next one, trying the door first, but finding it locked.

‘Aim your strike next to the lock, do not expect it to burst open on the first hit,’ Dave says, watching as Jamie steps back and powers his right foot into the door.

Jamie watches as the strike hits, then adjusts his stance and pauses for a second, appearing to draw power and drives his foot forward again, with lightning speed. The strike is perfect and the door pops open, causing the frame to splinter from the solid, brass lock being forced in.

‘Good, now we move faster. Go, I’ll hold,’ Dave orders, as Jamie walks forward, kicking doors open and sweeping the house, room by room, reporting ‘…clear’, after each one.

Jamie takes the lead on the stairs, leaving Dave to hold at the top. The house is cleared within minutes and they walk back out.

‘That was good, but we have a lot of houses and not much time, so do it faster,’ Dave says.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies.

The next house is cleared within two minutes and they exit again, moving across the lawns to the next one.

‘My turn, you hold,’ Dave says, as he kicks the door in and enters swiftly, striding from room to room, with quick, jerky, but controlled movements. He clears each room - then moves straight up the stairs and clears the rest. He is back outside in under a minute.

‘Your movements are much faster than mine,’ Jamie says, as they walk to the next house.

‘Years of practise and drill, but you do not have that luxury - your turn,’ Dave says, as they reach the door.

Jamie quickly checks the door handle, locked. He pressures the top and bottom, steps back and kicks the door hard; forcing it open on the first kick. He enters, as the door is still swinging open. Jamie strides into the first room, again mimicking Dave, as he quickly checks the four corners and moves back out, then moves on to the next room. They exit the house in just over a minute, again moving down to the next house.

‘Better - keep that pace, but stay alert,’ Dave says, testing the door handle and finding the door unlocked.

‘You go again,’ Dave says, as the door swings open.

Jamie strides into the lounge on the right, then back out and across the small hallway and into the dining room. He exits and clears the kitchen at the back, before moving back and climbing the stairs; pausing at the top, for a split second, to allow Dave to reach the top step.

Jamie advances towards the front bedroom, pausing at the door with his head cocked to one side. He raises a hand and makes a fist, then extends one finger and points to the door. Dave moves up close behind Jamie and listens, he taps Jamie on the shoulder once and waves his extended hand forward, then quickly about turns to watch the rear.

Jamie steps forward and pushes the door open with his foot. Walking into the room, he observes an undead standing on the other side of the double bed. The pistol already tracking with his eyes, he fires two rounds, very close together, into the forehead and is already moving to check the rest of the room as the zombie slumps to the ground, leaving a massive blood and brain spatter on the wall behind him.

‘Clear,’ Jamie says, exiting the room.

Dave enters the bedroom and moves across to look down at the body, then heads back out into the hallway.

‘Good shots, the second was slightly off, though,’ Dave says.

‘I know. I started to turn away, to continue the sweep, too quickly,’ Jamie replies.

‘If you are satisfied that the first shot is enough, then you can start the move,’ Dave says.

‘Okay, I will keep to the double-tap for now, to practise, if that’s okay,’

‘Okay,’ Dave replies.

Jamie clears the rest of the rooms and they work house by house, clearing each one in under a minute, then crossing the road to start on the other side and work back towards where they started.

‘Now, we work alone - you start with this one and I do the next, you leapfrog and do the next one and I leapfrog after you, got it? Dave asks.

‘Got it, same method?’ Jamie says.

‘Yes,’ Dave answers.

‘Okay.’

Jamie walks to the front door and pauses, until Dave has reached the front door of the next house. They nod to each other and, in unison, they check the door handle, the top and the bottom, then step back and kick the door open. Entering, as the door swings open.

They work from house to house, double-shots ringing out sporadically, as they find undead in rooms. The street is cleared within ten minutes and they each exit their last house; both changing clips and re-holstering their weapons as they walk back to the vehicle.

‘How many?’ Dave asks.

‘Three, you?’

‘You know how many I had.’

‘You had two.’

‘Good.’

‘What now?’ Jamie asks.

‘The next street behind this one,’ Dave answers.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies.

They move down the central road, until they reach the next junction; once again, two rows of houses on each side.

‘You take that side, I’ll do this side, meet back here,’ Dave says.

‘Okay.’

Ten minutes later, they meet back at the junction, Dave ahead of Jamie, but only having to wait for under a minute.

‘How many rounds did I use?’ Dave asks.

‘Eight,’ Jamie answers. ‘Four targets.’

‘Good.’

‘Two more streets and we can start on the explosives,’ Dave explains, as they walk further down the road.

‘Lead point to Dave,’ the radio crackles on Dave’s belt.

‘Dave to lead point, go ahead.’

‘Lead point to Dave, I am positioned approximately two miles away from your location, testing transmission strength.’

‘Dave to lead point, transmission strong, can you move further?’

‘Yes, will do so now, out.’

‘Dave to East point, are you in position?’

‘East point to Dave, Roger that, in position now. West point has retained the vehicle.’

‘Dave to East point, received. Dave to West point, confirm you have retained the vehicle and are you in position?’

‘West point to Dave, confirm I have retained the vehicle, confirm I am in position.’

‘Dave to West point, Roger that. Dave to lead point, you are now North point, received?’

‘North point to Dave, Roger that.’

‘Dave to North point, switch to channel one and check signal strength to the Fort, before you move any further.’

‘North point to Dave, Roger that, doing now.’

Dave switches the dial on the radio back to channel one and listens for the transmission.

‘North point to Fort, radio check.’

‘Fort to North point, are you forward observation point? Your signal is weak, but readable.’

‘North point to Fort, answer yes I am forward obs point, likewise your signal weak but readable, I will hold this position. North point to Dave, did you receive the last?’

‘Dave to North point and Fort, Roger that, received the last. North, East and West points will hold those positions and maintain channel one. Dave out.’

Dave turns to Jamie: ‘Explosives,’ he says, simply.

‘Did you hear that last transmission,’ Chris asks, as Howie enters the planning room.

‘Yeah, Dave’s got the spotters in place?’

‘Yep, at least we’ve got eyes on now, so we’ll get an advance warning,’ Chris replies. ‘You okay, mate?’ he asks with concern at the expression on Howie’s face.

‘I’m fine mate, was just thinking it all through, as I walked back,’ Howie replies.

‘There’s a lot to think about,’ Chris concedes. ‘But all we can do is try, Howie.’

‘I know, mate, any news on the engineers?’

‘I spoke to Sergeant Hopewell and she’s sent runners out... did the digger drivers get away okay?’

Howie nods back, staring down at the plans on the table.

‘Where do we put the soil that they dig out?’ Howie says.

‘They seem experienced men, Howie - I’m sure they will figure it out and put it somewhere…out of sight,’ Chris replies.

‘Wouldn’t they need dumper trucks to carry it away?’

‘Hang on,’ Chris says, reaching for his radio.

‘Fort to guards with the digger units…’

‘Fort to guards with the digger units,’ Chris repeats, several times.

‘Digger guard to Fort, sorry it’s noisy here, go ahead.’ A voice booms out, with the sound of loud engines in the background.

‘Fort to digger guards, make sure the soil taken out is disposed of, out of sight.’

‘Digger guard to Fort, repeat your last please.’

‘Fort to digger guard, MAKE SURE THE SOIL TAKEN OUT IS HIDDEN FROM SIGHT.’

‘Digger guard to Fort, you want us to work all night?’

‘Fort to digger guard, ANSWER NO - I WANT THE SOIL FROM THE HOLES HIDDEN.’

‘Digger unit to Fort, Roger will do.’

‘Bloody hell, they’re going to wake the dead,’ Chris says, shaking his head and putting the radio down on the table.

‘Bit late for that, mate,’ Howie jokes.

A knock and Terri enters, immediately smiling at Howie: ‘There are some engineers here for you,’ she says.

‘Ah great,’ Howie replies, stepping to the door and finding several men waiting outside. ‘Come in, chaps,’ Howie smiles at them, opening the door wide. They walk into the room, looking about with a keen interest at the interior and then head straight to the plans on the table.

‘I’m Howie, this is Chris, nice to meet you all,’ Howie says, politely shaking hands with the men, one by one.

‘Sorry, is this the room for the engineers?’ A middle-aged woman appears at the door leaning in.

‘Yeah, Hi, I’m Howie ,come in.’

‘Hello, I’m Kelly,’ the woman replies, shaking hands with Howie, then Chris.

‘So… are you all engineers?’ Chris asks, once the handshaking has stopped.

They all nod at him.

‘Good, forgive us for being blunt, but we need to get straight down to the point… we need some sharp spikes to be made that can be embedded into the ground,’ Chris says.

‘Also, we want some very small sharp objects that can be hidden in the long grass, out in the flatlands,’ Howie adds.

‘You mean caltrops?’ Kelly asks straight away, and leans forward to examine the plans on the table.

‘Yeah, those,’ Howie replies, surprised at her direct manner.

‘What about the spikes? How many and how deep are they going in?’

‘The spikes will be put into a hidden trench the width of the spit,’ Howie explains.

‘We can use sharpened wooden spikes for that, getting the material and fashioning them will be relatively easy. The hardest part will be getting them in, you’ll need a lot of people for that, if you want it done quickly,’ Kelly answers.

‘We can get more people, that’s not a problem. What about the caltrops?’

‘Right, the first problem is materials. We’ll need lots of metal, but then most metals can’t just be bent into shape. They might be brittle and snap. We might have to heat them and then, of course, make them sharp - that will need power tools and you’ll want them over a large area, so we need lots of them.’ She finishes speaking, then looks expectantly at Chris, then to Howie.

‘There’s a workshop here. I’m sure we can rig some of the generators up for you,’ Howie replies, impressed.

‘Can we take metal from the fittings and fixtures if we need to?’ One of the other engineers asks.

‘Take what you need, do whatever you need to do - but get it done as fast as possible. We will have to put some guards with you, to make sure you don’t go off and tell other people what you’re doing,’ Chris says, resting his hands on the desk and leaning forward to emphasise his point.

‘Excuse me?’ One of the engineers steps forward. ‘What was that about guards and telling other people? He is middle-aged with blond, swept back hair.

‘We cannot run the risk of anyone else knowing what our tactics are, so, for now, you will work alone,’ Chris replies.

‘Are you telling us or asking us?’ The man asks, politely.

‘Listen, I’m sorry it sounds harsh, but it’s the way it has to be, I’m afraid,’ Chris says to the man, equalling his polite tone.

‘We were told we could come and go as we needed to, as long as we were checked when we come back in.’

‘That was then, the situation has changed.’ Chris says.

‘So we can no longer come and go as we please?’ The man asks.

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Chris replies.

‘Tell me, what will happen if we do?’

‘Do what exactly?’ Chris asks, still maintaining his polite tone.

‘If we try to leave or if we try to tell other people of what we are doing?’

‘You will be stopped,’ Chris says, curtly.

‘How?’ The man asks, his cultured tones not slipping.

‘By any means deemed necessary,’ Chris responds.

‘I’m sorry? You mean that if we try to leave or speak with the other people in the camp, we will be killed?’ The man leans forward, staring intently at Chris.

‘If that is necessary, yes,’ Chris stares back.

‘I thought this was a democracy, not a…’

‘I will stop you there,’ Chris interrupts pointedly. ‘This is not a democracy and while I understand your concerns, I can only respond by saying there is no alternative. If those things coming here find out about our plans, we will lose the best chance we have of reducing their numbers before they get to us. We do not know if anyone in the camp is infected, so we cannot run the risk of people knowing what we are doing. It really is that simple.’ Chris speaks calmly, looking at each of them in turn as his diplomatic skills shine through. ‘Gentlemen, and lady, of course,’ Chris inclines his head to Kelly. ‘There is a huge zombie army coming for us, this is a fact. We have to do what it takes to cut their numbers before they get here. While Howie and I have the skills and knowledge and are prepared to meet them face-to-face, we need your skills and knowledge to try and even the sides. You are trained engineers. You have skills that we simply do not have and we need your help. But it must be done in a controlled environment.’ Chris explains, looking to each of them in turn.

‘I agree,’ Kelly responds immediately and with passion. ‘We all heard what Howie said earlier and we know the risks involved. We’ll get on with it and do what we can to help.’

‘Okay, I understand but I’m a little uncomfortable with being treated like a slave or having some tyrannical despot ordering me about,’ the man replies, directly to Kelly.

The atmosphere becomes instantly charged and a silence follows his comments.

Chris is clearly struggling to contain his temper and Howie has to bite his own anger down.

‘I don’t understand what your concerns are?’ Kelly asks, slowly and clearly.

‘My concern is being told this was a safe place and now finding out we are captives to be used as they see fit and without any form of redress - and being told who we can and cannot talk to,’ the man replies.

‘We can manage without this man, I think the rest of us understand your need for secrecy and we are happy to comply with that request, is that so?’ Kelly asks the group in general.

‘Yes, completely. I am amazed at you, Donald,’ an older man with glasses responds, looking at the outspoken engineer.

‘I have the right to question their motives,’ Donald replies.

‘You do, but we all know the situation and it would appear you are happy to accept the safety of this place without undertaking any of the risk involved in keeping it safe,’ the older man says.

‘That is not the case at all,’ Donald responds, still maintaining a polite and calm manner.

‘Donald, we are not on site now discussing the plans with the architect or planning officers. We are in the middle of an event of global proportions, and if we want to live, we have to accept that and deal with it,’ Kelly says.

‘I do accept it, but I still maintain the right to question the methods used. This could be one step away from some kind of communist regime where we are being controlled and I simply will not accept it,’ Donald replies.

Chris looks to Howie with a discrete shake of his head. Howie walks to the door and over to the police office.

‘Debbie, we’ve got the engineers. We’ve told them what we need doing, but one of them is refusing to agree not to tell anyone else,’ Howie says quickly.

Sergeant Hopewell looks up at him with a concerned expression, eyebrows raised.

‘Look, we don’t know if anyone else in the camp is infected and we cannot risk people finding out what our defence tactics are, so we are controlling the access points…’

‘I know all of this, Howie,’ Debbie interrupts him. ‘I am concerned…’

‘Detain him,’ Ted says firmly, from the back of the office.

‘You have to Howie, you can’t run the risk of him telling people or causing dissent,’ Sarah adds.

‘How would we detain him?’ Howie asks.

‘Leave it to me, there’s a secure room back here that he can sit in for a few hours,’ Ted replies, taking a thick black belt from a hook and fixing it round his waist; handcuffs and black pouches hanging from it.

He takes a police flat cap and puts it on, the peak low to his eyes; instantly transformed from genial Ted to official policeman.

‘Where is he?’ Ted asks.

‘In the planning room, I think his name is Donald,’ Howie answers.

‘Lead the way then,’ Ted says, with a voice full of authority.

They walk quickly back to the planning room with Howie leading the way. Ted puts a hand out as they reach the door. ‘Which one is he?’ Ted asks, quietly.

‘Err, middle-aged, with blond hair, sort of swept back,’ Howie replies.

‘Let me go first and do the talking, understand?’ Ted says, not giving Howie a chance to reply as he steps into the room, pausing for dramatic effect as all eyes turn to him.

Ted keeps a stern, impassive face; eyes staring out from underneath the peaked hat. He looks at each person, taking them all in. Years of experience in his manner and an aura of authority ooze off him. Ted nods and steps over to the blond man.

‘Sir, are you Donald?’ Ted asks, his eyes staring intently at the man.

‘Yes, I am,’ the man replies, clearly shocked at the arrival of a fully uniformed police officer.

‘Sir, I need you to understand what I am going to say to you. We will remain calm and we will not react in an undue manner, is that clear?’ Ted says.

‘I’m sorry? What?’ Donald replies.

‘Sir, as far as we know, this Fort is the last safe place in the country. We have no knowledge of any other surviving colonies or places such as this. Therefore, this Fort may represent the country. Therefore, this Fort also represents the concern of the nation as a whole. I am led to believe that you are causing dissent and refusing to comply with the requests being made to you. I am therefore detaining you in the interests of national security. You will come with me where you will be held in a safe place, without fear of abuse or assault.’

‘What? You can’t do this,’ Donald shouts, with a horrified look on his face and quickly steps away. Ted steps forward and takes a firm grip of the man’s wrist, pulling it behind his back and fixing one end of a handcuff on.

‘Sir, this is happening. These men are doing what is necessary for the protection and survival of all of us. They, and we, do not have time for inconsiderate and selfish people like you. Put your other hand behind your back, thank you. Now you will come with me and be quiet about it.’ Ted spins the handcuffed man round and marches him towards the door.

‘Once outside, you will not scream or shout and you will not cause distress or alarm to any other persons within this camp,’ Ted says smoothly and with such firm authority the man complies instantly.

Ted steps through with Donald and turns back to close the door, winking at Howie as he does so.

‘Bloody hell,’ Howie mutters.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Chris starts to say, but is cut off by Kelly holding her hand up. ‘Don’t be,’ she says. ‘Extreme times call for extreme measures. I know he’ll be looked after.’

‘It did need to be done, I’m afraid. I’ve met Donald on a few jobs and he’s always like that. Very contrary, which normally can be dealt with, but, as you say, extreme times and all that…’ the older man says, calmly.

‘To business, where is this workshop?’ Kelly asks.

‘Follow me, we’ll find Roger and get him to lead the way,’ Howie replies.

A few minutes later, they find Roger and follow him round the edge of the camp to the west wall and a set of large, wooden double doors.

Chris had found three guards from the dwindling numbers and briefed them fully and Howie had grabbed a couple of runners and asked them to stay close.

Roger opens the doors up and steps aside as the group files in. Long, wooden workbenches run down the sides with old, battered metal cabinets filling spaces and gaps. Hand tools are pinned to walls with the black outline of their shape etched on, showing their intended space. The smell of grease, oil and coffee is in the air.

‘The power tools are in that room in the back, it’s kept locked, but the key should be in the top of that set of drawers,’ Roger explains, pointing to a metal filing unit in the corner.

One of the engineers opens the door and pulls out a single key on a large ring. The rest move slowly down the room, examining the various tools with professional interest.

The rear door is unlocked and the engineer doing the unlocking takes out a small flashlight from his pocket to illuminate the dark interior. The other engineers quickly join him, each taking out a small flashlight as they enter the dark room.

‘Bloody engineers, always so practical,’ Roger jokes.

‘Is there a generator here?’ A voice shouts from the back room.

‘Yes, there’s one here. We can get more for you if you need. We always had plenty of power as we’re so isolated from the main power supply,’ Roger says, walking forward and leaning into the dark room.

‘Well, where is it then?’ The voice calls out.

‘You’re the engineers, you figure it out,’ Roger answers with mock indignation. ‘This is not my usual environment,’ he adds.

‘Got it, hang on, we’ll get some power going,’ another voice calls out.

A few seconds later, a deep rumbling noise comes from the back room and the darkness is dispatched with illumination from the bright strip-lighting overhead. Murmurs of agreement and satisfaction reach them as the engineers mooch through the various tools and equipment.

‘Have you seen up there, Howie,’ Chris asks.

Howie follows his gaze to a suspended roof; adding extra storage to the room. Piles of long metal rods are stacked up in one end.

‘Perfect, I love it when a plan comes together,’ Howie jokes and looks to see Chris staring blankly at him.

‘What plan?’ Chris asks. ‘The whole plan or just this bit.’

‘It’s from The A-Team,’ Howie says.

‘What’s The A-Team?’ Chris asks, with a puzzled expression.

‘You are fucking, joking right? Christ you’re worse than Dave,’ Howie mutters.

‘Of course, I’m bloody joking,’ Chris smiles. ‘So, which one am I?’ he asks.

‘Hmmm… I would say Hannibal, but with that beard, it’s got to be BA,’ Howie replies.

‘No way, Clarence has got to be BA,’ Chris responds.

‘Yeah, fair one, well Dave is definitely Murdoch.’

‘Definitely, but you can’t be Hannibal, as that would only leave Face and I’m not being Face,’ Howie says firmly.

‘What? Face was great,’ Chris says, shocked.

‘In the movie or series?’ Howie asks.

‘Both,’ Chris replies.

‘Well, you be Face then, if you like him so much - I’ll be Hannibal,’ Howie says, as they start walking back to the planning room.

‘No way, I can’t be Face - you’re much better looking than me,’ Chris replies. ‘You’ll have to be Face, I’ll be Hannibal.’

‘Nope, shave your beard off and you’ll make a great Face,’ Howie says.

‘I pity the crazy fool who tries to shave my beard,’ Chris growls in a deep voice, as Howie bursts out laughing.

‘I pity the crazy fool who tries to make me be Face,’ Howie growls back, as they reach the planning room door, entering to drink more coffee.

‘What’s next?’ Chris asks.

‘Clarence to the Fort,’ the radio bursts to life with Clarence’s deep voice booming out.

‘That is, I guess,’ Howie replies.

Chris smiles as he answers the radio, ‘Chris to Clarence, go ahead BA.’

‘I AIN’T GETTING’ ON NO PLANE,’ Clarence’s voice booms back, making both of them laugh.

‘Clarence to Chris, we are on way back, will be with you in a few minutes.’

‘Saxon to Howie or Chris, confirm we can see convoy of vehicles coming from the estate.’

‘Chris to Clarence, Roger that. Hold at the gates we’ll come to you.’

They down the now cold coffee and head back out of the door, walking through the camp; smiling at people as they walk past or stop to stare.

‘How’s our man?’ Howie asks Ted.

‘He’s all right, he’s asking for a lawyer, so we told him your sister is a lawyer and he’s trying to make a claim of unlawful arrest now,’ Ted smiles.

‘Fair one,’ Howie replies.

They arrive at the gates to find Blowers and Cookey still there; joking with each other.

‘Lads, how are you?’ Howie asks.

‘Yeah, we’re good, Mr Howie - how’s the plans coming on? We’ve still got loads of people coming up asking if they can help,’ Blowers says.

‘Slowly getting there, it’s seems to be taking ages though. You two okay down here?’

‘Yeah fine, we’ve got coffee on constant flow and there’s a toilet in there,’ Cookey says, smiling.

‘What more can a man need?’ Howie says.

‘Err, some women, some steak, no zombie army coming for us, maybe a television and an Xbox, some popcorn…’ Cookey replies.

‘Oh, listen to him, women he says! You wouldn’t know what to do with one, other than sit and talk about curtains and flower arranging,’ Blowers cuts in.

‘We could sit and chat with our legs folded up underneath us, wearing thick, woolly jumpers,’ Cookey adds.

‘What’s wrong with woolly jumpers? I’ve got woolly jumpers,’ Chris interrupts, with a look of serious intent.

‘Ha, nice one…’ Blowers laughs.

‘Who’s laughing?’ Chris asks. ‘I’m not.’

‘Yeah, right, you got me like this before,’ Blowers laughs, trailing off, as Chris remains poker faced. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

‘Do I look like the kind of man who wears woolly jumpers?’ He replies, as his face splits apart with a big grin.

‘Well… now that you come to mention it…’ Blowers jokes.

‘You cheeky bugger,’ Chris retorts. ‘Have some respect and get that bloody gate opened up.’

Clarence steps out of the armoury and walks to the police office, thinking through all the items he needs to find.

‘Hello,’ he says, finding Sergeant Hopewell behind the desk. ‘Howie and Chris said to speak to you, I’m taking a foraging party out.’

‘What do you need?’

‘Gunsmiths and hardware stores,’ said Clarence.

‘Hi, Clarence,’ Sarah smiles, walking into the office with Terri.

Clarence starts to blush.

‘Hello, Sarah,’ Clarence rumbles

‘Hello… Sarah,’ Sarah mimics, trying to copy his deep voice.

‘I don’t sound like that,’ Clarence chuckles.

‘No, you’re far worse… I’m only joking,’ Sarah says, putting her hand on his forearm and making him blush even more. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m taking a foraging party out - Chris and Howie need some items,’ he says, as a look of concern passes across her face.

‘Are you taking many with you?’

‘Yeah, there’ll be a few of us.’

‘Okay, well you take care and make sure you come back, I still need that knife training remember?’ She says.

‘Um, okay, I will,’ Clarence replies, aware of Terri and Sergeant Hopewell watching them.

‘Here you go, there’s a list and a map with them marked on,’ Sergeant Hopewell says, handing him some papers and a map book.

‘Thanks… vehicles? Do you have any?’ he asks.

‘Check with Ted down at the gate, he’s got all the keys.’

‘Thank you, see you soon,’ Clarence says, turning to walk out of the room.

Sarah quickly follows him out.

‘Clarence,’ she says, turning him back to face her and seeing his red, flushed face. ‘You don’t have to blush every time I talk to you.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Clarence murmurs, looking down at his feet and then slowly back up at her face and her beautiful, dark eyes looking at him.

‘Well, just promise me you’ll come back safely,’ she says, looking up and holding his gaze.

‘I will…’ Clarence starts to say, as Sarah quickly steps in close and stretches up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Come back,’ she whispers with soft breath on his face, squeezing his arm.

‘You’ll catch flies again,’ she laughs.

Clarence starts to walk away, his mind whirling and spinning from the kiss she gave him. Still feeling the warmth on his skin and thinking he will never wash that bit of his face again.

After a few steps. he realises he’s forgotten to get more men and turns back towards the planning office and the groups of guards resting outside.

‘I need a few to come out with me,’ Clarence says, stopping in the middle of them. They look at each other to see who will go - two men and two women eventually step forward.

‘Services or police?’ Clarence asks, as they walked in a tight group towards the gate.

Two of them answer: Services: one Army, the other Navy. The other two explain they are police from the armed response teams, with one of them having previous military experience.

They chat amiably amongst themselves, as they walk to the gate, meeting Ted and arranging to take four vehicles out.

Clarence rides shotgun in the first van and the others have one vehicle each. It takes a while to sort through keys and walk down to find vans that can be taken out from the clogged in fleet, wedged into the alley between the inner and outer wall, but, eventually, they are out and driving down the road and through the estate.

They stop at a large, multi-chain hardware superstore on the edge of a town; the streets and villages they passed through showing signs of the devastation and decay of urban life. There are burnt out houses and rotting corpses; vehicles abandoned and left at angles, embedded into walls. Bloodstains and broken glass litter the ground.

The superstore looks remarkably normal, almost surreal; like it’s an early morning Bank Holiday.

‘You two stay out front, you two with me,’ Clarence says, taking the two armed police response officers with him, knowing they will be better trained in close quarters fire and manoeuvre tactics.

‘What do we need?’ The female officer asks him.

‘Nuts, bolts, chains and anything that can be fired from a cannon - also axes, hammers, scythes and anything that can be used as a weapon,’ he replies.

‘Cannon? Are we using those old things in the Fort?’ the male officer asks.

‘We’re going to try,’ Clarence says. 'You two go for the nuts, bolts and chains and I’ll do the weapons.’

‘Roger,’ the woman replies.

The hardware store doors hang open, smashed and ruined from a previous looting; a least someone else has made the effort to gain entry and save them the time of having to do it.

They find rows of trolleys inside the large entrance area and each take one and move off into the wide aisles, flanked on both sides with high shelving units. There is surprisingly little damage inside the store. Dried bloodstains and debris littered round the entrance area indicate that something happened but no bodies or corpses remain.

Clarence looks down the ends of the rows of aisles and looks at each of the large signs; finds the one marked Hand Tools and heads that way.

He aims for the section with the axes and quickly starts scooping them up and placing them into the trolley. He also finds sledgehammers, pick axes, scythes and even long-bladed machetes.

Within a few minutes, the trolley is full. He wheels it outside and asks the guards to start loading, before heading back in and filling the trolley with more items.

He passes the two police officers heading outside, with trolleys full of buckets and metal objects. They nod at one another, just like normal people mooching round the DIY store at the weekend.

Loaded up, they set off away from the store. The female police officer drives the lead van with Clarence examining the map and giving directions to the closest gunsmith.

‘I haven’t seen any zombies at all,’ the woman states quietly.

‘Must be hiding,’ Clarence rumbles and goes back to his map reading.

They keep on through the quiet, rural roads, passing fields and woodland and then head back into expensive residential areas of large, detached houses; eventually finding their way into a small market town.

‘That’s it, over there,’ Clarence said, pointing towards the only shop that looks fortified and solid.

They drive closer and find a window display of air rifles and pistols, binoculars and hunter style clothing.

‘Someone had a go at getting in,’ the woman driver says, looking at the half smashed in door.

Despite the quaint appearance, the shop had been well secured against such raids and the door appeared to have withstood a half-concerted effort to get in.

‘There’s blood everywhere out the front, something happened here,’ Clarence said. ‘Turn the van round and back in close to the door,’ he adds, getting out to examine the door closely.

He walks over to the next van. ‘Did you get any big chains?’ he asks.

A few minutes later, and the van is revving loudly with a thick chain stretched from the tow bar back to the door handles.

‘NOW,’ Clarence shouts and the van accelerates quickly, powering away from the shop.

The chain springs up as the pressure pull it and the door is out of the frame with a loud noise of wood and metal tearing.

‘Easy when you know how,’ Clarence muttered, stepping through the ragged hole and entering the small shop, seeing rows of shotguns and rifles chained to a display cabinet behind the long counter and boxes of ammunition stacked up in a glass display case.

‘Bingo,’ the ex-army man said walking in to see the goods on display and holding a set of bolt croppers. ‘I came prepared,’ the man adds, walking round the counter.

He grips the thick chain in the mouth of the bolt croppers and starts squeezing, then squeezing harder until his face goes red from the exertion.

‘May I?’ Clarence steps forward, taking the handles from the now sweating man.

‘Clarence takes a handle in each hand and gives a sudden overwhelming push on each, driving the handles back together and severing the chain quickly.

‘Yeah, well I weakened it for you,’ the man jokes.

‘And I thank you for doing so,’ Clarence replies, smiling, long used to the never ending comments about his strength and size.

He reaches up and starts selecting the shotguns and rifles, twisting at the waist to turn and lay them on the counter.

‘There’s some good weapons here,’ the ex-solider remarks, checking through the various rifles.

‘Hu-huh,’ Clarence replies, distracted and thinking about Sarah, her dark hair and eyes, the way she speaks and laughs and that kiss, wow that kiss, she actually kissed him. He, the massive, bald-headed, freak of nature, being kissed by someone so beautiful and graceful.

Clarence pauses, holding the last shotgun and staring off into the middle distance.

‘You all right, Clarence?’ the woman asks from behind him, making him start back to reality.

‘Yep, never better,’ Clarence grins hugely to her, as he turns back to the counter. ‘So… what’s her name?’ she adds.

‘Her name?’ Clarence replies.

‘The only thing that can make a man smile like that, in the midst of all this chaos, is a woman, so what’s her name?’ she repeats.

‘Sarah,’ Clarence rumbles, quietly.

‘Oh, Mr Howie’s sister?’ the woman says lightly. ‘She’s very pretty.’

‘She is,’ Clarence confirms, still smiling. ‘We need bows and arrows too,’ he adds, remembering why they are here.

They prise open the ammunition case and unload all of the boxes into plastic bags found behind the counter.

One corner of the store is dedicated to archery and crossbows.

‘There’s loads here, Clarence, do you want them all?’ the ex-soldier asks, examining the longbows, compound bows and dozens of packets of arrows.

‘Yeah, get everything,’ Clarence replies.

‘And the crossbows?’

‘Yes, I don’t know anything about archery, so take everything.’

And everything is taken - the only thing they leave are the air weapons, on the basis of firing small lead pellets at a massive army of undead zombies will not have that much of an effect.

Within an hour, they find the next gunsmiths; this one located in a much bigger town and already plundered and looted extensively; zombie corpses everywhere.

They drive on through the town, weaving past the debris, until they reach a supermarket fuel station on the town exit road.

‘Stop,’ Clarence calls out.

The van slows to a stop, causing the following vehicles to brake suddenly.

‘Pull into the garage forecourt,’ Clarence instructs, staring hard to the side of the fuel station.

The van turns slowly and heads into the fuel station.  ‘Look there,’ Clarence points to a set of large wooden gates.

‘Good spot, Clarence, very good,’ the driver says, admiringly, seeing the top of the fuel tanker just peeking out over the gates.

‘Do you think it’s full?’ Clarence asks, as they get out and walk over.

‘That’s almost too much to ask for,’ she replies.

They find the gate locked with another thick chain and padlock. Clarence turns to see the ex-soldier jogging towards them with the bolt croppers.

‘Do you want me to weaken it for you first?’ the man asks, light-heartedly.

Clarence grunts back and snaps the chain through easily, wrenching the chain and lock off. The gates get pulled open to reveal the all-white fuel tanker.

‘Does anyone know how to drive it?’ Clarence asks.

‘I can, I was in the traffic department and did my heavy goods vehicle training,’ the woman police office answers.

She walks in and steps up on the metal plate to open the driver’s door; a body falls out on top of her making her scream. The rest race forward to see the corpse rolling off to one side and the woman on her arse having been pushed back.

‘Is he dead?’ the woman asks in shock.

‘Dead or undead?’ the ex-soldier jokes, moving forward to punt the head of the corpse with his boot. The body rolls over to reveal normal human features, dead but normal.

‘Nah, he’s normal dead,’ the ex-soldier remarks.

The woman police officer gets up and climbs gingerly back into the cab.

‘Check him for keys,’ she says, going through the controls.

Clarence bends down and quickly pads his pockets to find a set of keys and passes them up to her.

She inserts the key and starts the engine, the fuel tanker rumbles to life, spewing out a cloud of black smoke, which quickly dissipates.

‘I’ll take the van, you drive this behind me,’ Clarence shouts up.

They start back to their vehicles and all stop and wince as the gears are crunched painfully behind them. They turn back to see the woman police officer sticking her middle finger up at them and laughing.

After an hour of driving, they are parked up and standing round the front of a florist’s window; dead and wilting flowers in the display.

‘Well this is the address,’ Clarence says, examining the map book, the list provided by Sergeant Hopewell and then looking up at the building.

‘That’s definitely not a gunsmith,’ the ex-soldier remarks.

‘Nope, must have changed it,’ Clarence replied.

‘Who would turn a gunsmiths into a florist?’ The woman asks.

‘Where’s the next one?’

‘Never mind that, where’s all the zombies gone?’ the ex-soldier asks nervously, looking about.

They all look up and around, becoming increasingly aware of the lack of undead.

‘I don’t know, they must be massing somewhere,’ Clarence says quietly, ‘You’re right though, this is eerie.’ A feeling of being watched descends on the group.

‘There’s one more place we can try, it’s not too far,’ Clarence says, very aware of the uncomfortable feeling amongst them, hands gripping weapons tighter and the jokes now gone.

They load back into their vehicles and drive on, again following Clarence as he handles the map on the steering wheel and works his route as he goes; treading through narrow cobbled streets and past the once boutique shops of this southern English hamlet.

Clarence feels the creeping sensation growing up the back of his neck; there should be signs of life by now. The zombies can’t all have gone, or there are even other survivors, maybe. But then, being this close to the Fort would mean those able to, would have fled to them by now.

Movement in the fields to his right catches his eye, a break in the hedgerow and a flash of distant colour. He slows down, but keeps moving along the country lane, constantly looking to the right and waiting for the thick hedge to end. Finally, he sees a large gate further up and slows down to take advantage of the gap. He brings the van to a stop and stares hard into the fields. What he sees is staggering, a long, thick line of people all moving at the same speed, in the distance, across the top of the fields.

The vehicles behind him stop, the drivers getting out to come forward and stare through the gate. Each of them stopping and staring with shock at the thousands and thousands of zombies stretched out in a long line, moving from left to right.

‘Which direction are they heading in?’ One of the policeman asks.

‘North,’ Clarence replies. ‘The main road into the area is that way. They must be going to meet the rest coming down.’

‘Fucking hell, there’s thousands just there,’ the ex-soldier says quietly.

‘Right there for the taking too,’ Clarence replies. ‘We can’t get to them though, the vehicles will never make it across those fields and the distance is too great for these things,’ Clarence adds, raising his assault rifle for effect.

‘Where are they feeding in from?’ The woman asks.

‘I don’t know, over that way I guess,’ Clarence inclines his head in the direction they’re moving from.

‘The same way we’re going,’ the woman police officer states, quietly.

They break away without further talk; heading back to their vehicles and moving off slowly down the lane, watching the horde slowly move across the top of the fields through the gaps in the high hedgerow.

The country lane twists and turns, following the ancient hedgerow for several miles. Signposts indicate an historic town further ahead, various smaller signs urging the travellers to stop at points of interest, eat a pub lunch, rest in a picnic area, walk round some monuments or spend money on the crap punted out to unsuspecting holiday makers.

Something about the signs make Clarence think of Sarah again. In the Services he was always deployed overseas, fighting war’s and battles in far-flung corners that meant nothing to him. Flown in, briefed, trained, deployed, mission executed and moved out again. A couple of weeks rest and then another one. The various missions and countries blend into one long memory of deserts, jungles and snow covered terrain, inner city ghettos and months spent living out of bedsits, watching subjects from windows and building lifestyle profiles that meant nothing to him.

The Services and the type of work he was involved in meant he could never talk about what he did or where he had been. Over time the connections that once existed outside the Service slowly eroded until all that was left were the people he knew inside. But then, over years, they too slowly fell away as younger fitter and leaner men came through the ranks and men like Clarence, Chris and Malcolm felt like dinosaurs.

They left the Services, but the skills they had harnessed and built, simply did not transfer to civilian life, and like so many highly skilled but older soldiers they were drawn to the world of mercenary soldiering with the promise of action and high wages. They all said it was for the money, but, in reality, it was the only way of clinging onto the life they had built. - working with people who knew those same deadly skills and being able to belong to something.

Former officers started security companies back in the UK and quickly contacted their former men, offering them steady wages and a dedicated role. Clarence responded to that, after years of mercenary work left a nasty taste in his mouth; shady deals done in back street cafes were not his idea of honour. His mammoth size and appearance meant he was perfect for door work, often his mere presence prevented most incidents from escalating, but even then, the constant hours in the seedy nightlife, full of cocky idiots with gelled hair and tee-shirt muscles, soon wore him down.

Managers and bar owners were obsessed with: profit, reputation, health and safety, log sheets, toilet checks and head counts. Clarence’s size, appearance and deep voice, made him a target for many women. Women who loved the idea of being with a tough man with a tough reputation, but Clarence was a professional, not a steroid addicted bouncer obsessed with image and wearing a shirt two sizes too small - and those drunken women repulsed him.

He had intelligence and knowledge that just did not correlate with his appearance and after years of being seen to be a big tough idiot left he accepted the type of woman he was likely to be with.

But now, something magical had happened. Something he had never known before. A beautiful, educated and intelligent woman was interested in him.

The way she spoke to him, not patronisingly, but speaking to him as an equal; touching his arm or shoulder, leaning forward and staring into his eyes, left him almost breathless. The desperation of the world and the utter violence and degradation of mankind just in the last seven days, the hopeless feeling that no matter how they fight back or what they do, it’s all pointless. Those feelings now mixed with a warm tingling feeling, of something different he had not felt before. Light in the dark. A single rose amongst weeds. Hope where there was none. Something to survive for. Something to fight for.

The road sweeps round to a long wide junction; from the left are streams of zombies pouring from the town and heading into the fields to shuffle and stagger along in dead silence, rotting walking corpses. Drawn to a meeting place where they will gather and mass in readiness of war.

The vehicles stop back from the junction, far enough back to be able to respond if they turn for the attack, but they don’t turn, they don’t pay any attention at all..

‘We can’t get through that lot without picking a fight,’ the woman police officer says after jumping down and walking up to stand by Clarence.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Clarence replies, wishing they had the Saxon with them and the GPMG.

‘So, the motorway to the north is that way then?’ she asks, looking down at the map.

‘Yeah, that must be the gathering point. The main motorway running south from London, I guess, if all these get to the various junctions feeding into it, then the main group will scoop them up as they come.’

‘Maybe they’re heading somewhere else?’ she suggests.

‘That,’ Clarence replies. ‘Is just wishful thinking. Come on, we’d better get back.’

‘Err, slight problem - this is a narrow lane, and that is a big fuel truck and I’m not reversing it all the way back.’

‘Good point, you’ll be needing the junction then,’ Clarence says, turning back to look at the fuel truck.

‘Yep.’

‘How will you do it?’

‘Pull out to the right, reverse back to the left and swing back in to this road,’ she replies quickly.

‘Right…’

‘That’s what I thought,’ she bites her bottom lip, staring at the constant stream heading across the junction.

‘Well, the fuel tanker is big and heavy and, as long as you keep motion, you should be all right, and we did say we wanted to take a few of them out,’ Clarence rumbles, quietly.

‘No, you said you wanted to take them out.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t drive that thing, or can I? Is it hard?’ He asks.

‘Yes it is, bloody hard, you’ll stall the engine before you get more than a few metres, don’t worry I’ll do it,’ she turns and walks back to the fuel tanker, pausing as she climbs up into the cabin and looking at the junction.

She nods to herself and slowly pulls out from behind Clarence’s van, moving slowly up to the wide junction.

Clarence watches, as she seems to slow down, almost stopping, then, at the last second, the fuel tanker surges ahead, pulling over to the extreme left and brushing against the hedgerow.

The tanker then pulls quickly to the right, moving out of the lane and into the junction. The front of the tanker impacts on the line of undead staggering across, striking them from behind and shunting them all forward. The collective ramming drives them into the backs of the zombies in front, acting as a giant scoop and propelling them forward. The momentum causes them to either fall out to either side or drop down onto the ground to be dragged along by the front of the truck or squashed by the massive wheels, causing blood and guts to be pumped out onto the road surface.

The zombies neither slow down nor speed up, and they take no avoiding action as the truck pummels them out of the way.

The fuel tanker pushes out into the right side of the junction then brakes hard forcing the zombies caught at the front to be propelled forward. A loud grinding of gears can be heard as the woman police officer quickly works to engage the reversing gears and start moving backwards. The rear of the truck lacks the solid wall of the front and the zombies behind are simply crushed by the rounded edge of the tanker and the jutting out metal ladder. The tanker reverses quickly, driving backwards further down to the left until the front goes past the entrance to the lane. Once again the tanker brakes hard and the gears crunch as she selects a forward driving gear and pulls away quickly, swinging the front round and back into the lane, ploughing through more zombies as they blindly shuffle back across the junction.

As the front of the tanker draws level with Clarence, he steps out and applauds with respect, smiling broadly at the excellent driving skills shown. She smiles back and salutes as she drives onwards past the waiting vehicles.

Clarence gets back in his van and tries to do a three-point turn in the road, but the narrow width of the lane and the length of the van make it a seven-point turn - eventually he succeeds and moves out of the way for the other vehicles. They move closer to the wider section of the junction to complete their manoeuvre and, within minutes, the vehicles are driving back down the lane behind the fuel tanker.

Dave and Jamie move quickly to the edge of the estate, jogging in silence with fluid movements and neither showing signs of exertion. They stop at the country lane leading into the estate.

‘The estate is here with one lane leading in, but they could use the fields on either side,’ Dave says, examining the area.

‘The fields have high hedgerows, and they’re thick with brambles which will we be hard to push through,’ Jamie replies.

‘The natural path will be this lane, we can’t do anything about the fields but we do have a choke point here - the hedges on both sides are very high and the lane ends abruptly as it enters the estate. They will come down the lane and fan out into the estate and sweep through, but most of them will keep going straight down the centre main road.’ Dave explains. ‘The first trap should be here on the central road about halfway down, we then work back, setting more traps as we go. They will be crammed into the lane so they will naturally spill out to the sides and move down through the estate, using all available space. So we set one here and then more further out to the sides. That way there will be the maximum number of them in the area when the traps go off.’

Jamie listens in silence and watches Dave with keen interest, tracking his view to look at the same places.

Dave moves down the central road, going just past the halfway mark, looking at the parked cars nose to tail on both sides of the road.

‘They’ll come down the lane and have to go through the gap between the vehicles on either side,’ Dave explains.

He takes two grenades from one of the canvas bags and walks back to the closest row of vehicles. Dropping down onto the ground, he positions the grenade snug against the inside of the rear tyre, then crosses the road to place another grenade against the inside of the tyre on the opposite vehicle.

‘When the time is right, we tie wire onto both pins and wedge them in firmly. Pressure applied to the wire pulls the pins which activates the detonation,’ Dave explains, pulling a roll of very thin fishing wire from a pocket to show Jamie.

‘Will these two be enough to detonate the rest of the vehicles?’ Jamie asks.

‘In theory yes, but there will be a delay. These grenades will detonate the fuel tanks, but we need to speed the progress up so we get maximum effect.’

Dave shrugs his rucksack off and takes out a container. He unscrews the lid and starts pouring a thin trail of black powder from the first grenade, working back to the next vehicle and ending the thin trail underneath the fuel tank. Dave takes another grenade and rests it in a small pool of the powder.

‘I see,’ Jamie says.

Dave takes out another container and hands it to Jamie.

‘You do the other side,’ Dave says and returns to move on, trailing black powder over to the next vehicle.

Jamie moves across and repeats the action, pouring a thin trail of black powder from fuel tank to fuel tank and leaving a grenade nestled in the black powder underneath each one.

‘Good,’ Dave says. ‘Now we do the rest of the estate.’

They move back into the estate, moving from road to road and house to house. Finding alleys and paths that work through the small streets. Placing trip wired grenades at various points of access.

They get to the side roads connected to the central main road and stop to look at the cars and vehicles left in situ.

‘We’ll do all of these too, you do the far side,’ Dave says.

They split up and Jamie crosses the central lane to work the other side; positioning trip wire grenades between the gaps of the vehicles and more thin trails of black powder stretched from fuel tank to fuel tank. They meet back in the central road.

‘Now, go from house to house and turn the gas on, close the doors to trap the gas.’

‘Got it.’

They move off again, from dwelling to dwelling, going into kitchens and turning the gas jets on low and letting the poisonous vapour seep out to fill the rooms.

They continue to work throughout the day, moving into the side streets and laying traps with grenades, wires and black powder. Then move into the houses and turning the gas supply to hiss out as they move back out, closing the doors behind them.

After several hours, they stand at the exit point of the lane where it stretches out into the flatlands and the diggers move along, slowly churning the earth up.

‘Clarence is still out with his foraging party, we’ll wait for him to return and then put the wires across the centre path,’ Dave says.

‘What about the men out front on the observation points? They won’t be able to get back through,’ Jamie replies.

‘I spoke to them, I left a clear path for them to run through on the side I worked on,’ Dave replies.

‘Okay,’ Jamie nods back at him.

‘Get our vehicle and leave it on the edge of the estate on the road, meet me back at the entrance point,’ Dave says, turning to walk back up the central road.

‘Okay,’ Jamie replies.

A few minutes later, they stand in silence at the entrance to the estate.

‘You did well today,’ Dave says.

‘Thank you,’ Jamie replies.

Eventually, they hear engine noises coming towards them.

‘How many? Dave asks.

‘Engines? Err…,’ Jamie cocks his head and listens intently for a few seconds. ‘I have no idea,’ he finally admits, feeling ashamed that he is unable to work out the different sounds of the engines.

‘Me neither,’ Dave replies and Jamie gives a rare and awkward smile.

The front vehicle comes into view, Clarence’s distinct bald-headed profile is clear through the windscreen. The lead vehicle slows to a stop a few metres back from the entrance.

‘Everything okay?’ Clarence asks, getting out and walking towards them with his assault rifle held like a toy gun in his massive hand.

‘Yes,’ Dave replies.

‘Did you rig the estate okay?’ Clarence asks.

‘Waiting for you to go through so we can finish off,’ Dave answers.

‘Okay mate, we found a few things to bring back with us - we’ve got loads of nuts, bolts and chains for the cannon,’ Clarence smiles at the two quiet men.

‘Good, is that a fuel tanker?’ Dave asks, looking over at the large vehicle with the engine idling.

‘Yep, and it’s full too - thought we might make use of it.’ Dave nods, staring at the tanker.

‘If they don’t need it down there, we can use it here.’

‘Roger, I’ll pass that on,’ Clarence replies.

‘Let them know the estate is rigged and to be avoided,’ Dave adds, as Clarence walks back to his vehicle.

The convoy stops on the single-track road leading to the Fort as Howie and Chris step out of the gates, accompanied by Blowers and Cookey. All of them look at the fuel tanker.

‘Where on earth did you find that?’ Chris calls out as they walk towards each other; Clarence turns to glance at the fuel tanker.

‘We found it behind some gates next to a petrol station, couldn’t believe it was still there. We’ve got loads of stuff from the hardware store and the first gunsmith’s, but the next one was looted, the one after that was a florist’s and not much use…’

‘A florist’s?’ Howie interrupts. ‘Who would turn a gunsmith’s into a florists?’

‘That’s what we said, so then we went for the last one… and saw shit loads of zombies marching out of a town, heading north.’

‘North?’ Chris asks quickly, all of them focussing hard on Clarence’s words.

‘Yeah, it looks like they’re going towards the motorway but moving as the crow flies, going across land and fields.’

‘How many?’ Howie asks.

‘Thousands, just a solid line of them. They’re moving slowly and they didn’t pay us any attention, not even when we mowed a few down with the fuel tanker.’

‘You reckon they’re heading for the motorway?’ Chris asks.

‘Must be, it makes the most sense. They get to the junctions on the motorway and then tag onto the main bulk as they pass through. The most obvious theory is that they’re massing, just like they did in London,’ Clarence says, looking to Chris then Howie.

‘Well, we knew it was coming, this is just a dose of reality,’ Howie says grimly. ‘It changes nothing, we’ve got spotters out and Dave is rigging the estate now…’

‘He’s done it, him and that other quiet one,’ Clarence says.

‘Jamie. They’ve done it already?’ Howie replies.

‘He wants the fuel tanker up there, if you don’t need it.’

‘I bet he bloody does, I bet his eyes lit up at that thing,’ Howie laughs. ‘Is it full?’

‘With petrol,’ Clarence nods.

‘The last point of defence before they get to us is the deep ditch after the last bank, if we pour petrol in, we’ll lose loads being soaked into the ground, before it starts to fill…’ Howie muses.

‘I see what you mean Howie, some pipes filled with petrol spraying out maybe?’ Chris adds, rubbing his beard as he thinks.

‘Flame throwers?’ Howie asks. ‘Big, fucking flame throwers, now that would be cool,’ he smiles. ‘But it will take too long to sort out.’

‘Maybe not,’ Ted interrupts,. ‘We’ve got plenty of plumbers here, let me have a word with them and see what we can do.

‘You happy with that, Howie?’ Chris asks, looking at him.

‘Yeah, we’ve got no choice really. We know they’re massing or getting ready so we need to pick the pace up, it’s already getting late.

‘Chris, find out how the diggers are getting on then how long before we can start putting the spikes and caltrops in.

‘We need Dave back here to sort those cannon out and see if they can be used. Ted, find those plumbers, and work out if we can rig something up with the petrol going through pipes in the ditch.   ‘Clarence, you take the weapons and materials you found to Malcolm, and then get the lists of people that have weapons experience and start drilling or training or distributing the weapons. Use the top of the inner wall for the long-range weapons and get people up there ready. There’s some archers here too, find out where they need to be positioned. Ideally we want them on the top of the inner wall too, firing high, so they get the best range.

‘Blowers and Cookey, stay on that gate and do not let anyone out that shouldn’t be going out, got it?’ Howie speaks firmly and quickly, looking to each man as he issues orders and instructions.

They nod back at each request.

‘Good, we need to move and get this done quickly, let’s go.’

The afternoon rolls on with the long hours flying by as those few men tasked with the responsibility work like demons without rest. Strong coffee, adrenalin and the knowledge of what’s coming their way keep them working at a pace that would leave most reeling from exhaustion.

Chris stalks the Fort, radio in hand, and speaking to the guards with the digger drivers, urging them to move quickly and finding out the pits are nearly finished.

He locates Sergeant Hopewell in the office, already surrounded by people clambering for her attention. Chris pushes through, using his bulk to force a path and then instructing Sergeant Hopewell to find people to send out and cut weeds and long grass down and be ready to assist the engineers.

Then he works his way to the workshops, to find Kelly and the rest hard at work and more people already drafted in to sort wooden shafts, posts and metal poles into piles that are waiting to be sharpened into spikes or to be cut and bent into the deadly foot traps.

Several generators sourced from non-essential parts of the Fort chug and roar as the power tools scream out.

Sparks from metal cutters cascade out onto the workshop floor and every space is dominated by small groups hard at work.

Chris pauses at the door watching Kelly move from group to group, correcting and offering advice.

‘Kelly, how’s it going?’ Chris asks, finally getting her attention.

‘Good, the spikes are almost ready, they were the easiest. The foot traps are taking a bit longer though,’ she replies, wiping sweat from her brow with an old cloth and smearing black grease over her forehead.

‘Can we start getting them in then?’

‘The spikes? Err, yeah I think we can.’

‘Good, find someone to send out to supervise it if you can’t be spared,’ Chris replies firmly.

‘No, I’ll go myself, are there guards out there?’ she asks.

‘Several of them, no one is to go near the edge of the estate. The guards will shoot them if they do, get out there as quick as possible.’ Chris responds and walks out of the room.

Back on the radio, he informs the gate that engineers will be coming through shortly and then talks to the guards with the digger drivers, he tells them to get the pits finished and then use the drivers to help with whatever else is needed.

Finally, he establishes that Dave is on his way back to the Fort with Jamie.

Ted moved away from the small gathering outside the Fort, moving quickly and with purpose back inside.

He walks quickly to the police office to find Sarah and Terri helping Sergeant Hopewell deal with the many enquiries and people now coming in to ask questions about all the activity taking place and trying to find more people to help the engineers.

Ted finds the stack of lists and works his way through the pile, until he finds names of plumbers and the sections within the camp they are allocated to.

Striding back outside, he looks for runners to send out, only to find the supply of runners now exhausted.

‘Where are all the runners?’ He calls out, stepping back into the office and having to shout over the clamour of voices.

‘All busy, Ted,’ Sarah replies.

Ted steps back out and casts his experienced eye around to see Tom and Steven strolling along in the camp, still bickering.

‘You two, come here,’ Ted bellows.

Tom and Steven both spin round, recognising his voice instantly, and moving quickly over to him.

‘We need plumbers, they’re on these lists…’ Ted starts to explain.

‘Have we sprung a leak,’ Steven jokes.

‘Shut up and focus young man,’ Ted snaps at him and notices they both visibly straighten up at his tone of voice. ‘Take these,’ Ted hands the lists to Steven. ‘And get them over to me as soon as possible, and I mean as soon as possible.’

‘Okay, Ted.’

‘Right Tom, Ted gave me the lists so I’ll be in charge of this project seeing as Mr Howie said we’re both the same now…’ Steven starts to gloat.

‘I SAID NOW,’ Ted booms at them, they both turn quickly and start heading back into the camp as Ted heads back towards the police office with a wry smile and a shake of his head.

As the small gathering listens to Howie, Clarence watches him closely. This untrained man, a supermarket manager, giving orders to trained and experienced soldiers. There’s something about him though. The passion he exudes and the absolute certainty with which he speaks. Even big Chris defers to Howie and Clarence thinks back to the many missions when Chris was in charge, but Chris was always a man’s soldier, never an officer. Howie is like an officer, the type of officer the men all respect and trust, the officer always leading from the front. The officer that can see all the facets of the mission, not just the one bit he is doing. Clarence had met great strategists in his time, but none of them had the human touch that Howie possesses. His ability to look a man in the eye and say with certainty that this needs to be done and it needs to be done now.

Clarence watches big Chris and the way he listens to Howie. Chris had always been that rare thing in a soldier, a good diplomat, as well as a good fighter. However, Chris had never taken to idiot officers very well and had been outspoken if he felt they were doing the wrong thing, often to the detriment of his own career.

Clarence breaks away and heads back to his vehicle as Blowers and Cookey drag the big vehicle gates open, then pull the huge gates of the inner wall open too; allowing the vehicles to be driven inside the safety of the Fort.

The fuel tanker is directed into the gap between the walls, the other vehicles, headed by Clarence, drive slowly through the compound to the armoury and over to Malcolm waiting outside.

‘Big man, did you get anything nice for me?’ Malcolm greets his long time comrade with a massive smile and a warm handshake.

‘Well, we got a few bits: rifles, shotguns and loads of ammunition. First time I’ve loaded up with bows and arrows though,’ Clarence replies, going round to the back and opening the rear doors.

‘Strange times my friend,’ Malcolm muses as he starts going through the various items. ‘What the bloody hell are we going to do with shotguns?’

‘Yeah, I know, but Chris and Howie said to get everything,’ Clarence says.

‘I suppose they’ll be usable if they breech the walls and get inside - we’ll use them for defence only. Some of these rifles are good, Clarence.’

‘I suppose so, but a few dozen, heavy calibre, general purpose assault rifles would be better.’

‘Ha, and if we were in America we’d be able to pick them up in a supermarket too. Fuck me those blokes had some decent ordnance,’ Malcolm reminisces back to conflicts he had fought alongside the US Marine corps and their never-ending supply of decent weapons.

‘I bet there’s some secure places over there,’ the ex-soldier that went with Clarence interrupts as he helps them to unload the vans and carry the items into the large armoury room.

‘Mate, I don’t know your name,’ Clarence suddenly realises, as the ex-soldier walks by the side of him with armloads of shotguns.

‘Brian, nice to meet you,’ Brian grunts as he lifts the heavy load onto a workbench.

‘You too, listen, I’ll have to leave you to it, I’ve got some tasks to finish,’ Clarence says walking back out of the armoury and up to the police office.

He enters to find the inside even more frantic: radio’s blaring out with chatter, people talking loudly and Sergeant Hopewell trying to do a hundred things at the same time. Clarence frowns as he looks at the bedlam in front of him, trying to figure out the best way of getting her attention without simply pushing everyone else out of the way.

A cool hand touches his arm and he glances down to see Sarah smiling broadly at him, her clean white teeth framed by those soft pink lips.

‘You’re back,’ she says, simply.

‘I said I would be,’ Clarence replies.

‘I’m glad, I was worried,’ Sarah says.

Clarence doesn’t reply but stares for long seconds, losing himself in her dark eyes.

He gently puts his hand over hers, his giant mitt dwarfing her small, delicate hand. A tingling sensation prickles through him from the contact, a simple action, yet so endearing, that she steps forward involuntary until they are standing with bodies touching. In the chaos of the office, with voices shouting and people surging round them, they stand staring into each other’s eyes and slowly move forward, until their lips are but a tiny distance apart.

‘Did you need something, mate?’ Ted’s voice snaps them back to reality as he bustles into the office and heads over to the stacks of paper on the desk.

‘Err, I, err, yeah I think so,’ Clarence stammers, feeling a strange sense of loss at being so close to kissing her.

‘You think so?’ Ted asks, with a puzzled frown.

‘I’ll see you in a while, I’m glad you’re back, come and find me, if you get any spare time,’ Sarah says quietly and slips away, back into the furore going on around them.

‘Sorry Ted, I need lists of anyone with weapons training or experience - and the archers too.’

‘Yep okay, how are you going to do it?’ Ted replies, starting to leaf through a big pile of papers.

‘Can you get them all down to the front, near the gates?’ Clarence asks.

‘It’ll take a bit of time Clarence, it’s bedlam here, as you can see - and we’ve got no runners left. Ted replies.

‘The Saxon’s got a loudhailer, use the radio and get one of them to put it out so everyone can hear it,’ Clarence says.

‘Good idea, now why didn’t I think of that,’ Ted mutters as he hunts round for the radio. ‘Police office to the Saxon.’ Ted speaks into it.

‘Saxon to police office, go ahead.’

‘Police office to Saxon, can you use the loudspeaker and ask the people that registered their firearms experience to report to the front of the Fort.’

‘Roger, confirm you want anyone with firearms experience to report to the front?’

‘Answer yes, also anyone with archery experience.’

‘Roger that, will do it now.’

‘Thanks Ted,’ Clarence rumbles in his deep voice, he walks out of the office and down to the armoury, reaching the door as the amplified voice of Nick Hewitt suddenly fills the air. Nick’s loud message  creates a general buzz and a sense of excitement within the camp.

People start moving about quickly, talking loudly. Those people with weapons knowledge find their families or partners and hastily kiss and hold them before heading off with grim faces; meeting others along the way and walking together, while talking.

Clarence enters the armoury to see Malcolm, Brian and a few others, still bringing in the items from the vehicles.

‘I’m going down the front to start sorting out the people with weapons knowledge,’ Clarence informs them.

‘Do you need a hand mate?’ Brian says. ‘I did an instructor course a few years back…’

‘Definitely, Malc, can you spare Brian?’

‘Yep, crack on, we’ve got enough people here. Are you bringing them back here for weapons allocation?’ Malcolm asks.

‘Yeah, I’ll take a few with me and can you send more down, as soon as you get the chance.’

‘Roger, give me a few minutes to see what I’ve got,’ Malcolm replies.

‘Bloody quartermasters! All the same,’ Clarence jokes, as he leaves.

Cookey and Blowers disperse from the briefing, now long used to the sudden ferocious intensity of Howie. They both listen with awe as he gives clear instructions to the rest, giving them tasks, but leaving it to them how they get it completed.

They then stroll back and open the gates wide, to allow Clarence and the rest of the vehicles to get through into the Fort. The gates are closed after them and they once again resume their static guard on the front walk-through gate; watching as the men dart about with a renewed sense of pace and urgency.

‘Kind of feels weird standing here, while everyone else is running about,’ Cookey remarks after a few minutes.

‘Yeah, I know what you mean, but Nick and Curtis are doing the same up top with the Saxon,’ Blowers says.

‘What about Tucker, where’s he?’ Cookey asks.

‘Mr Howie asked him to sort out the food situation.’

‘He’ll be in his element then,’ Cookey says.

‘I expect so, talking of which, I am bloody starving,’ Blowers says.

‘Aye, me too,’ Cookey replies.

‘Aye?’ Blowers asks, picking up on the strange comment.

‘What?’

‘You said “aye”.’

‘Yeah, and?’

‘Nothing…’

‘What?’ Cookey asks.

‘No mate, nothing… it’s just that sailors say aye.’

‘Oh, for fucks sake, Blowers, don’t start.’

‘What? I never said anything, you can be a sailor if you like.’

‘Why would I want to be a sailor?’ Cookey asks.

‘So, you can say aye… and, of course, there’s all the sea-men.’

‘Oh, fuck off.’

‘You like sea-men don’t you Cookey…?’

‘Piss off, Blowers.’

They eventually stop talking and lean back against the gate, to rest.

‘Did you hear what Clarence said about them heading north,’ Cookey says.

‘Yes mate, there’s going to be fucking shit loads of them coming for us.’

‘Yeah, does it bother you?’ Cookey asks, quietly.

‘I don’t know. If I think about it then, yeah, I guess it does, but I keep thinking of the other scraps we’ve had and we’ve done all right so far,’ Blowers replies.

‘There’s gonna be a lot more this time,’ Cookey says.

‘How can it be worse than London? There were thousands of them then, and besides, they can’t all attack at the same time can they?’

‘Eh?’

‘Well, like in London, we formed a circle and it’s only the first row that could actually attack us, the rest just waited and stepped in when the first lot got knocked down.’

‘Yeah, but we ain’t gonna be in a circle this time are we? We’re gonna be stood in a big line.’

‘Yes, but it’s still only the first row that can actually attack us, the others are behind them.’

‘I see what you mean. I’m sort of anxious about it, a bit scared and also kind of looking forward to it, like I want it to happen,’ Cookey says plainly.

Blowers glances over at his friend speaking from the heart.

‘Do you know what I mean, Blowers? I’m scared and terrified, but also excited and ready for it - all at the same time,’ Cookey repeats.

‘I know what you mean, mate, I feel the same. I think we all do, otherwise we’d have bottled long before now.’

‘That was a bit deep for you, Blowers.’

‘You like it deep.’

‘Oh, for fucks sake.’

‘We tie the wire onto the pin like this, then we have to make sure the grenade is firmly placed, otherwise the pressure on the wire will simply pull the grenade along the ground and not pull the pin out. Then we feed the wire over to the other side and position the second grenade, making sure the wire is taught,’ Dave gently pulls the wire until it stretches across the road. ‘Then we tie it off and again make sure the grenade is firmly placed, got it?’

‘Got it,’ Jamie replies.

They step back and move a few feet away; already the thin fishing wire is hard to see. Nodding with satisfaction, they move back down through the estate, heading towards the vehicle they left on the road to the Fort.

‘Where will we put the tanker if we get it?’ Jamie asks.

‘Either in the middle so we get the full effect of the blast and the shrapnel it creates, or closer to the exit onto the Fort road.’

‘Okay.’

The inside of the car is uncomfortably hot with warm, stale air; they both wind their windows down quickly, as Jamie pulls away, driving towards the Fort.

The ditches on both sides are almost finished with the diggers now working at the far ends, the freshly churned brown earth looking stark against the green flat lands. People from the Fort walk out over the flatlands carrying hand tools and heading towards the big patches of long grass. Clarence and one of the guards from the commune stand in front of the Fort talking to a large group of people, each of them holding a collection of rifles.

A large group of archers are placed off to one side, some of them holding great bows the size of a man, others with smaller modern bows with pulleys and contraptions attached to them. They stand talking, pointing out to the flatlands and then back up at the walls behind them. Others in the group sort through the large boxes and packets of arrows.

Dave turns back to take in the diggers and the men working with them, then back at the rows of workers coming from the Fort towards the long grass; Clarence speaking to the large groups and showing them the weapons, the archers making ready. Now, more people are filing out from the gates, carrying long, sharpened spikes and loading them into the backs of vehicles waiting nearby. Dave recognises the engineers carrying buckets of small, sharp, twisted metal foot traps and loading them into the buckets.

Jamie stops the car near the front, they climb out, and Dave walks straight over to Howie.

‘Mr Howie,’ Dave says.

‘Dave,’ Howie greets him back with a genuine smile. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Good, the estate is all set.’

‘Is Jamie okay?’

‘Very good, Mr Howie, very capable.’

‘Takes after you, mate.’

‘They must be the spikes for the ditches.’

‘Yep, they’ve worked bloody hard getting them done so quickly, just got to get them driven in now. We’ve had to get a lot more people involved, which I didn’t want to do, but we don’t really have a choice if we want all these things to happen. The first load of caltrops are ready too, Clarence and that chap… Brian, have got the lists of all the people with weapons experience and they are checking to make sure they won’t shoot themselves in the foot, or someone else for that matter… then we’ve got the archers over there. Clarence found some good supplies and some of them had their own kit with them. I don’t know if they’ll be any good, but it gives them hope and something to do.’

‘You’ve got a lot done,’ Dave remarks.

‘Yes, we have,’ Howie admits. ‘Ted is rounding up some plumbers too, we’ll find out if we can rig some pipes up in the deep ditch after the last bank, for flame throwers.’

‘Is that for the fuel tanker?’ Dave asks.

‘Yes, well the petrol from the fuel tanker anyway, I heard you had plans for the tanker?’

‘You can have the fuel first, I just want the vehicle.’

‘Don’t you need fuel in it to make this blow up?’ Howie asks.

‘No, the fumes trapped inside the pressured container will be enough.’

‘Oh, so we can use all the fuel then?’

‘Well, maybe just leave a little bit in there, if that’s okay, Mr Howie.’

‘No worries, mate - I don’t know if the flame throwing idea will work, surely we’ll need to store the fuel, then pump it into the pipes, and then if we put holes in the pipes for the flames to come out off, won’t the fuel just leak out? Also, how does it get ignited? And wouldn’t the flame just shoot back inside the pipe and blow the whole thing up?’

‘Yes, yes, yes and yes, and you would need ignition from a distance, otherwise the person doing the igniting would get blown up and yes, it would all blow up.’ Dave replies.

‘Oh, I see,’ Howie says, with a frown.

‘But, you could just lay hoses down in the ditch and fill them with petrol. Put containers or buckets and other things filled with fuel: grenades, bits of metal, nails, screws - anything sharp and ignite it from a distance. The whole thing will go then and the steep sides of the ditch will force the pressure wave and explosion straight up and not out to the sides.’

‘Bloody hell, Dave - you really like blowing things up, don’t you.’

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies, flatly.

‘We’ll do that then - how about the cannon? Do you think you can get them working?’

‘They already work, it’s just a matter of knowing how they work, having the right mix of powder, charge and then what we use to fire at them. I’ll start looking at them now.’

‘I’ll get some coffee up to you,’ Howie says.

‘Okay, thanks, Mr Howie.’ Dave heads into the Fort and finds Jamie talking with Cookey and Blowers.

‘What’s next?’ Jamie asks him.

‘Cannon,’ Dave replies.

‘Like two peas in a pod, them two,’ Blowers remarks as they watch Dave and Jamie walk off towards the steps.

Howie stands watching the activity unfolding in front of him, a deep look of concentration on his face. So far so good, he thinks, but the news of the zombies leading across the fields leave his mind unsettled. Howie knows the reality of the situation, probably better than anyone else, other than Dave - but for one of them to have actually seen them preparing brings it home. Two armies - one vastly outnumbering the other, getting ready to meet.

He turns and heads back towards the Fort, in deep in thought; Cookey and Blowers both remain quiet and let him pass without interruption.

The noise of the camp fills the air, the recent movement of people going outside to help with spikes, caltrops, cutting grass, weapons training and archery have rapidly increased the air of excitement and charged the atmosphere.

Howie watches people moving quickly between sections. He notices that many of them are now armed with whatever they can find: sticks, metal poles, knives, hand axes and hammers. The change is palpable and positive.

The charged atmosphere has rubbed off on everyone and, for the first time, Howie takes note of the children in the camp. Small children are running between the tents, chasing each other and laughing. Bigger boys walk in groups and hold small sticks in their hands, ready to fight and kill all the zombies.

Howie notices the traditional roles of male and female have suddenly come back, those boys carrying the weapons and the girls working with the women to prepare food and clean the area, helping to feed babies.

The sound of children’s laughter fills his ears and the gleeful, uncorrupted sound is like music; their innocence and utter faith that these adults will protect them from everything.

The resilience of their young minds that have almost certainly faced untold horrors already, but here they are; running and playing like children have always done.

The thought of the undead army sweeping through them and getting into the Fort to savage these children, fills Howie with a sickening feeling and a thought process quickly enters his head. There’s a problem here, if they do get in and there is every chance they will, then these children have nowhere to go. The mothers will fight like tigers, of that there is no doubt, but they too will fall.

They must be protected; at all costs they must be made safe and kept safe. Without them there is no purpose for all of this. We can stand and fight and show them how brave we are, Howie thinks, but for what reason? To give ourselves freedom to live so our race can continue. The thought of there now being two races of people on the earth hits Howie hard. An evil race intent on killing every last human, and those small humans now running about and playing have to survive in order to make more humans.

There is nowhere else to run though; beyond that wall is the sea. There aren’t enough boats to take them all away, and nowhere to go if they did find enough. But maybe… just maybe…

Howie makes his way quickly through the camp, his mind whirling. Why did he leave this so late? He reaches the police office and is stunned for a second to see the almighty clamour going on. People shouting and pushing forward to speak to a very harassed looking Sergeant Hopewell and Terri,

‘Sarah, Terri, I need to speak with you both now,’ Howie speaks firmly and his voice cuts across the room, as the people realise Mr Howie is here.

They step outside and move away from the door to a quiet spot.

‘Listen, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner, but we are right on the sea here, so there must be harbours or mooring points round here. I want you to find boats and get them back here.’

‘Why? What for?’ Sarah asks, quickly.

‘When they come, I want the children loaded onto boats and moved out and away from the Fort. If they get in, we’ll all be killed. We must do whatever we can to keep them safe, find some people that can handle boats and navigation and have them ready to report to a set place when the action starts. Get the mothers too, be ready to get them out,’ Howie says, intensely.

‘Good idea, very good idea,’ Sarah replies, nodding her head.

‘There is one boat out there already, I saw it when we arrived,’ Terri says.

‘Good, get them to use that to go out and find more and bring them back. Work out how many children and mothers we have and make sure they bring enough back with them.’

‘Err, this is a horrible question, Howie - but what age child do we go up to? Sixteen, Eighteen?’

‘Eighteen, they’ll be old enough to offer some protection and care for the younger ones.’

‘Some of the eighteen year olds won’t want to go,’ Terri says. ‘They’ll want to stay and fight with their fathers or brothers.’

‘That’s natural, but just do what you can, it’s already getting late, so do it quickly, and I will want to speak to the boat people before they go. Send them to the planning office.’

Breaking apart to move off to their respective offices, they each feel the sense of pace increasing. Knowing that, with each passing hour, the zombie army build in numbers and draw ever closer.

Terri rushes into the office, ignoring the people moving towards her with questions - she pulls the stacks of lists from the desk and moves down to Sarah at the back of the office, purposefully putting her back to the rest of the room.

‘How do we do this?’ Terri asks, scanning through the lists of skills. ‘I don’t know if we even recorded people with boat skills.’ She glances back to see Sergeant Hopewell still frantically struggling to cope at the main desk.

‘Sarge, did we record people with boating skills?’ Terri shouts across and gets a quick glance from Sergeant Hopewell, before she returns to dealing with the people in front of her.

‘It’s here, under occupations,’ Sarah says. ‘We’ve got Royal Navy sailors and commercial sailors in the camp, I guess being this close to the coast there would be.’

‘Let me see,’ Terri asks, leafing through the papers. ‘There’s a Royal Navy Reserves Captain here, Henry Marshall, he’s retired and getting on a bit in age, but we recorded him having commercial experience, too.’

‘Let’s find him,’ Sarah stands up, ready to go.

‘Hang on; let me check something, yes he’s also on the list of people with weapons experience. He’ll be down with Clarence at the front.’

‘Clarence has a radio, can we call him and get him sent back?’ Sarah asks.

Terri fights back through the crowds at the desk to reach the radio, then pushes back out to find some clear ground.

‘Police office to Clarence.’

‘Clarence to police office, go ahead.’

‘Police office to Clarence, have you got a Henry Marshall with you?’

‘Confirm Henry Marshall. Stand by.’

‘Answer yes, Henry Marshall.’

A few minutes go by, with Sarah and Terri staring intently at the radio.

‘Clarence to police office, yes we have Henry Marshall with us.’

‘Police office to Clarence, send him back to us immediately, his services are required urgently.’

‘Clarence to police office, Roger that he’s on his way to the police office.’

‘Police office to Clarence, thank you and out.’

‘Good, now I don’t know about you but I need coffee,’ Sarah says, heading to the back room and the kettle that has been running non-stop for several hours.

Howie moves back into the planning office, after leaving Terri and Sarah. Big Chris is inside with several men all looking over the plans on the table.

‘Yes, these are the ditches here, we want pipes running with fuel that we can ignite from a distance and create a wall of flame,’ Chris explains to the men.

‘Cancel that Chris, change of plan,’ Howie says quickly, then runs through the idea given by Dave.

‘Much better,’ Chris nods back.

‘Sorry, you must be the plumbers, seeing as most of you have pencils behind your ears, I’m Howie,’ Howie says, smiling and shaking hands with them in turn.

‘Howie, leave this with me. I’ll take these chaps down and get started,’ Chris says, quickly leading the men outside.

Howie pauses for a second in the sudden quietness of the room, the noise from the camp reduced as Chris closes the door behind him.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, he walks round the desk to the large flask and presses his hand against the side. Still warm. He finds a half-filled cup and moves back over to the door and throws the cold empty contents out onto the ground. He then closes the door and moves back inside. He takes a teaspoon and loads it up with sugar from a ragged bag left on the table, then pours the hot black coffee into the mug. The aroma hits him instantly and the simple act of making a coffee calms him immeasurably.

Mug in hand, he feels his body relaxing for the first time in days. Staring into nothingness he raises the mug slowly to his lips and takes the first mouthful, just as the door pops open with Terri leaning in.

‘Howie, this is Henry Marshall, retired Navy Captain. Mr Marshall this is Howie.’ Terri moves back and closes the door, after a small built man with white hair and a white beard enters.

‘Mr Howie, good to meet you Sir,’ the man moves forward as Howie scrabbles up from his now seated position to shake his hand.

‘Mr Marshall, thank you for coming, please take a seat,’ Howie offers.

‘Please… Henry is fine,’ the man replies, smiling and taking a seat opposite Howie.

‘Okay and I’m just Howie, everyone seems to be calling me Mr Howie lately.’

‘Comes with the job, young man, people like to know who is in charge,’ Henry smiles warmly, his voice rich with a deep baritone.

‘Forgive me firing questions at you, has anyone said why you’re here?’ Howie asks.

‘Not yet, I was with the others, going through weapons drill, when they said to come here.’

‘Okay, may I ask, what’s your experience with ships and boats?’ Howie asks.

‘Well, where do I start young man,’ Henry smiles. ‘I was a commercial skipper on cargo ships, fuel tanker’s then did a stint in the cruise liners and I was also Captain in the Royal Navy Reserves. I’ve been around boats and ships all of my life.’

‘Do you know these waters very well?’ Howie asks.

‘Like the back of my hand ,young man, may I ask why?’

‘Sir, as you know, there is a huge army of those things coming for us. We’ve got lots of children here, and we have to do what we can to protect them. ‘

‘I was thinking of this when I first got here. Yes, it is an option, and yes there are several small harbours around here that would have numerous pleasure craft moored up.’

‘Could you take the small boat that’s out the back and bring more boats back? Enough for the children and their mothers?’

‘I can try, we’ll definitely get some back, whether there’s enough is a different matter, and do we know how long we’ve got?’

‘We know they are massing now a few miles out, so it could be any time. The night would be the best time for them to attack, as they become faster, but they’ve been changing so much in the last few days that anything is possible,’ Howie explains.

‘Right, we’d best get moving then. I’ll need some people with me, I know a few here that will be suitable to take with me.’

‘Speak to Terri and Sarah next door, they’ll help you find them. One more thing, do you have a safe destination to take them all?’ Howie asks.

‘There’s two  places: across the water to the Isle of Wight, or to one of the Forts in the sea,’ Henry replies.

‘Henry, this is absolutely vital. Do not tell anyone else where you plan to take them. Not one other person must know. If those things find out where you are going they will hunt you down and kill you all, I cannot make that clear enough,’ Howie presses on the older man.

‘Yes of course,’ Henry says, looking Howie in the eye.

‘Now please hurry and be as quick as you can,’ Howie says standing up.

Henry follows his lead and extends his hand to Howie. ‘I won’t let you down,’ Henry says firmly before leaving the room.

Howie sinks back down on his chair, raises his feet to rest on the desk and once more takes a sip of his coffee.

‘Typical, it’s gone cold,’ Howie mutters, staring down at the inky black liquid sloshing in the cup, his brow furrows as he thinks of something he was meant to do… something with coffee.

‘Shit, Dave…’

‘These rooms are very secure,’ Roger explains to Dave, as he unlocks the solid metal padlock before inserting keys to the several locks on the door. ‘They’re alarmed too,’ Roger adds as he pushes the door open to hear a loud urgent bleeping sound. He moves over to an alarm panel and keys in a number of digits. ‘That’s better, now do you know what you need?’ Roger asks.

Dave steps into the room to look at the wrought iron fence bolted across the width of the room and the small gate set into them.

‘That’s locked too, now let me see, it must be one of these,’ Roger thumbs the keys on the big loop, trying several, until, with a satisfying click, the gate swings open.

Entering the cage, Dave heads straight to the rear. Powder bags are already made up and stacked carefully on shelves above the ground. There are large signs telling people not to smoke.

‘Is this where you got the powder from earlier?’ Dave asks.

‘Yes David, there are containers on the shelving unit that I think they use for the muskets,’ Roger answers as Dave winces at the use of his full name.

‘It’s Dave, I need all of these powder bags to be brought up, plus all of that wadding and I need lots of water, and all of those ramrods…’ Dave says, pointing to each item in turn.

‘Anything else?’ Roger asks.

‘Yes, all of the black powder that’s here and the empty powder bags too, get them all up to the top and leave them by the Saxon.’ Dave turns to leave, walking straight out of the door without another word and leaving Roger standing, bemused.

Dave walks across the compound and through the camp, ignoring everyone else. His mind entirely on the task at hand. Reaching the armoury he enters, to find Malcolm still sorting the weapons and ammunition.

‘I need all of the cannon ammunition,’ Dave asks, flatly.

‘Hello Dave, how are you?’ Malcolm asks, irritated by his instant demand.

‘I’m fine, where is the cannon ammunition?’ Dave answers, not registering Malcolm’s tone.

‘We’ve got buckets of the stuff, tons of it. Clarence got a load on his forage and we went round to find more stuff.’

‘Where is it?’

‘We moved it all into one of the back rooms.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was taking up so much bloody space, that’s why,’ Malcolm snaps back.

‘I need it all up top,’ Dave says, still devoid of emotion.

‘Right, you need it up top, okay well let’s drop everything and get that done for you, is there anything else we can do while we’re here?’ Malcolm says, sarcastically.

‘No, just that. Thank you,’ Dave replies and leaves the room to head back up to the top of the north wall.

‘Fucking Special Forces always the fucking same…’ Malcolm mutters.

He heads outside to find one of the guards and instructs him to go into the police office and find people to form a chain to pass the cannon ammunition up to the south wall.

The guard nods and strolls into the police room to join the queue of people already waiting for Sergeant Hopewell’s attention.

Thinking that his request is probably more urgent, he gently pushes through the throng until he reaches the desk and stands dominating the view of the harassed Sergeant.

‘We need a chain of people to pass items up to the top of the north wall,’ the guard says simply.

‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’ Sergeant Hopewell snaps angrily. ‘You’ve got a mouth, go and find people yourself.’

‘Why can’t you do it?’ The guards asks defensively.

‘Because I’m bloody busy that’s why,’ Sergeant Hopewell shouts, ignoring the man and turning back to the person she was talking to before.

The guard pushes back away from the desk and heads further into the room to see Sarah and Terri examining sheets of paper and talking quietly.

‘We need a chain of people to pass items up to the top of the north wall,’ the guard repeats.

‘And I need more coffee and some sleep, and a bloody computer would help, rather than working in the dark ages with sheets of bloody paper,’ Terri retorts.

‘Yeah, but this is important,’ the guard says, looking with distaste at the stacks of paper.

‘Important is it? Because what we’re doing clearly isn’t important then,’ Terri shouts at the guard, before going back to speaking with Sarah.

After a few minutes, the guard coughs and interrupts: ‘So, can you get the people or not?’ he asks.

‘No, we bloody can’t, we’ve got no runners left and a million other things to do.’

‘Yeah but…’

‘Do not “yeah but” me, find someone else,’ Terri snaps turning her back on the man.

The guard walks away from the office scratching his head; he walks back into the armoury and finds Malcolm putting piles of shotguns together.

‘That was quick, are they ready?’ Malcolm asks.

‘No, I couldn’t find anyone,’ the guard announces.

‘Fucking what?’ Malcolm shouts. ‘There’s seven thousand people out there, sitting around, doing nothing.’

‘I asked in the police office, but they were too busy,’ the guard starts to explain.

‘Too busy? Doing what may I ask? Filing missing person reports for the forty million fucking zombies roaming around eating fucking brains. Get out there and find some people to get that shit up to the south wall,’ Malcolm roars at the poor man.

He turns once again and heads back outside, a lifetime of Infantry experience in the army taught him he is the lowest on the food chain and to argue would most likely either invoke a beating or cleaning the toilets for the next month, or probably both.

He stands staring at the impenetrable mass of people in the camp. His lack of creative flair or ability to think outside of orders stumps him.

Scratching his head, he wanders through the camp, looking for someone to ask but they all look so busy: talking, flitting between tents or moving quickly between places.

His wandering brings him close to the front gate where Cookey and Blowers are still leaning and drinking coffee.

‘What’s up, mate?’ Blowers asks, seeing the lost look on the bewildered guards face.

‘They need a chain of people to get the cannon ammunition up to the top of the north wall. I asked in the police office and they told me to piss off, I went back to Malcolm and he told me to piss off, now I don’t know who to ask…’ the man explains.

‘Ah, that’s easy, me and Cookey will get it sorted,’ Blowers says, relieved at the prospect of being away from his position.

‘Yeah, definitely, are you sure?’ the guard asks, a sudden light at the end of the tunnel. Standing guard duty is easy, compared to having to actually speak to people.

‘Yeah, of course. Now… no one goes in or out without checking with Mr Howie or Chris first, got it?’ Blowers asks.

‘Got it,’ the man responds, happily taking up position by the side of the gate.

Blowers and Cookey walk away, stretching and feeling pleasure at being able to walk about for the first time in hours.

They walk over to the armoury to find Malcolm still wound up and muttering to himself.

‘Hi Malc, that guard said you needed people to carry some stuff?’ Blowers asks.

‘Didn’t he do it? Bloody people can’t just get things done can they?’ Malcolm starts off, Blowers quickly holds his hands up, ‘No worries mate, we’ll get it sorted, where is it?’

‘All of that stuff in that back room,’ Malcolm points to the door at the rear.

‘Got it, leave it with us, have you still got the radio, Cookey? Get hold of Nick and ask him to do one of his supermarket announcements again,’ Blowers says as they move back outside.

Cookey speaks into the radio telling Nick what he needs. ‘Listen to this,’ Cookey says smiling at Blowers.

‘ATTENTION PLEASE, ATTENTION PLEASE, CLEAN UP ON AISLE EIGHT,’ Nick’s voice booms out over the camp, as Cookey and Blowers both burst out laughing.

‘ATTENTION PLEASE, WE NEED VOLUNTEERS TO FORM A CHAIN FROM THE SOUTH WALL TO THE NORTH WALL, PLEASE REPORT TO THE TWO UGLY LOOKING MEN IN UNIFORM.’

The camp freezes at the announcement, some of the people smiling and laughing at the comments, some clearly not understanding.

Within minutes, Blowers and Cookey have a long chain of people stretching from the armoury going through the camp and up to the vehicle ramp onto the north wall.

More people than they need join in, but the action of doing something, propels them to try and join in and the line quickly becomes overcrowded.

‘Cookey, get Nick to ask them to separate into two lines,’ Blowers calls out.

‘ATTENTION PLEASE, ATTENTION PLEASE, THERE ARE TOO MANY PEOPLE IN THE LINE. CAN WE HAVE ALL THE MEN IN ONE LINE AND ALL THE WOMEN IN ANOTHER LINE.  COME ONE, MEN VERSUS WOMEN, LET’S SEE WHO CAN GET THEIR LOAD DONE FIRST.’ Nick carries on, urging the camp into two lines, until, after a few minutes, the men and women stand facing each other, shouting with good-natured banter.

The noise slowly draws the people out of the police office, Sergeant Hopewell, Sarah and Terri all come out to see the fuss and stand watching the two lines slowly forming as Nick stands on the top of the Saxon directing them.

‘RIGHT, AT THE FRONT YOU WILL SEE BLOWERS, THAT’S HIM WITH HIS ARM UP, HE’S ON THE MEN’S SIDE, THE OTHER ONE, COOKEY, THAT’S HIM WAVING NOW, HE’S ON THE WOMEN’S SIDE. THEY WILL PASS EACH CHAIN THE ITEM TO BE MOVED UP, THE CHAIN LEFT WITH THE LAST ITEM STILL BEING PASSED UP IS THE LOSER, NOW, ARE YOU READY?’ A chorus of replies sounds out.

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I SAID… ARE YOU READY?’ Nick booms out over the loudspeaker, the two lines roar and cheer as Blowers and Cookey position themselves at the end of the two chains, pretending to jump up and down and get ready.

Malcolm walks out of the armoury and stands bemused at the sight, and realising what’s about to happen he moves a few steps away and lights a much needed cigarette.

‘THREE… TWO… ONE… GO’

Laughing like children, Blowers and Cookey burst away into the armoury and race into the back room, they each grab a bucket of metal scraps and runs back to the chain.

‘HERE COME THE FIRST TWO, IT’S ALL EVEN AT THE MOMENT, OH AND THE FIRST BUCKETS ARE INTO THE CHAINS AND BEING PASSED UP,’ Nick commentates as Blowers and Cookey run back inside to get the next ones.

Blowers grabs two buckets as Cookey quickly grabs one and starts back.

‘That’s cheating, you wanker,’ Cookey yells, as he goes back for another one and runs behind his friend to pass them onto the chain.

The two lines roar and cheer as they see the two lads bursting out, each carrying two buckets.

Sarah starts smiling at the sight and looks to Terri, laughing, as the two lads push against each other to reach the lines first.

‘COME ON, COOKEY,’ Terri yells.

‘That’s bloody Tom and Steven in that line,’ Sergeant Hopewell laughs, at seeing the two lads joining in with passing the items up.

‘I’m joining in,’ Terri laughs and runs across to the front of the line.

‘I’m not having that,’ Ted remarks from behind them and jogs over to stand opposite Terri on the man’s line.

Blowers and Cookey keep running back into the armoury and grabbing buckets of metal to race back outside, waiting until they are in front of the people before they start barging into each other, both of them red in the face but laughing hard.

Malcolm smiles as he quietly smokes, amazed at what’s taking place in front of him. These people have suffered such loss but here they are, joking and playing, doing anything to break the tension and all it took was three young mischievous soldiers pissing about. His smile widens as he thinks back to the escapades that he, Chris and Clarence got up to, early in their service.

Nick continues with the commentary, as people twist and turn passing the items up, pointing out mistakes and making the others laugh and cheer. Dave, Jamie and Curtis stand next to the Saxon and watch the growing piles of buckets being quickly passed up.

The inside area of the main gate quickly fills up as those closest to the front first hear Nick booming out on the loudspeaker and then the sounds of cheering, they pause in their training and drill to move back inside and stand smiling at the spectacle.

Howie stands outside the police office, quietly drinking coffee and taking the scene in.

He watches Terri smiling and laughing as she reaches out to take a bucket from Cookey before he turns to run back inside, pushing and shoving against Blowers by his side. He watches as Tom and Steven grasp their bucket in turn and laugh as it’s passed on, shouting and urging the men to move faster.

How can they all be taken, fifty or so million people in Britain and everyone one of them has had their life changed forever. The rich and powerful may have been whisked to safety inside bunkers, but even their lives are changed. The thought process leads Howie to think of the populations of different countries. This started in Eastern Europe somewhere, so that means the whole of Europe, and if it spread to an Island like Britain so quickly, it must have gone everywhere. Every man, woman and child on the planet has had their life changed and for what? For another species to develop? For another race to take over? Or just an infection that courses through their systems without realising the futility of it all. That eventually it will infect everyone and have nothing left to feed on.

He thinks of how McKinney would love this now, and would be laughing and joking up top with Nick and Curtis. Then he remembers Darren and the conversation they had on the bridge, with a jolt he realises it was only this morning, only a few hours ago. It feels like days or weeks have gone by just in this one day. He thinks back to Friday night and being at home in his flat watching television that felt like years ago. He was a night’s manager in a supermarket then, now he is a leader of men and making ready to fight an army of dead people.

He shakes his head slowly in wonder, if only his father could see him now, how proud he would be. His thoughts darken once again as he thinks of his parents now part of that army coming for them, and of Darren’s words on the bridge.

Lord, give me the grace to have five minutes with Darren when we meet, just him and me alone for five minutes. Howie sips is coffee visualising the moment he would take him down and make him pay for all the bad things that have happened, cocking his head to one side he adds a final request to his prayer, and can I have my axe with me please.

The race finishes with Cookey and Blowers both running out of the armoury with their last bucket each, using their free hands to push and pull the other one back. They grapple with red panting faces still laughing as they stagger and slip over, somehow managing to keep their buckets upright. Finally, they separate and make it to their lines at the same time, passing their buckets over and then racing along with them as they get passed from man to man and woman to woman. Nick’s voice grows hoarse with excitement.

The ends of the lines disperse as the men and women race to keep up with the buckets. The buckets reach the last few people as the view is entirely blocked by everyone crowding round to watch. With a roar, the buckets reach the top in unison, both being placed at the top at the same time.

‘IT’S A DRAW, OH YES, A DRAW, THE AGE OLD BATTLE OF MEN VERSUS WOMEN HAS FINALLY BEEN LAID TO REST HERE IN FORT SPITBANK WITH A DRAW.’ Nick ends his commentary as the crowds all mingle into one.

The day draws on and slowly the camp returns to order, as people file back down and continue with the tasks they were doing.

Clarence leads his group back outside and resumes the weapons drills and Howie watches as Dave and Jamie, now joined by several others on the top wall, all start moving the buckets to the cannon sites.

He makes heads over towards the vehicle ramp, leading to the top of the north wall, passing the engineers workshop as he goes. He pauses to see Kelly inside, still moving between the various small groups of people and the growing pile of sharpened foot traps on the floor. She smiles and nods as he passes by, moving onto the ramp and passing smiling people moving back down to the camp.

‘That was a good effort ,Nick,’ Howie says, as he reaches the Saxon.

‘Thanks, Mr Howie, it was a good laugh for a few minutes,’ Nick replies, now back on the GPMG and staring out to the flatlands through a pair of binoculars.

‘How are they getting on out there, mate,’ Howie asks.

‘Have a look,’ Nick passes the binoculars over; Howie lifts them to his eyes and starts scanning over the flatlands to the estate.

The diggers have now finished and are moving back down to the Fort, having moved all of the earth taken from the ditches over to the far sides.

The long grass is now cut and being carried over to be stacked by the side of the freshly dug ditches. Men and women are working in the ditches to drive the sharpened stakes through and being followed by more people covering the sections they have completed with the long grass.

Howie sweeps over to see a van being driven slowly across the large area of land between the first ditch and the embankments, throwing the sharpened foot traps out onto the ground. Then down to the first bank and a group of archers firing into the bank, he watches them practise with firing high and people moving amongst them giving tips and offering advice.

Down to the deep ditch after the last bank and Howie sees the fuel tanker parked on the road in the middle. Pipes connected to the fuel tanker pumping fuel into the heavy weight hoses they found in the Fort. More people are filling containers and big drums with fuel and rolling them along the ground to be pushed into the ditch. Yet more are people wrapping metal shrapnel into bags and placing them on top of the drums and hoses.

After the deep ditch there is a wide open flatland to the Fort, now covered with lots of people who listen to Clarence and Brian. The people issued with firearms have laid them down in piles, now many of them hold the hand weapons foraged and brought back by Clarence, found within the compound or brought with them as they fled their homes.

Clarence and Brian do their best to give some simple instruction on how to hold the weapons, and show them basic techniques of swipe, lunge and hack.

As Howie lowers the binoculars, he realises that nearly everyone in the Fort must now be involved in the defence and preparation, so much for his plans of keeping everything secret.

‘Fuck it, Donald…’ Howie remembers the man he had locked up in the police office.

Suddenly the action he took, rests uncomfortably on his mind. At the time, his decision seemed reasonable, the man was delaying what needed to be done.

‘Tell Dave I’ll be straight back,’ Howie yells, as he starts jogging back down the vehicle ramp and across the camp.

The sudden thought that they have done something wrong, so very wrong, plagues his mind and it must be put right.

‘Where’s that man we locked up?’ Howie asks as he bursts into the police office.

‘That’s what I want to bloody know,’ a distressed looking woman standing in front of Sergeant Hopewell’s desk yells out.

‘Are you his wife?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes I am, they won’t let me see him, they said he’s been arrested.’ The woman sobs with red eyes and tears streaming down her face, she holds the hand of a small, scared looking child.

‘Where is he?’ Howie asks Sergeant Hopewell.

‘In the back room, Ted’s with him’ she replies.

Howie pushes his way forward and opens the door at the rear, entering a small corridor.

‘Ted?’ Howie calls out.

‘In here,’ Ted answers and steps out of an open door at the end.

‘Is that man in there?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes, he’s right here,’ Ted answers puzzled.

Howie moves round Ted and enters the room to see Donald sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, his eyes are also red from crying.

‘Donald, I am so very sorry for locking you in here, it was unforgivable…’ Howie blurts out.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have questioned you, please can I just go? My wife and daughter are alone and they must be terrified,’ Donald pleads.

‘No, you should have questioned us, I was completely wrong to have you detained like this.’

‘I didn’t mean anything bad, Mr Howie, I was uncomfortable with what you were asking, but I shouldn’t have made an issue out of it, you’re right there are thousands of people here relying on you and I won’t question you again…’

Donald stands up slowly, clearly unsure of the change of events, looking at Howie, then at the open door and Ted standing there with a frown.

‘So… I can really go?’ Donald asks, tentatively.

‘Mate, your wife and daughter are out in the office…’

‘Donald! You’re all right…’ the woman from the office bursts in to hold Donald tight, crying and sobbing.

The little girl holds back for a second, until Donald drops down to draw her in close.

‘Yes, I’m fine darling, it was all a misunderstanding, really it’s all fine,’ Donald says softly, holding them both.

‘Look… Mr Howie,’ Donald’s wife says. ‘My husband Donald is an argumentative man and he picks the wrong moments to say things and has often caused a lot of offence, so I can understand where you’re coming from. But for him to be taken away like that and with no one telling me why or for how long, that was awful.’

‘Yes, you’re right. It was the wrong thing to do,’ Howie accepts, quietly.

‘Mr Howie, I do apologise to you for putting you in that position. Is there anything I can do to help now?’ Donald asks, holding his head up and staring directly at Howie.

‘The engineers are still hard at it in the workshops, I’m sure they could do with some help.’

‘Right, in which case we should be leaving,’ Donald steps forward, holding a hand out to Howie. ‘I understand why it happened the way it did, and for my part I can see you are a genuine man and I’m glad this Fort has you on our side,’ Donald says, as they shake hands.

‘Thank you, that’s a very kind thing to say,’ Howie replies.

‘And, as soon as society has been re-built, I will be contacting one of those no win no fee lawyers for compensation,’ Donald smiles.

‘Ha, good idea, I’ll say it was Ted.’

‘You won’t be the first, that’s for sure, Ted responds, good-naturedly.

The family leave the room, still holding each other tightly, leaving Ted staring hard at Howie and nodding gently.

‘That took some balls, Howie, well done,’ Ted says, quietly.

‘Don’t give me credit Ted, it shouldn’t have happened in the first place,’ Howie replies.

‘You did what you thought was right at the time, he wasn’t injured or hurt and he’s been well taken care of,’ Ted says firmly.

‘Yeah, I guess, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions Ted.’

At the top of the north wall, two teams of people left over from the bucket chain, and chosen by Dave, move ammunition and powder bags to each of the cannon.

Long hoses stretch along the top and down to the ground level and outside taps, found in each corner of the base of the wall. On further request, women bring piles of sheets, blankets and material up, to be left with the ammunition.

Dave crouches and draws his knife to cut a square of bed sheet, then takes a few double handfuls of bolts, nails and screws to put them in the centre of the sheet. He wraps the sheet over, securing the metal fragments inside. He then takes the small bundle and shoves it into the black opening of the cannon mouth.

‘Too small,’ he mutters and goes back to unwrap the sheet and add another double handful of the metal pieces. He wraps it back up and goes back to the cannon mouth, placing the bundle inside.

‘Perfect, I need more of these made. The same size as this one, they must not be bigger than this, otherwise they will not fit.’ Dave says to a group of people watching him. 'You get them made and I’ll start showing this lot the cannon drill,’ he adds, turning to the two distinct teams nearby.

‘Right, one group will be on this cannon; the other will be on the other. Watch and listen carefully, as we do not have a lot of time before night falls and as soon as that area is clear,’ Dave indicates the flatlands, ‘…we will be having some practise shots to get range, distance and aim, got it?’

The groups nod back, listening intently to the small, strange man.

‘These are the fuses,’ Dave holds up some lengths of fuse wire to show the groups. ‘They go into this hole at the back of the cannon. We do not have lighted material or naked flame anywhere near the fuse at any point other than when we are lighting it, you two are the flame holders.’ Dave indicates two men, one from each group. ‘You keep the flame lit and away from the cannon until the teams are ready for you to light the fuse. Now we take a powder bag, this is full of gunpowder, and we place it into the cannon, that is your job.’ Dave indicates another man from each group. ‘The powder bag is then rammed down to the bottom of the cannon, like this,’ Dave takes a ramrod and pushes it into the cannon, driving the bag down to the bottom and tapping it hard a few times.

‘It must be at the bottom, so it pushes against the fuse wire sticking in through the hole. Next we take some wadding, and again we push it down,’ Dave takes some papers from a pile near the cannon and rams it down with the ramrod. ‘Next we take the ammunition, in this case the wrapped metal and again we push it down the cannon. The metal is wrapped simply to keep it together. When the fuse is lit, it burns down and ignites the powder bag. The powder bags explode instantly with a lot of force. The energy of the exploding matter cannot escape from the back or sides so it is forced to move up the cannon, thereby driving our round, missile or projectile out of this end at great speed. The wrapping material will be burnt away and the metal ejected. As it leaves, it will start to spread, at the same time as becoming incredibly hot. Not only do the enemy suffer from the impact of the projectiles, they also suffer from the heat of the projectiles. Do you understand?’ He gets more nods from the people watching.

‘Now, before the cannon be used again, water is put in and swept through, to make sure there are no burning materials left, otherwise, as soon as you put the powder bags in, they will explode and kill everyone. Now, these cannon are made from iron. They are strong, but they are very old and we cannot tell if they have stress fractures. Iron cannon can sometimes just explode from the force of the repeated firing, if that happens you will all die, got it?’

The men look to each other with alarm.

‘We cannot fire at the moment because of the people out there, but we can practise and we will practise, any questions?’

‘Will you be with us?’ One man asks, straight away.

‘For the practise, yes, of course, I will be.’

‘No, I mean when we actually fire them for real.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How likely are they to explode?’ Another asks, with genuine fear on his face.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Err, have you ever fired one of these before?’ The same man asks.

‘No, now any other questions, before we start? No? Good.’

For the next hour the two groups are drilled incessantly and without rest. Dave making each group going through the motions. Dave pushes them again and again, giving clear instructions and correcting, where necessary.

As the afternoon gives way to evening, Dave rests the groups and walks over to the Saxon positioned midway between the two cannon and takes the radio from the front of the vehicle.

‘Saxon to Mr Howie or Chris.’

‘Chris to Saxon, go ahead.’

‘Saxon to Chris, we need to start live fire drills on the cannon, how long until the grounds are clear?’

‘Chris to Saxon, we are almost finished and will clear very soon, I will give you an update once we are clear.’

‘Saxon to Chris, Roger that, Saxon out.’

‘Chris to Howie.’

‘Howie here, go ahead Chris.’

‘Did you get the last? We are almost finished at the front.’

‘Yeah, I got that mate, I’ll come down and meet you at the gate.’

‘Chris to Howie, Roger and out.’

Howie steps through the gate, after finding a different guard happily on duty and wondering what mischief Blowers and Cookey would be causing elsewhere.

He crosses the gap between the two walls, marvelling at how the two high thick walls deaden the sound from both sides.

‘We’re just about done,’ Clarence calls out, leading his now large group of people back inside with Brian.

Some of them are armed with rifles, and there is a much larger group armed with a collection of hand weapons.

‘I think that Chris is bringing the others back in now, too,’ Howie replies.

‘Are they all done then?’ Clarence asks, moving back to Howie and watching the rest pass through the gate and back into the Fort.

‘I think so, how did you get on with the training?’ Howie asks.

‘The firearms were fine, some of them were a bit rusty, but there’s enough good ones amongst them to keep the rest up to standard, mind you, all they’ve got to do is point and shoot.’

‘What about the others, with the hand weapons?’

‘To be honest,’ Clarence lowers his voice. ‘That was a fucking nightmare, we’ll be lucky if they don’t all stab themselves before we even start. But what choice have they got,’ Clarence replies in his deep bass voice.

‘Not much we can do mate, just hope we whittle the numbers down, before they get here, I guess - here’s Chris now.’ Howie nods at the line of vehicles coming down the road towards them.

‘It’ll be dark soon, couple of hours to go,’ Clarence remarks, looking up at the sky.

‘I wonder how soon they’ll come,’ Howie says quietly, as the people still lead back into the Fort, nodding at him and Clarence as they pass.

‘Mr Howie?’ A voice calls out.

Howie turns to see a man at the head of a procession of archers.

‘You are Mr Howie, aren’t you?’ the man asks, as he gets closer.

‘Howie, yes…’

‘We’re the archers – we need to know range, and where we will be firing from. If we’re back here we’ve got no view…’

‘I was thinking we’d all be on the top of the inner wall to start with,’ Howie politely interrupts him.

The man steps back to look up, but the outer wall blocks his view.

‘It will reduce our range yes, but we can fire from there, if that’s where you want us.’

‘How far will you be able to fire to, from the top of the inner wall?’ Howie asks.

‘Hmmm, now that obviously depends on the type of bow, we’ve got a few different ones here, but I won’t bore you with all that. I’d say most of us will be able to reach just past the first embankment.’

‘That’s great,’ Howie remarks, looking at Clarence, who nods back sincerely.

‘There won’t be any degree of aiming from that distance though, we’re working on the principle of there being a mass target and just firing into them, really.’

‘I think you’re probably right, but would you be able to get a fire arrow into that ditch from the inner wall,’ Howie asks, pointing out towards the last embankment.

‘Ah, now fire arrows have far less range and they’re a bugger to aim over any distance. But if you just want it into the ditch that will be easy enough.’

‘Good, can you make sure that you all have the ability to do that, when the time is right,’ Howie asks.

‘Okay, we can do that. We saw them being filled up with explosive material, are you relying on us to ignite them?’

‘I think we will be, is that okay?’

‘Yes, of course, is it okay to go up now and work out the best position?’

‘No problem,’ Howie replies. ‘Nick and Curtis are with our vehicle, speak to them and let them know what you’re doing.’

The man nods and joins the line of others walking back into the Fort.

Howie and Clarence turn to see the vehicles have now stopped and Chris is walking towards them, looking tired and drawn.

‘You look like shit, Chris,’ Clarence rumbles.

‘You too,’ Chris smiles back at him. ‘Mr Howie still looks fresh as a daisy though.’

‘It’s the easy living I had before all this,’ Howie jokes. ‘Honestly though, I am fucking knackered.’

‘We all are, Howie, we’ll need to rest when we can - otherwise we’ll all be falling asleep mid-battle,’ Chris replies, rubbing his beard.

‘So how is it?’ Howie asks, now yawning after the mention of being tired.

‘It’s all done,’ Chris replies. ‘First ditch filled with spikes and covered with the grass. You can still see it, but it’s quite well covered.  The... flatlands are completely covered with the caltrops...’ He trails off, seemingly losing his chain of thought.

‘I saw the deep ditch being filled,’ Howie takes up where Chris leaves off and nods to the area of the ditch. ‘We’ve got the archers ready to fire into it.’

‘Let’s get inside…’ Chris says, as the radio clipped to his belt comes to life with a hushed transmission: ‘Point north, point north, contact, I have contact.’ The voice is quiet but clear, the speaker holding his mouth close to the radio.

Chris scrabbles for his radio, pressing the button and speaking quietly.

‘Fort to point north, receiving you, what do you see.’

‘Zombies, lots of zombies all coming our way.’

‘How far out is he?’ Clarence asks, turning to look back up the road to the estate.

‘A few miles I think, Dave said,’ Howie answers.

‘Fort to Point North, how far out are you?’

Silence follows Chris’s transmission.

‘Fort to Point North, how far out are you, I repeat how far out are you?’

Silence, then a sound of movement comes through.

‘Maybe he can’t transmit if they’re too close,’ Howie says, as they all stare at the radio.

‘Fort to Point North, hold down your transmit button twice if you cannot speak,’ Chris says quietly, the radio remains silent, then bursts to life with the sounds of struggling and the raised voice of a man shouting in desperation.

They all stare at the radio in silence, listening to the struggle and the shouts coming through, then the sound of growling, followed by a sickening, tearing noise and a scream.

‘Fuck,’ Howie mutters in horror, then the radio goes silent.

‘Point West to Fort, I heard that, I’m bugging out.’

‘Fort to Points West and East, Roger that, come back, I repeat come back.’

The radio bursts to life with the sound of static and a high pitched squealing, they stand listening unsure who is transmitting.

The static and squealing fade but the line remains open.

One word is transmitted by a voice that only sounds part human.

‘HOWIEEEEEE.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Chris says in shock at the awful stretched out sound, looking at Howie.

‘HOWIEEEEEE,’ the same voice again.

Howie stares at the radio, his heart beating faster and faster and his stomach dropping.

‘WE’RE COMING HOWIEEEEEE,’  the goading tones are loud and clear.

Chris and Clarence both stare at Howie.

‘Let’s go,’ Chris says, all signs of tiredness gone and his voice full of authority again.

His voice springs them to action as they turn as one. Chris runs ahead and pulls the gates wide open to get the vehicles back inside.

Clarence and Howie go straight through into the Fort, as Howie grabs his radio and holds it close to his mouth as he marches through the gates.

‘Howie to Dave, did you hear the last.’

‘Dave to Howie, Roger we heard the last, making ready now.’

‘Howie to Dave, I want all the people with weapons on the top of the inner wall, archers too, get Nick on the loudspeaker.’

‘Dave to Howie, Roger that, on it now.’

‘Howie to Malcolm.’

‘Malcolm receiving, go ahead Howie.’

‘Malcolm, can you get all the ammunition to the top of the inner wall and let the triage and hospital points know what’s going on.’

‘Roger that Howie.’

‘Clarence,’ Howie shouts across to the big man. ‘We need that fuel tanker in the estate, find the driver and get it taken in, use a car to bring the driver back.’

‘Roger,’ Clarence replies, before darting off into the camp.

‘Howie to Dave, where do you want the fuel tanker placed?’

‘Dave to Howie, on the central road close to the edge of the estate, by the flatlands.’

‘Howie to Clarence, did you receive that?’

‘Clarence to Howie, Roger got it.’

‘ATTENTION PLEASE, ATTENTION PLEASE,’ Nick’s voice booms out over the loudspeaker on the Saxon. ‘CAN ALL THE PEOPLE WITH FIREARMS REPORT TO THE TOP OF THE INNER WALL, CAN ALL ARCHERS REPORT TO THE TOP OF THE INNER WALL,’ Nick repeats the message several times as Howie ploughs through the edge of the camp towards the police office.

The camp erupts with a sudden frenzy as the few closest to the radios hear the transmission, then they see Clarence and Howie running in and then the request made by Nick.

People start running about, fearing the attack is taking place.

Parents grab children, as men and women alike grip their hand weapons - mayhem ensues and the volume inside the Fort is instantly raised.

Howie makes it to the police office, bursting in to see the room now empty of people. The Sergeant sits behind the desk, Terri and Sarah next to her - all of them staring at the radio.

‘Oh, Howie,’ Sarah says, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘That was awful.’

‘Yeah, not very nice was it,’ Howie replies. ‘Any news on the boats?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Terri replies.

‘Get the children at the back and ready to load as soon as they get back, where’s Ted?’ Howie asks, looking around.

‘He went to the front,’ Sergeant Hopewell says.

‘I was going to ask him to go with the children, and err, maybe you too, Debbie, they’re going to need some strong people with them.’

‘Me? With children? Are you joking?’ Sergeant Hopewell blurts out.

‘Oh, is that a bad idea then? Just look at what you did here in a couple of days, Terri and Sarah too,’ Howie adds.

‘Sending the women and children away eh?’ Terri flares up, ‘Why can’t we stay and fight too?’

‘To be honest, because we’ll probably lose, and yes women and children need to be saved, those kids will need strong people and you’re it at the moment.’ Howie replies, with a firm voice and fixed expression.

‘As much as I hate to say this, I agree,’ Sarah says, looking to the two other women. ‘Howie’s right, three more out there fighting is not going to make a difference, but being with the children and mothers does make a difference.’

‘So, we run away while everyone else stays and dies?’ Terri says, indignantly.

‘If nothing else, we buy you time to get away,’ Howie says. ‘It’s up to you, but it makes sense to me, I’ve got to go.’

Howie leaves the three women discussing the idea and marches back into the camp, heading towards the north wall.

‘Tucker, where have you been all day, mate?’ Howie says as he collides with the large recruit.

‘Mr Howie! I’ve got all the stores sorted; they were a bloody mess…’ Tucker replies.

‘Bloody hell mate, have you been doing that all day?’ Howie smiles at him.

‘Well, they had the wrong food types mixed together, no regard for the dates or perishable items, and some were stacked on the floor! So, I took one look at and thought, Roy, this won’t do. Even if that zombie army come tonight I want them to find nice, clean stores,’ Tucker explains, with genuine zeal.

‘Well done, mate, good for you, talking of food though,’ Howie says, still walking towards the north wall and realising how hungry he is.

‘Ah, now that is sorted, Mr Howie. I knew you’d all be hungry… so I’ve got some food already prepared.’

‘Really? Wow Tucker, that’s impressive mate,’ Howie says, looking with admiration at him.

‘It’s nothing special though, Mr Howie, just all the stuff we needed to use up. High energy food though, lots of carbs, you see I found loads of pasta and tinned meat and then there were vegetables that were going off, so I thought…’

‘Tucker, mate, it sounds great,’ Howie stops him as they reach the top of the vehicle ramp and walk towards the Saxon.

‘Clarence to Howie, we’re on our way now,’ Clarence’s deep voice comes over the radio.

Howie moves to the edge of the inner wall and looks down to see the tanker being driven down the road followed by a small car.

‘Howie to Clarence, yeah I can see you now, be quick mate. Howie to points West and East, we’ve got a vehicle going to the estate now, we’ll be there for a few minutes only if you can make it back.’

‘Point West,’ a heavy panting voice says. ‘I’m not far away, I should make it.’

‘Point East to the Fort, likewise I’m running like a lunatic, no sign of the army from my position.’

‘Howie to Points West and East, Roger that, Clarence did you receive the last?’

‘Yeah, I heard it, keep running gents, because  we ain’t stopping for long.’

Looking up, Howie sees Nick gripping the GPMG and staring hard towards the estate and Curtis standing by the side of the vehicle, scanning with binoculars.

‘See anything, Curtis?’ Howie calls over.

‘Nothing yet, Mr Howie,’ he replies with the binoculars stuck firmly to his face.

Howie looks about to see men running towards the waist high wall and finding positions, leaning down to rest their rifles and start scanning ahead.

The archers split into two groups, left and right, and concentrate on fixing strings to their bows and placing piles of arrows down at their feet.

All along the line, men and women make ready and Howie notices some of them shake and tremble as they work with their equipment. Faces pale and drawn; the tension palpable.

He moves along to see Dave at the far end, next to one of the cannon and speaking to a group of people. As he walks closer, Howie notices the heavy looking bundles stacked on the ground to one side, long ramrods being held by some of the men and powder bags ready to be loaded.

Howie stops as the group break apart, chatting amongst themselves.

‘Dave, how’s it going, mate?’ Howie asks as Dave steps over to him, the small man looking exactly the same as he did a week ago, with no sign of strain or tiredness.

‘Good, Mr Howie,’ Dave replies, with his usual refrain.

‘I think we’re about as ready as we’ll ever be,’ Howie says, looking back at the long line of people standing along the top of the inner wall.

‘Yes, Mr Howie, I think so.’

‘The cannon? Are they ready?’ Howie asks, looking down at the bags and piles of equipment.

‘Yes, although we don’t know the distance yet. Single shot can go quite far, but cluster or grape shot like this reduces the distance significantly.’

‘Like a shotgun then,’ Howie says.

‘Exactly like a shotgun, more spread but less range.’

‘Well, I guess we’ll find out in a bit.’

‘Yes, I guess so - I’ll try a test fire on each, when Clarence gets back in.’

‘So that tanker? Do you think it will go up well?’

‘Yes.’

‘But aren’t they designed to withstand heat and pressure?’ Howie asks.

‘Yes, but I put loads of grenades in it,’ Dave says, still devoid of expression.

‘Oh, well that’s good then. So have you ever fired cannons before?’

‘No, well… no not really.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve not fired a proper cannon before, not an old one like this.’

‘So what was it then?’

‘Similar.’

‘Similar? Similar how?’

‘I made one.’ Dave answers flatly.

‘You made a cannon?’ Howie asks incredulously.

‘Yes, although it was a one-time use only.’

‘Did it work?’

Dave looks directly at Howie as though the question need not be asked.

‘Fair one,’ Howie says. ‘Tucker’s getting some food up for us,’ he adds.

‘Good, we can eat, then sleep,’ Dave says, with a nod.

‘Sleep? How can we sleep?’ Howie asks.

‘They won’t come yet,’ Dave answers, firmly.

‘We heard them on the radio, they said “…we’re coming for you Howieeeee,’ Howie tries to imitate the voice, making himself laugh as he does it, but trailing off when he looks at Dave’s deadpan expression.

‘They’ll wait at least a few more hours yet,’ Dave continues.

‘How on earth can you possibly know that?’

‘They’ve covered a long distance on foot, so they’ll be weaker now, plus it’s still light and we can see them coming, they know we know they’re here, so they know we’ll be ready for them,’ Dave explains. ‘So they will wait a few hours to rest and either attack during the night when we’re at out lowest ebb or first thing in the morning, when we’re all tired.’

‘Oh, yeah I guess that makes sense,’ Howie says reluctantly. ‘I hate it when you’re always right like that, in fact I want them to come now, just so you’re wrong,’ Howie says, smiling.

‘Maybe they will, Mr Howie,’ Dave concedes.

‘But you don’t think they will?’

‘No.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘Yes Mr Howie.’

‘How certain?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘If you’re wrong, you have to sing a song on the Saxon loudspeaker,’ Howie says, trying to keep a straight face.

‘I have to what?’ Dave asks.

‘Sing a song on the Saxon loudspeaker, but only if you’re wrong.’

Dave stares at him.

‘Okay, Mr Howie, I’ll do that,’ Dave says.

‘Bloody hell! You will?’ A shocked Howie says.

‘Yes, and you have to do it, if you’re wrong,’ Dave answers with a very rare grin.

‘No, hang on a minute…’

‘Yes, Mr Howie?’ Dave asks, innocently.

‘GRUB IS UP,’ Tucker bellows from the Saxon, watching a line of people carrying metal trays covered with aluminium foil.

‘Saved by the bell,’ Dave says quietly, and starts off towards the food.

‘Oh, you’re changing Dave,’ Howie calls out.

Trestle tables are carried up from the visitors centre and laid out in a row near the Saxon, metal trays covered with foil are laid on them, along with piles of plates and stacks of cutlery.

Howie walks over to the edge and looks down into the camp at the cooking points. People are gathered round and drifting over, holding their weapons under arms or clutched between knees as they stand eating from paper plates with plastic forks.

Tucker moves along the trestle table, fussing about like a hotel head chef, adjusting the trays and crimping the foil down firmer to keep the heat inside.

‘Bloody hell lads, where did you come from?’ Howie laughs at seeing Blowers and Cookey first in the queue.

‘We were here all along, Mr Howie,’ Cookey says, with a grin.

‘Tucker, we wondered where you had been all day,’ Blowers calls out.

‘I’ve been doing proper work, not like you two standing about a gate all day and drinking coffee,’ Tucker shouts, smiling.

Chris appears, walking up the vehicle ramp and over to join Howie watching the queue of armed men and women walking along to get scoops of hot food piled onto their plates.

‘You all right. mate?’ Howie asks the tired looking man.

‘Yeah, I think we’re all set, just got to wait for Clarence to get back,’ he replies as Dave stops to join them.

‘Dave thinks they won’t attack for a few hours,’ Howie says quietly, trying to keep out of earshot of the people waiting for food.

‘It would make sense,’ Chris answers. ‘Give them a chance to rest and get us all wound up and tired for a few hours, probably attack during the night or first thing in the morning.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Howie mutters, as Dave gives another sly grin.

‘What?’ Chris asks, looking between them.

‘Nothing,’ Howie says, sighing.

‘Clarence to point east and west, where are you? We’re ready to go’ Clarence’s voice comes out in stereo from all the radio’s attached in the area.

‘Point East, I’m almost there,’ the man sounds exhausted.

‘Point… West, hang… on,’ the second voice sounds worse, as the man struggles to speak as he runs.

Minutes pass as everyone pauses, staring at the radio’s and waiting for an update, the food queue holds fast, the servers frozen with ladles in mid-air, as everyone waits with bated breath.

‘The food’s getting cold,’ Tucker mutters quietly, fretting about his beloved creation and moving down the tables to discreetly tug the foil covers back on.

‘Clarence to Fort, we have both points, repeat we have both men, on our way back now.’ Cheering erupts from the top of the inner wall, knowing they’ve lost one man, but saved two more.

The eating resumes as the foil is quickly pulled back off and the serving carries on. Howie, Chris and Dave are joined by Blowers and Cookey. Both of them hungrily tucking into the food and shovelling it into their mouths quickly.

‘There they are,’ Chris nods at the small car speeding down the road towards them.

They watch as the car slows to enter the gates and hear as the gates are pulled closed, securing them inside.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ Howie says quietly. ‘We’ll wait for Clarence and Malcolm and eat together,’ he adds.

Within a few minutes, Clarence walks up the vehicle ramp accompanied by Malcolm, both of them carrying heavy canvass bags filled with ammunition.

They dump the bags by the side of the Saxon and move over to join Howie and Chris, as Howie motions with his head for Nick to come and join them; mouthing for him to get Curtis and Jamie on the way.

Within a couple of minutes, they are all stood together for the first time that day: Howie, Dave, Blowers, Cookey, Curtis, Nick, Jamie and Tucker, then Chris stood in the middle of his trusted comrades, Clarence and Malcolm.

‘Well, we did it,’ Howie says. ‘In one day we got the traps laid, found more weapons, rigged the estate, got two cannon working, hopefully, and even cooked a gourmet meal, bloody impressive if you ask me.’

‘And found time to play pass the bucket,’ Nick adds, as they all smile.

‘Let’s get some food,’ Howie says.

They move towards the tables and head for the back of the queue, chatting and joking amongst themselves.

One of the people stood near the back, moves a few steps aside and motions for them to go ahead of him, it catches on and, within seconds, the waiting people have all stood back, quietly and respectfully.

‘Thank you,’ Howie speaks clearly nodding to them, the others join in, showing gratitude and offering polite thank-you’s as they move to the table.

‘Have you already eaten?’ Clarence rumbles, looking at the dirty plate held by Blowers.

‘Err… no?’ Blowers says slowly, looking to Cookey and his dirty plate, which he quickly tucks behind his back.

‘Bloody greedy, if you ask me,’ Cookey says, nodding towards Clarence. ‘I’d never go back for seconds, personally.’

They get plates of steaming meat and vegetables, giving Tucker compliments about the food and Howie notices the look of pride on the young man’s face. They have worked hard today, all of them. Fighting all day yesterday, then fleeing through the night to get here. Not one of them has moaned or complained and this effort with the food now has lifted the spirits of everyone here.

They move away from the table, juggling heaped plates and already eating as they head over to the wall and sit down in a wide circle.

The sight of Howie, Chris, Clarence and the others all sitting down. eating and joking amongst themselves. sends a ripple out along the top of the inner wall. Taking the edge off the fraught tension felt by all the other armed men and women.

‘Mind if we join you?’ A voice asks, the group twist round to see Ted grinning while Sarah, Sergeant Hopewell, Terri, Tom and Steven get plates of food from the trestle table.

A chorus of voices greets them as they shuffle round to make room. Sarah moves deftly to sit beside Clarence and smiles a big grin to Howie, who nods and smiles back at her.

The conversations break into smaller chunks as they joke and banter amongst themselves, easy conversation in easy company. Those that haven’t met yet, introduce themselves and nod greetings at one another - before long they’re exchanging war stories of the last week. Tom and Steven both, at the same time, try to recount when Dave disarmed Tom with the Taser.

Howie glances round to see the top of the inner wall and the groups of people now stood or seated, chatting and talking quietly. Guns, rifles and bows propped up against the wall as they mingle.

Howie thinks back to watching the television and then seeing the horrors start outside his house. The blind panic and screaming as he threw the contents of his flat at the zombies as they attacked. He had forgotten the man leading them away with the armoured van and encouraging them into the town. Then the first hands on attack as he killed his first zombie, that was the start right there. That feeling of anger and vengeance that surged through him. He thinks back to meeting up with Dave in the supermarket and again he gives thanks that he found Dave. Today has been the longest period they’ve spent apart in a week and having Dave back at his side now feels normal. Like the balance is restored.

‘I was thinking back to the supermarket, Dave,’ Howie says, between mouthfuls.

‘Yes, Mr Howie?’ Dave replies.

‘All those bodies you stacked up, I wonder if you would have stayed there, if I didn’t come along.’

‘Probably.’

‘You think?’

‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go,’ Dave answers, matter of factly.

‘Yeah maybe, do you remember that fat woman that got stuck in the door,’ Howie says, bursting out laughing.

‘Yes, and I remember you walking into the door and falling up the stairs too.’

‘Oh yeah!’ Howie chuckles. ‘At least I didn’t put the wrong fuel into that car.’

‘I didn’t fall over and shoot a car,’ Dave quips back, but still devoid of expression.

‘Yeah, but you got stripped off pretty quickly when Sergeant Hopewell was watching us,’ Howie fires back.

‘You broke my shotgun.’

‘When?’ Howie says.

‘In Portsmouth, at the barricade.’

‘You told me to,’ Howie says, with mock indignation.

‘I said to draw him out.’

‘Well, it was either that or my head, and I gave you another shotgun.’

‘Yes, you did, thank you.’

‘That was that bloody John Jones, nasty fucker, and his son too.’

‘The one you kept punching,’ Dave says.

‘Yeah him, I wonder what happened to them.’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘It’s been a long week, mate,’ Howie says, after a pause.

‘It has, Mr Howie.’

‘That bridge was good,’ Howie says.

‘Tower Bridge?’ Dave asks.

‘No, the first one in that village when we were turning it by hand and they kept falling off.’

‘Yes,’ Dave says, nodding.

‘And that freaky one that caught my axe when I tried to chop his head off, that was horrible.’

‘The chainsaw was good.’

‘Ha, did you see the chainsaw? I thought you were busy on your side,’ Howie laughs.

‘I saw it, and the lump hammers, and the sledge hammer, and all the other tools you tried.’

‘The chainsaw was the best though. I love the axe, mind you.’

‘I like knives.’ Dave says flatly.

‘Do you? I’d never have noticed… I wonder how our Tesco lorry is doing.’

‘Those kids probably stole it.’

‘Yeah, probably,’ Howie pauses, taking another mouthful of food. ‘Salisbury was good, I’m glad we went there,’ Howie says. ‘Apart from that bloody officer,’ he adds.

‘Charles Galloway-Gibbs,’ Nick says, as Howie realises everyone else has gone quiet and is listening to him and Dave.

‘Complete tool,’ Blowers says.

‘Now that was a hard night, getting that Saxon,’ Cookey adds.

‘We did it though,’ Howie says. ‘There must have been a thousand of them at least.’

‘Thanks to Dave and the GPMG,’ Blowers says. ‘Another five minutes and I think we’d be staggering round now too.’

‘BRAAIINNNS, I WANT COOOKEY BRAAAIINNS,’ Howie says, to laughter from the recruits, remembering the jokes from before.

‘So, which is better? The feast Tucker did in the barracks or this one?’ Howie asks, seeing Tucker’s face lights up.

‘The one at Salisbury was fucking lovely,’ Nick blurts. ‘Sorry, I meant it was very nice,’ he adds quickly with a glance at Sergeant Hopewell.

‘This is nice but that was a feast and a half,’ Blowers agrees.

The conversations carry on, of great meals eaten in faraway places, of dangerous missions undertaken by Chris, Malcolm and Clarence. The officers jumping in with stories of incidents and strange crimes they’ve dealt with. Each of them sharing an experience and memories of a life now gone; thinking this may be the last time they get to share something, to tell another human of who they are and where they came from. The close feeling shared amongst them grows and matures as they listen to each other, laughing or nodding with understanding.

‘It’s getting dark,’ Chris says, as the conversations start to trail off, they look up to the sky to see the beautiful swathes of red mixed with the golden rays of the dwindling light.

‘Red sky at night, zombies delight,’ Blowers mutters, quietly.

‘Right, so what’s the plan?’ Howie asks. ‘We wait for them to come and hope our traps work, then throw what we can at them from up here and when that ends we go down and meet them? That’s what I think, anyway.’

‘Sounds about right to me,’ Chris nods back.

‘Any other suggestions?’ Howie asks.

‘Keep it fluid,’ Dave offers. ‘We’ve planned as best we can, and now we just have to be able to react accordingly.’ He adds to nods and murmurs of agreement and stares of awe from Jamie, Tom and Steven

‘Okay, keep your hand weapons to… err… well to hand, I guess, and, in the meantime, let’s try and rest.’

They break apart slowly, lingering to have a few words with each other. Howie steps over to Sarah, drawing her away from the group.

‘Any news on the boats?’ Howie asks, quietly.

‘Nothing yet, but we’ve spoken to the mother’s and got the children ready to move.’

‘And Ted? Did you speak to him?’

‘He was reluctant, but said he would do it as it was you asking,’ Sarah replies.

Howie looks over to see Ted looking back, giving a single, knowing nod.

‘Good, let me know as soon as they’re back.’

‘Howie, I, well…’ Sarah says, hesitantly.

‘What is it?’ Howie asks with concern.

‘Well, we’ve not really spoken since you got me, and…’

‘Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, it’s been manic.’

‘No, you don’t have to apologise. I just wanted to spend some time with my brother before, well before…’

‘You can say it,’ Howie smiles. ‘Before they come for us.’

‘Yes, before they come,’ Sarah says softly. ‘You seem so different now, it’s only been a week and you’ve changed so much. I hardly recognised you. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you fighting through those things in London.’

‘It doesn’t feel like a week,’ Howie muses. ‘It feels like a lifetime.’

‘What happened? How did you get like this?’

‘I don’t know, I really don’t. I was lucky I guess. I was at home when it happened and it was happening right outside my house. They were trying to get in to get me, I fought back, but there were so many, I thought I was done for. Then this van went past, leading them all away from me. I managed to get out and then the rest just sort of happened. I was heading home, to Mum and Dad’s house. I found some crappy old bicycle and was going on the motorway. This car went past me and then hit the barrier and flipped over. There was a woman in the wreckage; she was still alive when I got to her. I tried to pull her out and save her but one of those things was in the car and bit her, she died as I was trying to save her,’ Howie explains in a flat, emotionless voice.

‘That’s awful,’ Sarah says.

‘Yeah, but then, like I said, she died. I was crying and she came back and tried to bite my face off,’ Howie says.

‘What did you do?’ Sarah asks.

‘I kicked her to death,’ Howie replies. ‘And I guess that was the point when I decided they were all dirty evil scum. Then I went through a village and more of them came for me so I set them on fire and probably burnt the village down in the process. Then I got to a shop and killed some more. I finally got home and found the note from Mum and Dad, saying they had gone to look for me. I went back home but couldn’t find them, got attacked a few more times and killed some more of them. I went to work, met Dave and figured Mum and Dad would have gone back to theirs. I went back again, they weren’t there and I sort of snapped.’

‘Snapped?’ Sarah asks.

‘I went back to Boroughfare. I went back knowing I wanted to kill them one by one. Fortunately Dave came with me and we’ve been going ever since. I came up with this mad plan to get a tank to get through London to find you,’ Howie laughs. ‘So we went to Salisbury to steal something big and hard and ended up hooking up with that lot,’ Howie nods at the recruits nearby. ‘Had more fights, killed more of them and they wanted to stay with us, so we came to London.’

‘Howie, that’s amazing,’ Sarah says, staring at her brother with awe.

‘Not really, you stayed alive and fought back too. I saw what you did in the back of that van,’ Howie says.

‘Howie, please don’t get me wrong. You saved my life and many others, by what you’ve done with Dave, but well, I’ve never seen you so alive, so… I don’t know…’ She trails off, uncertain of how to say it. ‘It seems like you’re enjoying it, Howie,’ she finally says, looking directly at him.

‘Enjoying it? The end of the world and being surrounded by death and destruction?’ Howie replies with an offended and puzzled tone.

‘The fighting, Howie I saw you fighting in London, you were more alive than I have ever seen you. You were possessed, I saw your face and the way you were. I know you better than all of these people…’

‘What about Clarence? Chris? Malcolm? Did they look like they were enjoying it too? Have you seen Dave fight?’ Howie demands, with anger.

‘Yes, I saw Dave,’ Sarah replies softly.

‘Well, did he look like he was enjoying it? What about Blowers and the rest?’

‘Howie, I don’t know them. I only know you and it was shocking to see you like that,’ Sarah says.

‘So what would you prefer? That I stayed at home and hid under the blankets?’

‘That’s not what I meant, Howie… I mean, you were enjoying it, it gave you pleasure and that’s wrong.’

‘Why? Why is it wrong? How did it feel when you and that other woman killed them all in the van?’

‘It felt awful Howie, it was survival and it had to be done but that was it.’

‘No sense of victory? No feeling of righteousness?’

‘No,’ she says firmly.

Howie pauses and looks down at his feet, then slowly over to the flatlands and the estate in the distance; watching as the shadows lengthen and twilight takes over.

‘Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it is completely wrong,’ Howie says eventually, still looking away from Sarah. ‘But the way I see it, it doesn’t matter what the motivation or reason is, as long as it gets done. As long as those things are put down and killed. But, I see your point… it’s okay for Chris and the others to have that violence but not your brother, is that it?’

‘Something like that,’ she replies, in a soft voice.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Howie shrugs. ‘It is what it is, they want to kill us and we have to stop them.’

‘I know.’

‘Clarence seems a nice bloke,’ Howie says, with a sudden smile.

‘Ha, yes he does,’ Sarah smiles back, glad of the break in tension.

‘Well, I’m gonna try and sleep, you sticking around up here?’ Howie says.

‘I’ll be about,’ Sarah replies, as Howie starts walking towards the Saxon. ‘And Howie,’ she quickly adds. ‘I know we weren’t the type of brother and sister that said it, but I do love you,’ she says.

Howie smiles back, the darkness lifted from his face for a few seconds. ‘You too, Sis,’ he walks off towards the Saxon; smiling and nodding at the people he passes.

Clustering in and around the Saxon, they all try to rest and sleep. Although there are now hundreds of people at the top of the inner north wall, they take no chances and still keep one on the GPMG; Malcolm offering to take the first watch.

Howie and Chris take the quiet interior of the Saxon, the rear doors closed, so they can have more peace. Howie beds down on a thick layer of army coats discarded in the warm weather. Chris on the cushioned bench seats, they make easy talk for a few seconds, before Chris starts snoring loudly. Leaving Howie alone to think about the words Sarah said to him, but as his mind tries to think, the rhythmic sounds from Chris get to work and, within seconds, he drifts off.

‘I’m going to test fire the cannon, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, opening a rear door and leaning in.

‘Okay mate,’ Howie answers, sleepily.

As Dave walks over, he notices the two cannon crews still in their groups, running through the drills he showed them earlier.

They look at him eagerly as he approaches and he notices the first crew moves discreetly into position, waiting for the chance to do a live fire.

Dave gets to the cannon and walks round, checking everything is in place; the powder bags, the wadding, the mounds of wrapped ammunition, the ramrods, the fuses and, finally, the holder of the flame standing a short distance away.

‘Good idea,’ Dave nods at the gas canister fitted with a welders flame that stands a few metres away; a man standing next to it, holding a petrol lighter.

‘We’ve got one on the other cannon too,’ the man replies proudly.

Dave nods and completes his inspection. He walks round to the back of the cannon and looks down the length and out to the flatlands.

‘We’ll probably get maximum impact if we aim for them as they come out of the deep ditch after the second embankment,’ Dave says. 'Let’s try it and see.’

Dave has one final look round to see the first crew all stood in their allocated positions, ready and waiting to go.

He looks to the man with the lengths of fuse wire and nods once, before stepping away to observe. The man steps forward and pushes the fuse into the cannon hole, feeling for the resistance as the bottom of the wire hits the inside base of the cannon.

‘POWDER,’ the man shouts and steps back.

The next man picks up a powder bag and moves smartly over to the mouth of the cannon, pushing the bag inside.

‘RAMROD,’ he shouts, as the man with the long stick steps forward and beats the powder bag down to the bottom of the cannon.

‘WADDING,’ the ramrod man shouts and steps back as the next man pushes wadding into the mouth of the cannon.

‘RAMROD,’ he shouts and again the man with the stick steps up and pushes the wadding firmly down the cannon.

‘AMMUNITION,’ then a wrapped bundle of nuts, bolts, nails and screws is pushed in.

‘RAMROD,’ the man with the stick pushes it down.

He steps back and checks everyone is clear before shouting: ‘FUSE’.

The gas canister knob is already turned and the welder’s torch with a soft yellow flame at the end. The flame holder lifts the gas canister and steps over to the fuse and once again checks everyone is standing well away. He presses the flame to the fuse and pauses for a second as the fuse takes light and starts burning down.

‘FIRE,’ he bellows and quickly steps back away from the expected recoil.

They all stand with baited breath and hands covering ears as a huge bang rips through the air. The cannon is shot backwards as a massive tongue of fire shoots out the end with a thick black cloud.

Dave is at the wall upwind and watching as the second bank is clearly peppered with metal fragments striking the top and firing far beyond. He turns back to the crews waiting and the many people turned to watch, he gives a simple thumbs up and a rare smile as they cheer loudly.

‘Good, make it ready and we’ll test the other one,’ Dave says and watches as they burst into action and the hose man steps forward like a ceremonial guard to sluice any burning fragments from the inside of the cannon.

At the next cannon, the first crew standby and watch with the experienced eye of expert cannon firers and the second crew position themselves and wait for Dave. Once again he checks everything is in place before nodding once and stepping away.

The second crew prove just as good as the first and move quickly, shouting for the next man as they each complete their duty.

The holder of the flame steps forward and lights the fuse, shouting ‘FIRE’ as he quickly moves away.

Once again the cannon roars to life and flies backwards as a long orange flame comes out of the mouth followed within a split second by thick black smoke.

Dave is at the wall watching as the spinning metal fragments fly over the bank and reach a good distance into the flatlands.

‘Good, too high though,’ Dave says and moves over to remove a wedge used to raise the mouth of the cannon. ‘That will be perfect, make it ready.’ He adds, before moving off back to the Saxon amidst the cheering and applauding again.

He walks round the Saxon, checking on each of his men. Howie and Chris lead them but Dave accepts them as his to be protected and watched.

Although his different mind doesn’t allow for the same feeling of impending doom the others have, he does feel a very sense of trepidation.

Dave has worked alone on hundreds of missions and has been outnumbered many times before. But his ability to plan, fight and move quickly meant he was rarely in danger in the same way that others may perceive it. In order to have a fear of death, one must have a sense of life and Dave simply does not tick that way. Complete the task in front of you while planning for the next one. Dave had worked alongside regular troops before, but his status always kept him aloof and away. But no matter how different he may be, this week has affected him. These men have become familiar to him, their voices, their jokes and the way they fight. Blowers and Cookey always side by side joking but when they fight they do so with complete ferocity, always watching each other and covering the gaps. Tucker, a big lad and not as fit as the others but he uses his bulk and size and overcomes that fear to drive on. Nick, a witty man with a good head for computers and electrical things and again he fights with his heart, never holding back and pushing on with savage intent. Curtis, he is competent. Which may seem a lowly compliment but a competent man is worth his weight in gold. Knowing where to be at the right time and never complaining, a good driver too. Then there’s Jamie. Quiet like Dave but still different - he is highly capable and willing to learn, and, importantly, he is able to work alone, but not for his own ends.

Dave looks at each of them as he passes and thinks of McKinney, and how Howie reacted when he knew Dave was going to finish him. That was the deepest feeling Dave had ever felt, not for the loss of McKinney but for the anger and betrayal he thought Howie must be holding towards him. Howie is a natural leader and has a rare ability to show error and mistakes but still command respect. Whatever may come from this battle, Dave knows one thing. Men like Howie must survive, they know right from wrong. They know what must be done and then they work out how to do it. Men like these that make other men fight when otherwise they would be quivering in a corner and pissing themselves with fear.

Dave positions himself at the back of the Saxon, quietly finding a spot that means anyone trying to enter the vehicle from the back must first go past him.

The bodyguard.

The watchman.

The night closes in, and, for the first time in a week, Howie does not hear the howling of the undead voices lifting to roar in unison. He sleeps deeply, exhausted both in mind and body. They all sleep.

All through the camp there is quiet, men and woman strolling around chatting in muted tones. Couples clasping each other tightly, knowing it might be the last time. Families huddle together and whisper words of love and life. Men keep their weapons close and women hold their children, for tonight may be the last night of life. Past mistakes are forgotten and petty squabbles are laid aside, as they acknowledge the lives they have led and prepare for what may come.

I wake up quickly, bathed in sweat and I find myself sat bolt upright, breathing hard. Looking over I see that Chris has already left. I know I was dreaming, but the images have faded instantly. I feel hot, still tired and dirty, but above all else, I need the toilet.

I clamber out of the vehicle to find the others half asleep, drinking from mugs of hot coffee being handed around by Tucker and his new team of catering corps volunteers.

‘Morning, Mr Howie, fresh coffee for you,’ Tucker approaches me, with a steaming mug.

‘Not now mate, gotta go,’ the cramping in my stomach signifies an urgent action is required.

I run off in just my socks, no time to go back for my boots left in the back of the vehicle. I start jogging down the vehicle ramp, desperately trying to remember where the closest toilet is. The jogging motion just makes it worse though and I can feel a pressing sensation pushing inside my stomach.

‘Too much bloody coffee,’ I mutter as I speed up.

People pass by me, trying to stop and talk. I wave them off apologetically and keep going. There’s no way I’m going to shit myself in front of all these people. This might be the last day of humanity but I’m not going out with Chris, Blowers and Cookey and the rest of them all ripping the piss out of me.

The visitors centre! That must have toilets, it’s across the camp, but there’s no alternative. There must be some closer ones but I can’t take the chance to stop and ask now. I run down the wide central path, veering round children and people stepping out to chat.

‘Fuck it, fuck it,’ I mutter under my breath as I run faster.

I can feel my face going red and the cramping sensation is bloody awful. I want to stop and drop my trousers here, but that might not be a good thing. The hero of Fort Spitbank leaving a big steaming poo on the floor. No that wouldn’t go down very well.

There it is, I can see it. There’s lights on inside, making it glow in the still darkness of the night. I glance up quickly to see the sky is just starting to lift. I reach the door and see a queue of people stood holding toilet rolls in the wide reception area.

After killing many zombies, using bad language and now preparing for an invasion of the undead army I commit the worst British crime of all. I jump the queue. There’s no other choice, if I don’t get to a toilet now I will void my pants.

‘Sorry, I’m really sorry,’ I yell out, as I run round the quiet men and women stood chatting. I see the door with the stick figure of a man on the front and burst through. Inside, the cubicles are all closed with more people waiting patiently outside each one.

I glance at the urinals, thinking for a split second of sitting on one of them instead.

I grab my stomach as the cramping sensation doubles from the urgent motion of the running. A door opens in front of me and a man steps out. I stare pleadingly at the man waiting to go in. Something in my eyes; he stares back with a look of absolute forgiveness on his face.

‘Do you want to go next?’ He asks politely, as I close the door in his face.

‘Sorry mate,’ I say through gritted teeth, as I scrabble at my belt, cursing the stupid buckles.

‘That’s okay, when you’ve got to go…’ the man outside says, his speech leaves it open for me to finish, but I’m otherwise occupied, fighting the hardest battle yet with my trousers.

Finally, I yank them down and pull my underpants down to my ankles and sit down.

My arse hits cold plastic and I jump instantly back up, as I realise I’ve sat on the closed toilet seat.

‘Fucking stupid toilet seat,’ I roar out, wrenching the blasted thing up to sit back down. My bowels explode with wretched venom as the bomb doors unleash a devastating payload on the poor porcelain toilet bowl beneath me.

‘Oh, my fucking god…’ I can’t help the words coming out. My arse sputtering like a Spitfire machinegun rattling fire at the enemy. The feeling of relief is immense.

‘Err, are you all right in there,’ the same man asks, with polite concern, at the long, whimpering sounds coming from me.

‘Yep, fine,’ I reply with a casual politeness, the spattering noise almost drowning my voice out.

After several minutes, the cramping in my gut abates and I’m left in a state of absolute bliss, that is until the smell of shit hits my nose and I become acutely aware of my surroundings.

I twist round to the toilet roll holder but it’s empty. Everyone in the queue had their own rolls in hand.

‘Err, sorry are you still there?’ I call out.

‘Yes?’ the man replies.

‘It appears I didn’t bring any toilet roll with me, would you have any spare I could… borrow?’ I ask.

A hand clutching a full toilet roll appears under the door, I reach forward and take it gratefully.

‘Thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome.’

After a double flushing of the toilet I’m all done and open the door to see other men politely look away.

‘Bet that’s a shit load off your mind,’ someone says, to a few sniggers.

‘Thanks for the toilet roll, mate,’ I hand it back and move over to the washbasin and scrub my hands clean.

At the least the water’s still running.

Eventually I’m done and stroll out of the toilet and into the reception area, nodding apologetically at the people still waiting in the queue. Outside I walk happily through the camp, heading back to the north wall and still feeling strangely warm and comforted.

Walking back up the vehicle ramp I notice they’re all up and drinking coffee, stood round chatting as the first tendrils of daylight push into the night sky.

I see Blowers, Cookey and Nick all smoking cigarettes.

I see the red ends glowing brightly as they suck in the tobacco and exhale the lazy smoke clouds.

The vapour wisps come from the coffee mugs.

Chris stood off to one side is laughing with Malcolm.

Clarence is talking quietly to Sarah.

Curtis up on the GPMG at the top of the Saxon, the machine gun pointing off to the right and Curtis leaning forward on his elbows clutching a hot drink.

Off to both sides, I see people stretching lazily and talking in muted tones, nodding to each other. A man throws a cigarette onto the floor and brings his heavy boot down to grind it out.

My heart starts beating faster, the scene slows down and I feel like I’m wading through thick mud. Tucker strolls past me at the top of the ramp; he’s looking at me and smiling. He holds a steaming mug of coffee out in front of him, ready for me to take it.

It takes forever to reach him, my senses have become heightened and adrenalin is coursing through my system. I look past Tucker and see Dave stood by the wall looking out at the flatlands.

Something flashes far beyond him. A quick bright light in the distance.

Everything slows and I see Dave start to turn back towards us, his face strangely animated and I watch as his mouth opens and his eyes are blazing.

This is it.

I know it.

‘COVERRRR,’ Dave’s voice roars out into the quiet night and it brings me back to reality in a heartbeat. To their credit, my group react instantly. As one they drop down and spin to face the flatlands. Hundreds of heads all along the top of the inner wall snap round to face us, many within the camp hear Dave’s awesome voice and they too stop and turn to look up.

I stand still and look out to the estate. The first bright flash is followed by a low dull thump that rolls over the ground to my ears. Another bright flash, then another, followed by a series of bright flashes spread all along the width of the estate. Soundless at first, the speed of light being far greater than the speed of sound. But the sound does reach us as the dull echoing thumps roll out like soft drumbeats.

Then the estate goes up. The whole of the thing, from far left to far right and as far back as the eye can see explodes as one.

The still dark sky is lit for many hundreds of miles around as a mammoth sheet wall of fire scorches high up into the air.

My mouth drops open as I have never seen such a thing before. The most expensive special effects movies ever made cannot compare to this sight; a whole housing estate erupting instantaneously and filling the sky with flames the size of skyscrapers. Within a split second the pressure wave and the sound hit us. As one, we are taken off our feet, not a single person remains standing on the top of the inner wall. Down below in the camp, many are knocked down or simply drop to hug the earth in absolute terror.

The ground seems to heave and the noise is more than words can describe, a thousand jet aircraft taking off at the same time while a thousand marching bands pound through my skull. I go flying off to the side, I could be screaming or silent I have no concept. All I know is that my senses are overwhelmed with sight, sound and sensation. If there is a hell then surely it has come alive here in this place.

I stagger to my feet not knowing what I’m doing. Looking around, I see every other person is down on the ground burying their heads with their arms. All apart from Dave who is stood side on to me, his face turned to watch his glorious work. His profile framed by the scorching flames behind him. How he remained standing is something I may never know, but he and I stand and watch with awe.

The incredible sounds continue and I see the flames are shooting out over the flatlands too, eviscerating everything in reach. This is something amazing, something beautiful, created by one man who can barely hold a conversation.

Dave suddenly looks up and tilts his head to one side, seemingly staring at something in the night sky.

‘INCOMING,’ He bellows with his huge voice, somehow drowning out the sounds of the explosions still reaching us.

I look up puzzled at what they could be firing at us from this distance, and especially after that explosion.

Then I see it. A car on fire, rolling over and over gently in the air as it sails hundreds of feet over the Fort to land far out in the sea.

I glance back up to see more fiery objects flying overhead, leaving long blazing trails of sparks and fire behind them like mini comets.

I hear a loud wet slapping sound nearby and turn my head slowly, finding it hard to drag my eyes away from the glorious blaze. I look over and see a charred and smouldering torso laying on the ground a few metres away. Just a torso with the arms still attached, no legs or head though. I watch it with curious detachment then feel my body being slammed to the ground.

Dave is up and grabbing at my arm, trying to pull me to my feet. He’s just knocked me down and now he wants me back up.

‘GET UP, MR HOWIE,’ he shouts at me and his voice penetrates enough to get me to my feet and staggering behind him as he pulls me round to the back of the Saxon. He wrenches the rear doors open and shoves me bodily into the back. I get to my senses and shuffle forward to look out of the windscreen. Flaming body parts are landing all along the inner wall and behind us in the camp. Burnt and scorched heads, legs, arms and torso’s, torn apart and sent flying high into the sky to come tumbling back down upon us. Dave runs round the front of the vehicle and starts pulling at Sarah, yelling for her to get up.

I run back and jump out of the Saxon, landing with both feet firm on the ground. I race round and lift Sarah to her feet by her shoulders, shoving her roughly towards the back of the vehicle. She looks dazed and confused and we dodge burning body parts landing all around us.

‘DAVE, PROTECT THE CANNON,’ I scream out.

Dave turns to face me with a sudden realisation.

‘I CAN ONLY DO ONE,’ he roars back and races off to the left.

I run forward, grabbing at bodies and pulling them up.

Someone screams and I look over to see an archer being squashed by a heavy zombie body landing on him, others scrabbling forward to try and pull the burning body away.

I glance down into the camp and see chaos reigning. People running in all directions and screaming as the burning body parts come slamming down.

Tents are ablaze and brave men and women beat at the deadly flames with coats and blankets.

Malcolm is up and staring around with a look of utter horror on his face. I run over and grab his arms to make him face me.

‘MALCOLM, PROTECT THE OTHER CANNON, IF THOSE POWDER BAGS GO UP, WE’LL BE FUCKED.’ I scream into his face several times, until he quickly comes to and nods back at me before running off.

Within a few minutes my group are up and working, running up and down the top of the inner wall. Stamping down on flaming body parts to beat them out.

I run down to see Malcolm using the hose from the cannon, running about and spraying the water over any burning material.

I’d forgot about the hoses and give thanks once more for Dave’s forward planning.

Dave joins me back in the middle and together, with our band of brothers, we stare out to the flatlands. The sky is much lighter now and daylight is almost upon us.

‘Thank fuck it didn’t set the fuel off in the deep ditch,’ Chris says. His feet are planted apart, his hands on his hips as he stares out to the blazing estate.

‘Dave, I want everyone up here to make ready. We’ll use the Saxon to fire first as it has the range. Everyone else holds until they get closer, so we don’t waste ammunition.’ I bark out the order as I stride forward to stare out over the flatlands.

I hear Dave take a sharp intake of breath and wait for his voice to come bellowing out.

‘MAKE READY, YOU WILL MAKE READY AND WAIT. HOLD YOUR FIRE.’

The inner wall springs to action as hundreds of people surge forward to take up their arms. Clips are pushed in with a multitude of loud clicks. Firing bolts are racked back. Men and women make ready their weapons. Ready to stand proud and fight.

Silence falls amongst us, even the camp seems quiet now as everyone prepares for the attack they know is coming.

‘BLOWERS GET OUR LOT FORMED UP HERE,’ I indicate the area of the wall immediately in front of the Saxon and facing out down the road leading to the estate,

‘NICK, YOU’RE ON THE GPMG. DAVE AND JAMIE I WANT YOU BOTH SNIPING, TRY AND GET THAT FUCKER SMITH.’ They react without hesitation.

Tucker runs up carrying my rifle and handing it over as he takes up position on the wall. I spare a glance to see my glorious men kneeling down and removing ammunition clips from their bags; placing them at their feet, ready for use. Their hands are steady and there is a steely look in each of their eyes.

‘HOWIE, MY MEN ARE YOURS, USE THEM,’ Chris shouts from the back of the Saxon.

‘FORM UP ON THE WALL HERE,’ I bellow out, pointing at the space being used by my recruits.

‘WE FOCUS OUR FIRE ON THAT ROAD,’ I shout out and watch as the guards from the commune jump in.

‘GET YOUR CLIPS OUT AND READY. FOCUS YOUR FIRE. HOLD UNTIL TOLD.’ I hear Blowers stepping smoothly into his corporal role.

He moves along our line checking each is ready.

‘COOKEY, I’LL DO THIS END YOU DO THAT ONE, MAKE SURE THEY’RE ALL READY,’ Blowers yells over to his friend.

They split, with each one moving off down the line of the wall, checking each man and woman is ready with their ammunition and repeating for them to hold their fire, until told.

Tucker runs past me heading to the back of the Saxon, I pay little attention as I see Sarah running up the vehicle ramp towards us. I didn’t see her go off anywhere so I’m puzzled to see her coming back.

‘Howie, the boats are back,’ she yells out.

‘Get those children ready and get them loaded to go,’ I turn to Chris as he steps away from the Saxon holding an assault rifle. ‘Chris, I’ve got boats to take the children away. I’ve got this here, can you go and make sure they move quickly.’

‘Got it,’ Chris replies and turns to jog after Sarah. I turn back to the wall as Tucker comes up beside me.

‘Mr Howie, Sir,’ he says.

I turn to see him holding a pair of boots. My boots. I look down to see I’m still wearing just my socks.

‘Well done, mate,’ I smile at him and walk over to the Saxon and start pulling them on.

I glance to the side to see Dave and Jamie both have rifles with scopes attached. No suppressors or silencers now. They take position front and middle, looking directly at the road.

I step away and see Blowers and Cookey returning to their posts, both of them nodding at me as they take position.

The estate is still well ablaze but I know it won’t be long before they try and push through. I can imagine Darren is sending them in to find paths and routes safe enough to get through. I look up to see Nick standing calmly with the General Purpose Machine Gun in front of him, he looks down and smiles.

‘You ready mate?’ I call up.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ he says, with a clear voice.

‘EYES ON,’ Jamie shouts and every head snaps forward as the tension increases tenfold within a split second.

‘COMING THROUGH NOW,’ Dave shouts out, sweeping along the estate line with his scope.

‘Mr Howie,’ Nick calls out and throws down a pair of binoculars.

I press them to my eyes and adjust the setting until the burning estate comes into focus.

Most of the houses are gone. The sheer ferocity of the explosion has shredded everything on the estate. The fuel tanker and the open gas lines created such a powerful explosion that everything that could be burnt was burnt. Now, with very little left, the flames are dying down. Thick, black smoke billows up into the sky but between the wreckage and blackened stumps I see the zombies pouring forward.

A thick line of them comes into view through the smoke, several of them drop from heat or flames, but the mass just keeps rolling forward.

‘THIS IS IT,’ I bellow out. ‘THEY’RE COMING THROUGH THE ESTATE NOW,’ I report what I see.

The sight of them triggers an instant response inside of me. The anger is knocking to come in, but I bite it down. I’ll need it later but, for now, I can do this myself.

‘ALMOST AT THE EDGE. NICK, YOU’LL GET A VIEW OF THEM ANY SECOND.’

‘ROGER,’ Nick shouts out loudly and racks the bolt back noisily.

I glance up to see him tightly gripping the handles and staring ahead with ferocious concentration. I put the glasses back to my eyes and see them surging forward.

‘HERE THEY COME,’ I shout as they reach within metres of the edge of the estate.

I drop the binoculars down and watch with the naked eye.

The edge of the estate suddenly comes alive as a solid, black, mass emerges.

‘NICK,’ I shout out.

‘COME ON,’ Nick roars and the air is split apart by the heavy constant sound of the General Purpose Machine Gun coming to life.

Nick aims well and sweeps along the entire front row.

From far left to far right I can see bodies falling down as Nick sweeps across them. Then back again, as the awesome power of the weapon shows true.

I lift the binoculars again and follow Nick’s arc of fire, watching as the bodies are shredded apart and sent flying backwards into the pressed ranks behind them. The following hordes stumble over their fallen comrades. I sweep back and my heart sinks as I see a solid mass stretching back into the estate and no sign of the end.

I move my view down and watch with my breath held as they near the first obstacle we prepared. They move as one, keeping their lines smartly and presenting a solid wall. Not running, but not shuffling either. A steady pace as they advance.

‘Go on, go on,’ Cookey urges them on to the next trap.

‘Come on you stupid fuckers,’ another voice joins in and is taken up as more shout out urging and willing them to keep going.

They reach the first ditch and I watch as the first few lines simply fall out of view, dropping into the ground.

Cheering erupts up and down the wall as the forward ranks of zombies drop down to be impaled on the sharpened spikes. The pressure from the oncoming hordes keep driving the undead forward to topple into the wide ditch.

‘YES!’ Cookey shouts with violence in his voice, ‘HAVE SOME OF THAT.’

I spin round and look to the back of the Fort. Sarah and Sergeant Hopewell are by the opened rear doors urging the woman and children to move out quickly. I guess Chris and the others must be outside lifting them into boats.

I turn back in time to see the next ranks of zombies dropping down as they reach the ditch, but not going out of sight. The bodies must have stacked up deep enough to bridge the gap but it at least slows them and many have already been vanquished from the estate going up and now the ditch.

The GPMG roars with incessant noise as Nick continues to sweep from left to right in a steady motion. Then two more loud and distinct bangs join in as Dave and Jamie start firing with their high-powered rifles.

‘READY,’ I roar out and see a visible reaction as the men and women on the line seem to hunch forward and push their shoulders into their weapons and aim down the sights. I pause just for a second as I watch the front lines of the undead army start dropping down as they run over the foot traps.

‘FIRE,’ I drop the binoculars for a second and scream the word as loud as I can.

I see a devastating effect as many of the zombies are dropped instantly by the volley. I use the binoculars again and see, not only the firing from our weapons are dropping them, but the foot traps are working far greater than I had hoped.

A small smile forms on my mouth as I see zombies staggering forward and then suddenly dropping down as their feet are penetrated by the deadly sharp metal barbs. They might not feel pain but the physical action of the metal driving through their skin and breaking the delicate small bones of the foot is enough to make them fall down.

All along the lines I see zombies blown apart and shredded by the deadly hail of bullets from the GPMG. The rifles and assault weapons also prove very effective, not every shot is a headshot, but the simple action of being penetrated by a high-speed large calibre rifle is enough to blow them backwards and knock more down. Dave and Jamie’s shots are, without question, perfect. Puffs of pink mist explode time and time again as they blow the skulls apart and send deadly bone fragments into the closely packed horde.

I glance up and down the line, to see men and women using bolt-action rifles. Rates of fire increasing as they aim, fire, rack the bolt - aim and fire. The movements becoming faster and more fluid with each shot.

Placing the binoculars down, I stride forward and take up position on the wall with my assault rifle. Selecting single shot and pulling the bolt back, I take aim, which is almost completely unnecessary as there are so bloody many of them, so just waving the gun in their general direction will surely hit something.

I pull aim for front centre, at the section of zombies coming down the central road. The better weapons being used by the recruits and guards in this section means those zombies are suffering high casualty rates and being withered as they advance. Each one dropped is instantly replaced but still, we pour fire into them and every shot counts as they are slowly reduced.

My shots join the deafening noise as I fire into the oncoming mass. Working in concentrated silence, the minutes pass as the zombie army slowly but surely takes ground and moves ever closer to the Fort, rising and falling as they step on the fallen bodies in front of them.

The foot traps keep working and they keep dropping down, but still they keep coming until they are but metres away from the first embankment.

With no sign of Darren - Dave and Jamie have taken up their assault rifles to increase the rate of fire sent from us. Nick brings the GPMG to focus the fire directly into the front centre line on the road. With the sustained firing of Nick and the recruits and the guards all using assault rifles, the zombies on the road are obliterated.

Large gaps start forming as the following horde are forced to weave round the broken and mangled bodies.

The undead army reaches the first embankment and I watch as the first lines rise up and over the crest to pour down the other side.

A huge boom sounds out off to my left and I glance down, just in time to see flames shooting out the end of the cannon quickly followed by a cloud of thick black smoke. The result of the cannon fire are awesome and a whole swathe of undead are eviscerated by the scorching metallic fragments. The second cannon off to my right then booms out. I keep my eyes on the horde this time, and realise that everyone else does too. The impact is simply staggering and my mouth drops open as the grapeshot from the cannon spreads out, becoming superheated by the incredible power of the cannon and rips through whole lines of zombies.

The projectiles go through the first rank like butter, and several lines back are instantly taken down. Each shot of the cannon destroys hundreds at a time.

Again, large gaps form as the zombies can’t move fast enough to fill the gaps and now the front line is not solid. But still they keep coming and it takes moments to prepare the cannon for the next round of firing.

‘That was fucking awesome,’ Cookey says, during the pause of firing, as we all watch the effect of the second cannon firing.

‘EYES FRONT,’ Dave bellows and snaps us all back to the moment.

Stepping back, I look down the top of the inner wall to see the archers have split into two groups. One group on the left and the other on the right. Two archers from each group are standing next to the cannon flame holder; their bows dipped down with arrows resting against the wire in the rest position. The end of the arrows have been swathed in something, ready to be lit and fired into the deep ditch.

As the zombies reach halfway between the two embankments the archers are given an order to prepare. They move out into a long line stood well back from the wall. Each of them presses the arrow into wire as they lift their bows and pull back to stand braced. For a second, I’m transported to medieval England as I see long lines of archers holding their bows aimed high into the air.

‘RELEASE,’ someone shouts and the bowmen and women release their arrows to fly high and straight. The arrows reach the arc of their trajectory and the strength of gravity takes over, pulling them back to earth, gathering speed as they plummet down. The arrows drive into the zombie army, many of them striking into the exposed skulls and taking zombies down with instant kills. Some of the arrows hit arms and legs, causing the zombies to be pushed down, only to rise back up and keep going with the long barbs stuck through their limbs, or they crawl along the ground only to be trampled down by more zombie feet already pierced and damaged by the foot traps.

As the first volley of arrows hit home, the second volley is already in the air. The two cannon both fire with massive recoiling booms and again whole swathes of undead are killed outright. More large gaps form and their lines become more ragged.

The GPMG, the assault rifles, the single shot rifles, the cannon and the archers, all pour deadly fire into the undead army, as we continue to cull their numbers.

‘I SEE HIM,’ Jamie drops his assault rifle to quickly pick up the scoped sniper rifle.

‘Where?’ I call out, ceasing fire to glare out at the army.

‘Sir, he’s on the road, about fifty metres back from the front line. There’s a whole dense section clustered round him,’ Jamie shouts back as he rests the rifle on the wall and looks down the scope.

Dave has already dropped his assault rifle and picked his rifle up to rest alongside Jamie and stare down the scope.

‘I see the dense section,’ Dave shouts out.

‘NICK, FIRE INTO THE MIDDLE,’ I turn and shout at Nick, waving my arm to show him where I want the fire aimed.

Nick nods once, grim faced and turns the heavy calibre weapon onto the front middle section.

‘THEY’RE AT THE SECOND BANK,’ Clarence’s deep voice shouts.

I look across and see the zombies are now scaling the far side; they reach the crest of the embankment.

‘FIRE ARCHERS MAKE READY,’ I shout out, but the constant and sustained noise prevents my voice from reaching the archers further down the lines. I run back to the Saxon and pull the microphone out.

‘FIRE ARCHERS MAKE READY,’ I repeat and my voice is amplified down the lines.

The fire archers move in to cluster round the cannon flame holder. He presses the flame against the ends of their arrows which start burning with oily black smoke curling up.

The fire archers step forward to get a view from the wall and hold with their arrows pointing down to the ground.

The zombies scale the bank and start pouring down the nearside, dropping down into the fuel filled ditch.

I hesitate, to give more time, until the nearside bank is thick with undead staggering down.

I glance across to see the fire archers staring at me with pleading looks.

I raise my right arm up high, signalling the archers who pull their arrows back and take aim with their bows.

Clarence turns to stare at me; glaring at me to give the order to release, but I hold and wait for more undead to drop down.

The ditch is deep and I know they can’t climb out, so they will have to use the bodies of their undead brethren to bridge the gap.

The risk is that the ditch will become too clogged with bodies and prevent the arrows from igniting the fuel.

At the last second, when the guards and recruits are turning to look at me with desperate looks, I push the button down on the microphone and lift the mouthpiece.

‘RELEASE FIRE ARROWS.’

The archers release and their arrows fly out, leaving a thin black trail hanging in the air behind them.

The timing was perfect. The arrows strike home and the flaming heads ignite the fuel held in the hoses and containers. They detonate within a split second as the ditches explode.

Bodies are flung high up into the air and the pressure wave clears the nearside bank instantly as the bodies are pushed back up and go spinning off. The zombies still coming over the crest are then met with a boiling surge of flames and metal fragments. More and more of the undead are shredded and turned to carbon.

The zombies on the road are being taken down in droves. The GPMG and the assault rifles held by the recruits and guards concentrate solely on them. The incredible sustained fire withers the lines and soon there is a very deep horseshoe shape forming. The undead react and rather than just filling the gap from behind, they surge in from the left and right; seemingly desperate to keep that area protected.

The undead keep surging up the second bank and down the nearside to be instantly incinerated by the wall of flames leaping up from the deep ditch.

With every gun now aimed at the road, we hold them at bay. We take many down and slowly, ever so slowly, we reduce their numbers.

Dave and Jamie lean forward with their rifles resting on the wall, their breathing slow and controlled; looking intently down the scope and gently squeezing the trigger to send a bullet with Darren’s name etched on it spinning to his evil, undead skull.

However, the zombies appear unwilling to give up their beloved leader and they press into densely packed ranks ahead of him; pouring in from the sides to present an undead shield.

‘He keeps moving back,’ Dave reports out loud, his voice matching his manner; calm and controlled.

A huge boom on my right and the cannon sends another deadly hail into the ranks of zombies still trying to come down the road.

The cannon crew take the initiative to adjust the aim and focus on the middle section. Once again, the effect is devastating; a large chunk of bodies is simply swept away.

We keep pouring everything we have at them. Each man and woman is firing with precision and speed that depletes our ammunition as quickly as it cuts them down.

Glancing down the line I see people scrabbling about and looking for fresh magazines. Chris runs back up the vehicle ramp, pauses at the side of the Saxon as Nick shouts down at him and then runs to join me.

‘Kids are loaded and away,’ he pants. ‘Nick said he’s got one magazine left after this.’

‘We’re running out here too,’ I shout back at him. ‘But look, the end is in sight,’ I point out to the flatlands and rear end of the zombie army now in view.

I run back to the Saxon and the sight of the camp below stops me in my tracks. Thousands of people are standing still and looking up at us, armed with whatever weapons they can find. They stand quietly, not one of them flinching or crying. Something about the visual image stops me in my tracks and I look back to the flatlands and the army moving towards us.

They still outnumber us massively, but at least I can see the end of them now. They are no longer infinite. There are finite. They are a set number, and that number is being reduced with each bullet, arrow and cannon shot sent their way.

‘Nick, wait until we run out of ammo, then open up with that last magazine. Keep your fire concentrated on the middle section so we can get out to meet them, you join us as soon as possible,’ I say to Nick as he works with now well practised hands to load up the last magazine.

‘Got it Mr Howie, I’ll be right behind you.’

‘I’m out,’ Clarence shouts, simply dropping his assault rifle and stepping away.

Within a few seconds, the last of the shots are being fired by Jamie and Dave; their rate of fire with the sniper rifles much slower than the assault rifles.

Here it is.

The time we all knew was coming.

With hard staring eyes and a nod, Clarence moves round to the back of the Saxon and starts drawing our hand weapons out.

‘GPMG NOW,’ Dave roars, as the undead start gaining ground on the road, slowly advancing towards the Fort.

Nick squeezes the trigger for the last time, as the glorious weapon roars to life, spewing its deadly rounds into the zombies and, within seconds, they are being repelled back.

Dave stands slowly, gently resting the sniper rifle against the wall. He gently rolls his head from side to side, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulder joints. I watch him open and close his hands, making tight fists and stretching the fingers out. He turns to stare at me, his eyes blazing. His hands move behind his back and slowly draw the long, straight-bladed knives out, then he stands motionless with the knives turned up against his forearms.

A chill runs down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Clarence steps from the back of the Saxon clutching a load of long-handled axes, foraged and saved for us. One by one, my recruits and Chris’s guards take an axe and stand ready and waiting.

Clarence hands the last one out then leans back into the Saxon and draws two more axes out. Each one with a long handle and a double-bladed head. He hands one to me, which I take; a surge of adrenalin pulsing through me as I grasp the weapon and feel the weight.

‘Go down, I’ll be right behind you,’ I say to the group.

They nod and turn to start moving quickly down the vehicle ramp.

Dave joins me and we stand together, watching every man and woman walk past us holding a variety of weapons. The rifles and bows now redundant and left by the wall.

The two cannons each give an almighty boom as they fire their last shots, decimating several ranks of zombies in the process.

The crews abandon their posts and run down the vehicle ramp.

Dave and I start after them, getting a firm nod from Nick as we go.

‘Well, this is it, mate,’ I say to Dave.

‘It is, Mr Howie.’

‘Been a bloody long week, mate.’

‘It has been, Mr Howie.’

‘Are you ever going to call me just, Howie?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘You got your knives then?’

‘Yes, you got your axe too?’

‘Yeah, it’s a good axe.’

‘I like knives.’

‘I know mate… we did well.’

‘We did, Mr Howie.’

‘We killed bloody loads of them.’

‘We did.’ Dave replies, as we reach the bottom and walk through the silent crowd to the front.

‘Still a lot left though.’

‘There is.’

‘I was worried for a minute.’

‘What about, Mr Howie?’

‘I thought we’d kill them all and not have any left...’

We reach the front and I look back at the thousands of people now crammed into the front of the Fort, all of them facing the now open gates and staring hard at the outer wall and the horror that lies on the other side.

‘IS THERE A PLAN?’ Someone shouts and every face turns to look at me with expectation.

‘YEAH, WE KILL THEM ALL,’ I shout back instantly; that familiar feeling just starting to pluck at my insides.

‘WE GO OUT THERE AND WE FUCKING KILL EVERY ONE OF THEM. WE SLAUGHTER THEM AND WE KEEP GOING, UNTIL THE LAST MAN IS STANDING. WE DO NOT GIVE UP, WE DO NOT RETREAT, WE DO NOT BACK DOWN. WE ARE THE LIVING AND THEY ARE THE DEAD.’ My voice roars out, as I feel the anger building inside me.

‘DO NOT GIVE IN. WE HAVE KILLED MANY OF THEM ALREADY. YOU WILL SEE THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS OF THEM. BUT WE ARE THOUSANDS TOO AND THEY ARE WEAK AND DEAD. WE ARE ALIVE AND WE HAVE STRENGTH AND WE WILL STAND TOGETHER.’ The recruits, guards and men of the front line stand with faces flushed, as they too allow their anger to course through their veins.

‘STAY TOGETHER, AIM FOR THE HEAD AND KEEP A TIGHT GRIP ON YOUR WEAPON.’

I turn back to face the doors, two men standing ready, grasping the handles ready to pull the big gates open and we wait for the GPMG to run out of bullets.

‘Where are you?’

‘I am here.’

‘Are you coming?’

‘Do you want me to come?’

‘You know I do, bring your associates too.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you want me, that’s why not.’

‘I do want you. I need you.’

‘An addict’s words Howie.’

‘So?’

‘Sarah was right, you’re addicted and you’re enjoying it.’

‘No, I am not.’

‘Then do it yourself, you’ve had lots of practise and you’re a big boy now.’

‘I don’t want to do it myself, I want you to help me.’

‘No Howie, I told you there was a cost to using me.’

‘I don’t care about the cost.’

‘You should care Howie.’

‘Why?’

‘It will destroy you if you keep using me.’

‘I will be destroyed if I don’t, we all will.’

‘What about after, what then Howie?’

‘There won’t be an after without you.’

‘Do it yourself. Do it without me.’

‘No. I won’t. It’s not the same without you.’

‘You want this fight Howie, you want it.’

‘No, I don’t, but it’s here and I have to deal with it.’

‘Run, hide, do something else, do anything else.’

‘I won’t run or hide.’

‘Admit that you want it.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘Admit it Howie, admit it and tell me you want it.’

‘No.’

‘I want to hear you say it Howie.’

‘Okay.’

‘Say it.’

‘Will you help me if I say it?’

‘Say it Howie.’

‘I want it.’

‘Louder.’

‘I WANT IT.’

‘Louder Howie, I can’t hear you.’

‘I FUCKING WANT IT. I WANT THIS FIGHT.’

‘Come on Howie, snarl, scream, make me hear you.’

‘I WANT THEM TO SUFFER. I WANT REVENGE. I WANT TO KILL THEM.’

‘Good Howie.’

‘Will you come?’

‘I’m already here. I always have been.’

My heart thumps strong in my chest. My rate of breathing increases as my system floods with oxygen and surges with adrenalin. The whites of my knuckles are stark from gripping the handle of the axe so tightly.

I wait for the thumping sound of the machine gun to end. Glancing to my sides I see every man and woman on that front line has a grim and determined expression and eyes full of rage. Lips twitch and snarl as we struggle to hold the anger in check. Eyes narrow and brows become furrowed in these few seconds. I take a step forward wanting to be the first out, wanting that first kill. Dave takes a step forward and joins me, then the rest of the line follows. Followed by the thousands of people behind us all moving forward.

I look left and right with a snarl on my face, unable to contain the growing fury. Snarling faces look back at me; wild animals, feral, untamed. I step forward again, so does Dave and the rest. In frustration, but too full of rage to voice my thought process, I growl deep in my throat and again take a step forward. Dave steps with me and then everyone else does too.

Then there is silence. Sudden and unexpected. The two men holding the large gates lean forward and pull with all their might. The doors open inwards but it feels slow, so slow. I fear I will explode if I don’t get out there now. I can feel myself inching forward, waiting for that gap to just open enough and I’ll get through it. I feel a pressure across my waist and I look down to see Dave holding his arm out across me.

‘We go together,’ he growls but inches forward as he says it.

‘Fine,’ I growl back and stretch my arm across his waist too. Both of us pushing against the arm of the other, inching forwards together. I feel another pressure and see Chris on my other side, his shoulder leaning into mine and trying to hold me back. A quick glance and everyone is holding everyone else back. Shoulders pressed tight, arms stretched out. Every one of us wants to be the first so we hold each other back and, in doing so, our entire front line growls and snarls as we inch forward as one, leaning forward.

The big gates are old, and they are very heavy. The hinges are tight and the gates just brush the ground as they open, causing friction and resistance to the men pulling them.

As the gap widens to a man-size width, they come free and the friction ends. The gates are pulled wide open within a second or two… and there they are. The zombie army is in front of us, in all their decaying, decomposing and fetid glory.

‘Ready, Dave?’ I snarl.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ he snarls back at me.

‘READY LADS,’ I roar, as loud as my cracking voice will allow.

‘YES,’ Thousands of voices filled with fear and rage roar back at me.

Dave’s arm drops from my waist, I drop my arm from his and we break free, charging at the wide entrance.

There’s a guttural, animalistic roar as I am finally allowed to unleash the pure fury inside.

Dave’s voice joins mine, along with Chris, Clarence, Blowers, Cookey and Curtis - Tucker, Jamie and Malcolm. Our voices become many and the sound of it drives us on.

The gates are only wide enough for a few at a time and we are the first out and heading for the road in the middle.

The deep ditches are now crawling with smoking zombies climbing out onto our side.

The army of the living facing the army of the dead.

We spread out as we pour through the gate. The undead army speed up coming at us. We speed up and charge at them. They charge at us. The gap between the ditches is our meeting point and we both know it.

As we take the last few paces towards each other, I lift my axe high out to the right, pulling my shoulder back and preparing for the impact. An image of Sarah suddenly fills my mind, safe and protected out on the boats with the children and their mothers. My parents are gone but at least she is safe and the more of these we take down now, the better chance for survival they have.

We go to meet death and we all know it. The power of hope keeps a glimmer alive that maybe we’ll walk away from this, but a conflicting dose of reality makes it known that we stand very little chance.

Ah, Hope says, but there is a chance.

For Sarah I will go to meet my death.

For those children and the hope for mankind I will go to meet my death.

For that slim chance that we can destroy this evil spawn, I will go to meet my death.

My name is Howie. I was named after my father Howard, but it became too confusing to have two Howard’s, so I became Howie.

I am 27 years old and I am the leader of the Living Army.

I bring death to you.

The undead stretches forward at me, his upper body leans forward and his lips pull back to reveal a row of uneven and dirty yellow teeth.

His movement exposes his neck and I slam the axe blade into it, slicing through cleanly and the head simply drops from view. The first drops of blood are spilled and, if nothing else, I will know that I did that. I drew first blood in this battle. The axe drives on in the powerful arc as the blade bites into the face of the next undead; cleaving through the cheekbone and taking half the face off. I twist round and use my momentum to ram my right shoulder into the next one. He gets propelled backwards and I uppercut the axe into his groin, almost cutting him in half.

I glimpse Dave dropping low and driving forward to plough through the first few lines to rise up deep within their ranks.

For one glorious second he pauses, a mighty look of concentrated fury on his face, and he gives a small smile. Then he sets to work and the amazing ability of his body bursts with life as he starts spinning, dropping, turning, twisting and, with each poetic movement, an undead body drops with a cut throat.

For a split second I feel guilty, guilty that we’ve brought an army to fight them when all we ever needed was Dave and two knives.

Back to reality and I swipe the axe out wide. Slicing through shoulders, arms and faces as I create space around me.

For a minute, we gain ground as the first few lines drop easily from the weapons used, but then the sheer numbers on their side compress against the backs of the line in front of us and now we hold. Neither gaining nor losing ground.

We hold our lines and kill them as they step and lunge forward. I have no idea how the rest of the line is working, whether the undead army have burst through the deep ditches, if our line is too spread out or too tightly packed. All I can do now is fight and kill the thing in front of me.

The first, wild sweeps, clear a space round me but then I settle down to practised strikes and lunges. Conserving energy and strength. My axe bites into skull after skull as I sweep back and forth. Lunging forward and driving the axe overhead to destroy, kill, maim and end the undead lives of these foul abominations. The fury surges through me and I work faster and harder than ever before. Each killing blow drives me on.

‘STEP BACK,’ a voice roars nearby and, for a second, I’m confused as to why we are giving ground, but then I realise we are fighting and tripping over the bodies on the ground.

We step back and allow the undead lines to stumble and clamber over their dead comrades, we take advantage of the obstacles and cut them down in droves, adding more and more broken bodies to growing piles.

The glory of battle is within me as I swing my axe, cleaving, smashing, pulping and destroying.

I take two down with a massive swing and catch another fleeting glimpse of Dave, still deep within the ranks.

He leaps high into the air, his arms rising above his head as he dives back down. Bright arcs of blood spurt into the air to show the path he weaves.

Clarence simply uses his awesome strength, gripping the axe at the base of the shaft. He swings left and takes several down at once, then pauses for the next row to step forward and then swings right, taking them down and repeating the action over and again.

The undead are simply too stupid to learn from his tactic.

Chris and Malcolm work like I do, taking small choppy lunges and sweeps to target each victim and take them down with the smallest expenditure of energy. Blowers and Cookey, side by side and fighting like demons. Tucker with that look of terrified rage on his face and using his bulk to swing out and take them down. Jamie, small and lithe like Dave, knives in each hand and attacking one zombie at a time with clinical precision, never over-extending and always aware of the next target.

Zombie after zombie, axe swing after axe swing and we go on fighting and battling. Strike and move, strike and move. Heads keep lunging at me and I strike across to smash the things apart. Skulls cleaved open like ripe melons, showering me in greying brain matter. One in front of me, the skin on his face already falling off, exposing dirty white bone underneath. The remains of his lips pull back and his mouth opens; strands of saliva drool and hang down as he comes in close for the bite. I lash out hard and the axe takes the top of his head off. Another one to my right, a fat female undead, how she kept up with the mass marching is beyond me. I keep the swing going and drive into her neck, severing through the spinal column and she goes down.

Stepping forward to meet the next one I drop with him with an overhead smash then step forward as I uppercut and waste no energy in making use of each swing of the heavy axe. I sense someone fighting right behind me and I catch a quick glimpse of Clarence ploughing away. I move forward again and Clarence steps up to my right side.

Exchanging a quick look, we both step and swing forward.

Suddenly, Chris is on my left and the three of us fight together, side-by-side. Then Malcolm joins our line on the other side of Chris and now we are four; synchronised and swinging the axes. Left to right, right to left. The effect is awesome and we make headway, stepping forward and tramping the broken and mashed up bodies underneath us.

‘WATCH THE SIDES,’ Chris bellows as we drive in too deep and the zombie army start curling round and attacking Malcolm and Clarence to the sides.

Blowers and Cookey move up and fight out to the sides, joined by Tucker, Curtis and then Nick running in fresh with an axe he’d kept back in the Saxon.

Some of the guards join us and we form a circle, just as we did in London. Fighting forward and presenting a solid wall on four sides.

With my friends to my sides and behind me, I feel a fresh surge of energy and we fight on; the zombie army pressing in as we keep our shape and drive further and further into their ranks. Every time I glance up I see bodies being dropped by Dave just feet from me. I realise he’s staying close, offering his never-ending protection. For every zombie I take down, Dave takes two or three and his kill rate alone must be destroying so many.

The heat becomes unbearable and sweat pours off us, so many bodies all pushed into a tight space and I become aware of their fetid and disgusting odour. The stench of their breath, the smell of decomposing and rotting flesh. They now truly are the living dead. They are corpses infected with evil and something dark works inside of them and drives them with an insatiable hunger for human flesh.

Their presence offends and disgusts me. The way they keep coming, wave after wave of zombie bodies being thrown against us. The rage threatens to burst me apart and I fight harder, faster. Striking with more power than I have ever done.

The fury within me is so powerful, yet it isn’t enough, give me more, give me more rage and anger. Fill me with utter vengeance and make me stronger.

With frustration and blind anger I roar out with animalistic rage, my voice guttural and wild. I hack and hack away, killing and destroying all within my range. Nothing matters now, my thirst for death will never be satiated. I want death and destruction. I want to bathe in their blood and tear their evil bodies apart with my bare hands.

Darren is in there somewhere; I fight harder, for every step I take brings me closer to him. I told him to come after me, I told him to see what happens if he tried. Now he’s here but he’s hiding from me. I want him, more than anything I want him. He is the evil; he is the devil spawn that brought this plague to my people. He is the reason we have all suffered.

I am death Darren, I am death and I am coming for you. I told you I would destroy you and I will.

I fight and kill as I push on deeper and deeper into their ranks. I am the spearhead that drives through these ranks and my men fight with me.

This isn’t enough though; the power of the anger and rage is not enough. I want more, give me more. Give me all the fury of the world and channel it into my arms so I can fight on. Why isn’t it enough? Why am I not strong enough to surge forward and sweep these things away? Frustration mixes in with the already powerful feelings pulsing through me and, for a few minutes, I have extra strength and more speed.

I fight away from my circle; I plough deep into their lines. I hear Clarence and Chris shouting my name but I pay no heed. They are together and protected and I am already dead. I made that deal with myself when I came out here. I knew I would be coming to my death and I will do it on my own terms. I will not expose my friends to my reckless actions, but reckless as they are, they are my actions that I choose to take, and I take them willingly. I fight on and push harder, sweeping my beloved axe round and round, cleaving and hacking and killing. They cannot touch me, for the anger and fury is so great within me, but no, it isn’t enough and I feel my power abating. It ebbs away and I drive myself on, push myself and force the rage out. I can’t see my men now, I’m too deep within their lines, but I keep going, for, as long as this power is within me, I can kill them.

My killing blows start to ease off, the power generated by each swing is less and less. I swing out and tears of frustration sting my eyes. I feel my power leaving me and there are so many crowding round me. I lash out again and stumble as my legs start to shake. I roar out but my voice feels weak. I lift the axe and smash a face in, but the power is so much weaker now.

My men! I can see them, through my tear filled eyes I see them fighting but their power is weakening too. We are trapped with the evil undead crowding round us, my legs feel so heavy, and each step finds me faltering and staggering. I look over to my men and see their circle starting to give. Tucker swings out, his normally ruddy face now pale and drawn. He too can feel the power leaving and I see his swings getting more and more feeble.

I scream as they lunge forward and take him down, they drag Tucker to the floor and the undead bodies are on him, frenziedly biting and tearing at his flesh. I scream out loud, my beloved Tucker, that gentle lad who took care of us.

I stumble forward and feel my legs give way, I go down onto my knees and stretch my hand out, so far away from Tucker but I can’t help him. Curtis rushes to his side, beating the undead back and hacking away desperately, trying to save his friend. I try to shout a warning as I see zombies rushing Curtis from behind, but my voice is pathetic, weak and dying.

Curtis is taken down, his body landing heavily in top of Tucker as they are both ravaged and killed. Malcolm twists back to run at the boys and is taken from the side; going down heavy and swamped by zombie bodies tearing into him.

Chris screams and fights back, they all give ground and the circle gets smaller, the zombies pressing in.

Pure looks of terror on Blowers’ and Cookey’s faces, Nick crying with shame, as he knows they will die.

Not like this, please God not like this. Don’t let them take anymore. We were meant to win, we are the righteous and we came so far. These are just boys, brave boys that have fought and you are letting the evil take my beautiful, brave boys.

I lash out with my fist and punch an undead’s face, he drops away, and I know I’m only seconds away now.

I feel drained and weak and there’s nothing left inside of me. Nothing left to use.

‘Why did you do this to me?’

‘I told you I would destroy you, Howie - I warned you.’

‘You have to help me, you have to give me more anger and rage so I can fight.’

‘There’s nothing left Howie, you’ve used it all up and it’s left you weak and pathetic.’

‘Oh God, dear God, please Lord give me the strength to do this, give me the strength to rise up and fight.’

‘You wanted anger Howie, you wanted rage and fury and power.’

‘Then give me more.’

‘It’s gone Howie, there is no more to give.’

With my head bowed I wait for them to take me.

‘Our Father, who art in Heaven,’ the words come to me and, in final prayer; I hold an image of Sarah in my mind.

‘There it is Howie.’

‘What? There is what?’

‘You fool Howie, it’s right there inside you. Take it.’

‘Take what?’

‘Sarah, that feeling for your family. What is that?’

‘She’s all I have left, she’s my family.’

‘What does she mean to you Howie? What did you feel then when you thought of her and said those words, what was that?’

‘That was love.’

‘YES, HOWIE, that was love.’

‘Our Father who art in Heaven…’

‘YES HOWIE, LOUDER, SAY IT LOUDER.’

‘OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN,’ I feel something surging through me, a feeling starting so deep and coursing through my system.

‘YES, HOWIE, LOVE IS THE MOST POWERFUL THING OF ALL.’

‘OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN…’ My voice, starting off weak and choked, quickly becomes strong and firm. I look up into the faces of the undead coming at me, teeth bared for the kill.

‘OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN,’ I rise to my feet, the axe held in one hand. I stare about at the advancing faces as my voice booms out with strength. The men look to me and I hold their gaze, daring the undead to keep coming.

‘HALLOWED BE THY NAME,’ I feel it. I feel power unlike any before, surging through me. My heart beats faster and faster. My mind is clear and the strength flows back into my arms and legs.

‘THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE.’ They are close now, so close. I can feel their breath upon my face. I stare ahead, eyes fixed on my men. The undead want me, I can sense it, but something holds them back, something makes them weary. The whole field pauses for that second, waiting with baited breath. Faces filled with fear and terror slowly become filled with hope.

‘ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN,’ I roar and my voice carries far as I explode with action and I am no longer weak and exhausted. I am strong, I have strength and I whirl my axe round and take many down with one massive swing. My axe flies and spins as I chop down, chop left, chop right and they keep dropping. Every step I take they wilt away from me. I slice and hack my way through to my men.

‘GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD,’ I swing out and send two undead back to the hell from whence they came. The love flows through me with absolution and each blow is precise, brutal, violent but necessary. I no longer want them to suffer agonising pain. I want them stopped. To kill them swiftly and end this suffering.

‘AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES,’ I burst through the last line of undead that stood between me and my men. Chris and Clarence step aside and leave a gap for me to take up. I step in and hear as they take up voice with me. Blowers, Cookey and Nick joining in and our voices are strong.

‘AS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO TRESPASS AGAINST US.’ Our combined voices carry and I hear more joining in. Men and women behind us, holding the line, raise their glorious voices and join as we pray loud - and with fresh hope we fight on.

‘AND LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION,’ For McKinney we fight on and take them down, new strength flows into us, For the blessed love of Tucker, Curtis and Malcolm we fight and stand our ground.

‘BUT DELIVER US FROM EVIL.’ Our words taunt them. The undead roar with defiance and attack with ferocity, snarling and growling, but we hold them back and cut them down - and they fall.

‘FOR THINE IS THE KINGDOM.’ They surge on against us and they fall as we cut them down. Thousands of voices crying out in exalted prayer as thousands of hands wield weapons and cut down thousands of zombies. The living are taken time and time again, but instead of despair we fight as humans have never fought before. This is not just about survival now; this is good, versus evil. This is right versus wrong.

‘AND THE POWER.’ Our voices cry louder, carrying all across the battlefield. Little did we know the strength these words would carry and how they could combine our strength and resolution, when we learnt them at school.

‘AND THE GLORY,’ Still we fight on and the tide is turning, they know it because they attack with more violence and surge into us again and again.

‘FOR EVER AND EVER,’ we scream out in unison, us the living. Shouting our defiance with glorious words of scripture, against the vile foul things that try to kill us.

‘A…G…A…I…N,’ I hear Dave’s voice roar out from somewhere deep within the ranks. I look to the direction and, as one, we turn and fight towards him, as we once more lift our voices and repeat the Lord’s Prayer.

Dave battled through rank after rank of undead. His body twisting and flexing with incredible speed. The knives started off bright and metallic, flashing as they rip through the air to be tugged against throat after throat. Dropping down and severing hamstrings and pausing for the second until he body drops down and digs into the jugular with a short, sharp stab. Pulling away, he leaps up to avoid the mouths lunging forward, arms ready and in position as he plummets back into the rank of filthy zombies. Gallons of blood spilled as artery after artery is opened. Mouth after mouth lunges at him, but he steps away with amazing grace.

He kills without slowing and the more he does, the faster he gets. The muscles warm up and his heart increases the flow of oxygen and blood causing him to shift a physical gear and generate more incredible speed and power.

Then something is wrong; a shift in the equilibrium within his mind. He was powering forward, intent on finding Darren and destroying him quickly.

Something changes; his connection with Howie makes him pause and turn back. Fighting with such ferocity that Dave has never shown before, his arms twirling and spinning, his body dropping and leaning as he searches through the gaps for a glimpse of Howie and the others. The sense of change is palpable and he knows something bad is happening, Howie is threatened and Dave curses himself for moving into the ranks too deeply.

With a low growl and a look of pure violence he powers through zombie after zombie, killing and maiming, desperately fighting back towards his friend.

The undead in front of him become dense, as though they are drawn to something. They block his view and he leaps high to catch a glimpse of Howie faltering and stumbling; his axe swings slow and weak. He pushes on with fear in his heart, his deadly blades becoming dull edged from repeated use. He discards them both and uses his arms to grab at zombie neck after zombie neck, twisting with a violent wrench to snap the spinal column.

Dave catches another glimpse of Howie dropping down onto his knees and listens as Howie screams out, Dave twists round to see Tucker dead and Curtis being savaged.

The undead seem to know Dave is fighting to rescue Howie and they push into him, blocking his path with body after body.

In desperation, Dave draws the last set of knives tucked into his belt line and sets to work, slicing jugulars open with frenzied action. Then he hears it, Howie’s voice, weak at first but then strong and it carries across to him.

The Lord’s Prayer is being bellowed out and Dave catches another glimpse of Howie up on his feet, standing ready, his eyes blazing as the whole world seems to pause.

Dave’s heart thrills as he watches Howie explode with power and his voice cries out, loud and true.

As more voices take up the prayer, Dave pauses and quickly tries to decide which way. Back to Howie? Or keep going for Darren?

Darren has to be stopped; if he is controlling this lot then taking him down could end this far sooner. With an almost reluctant shrug he once more turns and starts fighting deeper into the ranks. He listens to the words of the Lord’s Prayer booming out in unison. He senses the change in the zombies and watches as they surge faster and quicker. The reaction causes the undead to become more fierce but Dave notices something else. Something that only someone with hundreds of hand-to-hand combat battles would pick up on, the harder they attack, the weaker they become.

Something is changing, they are attacking harder than ever before, but it feels easier to drop them now. Blows to the head and neck have always cut them down instantly, but body blows are also dropping them now. Deep cuts that would easily down a man, but would not affect the undead too greatly, are now causing them to fall. We should be getting beaten back now from the ferocity of their attack, but instead, we are not only holding our own - we are gaining ground.

They growl and snarl and roar as they attack, driving into us time and again. They are being pushed, something is pushing them harder. They can sense the change in us. We were almost beaten, we were almost stopped and they had the taste of flesh by taking Tucker, Curtis and Malcolm. But now, now we rise up and fight so hard that they feel desperate and attack harder and faster.

Whatever the thing is inside them, it cannot sustain their rate of energy expenditure for this long, it’s simply too much for their decaying and already dead bodies.

‘DAVE?’ I bellow out between axe strikes, desperate to find him.

‘HERE,’ I hear his enormous voice, he is close now and we push on harder. Swinging our axes and cutting down many undead as we plough through them trying to reach Dave.

Dave feels them weakening with each blow. Whereas he focussed on the neck and head for each killing move before, now he senses their weakening state and he takes the risk to use the knives as stabbing tools. He thrusts the blades into the chest cavities, it works and they start dropping from stabbing thrusts that before would have had no effect. Now, he works faster, no longer impeded by the necessity to angle himself to take the throat, he stabs out with increasing speed. Puncturing chest after chest. Raining blows out until his arms are just a blur, each arm seemingly working independently. Pistons driving the sharpened points of the knives into the soft decaying flesh. They fall away from him in vast numbers. Each step he takes, he kills and kills.

‘DARREN,’ Dave’s parade ground voice bellows out as he plunges into the horde. They close ranks and try to present a solid mass against him.

‘I’M COMING DARREN, I AM COMING TO KILL YOU,’ Dave roars out, as his arms spin and drive the knives deep into the chests and throats, puncturing lungs, hearts and brains with each deadly thrust.

As the last two drop down, Dave pauses.

Open ground in front of him and another solid mass of undead ahead. Howie bursts through the undead lines to his left as his men cut down the final rows of zombies until they too, stand before the open ground and look to the solid mass of undead standing before them.

I hear Dave screaming for Darren and I know we must be close. We drive on, attacking and attacking. Ploughing through them until we burst through their lines and I see open ground ahead of me. A quick glance and I see Dave stood to my right, holding his knives and staring at the solid massed horde.

There, right in the middle, stands Darren. He has surrounded himself with the biggest and strongest undead. I can see they have been held back.

The battle still rages behind us, the people from the Fort still reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but they feel distant now. For here, in front of us, is the leader of the undead army.

‘Dave,’ I shout over, to alert him we are here.

‘I see you Mr Howie,’ Dave replies.

The men behind me cut down the final few undead and then spread out into a line, facing the horde protecting Darren.

We stand with chests heaving, dripping blood and gore from every inch of our bodies. Our faces smeared with filth but we live, we breathe air and our hearts pump living blood through our veins.

I lock eyes with Darren Smith, he stands in the middle of his undead bodyguard, and he looks terrible. Pale and drawn with a sickening pallor. Red, bloodshot eyes stare back at me. His brow drops and the feeling of hatred he projects at me is tangible. My mind races with what to say. A smart comment, something witty and inspiring. This is not the time for words though, all that needed to be said, has been.

The corner of my upper lip curls up and I feel a growl growing in my throat. My whole body pulses with energy. Living energy. I feel more alive in this second than all of the seconds in my life combined. That, I know, must be driving him crazy. His face twitches, and his whole body twitches. Whether this is from the utter rage within him, or the side effects of the filthy infection in his system, I do know not.

They outnumber us and they are big, mean looking zombies. Every one of them stands motionless staring back at us.

Darren’s gaze shifts to Dave and he stands, staring at the small man holding a knife in each hand, the blades turned up against his forearms.

Several of the undead bodyguard suddenly detach themselves and move away towards Dave. They stop and reach their arms round to pull knives out. Each of them holds a deadly looking blade. I count eight, big, nasty looking zombies holding knives.

‘Take him,’ Darren growls softly and them men start moving towards Dave.

I turn towards him but Dave holds a hand up to stop me; his eyes never leaving the pack of knife-wielding zombies coming towards him.

I watch closely as Dave stands stock-still. He adjusts his position slowly. One foot moves back and he lowers his body a few inches. His left arm comes forward and he holds it across his chest. The right arm pulls back slightly. Then he does something that Dave rarely does, he smiles. A small wry smile that grows into a big grin that lights his face up. His eyes blazing.

‘At last… some decent competition,’ Dave mutters quietly.

The knife carrying zombies spread out to form a rough circle round Dave. Dave, in turn, remains motionless, apart from his eyes shifting left and right and picking up their positions.

‘TAKE HIM,’ Darren spits the words out and they rush in as one.

Movement catches my eye off to my left and I glimpse Jamie moving round to try and get behind the horde in front of us.

Dave holds his static position until I fear he is just going to wait to be cut down. Then, at the very last second, he takes two steps and leaps high over the undead man in front of him, twisting his body so that he lands facing the undead man’s back. The zombie’s rushing in all collide, as their momentum drives them into each other.

Dave shakes his head once and stabs his knives forward into the zombies neck; sawing viciously and the first one goes down. Dave steps back as they recover and rush at him. After that, it’s just a blur of arms spinning and twirling. I hear the clang of metal against metal a few times. Grunts and growls sound out as Dave punishes them without mercy. He is in the middle somewhere and I know he is still alive, as every few seconds, a knife wielding zombie, staggers away to fall to the ground with blood spurting out of his opened jugular.

‘GO,’ Dave roars out from the middle of his knife fight. The order clearly intended for us and we respond instantly. Gripping our weapons tight, we charge forward.

‘TAKE THEM,’ Darren screams out and his bodyguard burst towards us.

The vain wanker should have given them weapons too, his belief that firstly, we’d never get this close to him, and secondly, that Dave was the only one that posed a threat to him. Well, his vanity, or the vanity of whatever it is inside him will be his undoing. These undead coming at us are big, strong and full of rage.

A guttural roar sounds out and I see a long-handled, double-bladed weapon spinning through the air. It embeds deep in the chest of a zombie and he goes flying backwards. Clarence, still roaring, sprints ahead, his hands now empty, and like Dave, he now has some fair competition so chooses to fight on equal terms.

‘Fuck that,’ I mutter as I charge in, gripping my axe tighter, in case I get a sudden urge to throw it at someone.

Clarence powers into them, his massive arms punching out left and right, his elbows flying back to smash the noses and cheekbones of undead zombies that are trying to bite him. He picks a zombie up bodily and throws it hard at two more coming at him.

I snap forward and swing my axe out hard, biting into the neck of one running at me. His momentum drives me backwards and I fall to the floor as he staggers past me, my axe stuck in his neck. I jump up and clamber towards him, desperate to retrieve my weapon. Strong hands grip me and I get flung like a rag doll through the air, landing several metres away. The zombie that threw me comes on, his teeth bared and growling like a dog. I scamper backwards and get to my feet.

‘Fuck it,’ I growl back at him and charge.

We collide, but I scrabble round and jump onto his massive back, wrapping my arms round his thick neck and squeezing with every ounce of my strength. He staggers about, his arms flailing but his sheer size prevents him from being able to reach around and pull me off. He slumps down onto his knees and throws himself backwards, trying to squash me under his enormous weight. I squeeze and squeeze with everything I’ve got, as I feel my breath being crushed out of me. My hand is across his face and I move it up slightly to avoid his gnashing teeth, I feel the soft pressure of an eye socket and drive my thumb in hard.

He squirms and howls, as I drive my thumb in, pushing against the resistance of the pressured eyeball. It pops and I feel warm sticky goo spurting out over my hand. I increase the pressure with my arms and hold on for dear life until eventually he goes limp.

I push him off and wriggle out, running back to grab my axe. I wrench it free from the neck it’s stuck in and run back to the fat nonce that tried to squash me. I lift the axe high over my head and drive it down into his skull, bursting it apart and the dirty grey matter explodes out over the blood soaked ground.

I spin round and swing the axe into the next one coming at me, stepping to the side so I don’t get mown down again. I cut deep into his shoulder and he goes down onto the ground. I pull the axe back and chop down at his still moving body, taking his head off.

Another one coming from my right… I grab a fistful of hair and lift the decapitated head and throw it hard. It hits the oncoming zombie square in the face, and I almost chuckle at the thought of the head-butt. It stalls him for just a second, but it’s enough for me to step round and slice the axe into his leg, cutting through to the bone. He goes down and again I chop down viciously, taking his head off.

I hear a scream and spin round to see Jamie launching himself at several undead still standing with Darren.

His knives do deadly work and drop several, but his skill isn’t the same as Dave’s and suddenly he’s gripped by an undead on either side. Jamie thrashes and kicks out but ,like Dave, he is small and his blows go unnoticed.

Darren runs over and drives a knife deep into Jamie’s stomach.

Jamie screams and thrashes.

Darren goes round behind him.

I roar out and start running, but Darren smiles at me as he pulls Jamie’s head back and sinks his teeth deep into Jamie’s neck.

All of us see it: me, Dave, Blowers, Cookey, Nick, Chris and Clarence and we scream out and charge forward.

Darren laughs and steps away. The remainder of his bodyguard charge at us, as Darren turns to sprint.

The bodyguards throw themselves at us with ferocious attacks and it takes several minutes to finish them off. By which time, there is no sign of Darren. I look over and see Dave running to the limp form of Jamie. Gasping for breath I rush over and slump down, Dave rolls Jamie onto his back and I see the ragged wound in his neck, blood pumping out. Jamie is still alive, albeit barely. The rest join us, shouting to each other and asking where Darren went.

One by one, they drop down and we form a kneeling circle round Jamie; each of us reach forward and place a hand on his body. Jamie grips Dave’s hand as Dave stares down with an intense look. I reach up and push Jamie’s hair away from his eyes. He looks at me and smiles. The young, quiet lad who followed Dave with heroic worship.

‘Did you get him?’ Jamie whispers at me.

‘We will Jamie, I swear it, we will,’ I whisper back.

Jamie looks at his hero, and I see tears falling down Dave’s cheeks.

‘Don’t cry, Dave,’ Jamie whispers, his breathing becoming shallower.

Dave leans down and places a hand on Jamie’s forehead.

‘You did good Jamie, very good. I’m proud of you,’ Dave says in a voice so soft.

Jamie smiles once at Dave, his face lighting up with the praise from the man he worshipped. Then he’s gone, the life drains from his eyes, and his face falls slack.

Hot tears fall down my cheeks as I watch Dave gently reach out and close Jamie’s eyes. I reach my hand out to Dave’s shoulder, knowing what must be done. Dave looks at me and nods.

Chris’s hand covers mine and I hear him speak softly: ‘He was one of yours, I’ll do it.’

Dave and I lock eyes for a second, we both bow our heads.

‘Bye, Jamie mate, see you on the other side,’ I whisper, and move away.

Blowers and Cookey drop down and I hear them whisper their goodbyes.

Nick goes next, until Dave is left holding Jamie’s hand. Then gently, so gently, Dave reaches down and softly kisses Jamie on the forehead.

A sob breaks out from Cookey and I see him drop down onto his knees. Blowers reaches a hand down to Cookey’s shoulder and I move over to them. Nick stares back, for a second, before Dave joins us. We turn away as Chris does what needs to be done.

Without Darren, the dead army slow and become the normal daytime shuffling zombies. What’s left of the men from the Fort make light work and, before long, the ground is filled with thousands and thousands of zombie bodies.

I look down towards the Fort and realise we have lost many during the battle. Of the several thousand that charged out of the gates, maybe a thousand remain. The losses are huge, but we knew what we faced and we did so as free men.

Standing here now, in the midst of the carnage, I think back to the losses that we, as a group, have suffered: McKinney, Tucker, Curtis and Jamie. Each of them so unique and so brave. Young men who survived something so truly terrible yet they laughed and joked and made that decision to fight back.

I look over at Chris, Clarence standing by his side, just the way Dave is always at my side, and he too must be thinking of the people he has lost and I know losing Malcolm will be hitting him hard.

For all our losses though, we have gained something special. Those brave men that laid their lives down did so knowing they were giving humanity another chance. For that, I am thankful. Darren has escaped, but I already know from the looks in the eyes of my men that we won’t stop until we find him.

Now though, there is much to do. Bodies need to be burnt, injuries need to be tended. We need to find the children and their mothers and bring them back to the safety of the Fort.

Most of all though, we can do something we have needed to do since this war began.

We can grieve.

Read on for an exclusive preview

Huntington House

A Mike Humber Detective Novel

By

R.R. Haywood

Chapter One

I was a policeman for sixteen years, so the sight of the spooky old house didn’t bother me.  I was sacked for beating up some creep for sexually violating children.  I caught him and beat the shit out of him.   Turns out he knew what he was doing though, he goaded me by making comments about what he’d done to those kids and I saw red.  Unfortunately we were on CCTV, which I didn’t know but he did.  Full colour high resolution real time image but with no audio, so what it didn’t show was those comments he made.  I was lauded as a hero by the press and my colleagues stood by me, and to be fair so did the job.  But we all know the rules and I had to take it on the chin.  I was lucky to avoid prosecution and a prison sentence.  There was even a whip round, which not only went round my station and division, but the whole force and the neighbouring forces too.  I made a bundle out of it and was going on TV shows and the radio talking about what I did and how the law should change.  But as with everything the news rolled on to something else and I was finally left alone.  Those sixteen years in the force had already destroyed my marriage so I truly was alone.  The money frittered away, holidays and trips, paying rent and living to the same standard I had when I was earning and it soon went.

So there I was, two years later.  A nobody with no chance of a career or decent employment.  Security work was always offered and I did a few gigs but after everything I’d been through it was too dull, too repetitive and I could never settle.  Girlfriends came and went and I guess I distanced myself from everyone I had known before.  For a while I still went out with my old shift mates which gave me a sense of normality but I could see my stories were getting old, while they had current and fresh incidents to talk about.  Towards the end I could tell I was getting in the way and the final touch was when I walked past the local pub and saw them all having a pint.  Stood outside watching them laugh and joke pretty much broke my heart and I knew then I would never fit in again.

It was time to move on, so I did.  Then two years later I was sat in a café flicking through one of the security periodicals, looking for work and I saw the advert;  A winter position doing maintenance and security at some stately home, live-in and not a bad salary too.  I figured they would be inundated with applicants but having nothing else to do and needing somewhere to bed down for the cold winter months I duly downloaded an application form and emailed it off.   A week later I got a reply, asking me to attend for an interview two days later at Huntington House, the address was supplied and I had to Google it to find it was a few hours north of London.  The email asked that if I was successful would I be ready to start immediately.  I replied yes, I could start that day if they needed me.

Like I said, turning up for the interview and seeing the old house didn’t bother me.  The house was set in acres of private grounds with woods, copses and fields rolling out in all directions.  The driveway must have been a mile long, winding through the fields until it swept up the house.  I say house, but this wasn’t a house by any normal stretch of the imagination.  It was a mansion, a behemoth of a stately home.  Grey walls, ivy growing up the front, tall dark windows on all three floors, it even had those crenelated castle type turret things on the roof.

I had walked up the driveway, having caught the early train from London and going north.  Leaving the cities and towns far behind as I went deeper into the countryside, eventually arriving at the single rail line in Huntington village station and then hoofing it through miles of lanes winding through fields and pastures until I finally found the entrance.  Mid October and the weather was cold and clear with that lovely crisp feeling in the air.  I was flat broke and couldn’t afford a taxi.  I barely had enough money to get home again.  The rucksack on my back contained about all I owned or needed.

The brand new Range Rover parked up outside the house with the fat man stood next to it told me a few things.  First, that he was minted as a car like that costs tens of thousands.  Next, that they were desperate otherwise why would you wait outside and stare impatiently at the man coming for the job interview who was half an hour early.  It also told me the man was an arrogant prick by the fact that he didn’t come and pick me up from the end of the mile long driveway but rather stood there in his tweed suit letting me walk to him.

‘You must be Michael Humber?’ The man says, his face red and ruddy with wiry ginger hair sticking up.  He extends a pudgy hand towards me and I clocked the stomach straining against the flannel shirt and tweed jacket, ‘Lord Charles Huntington, very nice to meet you.’ Nice of you to tell me you’re a Lord.  Very subtle.

‘Yes, it’s just Mike, nice to meet you sir.’ I shake his hand which is sweaty with a weak grip.  They always say you can tell a man by the measure of his handshake.  Which is bollocks.  Anyone can fake a firm grip, or try and bely a weakness of character by giving a floppy shake.

‘Well you’re early so that’s a good sign.  Have you travelled far?’ The bloody idiot has just watched me walking a mile down his driveway.

‘From London, I got the train into Huntington village and walked in from there.  Lovely day and I knew I was early so…’ I don’t want to tell him I’m broke.

‘Walked all that way eh? You should have said we could have picked you up.’ Yeah right, after watching me stomp for the last ten minutes.

‘No it’s fine, it’s a lovely day and I love walking,’ I hate walking.

‘That’s wonderful! Right well we’ve already checked your background….’ so he knows about me beating that creep up then.

‘Yeah, so I guess you know about the thing with the man I beat up.’ Might as well get it out in the open now.

‘Yes we do, and let me just say this.  I think it was awful what they did to you, sacking you like that.  Bad show, terribly bad show.’ He shook his head, looking all serious.

‘Thank you, that means a lot to hear that,’ which must be the millionth time I have heard it.

‘Well, their loss and our gain I say,’ he smiled suddenly, looking all genuine and sincere.

‘Ah, well yes…possibly,’ not sure how to answer that.  Does that mean I have the job already then?

‘Well this is the house; it’s been in our family for generations, many generations,’ he says turning to hold one large arm up at the mansion behind him.

‘Oh this is the family home? I thought no one lived here?’

‘Ah yes well, there’s a rather heated legal battle going on you see.  Divided the family terribly.  Everyone thinks they’ve got a right to it.  The courts have ruled no one can live in it until the estate is resolved formally.  Which is where you come in.’

‘Me?’ What have I got to do with his family squabbles?

‘You see, no one has the right to live in it otherwise they might claim possession.  Been going on for a while now but finally we got the lawyers to get everyone to sign a contract promising they won’t try and get in until the court hearing.’

‘Right, I understand.’ I don’t.

‘The only way we could get everyone to agree was by employing someone to stay here and make sure no one tried to move in, or even get in.’

‘Get in?’

‘That’s why I’m stood outside old chap.  Some of the antiques and furniture in there are worth a fortune so we all agreed that none of the family would even enter it.’ Didn’t stop you from driving up the mile long driveway and picking me up did it fatty?

‘Ah, I understand, so you want someone here to stop anyone entering or trying to move in and claim squatter’s rights or possession by their virtue of residency?’

‘Yes! That’s wonderful! That’s it old chap, well done you!’ Patronising shit.

‘Thank you, very kind,’ I nod back, if I had a cap I would be doffing it.  He stares at me with a big smile, it seems he wants something but I don’t know what.

‘Well, do you want the job then or what old chap?’ He said finally.

‘Er, well yes of course but…’ This is the quickest interview I’ve done.  He didn’t ask me for references, or where I see myself in five years, or if I would say I’m a team player or not, he didn’t even tell me they’re a mad bunch here and it’s amazing they get any work done with all the madness.

‘Great, well here’s some petty cash in case you need anything and we’ll get the salary paid into your account.  You’ll find a list of emergency numbers on the telephone table in the main entrance.’

‘My account?’

‘Yes, you do have a bank account don’t you old chap?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Well that’s wonderful; we’ll get the money paid into that.  Do you have the details?’ He takes out a pen and notepad, writing down my account number and sort code.

‘Let me get the keys,’ He hands me a jailhouse bunch of keys on a large metal loop.

‘That’s a lot of keys.’

‘It’s a big house,’ He replies, ‘I would go in and show you round but ah, sadly the courts prevent me from crossing the threshold.  Anyway, I always find the best way is to look for oneself and get the feel for things.’ I’m sure you do, I’m sure you spend lots of your aristocratic time looking and feeling for things.

‘Of course Sir, I think the same.’

‘Splendid old chap, well I hate to rush off but well, I er…have to rush off.’ He shook my hand again with a weak grip but an energetic pump, smiling away while all the time backing up to the car.  He got in, waved and drove off.  Leaving me standing there, holding the jailhouse keys and looking about expecting someone to jump out and say “Ha gotcha” or something.  No one did jump out though and after his expensive leather upholstered Range Rover disappeared out of view I was left completely alone.

Chapter Two

The door opens into a vast majestic hallway with a black and white tiled checked tiled floor, wide and airy with a grand stair case in the middle.  Corridors down each side and huge white columns set either side.  The staircase is wide enough for eight men to walk up side by side, no banister or handrail though; Just a sheer drop down to the hard floor.  I guess health and safety didn’t figure much in whatever century this was built.  Matching grandfather clocks on either side of the wide landing and gilt framed portraits on the walls of hunting scenes, men on horseback wearing red and surrounded by small dogs.  A big man with whiskers and a red face in the middle sat on a grey horse and he bears a striking resemblance to Charles Huntington.  I open the envelope to find five hundred pounds in crisp twenty pound notes.  Petty cash! My word these people move in different circles than I’m used to.  Most places I’ve worked since leaving the force struggle to buy tea bags with their petty cash.

Still carrying my bag I head over to an antique looking telephone desk, with an old fashioned dial telephone on the top.  A printed sheet tells me to ring this number in case of emergency and more numbers of local tradesmen.  The advert said about maintenance, but there’s nothing on the note suggesting what maintaining I should do, no list of jobs or chores to be completed.  Rooting through the papers on the desk I find sheets of thick creamy paper with Huntington House embossed in gold letters across the top.  I look back at the pictures on the walls and can see why it was called Huntington House.  Very good use of creative imagination there; ‘Hey Lord Farquhar Tennyson Shithead, what shall we call our new country house that we shall use for chasing little foxes while lording it over the poor peasants, yeah I know, Huntington House, oh you’re such a card Lord Shithead.’ Switching my abusive imagination off for a while, I set the bag down and decide to follow Lord Fatty’s advice and go for a recce.  After all, it now looks like this will be my home for the next few months, or until they sort out the court issues.  My experience of civil law court proceedings tells me it could go on for years, with greedy lawyers doing their best to drag it out and keep the fee’s coming in.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the opposing lawyer teams are all members of the same golf club, meeting for funny handshakes in the sauna.

I left the bag in the entrance and started making my way through the rooms and if I wasn’t so bitter and angry at the world, my mouth would have dropped open a little more with each room I entered.  On the ground floor I find massive rooms with chaise longue, sofa’s, armchairs, dark hardwood dining tables that could seat fifty people all with matching chairs.  The floors are mostly exposed wood, with each one finished to an exact shade of varnish to match the décor of the room.  Thick carpets and rugs precisely positioned, the walls equally matching the classic tastes of the rooms.  Lightly coloured majestic wall paper, or dark wood ornately carved panelling.  It looks amazing but old and unused.  Sterile and something nice to wonder in awe at, but not homely.   A ballroom with a grand wooden dance floor, a drawing room, a sitting room, more drawing rooms and then another sitting room.  No wonder rich people are always fat; they have far too many rooms for sitting down in.

The library is awe inspiring with floor to ceiling shelves covering every inch of wall and leather bound books crammed onto every shelf.  This is the only room I’ve found that actually looks functional; desks with lamps, comfy looking armchairs and good lighting.  The view out the French doors took in the sweeping pastures going to the wooded copse and I imagine seeing myself in here most evenings reading through some of these old treasures. The carpet is a deep red colour with thick velvet curtains hanging down either side of the windows and doors.  It looks warm and inviting.

After the library, the other rooms all looked even more sterile and show-home and I knew that I wouldn’t be spending much time in them.  I could see what Lord Fatty meant about the fixtures and fittings though.  Some of these things would be worth an absolute fortune.  I hadn’t seen any sign of an alarm system, no sensors within the rooms and no wiring loops or alarm box visible on the house outside.  With the recession on and acquisitive crime on a rapid increase I was amazed this place hadn’t been emptied by now.  It was in the middle of nowhere and as far as I knew, the next nearest dwelling must be at least a couple of miles.  Thinking this prompted me to dig my mobile phone out my pocket.  I used to be on contract and have an upgrade every twelve months, but since my financial decline I had been using a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, still it did the job.  Not now though with an empty signal bar.  In case of emergency, run three miles through the house to the old phone, push the dial round to 9 three times and wait for the local bobby to turn up on his Penny Farthing a couple of hours later.  Wonderful.  Why did they do that with old phones? Put the nine at the end of the dial? Eccentric old Britain.  Those were the days when calling the police was an event, something rarely done and only in the direst of situations.  Nowadays though, people pick the phone up for anything.  The neighbour’s dog took a crap in my garden, call the police. My boundary fence has been moved by an inch, call the police.  Someone sent me a text saying I was fat, call the police.  We even had an emergency call on Christmas day a few years ago from a woman who couldn’t change a light-bulb.

At the rear of the house I find the second nicest room of the house so far; the kitchen.  Light blue wooden panelled walls and a flag stone floor perfect for sluicing off.  A huge old Aga set into one wall.  Dressers with plates stacked on shelves and mugs hanging off hooks.  Pine units and cupboards off all different size and styles set against the walls.  A double row of shiny copper pans hanging from hooks, going from small to very large, and they look used too with battered and misshapen bowls.  The big solid table in the middle had chunky metal mincers bolted to the ends and the surface of the table looked pitted, dented, burnt, scratched and just lovely.  There was life here.  None of the stuffy overly polite pretentious tripe with Lord Shithead and his merry fox hunters, this was where the real people worked and lived.  The side units were long and low with deep ceramic butchers sinks set deep.  Old style taps and expert craftsmanship everywhere.  As with the library, I knew I could happily spend time here too.  Mild panic did set in when I realised there was no microwave and I took a longer look at the Aga.  I’d seen them before in the many visits I had conducted to people’s houses for incidents.  And I knew posh people always made sure they slipped it in if they had an Aga, but I’d never actually used one.  Time for that later.

I crossed over to the back door which is held shut with a single key lock that could be popped open with a kick from an asthmatic paraplegic dosed up on sleeping tablets.  Heavy duty bolts set in the top and bottom but drawn back and not pushed home.  Some people just have no sense of security.

Shaking my head I step through into a square shaped courtyard with a high wall running round and a thick wooden gate set into it, on one side is the back of what looks like a workshop or garage.  A patio table with chairs leaning against it are the only furniture, and a few orange coloured plant pots holding withered plants.  Looking round I saw the upturned plant pot next to the door leading into the garage or workshop.  I went over and tried the door; locked.  Shaking my head I used my foot to knock the plant pot over and find the key hidden underneath.  The key unlocked the door and I was in, looking at an old style blue coloured Landrover four wheel drive vehicle with a white roof.  Workbenches bolted to the walls and big double swing doors at the front that once opened would easily give enough room for the Landy to get out.  The Landy was unlocked and I climbed in expecting to see the keys in the ignition, they weren’t.  They were wedged into the driver’s sun visor instead.  Very cunning.  One of my chores is obviously to nail a big sign up saying please come and rob this house and don’t forget to steal the shitty old Landrover while you are here.

I expected the Landy to be just for private use on the grounds, but it had current tax in the window and unsurprisingly, the insurance certificate and other documents were all in the glove box.  It started first time and for the first time since I entered the house, instead of shaking my head, I nodded with satisfaction.  If someone had told me a couple of years ago that I would be pleased at finding myself looking after a stately home and being happy at finding a library, kitchen and Landrover I would have laughed at them, now though I’ll take whatever good fortune I can find.  The thought plummets my mind and not for the first time I feel the bitterness start to set in my stomach.  I could take some of these antiques in this Landrover get a few quid and disappear.  Do a runner; maybe even have time for a few trips.  Sell the loot and run overseas.  But then I’d be running for ever and never able to come back.  These people might be idiots but you don’t get rich by letting people rob you blind.  I would be hunted and anyway, I might be many things but I’m not a thief.

Not having the correct documentation with me, I was unable to take out a mortgage in the buffet car on the train and buy one of their tepid cups of coffee and I can feel the gnawing inside.  I head back into the kitchen, putting the Landy and garage keys in my pocket.  Rooting around I find the kettle and a jar of instant coffee and see two used wine glasses on the side next to the sink.  I sniff the contents and the pungent smell of red wine fills my nostrils.  No milk though, in fact the fridge is empty, completely empty.  Do I use the petty cash for food or am I expected to buy my own?  There’s not much choice really.  I can keep receipts and re-reimburse them when I get paid.  I hate black coffee and head back into the entrance to retrieve my bag.  I unload the side pockets on the table and find my stash of milk portions, pilfered from the train buffet car, justifying to myself that it’s not theft if it’s offered gratis.  Okay, so it’s gratis when you buy something but even my once high morale’s have had to slip to survive.

With strong white coffee, heavily laden with sugar I fish out my packet of rolling tobacco and papers.  Duty free of course, bought cheap from a lad on the last security gig I worked.  I wouldn’t have dreamt of buying dodgy duty free a few years ago, but like I keep saying, times are hard.  I guess it would be okay to smoke in here, Lord Fatty has told me nobody else is allowed in.  But it wouldn’t look good if someone turned up on my first day and found me puffing away in their kitchen so I head outside to the patio table and stretched my legs out.

Brooding over the coffee and chain smoking I took in my surroundings, at first feeling pleasantly satisfied that I had secured such an easy gig.  Free board, a nice big house, transport and being paid too.  Not bad, but then it didn’t take long for the dark thoughts to start penetrating.  Comparing to what I once had, to what I once was.  Feeling like a fool for being sat here aged thirty-eight and being grateful for this shitty security job when I was something special before it all changed.

I was something.  I was flying.  Two years on the beat and I passed my probationary period with flying colours, moving onto response cars and cutting my teeth with the constant high crime of inner city London.  Riot training courses at three years’ service and I did my share of the annual anti-capitalist riots, football games and carnivals.

By five years’ service I was on the Armed Response Vehicles then moved up into the Tactical Firearms Teams.  Nine years’ in and I was taking my detective exams, passed high and moved onto divisional Criminal Investigations reactionary departments.  Then onto the pro-active units where we would go hunting, those were the best years by far.  Dressed like a slob and catching bad people doing bad things.  I was never bent or corrupt and never took a bribe.  It was violent and gritty and everyday we’d have a roll around on the floor with someone.

Then I moved onto Major Crime teams, working through the various teams for Murder, Serious Assault and then finally; Sexual Offences.  Which is where it all went horribly wrong.  Funny how small choices can fuck up the rest of your life.  ‘If’ I’d stayed on the murder squad, or stuck with the divisional work I would never have ended up like this.

But I didn’t, I wanted to work my way through all the teams.  I loved it and couldn’t get enough.  The overtime was always there and the people I worked with were dedicated.  Even when my marriage fell apart I kept working, the team supports you through things like that, like a family.  You spend more time with them than you do your real family.  You rely on them and they rely on you.  But I did end up on the sexual offences team and I did end up going after that fucking child molester.  And being the dedicated hard working idiot that I am, I bloody caught him.  Even now two years on and the images of what he did to those kids still flashes through my mind.  Some people are born evil and some are made.  He was rare.  He was both.

I snap out of my darkness and realise where I am, telling myself to get a grip and accept the reality of what now is the truth.  I’m here and that’s all there is to it.  I’ve got months of peaceful living ahead of me.  I can read as much as I want, hell I can even use this time to get in shape again.  Get back to the level of fitness I had when I was on the gun crews, eat healthy and cut back on the booze and smoking.  Feeling slightly less self-pitying I head back into the house to continue my unguided tour.