Day Two (Season 1)
Author: R R Haywood
Date: 2012-07-01 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Zombie Apocalypse
Description: THE ICONIC BRITISH SERIES THAT HAS REDEFINED A GENRE AND BECOME FAR MORE THAN A ZOMBIE STORY. This is a tale of loyalty, friendship, and the sacrifices we make for love. The Undead is a gripping, and often laugh-out-loud exploration of how far we’ll go to protect those we care about. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “One of the most original voices of our time.” - Richard Moriarty, The Sun. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “RR Haywood delivers in style.” - Chris Riches, The Express. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “Exceptional” - The London Economic. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "Gripping authenticity from ex-cop Haywood” John Ward, Deputy Editor, Daily Star Sunday ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “It can only be a matte
Publisher: 1899 Inc Ltd

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.

“The Undead” ™ and “The Living Army” ™ are Trademarks.

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

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

Design, Cover and Illustration by Mark Swan

CONTENTS

Day Two

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Also by RR Haywood

THE UNDEAD

Day 2

DAY TWO

CHAPTER EIGHT

Day Two

Saturday

I drift back to consciousness. Stretching with a long, pleasurable groan while thinking how much I love dozing on the sofa in the afternoon on a day off.

Then the events of yesterday come slamming back in one solid stream of images and memories, and emotions, and reactions, making my heart whump in my chest as my eyes snap open.

The things I saw on the news reports, then watching as the fat bloke was taken down outside my house, and the carnage that followed. Throwing missiles at them. Setting them on fire. Puking and screaming, and panicking. Then into the town centre, and the guy on the cash-in-transit van. I fell off the moped and feel a pang of humiliation at that memory; then my mind instantly floods with images of me attacking the infected people, hitting them with the hammer, then the motorway, and the car accident. That woman. I tried saving her. She died. She came back. I stomped her head in. I feel sick.

The village. The newsagents. Throwing the cash register on the head of that infected guy, then setting more on fire. Then the shop near here, the Asian lad that came out to help me.

Memories coming thick and fast, swimming in my head, and I stagger up to my feet, wondering where I am. My parents’ house. The note. Are they back? I move too fast from waking so quickly and rush into the hallway, and can instantly tell the house is exactly the same as when I went to sleep. They’re not here.

Into the kitchen, and I run the cold tap to wash my face and drink deep, easing my parched throat. My mouth tastes like shit too. Like someone took a dump in it while I slept. What the fuck is happening? Is this real? Am I dreaming?

I splash more water on my face, then lean in to dunk my head under the flow, shivering when it hits the back of my neck.

Too many thoughts flood my head as I remember what happened, then think of the news reports again, and how they said it was everywhere. It was definitely in Europe, and I saw footage from Moscow, and Russia’s landmass is attached to China and a ton of other countries too. They’ll all be hit. The rate of spread was staggeringly fast. Jesus, I saw it with my own eyes.

One person gets bit, and they attack everyone near them, and every single one of those then becomes infected and does the same. Two minutes at the most. That’s it. Two minutes from the point of being bitten to becoming one of them.

There must be some safe places. The governments have strategic policies for everything. They would have initiated some lockdown 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, say, a country like China or another nuclear power saw what was happening and how it was coming towards them, wouldn’t they try and stop it by any means possible. Shit. Maybe that’s happened already. Maybe right now there are major cities being hit with nukes.

Slow down, Howie. I draw a breath and force my mind to slow down by focussing on something mundane like drinking water. Simple. I bend down again and drink more as the image of a rotting corpse floating in a reservoir pops helpfully into my head, causing me to spray the water out all over 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 all infected, roaming around Welsh valleys, biting sheep.

The water I spat out is dripping down from the window, but at least it’s still light outside. I check my watch. It’s 9 p.m. I slept for hours. It must have been midday or maybe 1 p.m. when I finally laid down on the sofa. My parents should have been back hours ago.

Where are they?

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 crowd of infected in Boroughfare town centre. If my parents had driven anywhere near that place, they could easily have become overwhelmed. I hope that my dad would have had the sense to avoid going through there.

I should wait here, but if they are not back by 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 lock up and stay safe.

Heading towards the door, and another thought strikes me. Rushing back, and I add a quick PS to the note.

Don’t drink the water! Boil it first. Think like Ray Mears!

My bag is still in the Micra, but I did bring the bat inside with me. The end of which 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 to look 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 aren’t exactly a household item.

Nothing obvious in the garden apart from a wooden bench and a clothesline, neither of which would make particularly good weapons. Unless you’re Ray Mears, of course.

I open the back door to the garage and step in, knowing my dad has loads of tools all hung up in properly marked slots. Everything neat and tidy, and I stand for a minute, eyeing them in turn.

The shears look good, but again, the range is too short. I want something long to keep them away. A garden fork? Ah, but they’d get stuck on the prongs. A metal spade? No, it lacks the striking power. Then I see an axe hanging on the wall, with a plastic cover over the metal end.

I take it from the hook and pull the plastic cover off. It’s longer than the bat, and the handle is composite with rubberised, non-slip grippy bits. The blade looks sharp too. 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.

I should ditch the bat, but it has proven to be a very good weapon. Maybe I could use both.

I potter out to the garden and start practising swinging the bat and axe at the same time like a heroic Chuck Norris. Mind you, he’s old now. Maybe more like that Paco Maguire from all the action movies. Yeah, that’s more like it, all rugged and muscly, and handsome, swinging a bat and axe about while fending off imaginary zombie things. Darting this way and that. An attack from the side. I take them down, then spin to kill the ones trying to bite my bum. A damsel in distress waiting over yonder, all quivering with heaving bosoms. Which just makes me think of the woman from the car accident suffocating me with her breasts, and I lose focus and smash the bat and axe together, jarring my arms so hard I drop both and instantly feel stupid while in my head, the damsel in distress shrugs, calls me a twat, and walks off.

I leave the bat in the hallway by the front door and step outside to see some bastard has taken the Micra. The fucking apocalypse is here, and some shit steals the crappiest car possible.

I do look up and down, in case it rolled away, or I left it further up, but nope, definitely not here. I end up doing that thing that everyone does in these situations and standing there for a few minutes, looking all around in case it should magically reappear.

Walking out of the estate, and I notice that the driveways of the other houses are now all empty. Most of these had cars on them when I got here earlier. That explains why someone stooped so low as to steal a Nissan Micra instead of a nice BMW or Mercedes.

It takes me several minutes to get down onto the main road, where I aim towards the shop, hoping there will be something I can use. It’s still light, but that won’t last more than an hour or so.

The shop comes into view, and I can see my Micra looking small against BMWs, Mercedes, and Range Rovers from the posh retirement estate.

As I’m trying the handle of the Micra, a man steps out from the shop, which makes me stare guiltily like I’m trying to steal his car while pondering the fact that I stole it in the first place.

‘Can I help you?’ he asks in a polite but firm voice. An older man in his fifties with dark hair, greying and swept back.

‘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, with a collection of weapons held in their hands: knives, bats, metal poles; then another guy walks out wider, with a double-barrelled shotgun resting across the crook of his arms, with a deliberate act to show me he’s armed.

The group try to look menacing, with stern faces, but they’re all overweight, retired accountants and bankers with greying hair and wearing a collection of golfing trousers.

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

‘Ah, well, you see,’ the man who came out first says, ‘there’s 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. I appreciate that, but I’m heading to Boroughfare…’

A deep voice from the back rumbles out, ‘Boroughfare’s gone, mate …’

‘Yeah, I know. I was there at the time. May I ask what happened to the 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 er…and all that.’ He speaks with a clipped, almost military manner, nodding while he talks.

‘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 is a note, but not in English, you see. None of us could, er… Well, we couldn’t read it.’

‘That makes sense,’ I nod back at the group. ‘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 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 saying that London is gone, and people should head to the Palmerston Forts.

‘Ah, I see. Right, well, there we go, eh, chaps? 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.’

Yeah, from right outside my house. Well, my parents’ house. Anyway. ‘That’s okay, mate. Did you hear the message on the radio?’

‘No, but I only drove it here.’

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

‘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 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. 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 they all start talking and moving about quickly. A sudden need for action, and the hope of a safe place to go.

‘Ah, now hang on, chaps, 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, heading back into the shop, and I’m instantly forgotten. It’s just me, the Micra, and the keys in my hand.

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 wave an arm briefly as I speed off down the road.

CHAPTER NINE

On the same motorway as earlier, and within a short time, I see the wreck and the two bodies lying by the mangled car. I keep my speed up and get past quickly.

Habit of hand kicks in, and I put the indicator on at the three-hundred-yard sign and take the junction that heads into my town.

I come off the motorway, 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 route. With any luck, I’ll be following in his wake.

I skirt around the town and drive towards my flat through suburban streets, seeing signs of devastation everywhere. Abandoned cars with doors open, glass on the road, front doors hanging open, and windows smashed. What shocks me the most is just how much blood there is. Smeared over car doors, splattered against windows, and in some places, just pooled in puddles. I spot a trail of it leading down a garden path.

Movement ahead of me, and I ease the speed off as a child shuffles into view wearing teddy bear pyjamas, and my blood runs cold at the sight. At the blood on his tiny limbs and smeared over his face. Then he turns to look at me; his head lolling about, and his eyes as red and bloodshot as all the others I’ve seen. It’s just bloody grim, and I swallow the urge to cry right now. To burst into tears at the sight of a kid in teddy bear pyjamas. At the awful fear he must have felt when it was happening. Does he feel anything now? Is there any part of his mind left? Do they even feel pain? I think back to setting the shop on fire yesterday, and how they all stood there and let the flames burn them, showing no reaction as to their plight.

It’s too awful to think about, and the kid is too awful to see, so I keep going and drive on by, staring ahead as I pass while clenching my jaw and wishing, with everything I have, that I could do something to help him.

I get to my road and pull up outside my house. The scene looks surreal, like someone has created a movie set and carefully placed all of my household objects near the dead bodies.

My toaster stands out the most, and 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, and this time, I can’t stop the tears streaming down my face. I know in truth that the reaction is really from seeing the little boy, but telling myself I’m crying over the toaster somehow makes it okay.

But then it’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and nothing will ever be okay again. The safety and comfort of my home is gone. I think of old news reports of faraway places suffering from war or natural disaster, and 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 now. I can grieve later when my family is 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, so 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 it’s night.

I get to the T-junction, with the High Street 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 cafés. The right is clear, but the moped I crashed into the parked car is still there.

I look 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, 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, so I stop and take 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 could never work out if that was an instruction to the police, or if they were telling potential robbers that the police were actually following them.

The front doors are locked, and there’s no sign of damage to the front of the vehicle. The man climbed out of a roof hatch last night, but 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, but like a dick, I wedge the driver’s side tight in and have to clamber over the passenger seat, then up onto the roof of the car, then up onto the van to peer down through the still open hatch.

‘Hello?’ I pause for an answer but hear nothing, and lean down to look through before lowering down into the van properly. A black swivel chair at a small desk, and one side given over to numbered shelves and compartments; each filled with cloth money bags bulging with cash.

A door leads to the cabin, currently wedged open with a small fire extinguisher, and I spot the keys are still in the ignition.

‘Yes,’ I mutter my victory and drop into the driver’s seat to twist the ignition on, but the van doesn’t start, and I notice the flashing icon on the dashboard that tells me why the van stopped.

He ran out of fuel. Simple, really.

When I clamber out, I notice the daylight has almost gone now, and the last few rays are just peeking down the street as the sun gives way to night, and as I look about, I spot the single infected shuffling towards me.

‘Fuck me,’ I mouth. The guy’s huge. At least six-foot four, with muscles bulging out of his forearms, and biceps the size of melons, and the obligatory shaved head, and no neck. Dressed in black too. Black trousers and shirt. He must be a bouncer from one of the local clubs, and I watch as he shuffles along, with his arms hanging limply at his sides and spot the bite wound to the top of his bald head.

Shit, I wouldn’t want to meet him on a normal day, never mind now. Thankfully, he’s still some distance off. I turn away, intending to get back in the car, when I notice he’s stopped to stand completely motionless, with his head raised, as though he’s staring at the sky.

I look up, thinking maybe he’s seen something, but only the night sky is above us. No other sounds. No anything.

‘You alright?’ I call out, with a sudden thought that maybe he’s not infected after all. He’s not lolling his head or anything now. Just standing there, staring up. ‘Mate, you okay?’ I take a step towards him, frowning in confusion as he opens his mouth and lets out a huge, guttural roar. And instant later, and I hear more of the same thing. Voices roaring out. Some from the left; then more from somewhere behind me. Others to the right. More further away. Some closer. More and more joining in from all directions, and all emitting that deep, terrifying roar, like wolves signalling each other, and it’s quite possibly the single most frightening thing I have heard.

The echo rolling about. The awfulness of it. The animalistic sounds so far from being human. There must be hundreds too.

Then it stops, with an absolute cessation of noise, and the silence that follows is truly deafening as the big bouncer drops his head and stares straight at me, then starts shuffling slowly with that same awkward, stiff gait, but within a few strides, he becomes more cohesive and coordinated.

The streetlamps all ping on as I watch. One after the other going down the street, bathing the world in false light, but enabling me to see the transformation on his face as he goes from that slack-jawed look of sublime stupidity to something altogether very different.

Back to what they were last night. Back to the wild, frenzied things. His head still lolls but nowhere as much, and the fear spikes higher inside me as the adrenalin starts dumping, priming me for flight or fight, and there is no bloody way on god’s green earth I am fighting that massive thing.

I leg it for the car, launching myself into the passenger side headfirst, which is another monumentally stupid thing to do as the car is too small to twist round in properly, especially seeing as I have a massive axe in my hand. The fear rises, with panic setting in, and I twist onto my back, desperately trying to reach the open door, watching as he runs towards me, all six-foot four of angry, wild, saliva-frothing, steroid-pumped, angry zombie with red eyes.

‘SHIT!’ I get a hand on the door and try to slam it shut, but I’m too slow, and he’s through the open gap, driving his head in at me. With a strangled yelp, I get my knees up as his lips pull back, showing two rows of bloodstained teeth.

I kick out, frantically trying to keep him away, but it’s like kicking a tree. My feet keep going, cycling back and forth, and the soles of my trainers strike him repeatedly in the face, smashing his nose and jerking his head back, but he keeps coming at me, gnashing his teeth while snarling like an angry dog. Somehow and more by accident than design, I get both feet into him at the same time and use every ounce of strength to kick out with enough force to knock him back onto his arse.

A frantic split-second decision. I don’t have the time to scrabble up and close the door, so I look round in desperation and see the keys in the ignition. Reaching out, I grab and twist them, and the blessed, little Micra engine comes to life. I twist again and stretch down to push the accelerator with my hand, but it’s not in gear, and the bloody thing just revs but doesn’t go anywhere.

Multitasking has never been my strongest skill, and it certainly isn’t now, and it gets decidedly worse when the bouncer lunges back in for round two while I’m on my back, trying to get a car in gear, which won’t happen unless the clutch is pushed down. ‘Fuck off,’ I shout out, battering him away with my feet again while reaching to push the clutch down at the same time as frantically jabbing the stick into first gear. The bouncer’s nose breaks with a nasty crunch, and blood spurts out, spraying the inside of the windscreen and sending hot spatters over my face. Grunts and growls, hisses, and muttered, angry curses is all we manage as I kick and kick. My stomach muscles screaming in agony while the poor car grinds the gears as I heave to get the clutch down.

‘FUCK IT! JUST FUCK OFF,’ I scream in part frustration, part anger, and a whole lot of fear. Cycling my feet again and creating an equal force that just about holds him at bay, but my thighs and stomach are searing in agony. A burst of panic. A rush of fear, and in that second, I get enough cohesion and strength to finally get the clutch down and the car in gear, but that only creates another problem because if I lift the clutch too quickly, then the car will stall.

Another frantic twist as I scream out and wedge myself head down into the footwell, and get my hands to the pedals – one on the accelerator and one on the clutch, revving hard while feeling the bouncer’s body weight slowly getting further into the car, crushing my legs as he thrashes to bite, rocking the car on its suspension.

I lift my hand from the clutch, and the engine bites, but there is no motion. The fucking handbrake. The fucking stupid handbrake. ‘FUCK!’ I bellow out, furious that I will die here like this and start clawing 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, but the huge bouncer comes with us, still thrashing and still gnashing. I kick with everything I have, bucking and heaving as the car speeds up. My head in the footwell. Everything a blur. Everything crazed and wild.

Then he’s gone. Falling away, and the removal of his weight gives me a second of relief while I hope to hell I don’t crash the car.

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 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 to see the bouncer is already up and running at me, and only a few metres away.

I push the gear stick into reverse and thrust the accelerator down as I twist my torso in order to see out of the back. The car gathers speed as the bouncer runs at me, and we collide with a massive bang as he comes headfirst through the back window, showering me in glass, and still he gnashes, snapping his mouth open and closed. I anchor the brakes on so hard he flies back out and thumps bodily down onto the road.

Absolute terror grips me, but something else too – that rage I had yesterday. That searing, burning anger that makes me grab the axe and rush from the car to see him already sitting up. His face all ripped up from grazing along the road. Blood everywhere. One of his legs broken and poking out at an angle, but before I can think, I’m there and swinging the axe down into his head, sending the blade deep into his brain, splitting his cranium open, which bursts the grey matter out like the yolk from a boiled egg.

I pull the axe back, and he slumps over to the side, but the anger is coursing through me. So I chop his bald head off, and in my wild, righteous victory, I kick it hard, sending it rolling away as pain explodes in my big toe.

‘Cunt! You fucking cunt! That fucking hurt…’ I hop about, cursing and muttering as another infected man comes staggering at me from the left, with another one right behind him. Only a few paces away, and I have just enough time to lift the axe up, step backwards, and strike out. I aim for the head but miss, and strike his neck, splitting it open and sending him away from me; blood pouring out of the wound.

No time to change position. The next one is already charging in, so 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.

There are more coming. The noise and action must be drawing them in. 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 now blocked off by a large metal drop barrier used during the evenings to stop vehicles going in, making it pedestrian only.

The barrier is down, giving me no choice but to turn right, and as I gain the view, I finally see where all of the infected from earlier went. Hundreds of them and not that far away either. There’s less street lighting down there too, which gives them a massed, dark, shadowy look that sends shivers up my spine.

There’s no way I can get through them in the Micra. Maybe a tank would do it, but not this thing.

Twisting round in the street, and there’s more behind me running up the street. At least five or six. Fuck it. No way back and no right turn. The only option is through the precinct.

Out of the car, axe in hand, and I start running, 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.

To my right is one of the bars. The outside seating area looks like a riot has taken place – chairs and tables thrown all over the place, and massive stains of blood just about everywhere. Bodies too. Corpses that lie still in all manner of gruesome positions.

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

Glancing back, I see that some of the infected chasing me have reached the precinct, and I watch in second of surreal awe as one of them runs into the barrier so hard he somersaults over and lands in a heap. Doesn't stop him though, and he’s back up, running with his zombie mates.

Then the massive horde are pouring from the corner. More of them run into the barrier that’s now pushed forward by the relentless surge.

I can run faster than them, but for how long? Something tells me this lot will never get tired or have to worry about warming up properly or pulling muscles.

‘FUCK!’ I scream in frustration at the sight of more coming towards me from ahead, trapping me in the bloody precinct.

Spinning round and round, I search for any way out. Then I see it – a set of old double doors. Huge, Victorian, ornate things, and one of them is open, with warm, orange light spilling out onto the street. That’s my only option, so I take it, charging across the street as I run through, over, and round the metal chairs scattered everywhere.

Heaving for breath, I get inside and slam the door closed behind me. Finding big, sturdy bolts on the inside of the door and even bigger, sturdier metal bar that I ram into place before gasping for air as the infected hit the other side.

CHAPTER TEN

I bend over to get my breath, panting heavily from the exertion of running flat out, and notice I’m in a small hallway at the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs covered in a deep red, luxurious carpet. Red coloured walls too and soft lighting overhead.

Without any idea what this place is, I start heading up the stairs, reaching a small landing with a desk like a reception. A set of double doors to the left, thick ones too like fire doors and painted gloss black.

I try to use my foot to push one open a little, with my 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. 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, trying to peer through as the gap widens, and I slowly get a view of the inside and look about, taking it all in, totally stunned.

A large, dark room filled with chairs and tables, and a bar running down the right side, with discreet back-lighting and glass shelves filled with bottles of spirits – each one with old-fashioned metal pouring spouts stuck in the top. A catwalk in the middle, jutting out from a stage, and two shiny metal poles sparkling in the low light as disco music beats on, like the soundtrack from a retro porn movie. Flashing, red lights on the stage, and spotlights shining down on the catwalk.

The whole thing is amazing. I had no idea this place was here, but the most stunning thing is the woman on the stage wearing just a thong, with some kind of collar fastened round her neck, secured to a chain that stretches out behind her through the curtains. She’s one of them, one of the infected things. Right there in front of me. A bloody topless zombie woman leashed to a pole dancing stage.

She’s obviously seen me judging from the way she’s straining forward, pulling against the collar, with frantic, little lunges, twanging the chain each time she pulls forward, but the weirdest thing are her enormous, fake breasts that remain motionless despite her hard tugs against the collar and chain.

‘What the fuck …?’

I step in and close the door. Stunned to the core and still breathing hard from the fight and running. Sweat dripping down my face as I take it all in. The collar’s nearly as thick as her neck, and the chain looks solid too. I’ve never been to a lap dancing place or a strip club before, so I don’t know if this is normal.

It looks expensive, and the seats all look new and very plush. I look about, spotting a DV booth at the back and a man lying on the dancefloor, slumped, with his back against the booth.

He looks dead, like proper dead. A dark suit, with a white shirt underneath, and he looks very smart. Apart from the knife handle poking out of his chest, that is.

I kick one of his feet gently and jump back, ready to react. Nothing. I kick again a bit harder, still nothing.

Using the axe, I nudge his shoulder. He slumps over onto his side, but there’s still no signs of life. Grimacing, I lean in and gently touch the side of his neck as I feel for a pulse. Not finding one, I lift one of his eyelids and see the eyes are lifeless and pale, but thankfully not red, and bloodshot. His skin is cold too, like he’s been dead for a while.

This is the first real dead body I’ve seen, and it feels weird. It’s not one of those things out there or like that woman on the stage, but a real person. I even chopped a bloke’s head off a few minutes ago, but this just feels different. A proper dead body, a murder victim.

How senseless is that? The whole world is collapsing, 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 another knife, but there’s just me and stripper lady. Which makes me think someone put her into that neck collar, but then I guess if this is some kind of kinky place, then maybe she had it on already.

I move away from the dead man and walk towards the bar to check behind it. Nothing there. All clear.

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

As I look about, my eyes come back to the stripper lady tracking me as I walk about, straining against her collar and chain, and as I walk down the side of the catwalk, so she follows me. Her breath coming in strained hisses, blasting in and out but barely heard under the retro porn music twanging away.

She’s very pretty, but with harsh, garish make-up on her eyes, and peroxide blond hair hanging down to her shoulders. She’s very slim too, which just makes those enormous boobs look even bigger. I can’t see any injury on her; maybe it’s on her back.

I edge closer, watching her. She looks almost normal. The disco lights hide her red eyes. I can’t hear the growls or snarls she must be making either, and from all those things I see beyond the beast to the woman inside. Is the woman still inside? Is there any shred of her mind still intact? She looks so normal, and I can’t help but reach out to touch her outstretched hand, expecting it to feel cold or like what I’d think a dead person should feel like. But it’s not at all. Her skin has warmth and is soft and pliable.

Then two things happen at the same time.

First, she animates a second after I touch her and makes a desperate lunge to get at me as those hands I touched become rigid like talons.

Which is also when a door in the corner of the room slams open, flooding the area with bright, white light and a man walks in, pulling his fly up, which makes me flinch and spin while my hand is still stretched out and I accidentally slap one of her big boobs. Which isn’t soft and pliable at all but rock hard. Like a rock.

The man stops and we stare at each other in silence as I slowly drop my arms down to my side while hoping he didn’t see me slap the dead stripper’s boob.

‘Did you just slap her boob?’

Bollocks. ‘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?’ he asks, with a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

‘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 slapping. I should know. I fucking paid for them.’

He stops at the other side of the catwalk. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. He plucks at the shirt cuffs under the jacket sleeves, pulling them straight and giving me a glimpse of gold-coloured cufflinks. He looks like a London gangster from the movies, with dark hair slicked back and designer stubble. He smiles at me, charming and nice, yet there’s an aura about him, a threatening undertone. It is in his swagger and the sharp movements of his hands. He looks straight at me, holding eye contact. ‘So… What do you think?’

‘Er, yeah… They look great, really nice.’ I nod like I’m talking about a new car.

A look of anger flashes across his face. ‘So you were looking at her fucking tits, then?’ He stares at me, unblinking.

‘No! I was…’

‘Take it easy, mate. I’m only messing with you,’ he says with a sudden switch. ‘She’s a fucking stripper. 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, an infected 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.

He moves over to the end of the bar and pours a large shot of something into a glass.

‘Do you want a drink, mate?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Have a drink with me.’ 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 bottle on the napkin. ‘So, what’s it like out there?’ he asks, straight back to being calm and natural, like any bartender 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. ‘Good work… Quick thinking under pressure. You’ve got good nerves and an eye for the ladies too. I could use a man like you here. You working?’

What the fuck? ‘Er, yeah. I…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, but he looks at the bloodstains on the metal head as a fresh look of anger 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 tell you – it costs a bloody arm and a leg. I know cos I have to get it fucking cleaned every week. I keep telling those 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, and 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 like 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, and he flashes another dark look at me.

‘Sorry, I’m really thirsty.’

He shakes his head, shrugs nonchalantly, and pulls out a bag of white powder from the inside pocket of his jacket, and empties a small amount on the bar top, 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 before repeating the action with the other side as I watch on, completely absorbed. Then he stands upright and blinks a few times before smiling at me.

‘Do you want some, Howie?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Suit yourself, Howie.’

I can’t help but wonder how she got into the collar. Who bit her? Why did that man get stabbed? More than anything, though, I know that I should leave. Quickly. The way he keeps saying my name is freaking me out. ‘Is there another way out of here?’ I ask politely.

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, getting a free eyeful of the birds in the dressing room.’ 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 as his mouth slowly purses.

‘Well, I think that’s fucking rude, Howie. Giselle is on stage, and you’ve had a grope of her tits and taken advantage of my good nature, with free drinks, and now you want to 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 all with small, quick movements of 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. 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 paid for.’

‘Please, Marcus, I just want to leave.’

‘You ain’t fucking leaving, Howie,’ he snorts with laughter. ‘Not until you understand that nothing is for free.’

‘Okay, what do you want? I don’t have any money.’

He walks towards me and casually picks the knife up from the bar, holding it down at his side while he stares directly into my eyes.

‘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… By those things, 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.’

‘Debt? What do you want, then?’

He stops, with 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 get free gropes.’

‘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,’ he motions towards the stage with the knife.

Turning round, I make a point of looking at Giselle, 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 of 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 and 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. Tell you what, Howie. Seeing as its 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.’

‘Oh, you don’t 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 it’s 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 reassure myself that I’m still holding it, and a maniacal grin spreads on his face as he spots the movement.

‘Oh, now, Howie… Howie, there’s no need for that. Just go and give Giselle a little kiss and you can go.’

‘No, mate. No way.’

‘Give Giselle A FUCKING KISS.’

‘No.’

He walks towards me, 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 but only have a short distance before I’m trapped by the stage, and Giselle straining at her leash.

‘Where you gonna go, Howie? The exit is the other side of the stage.’

Giselle tracks his movement as he walks round the edge of the catwalk towards me. Her upper body leaning forward, straining against the collar.

‘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.’

‘What? Mate, please…’

‘Please what? You fucking pussy.’ The mocking morphs into a snarl as that dark look flashes across his face again.

My right hand brushes against the back of a chair as the images of the last twenty-four hours whirl through my mind. Breathing harder now, heart hammering in my chest, and I look down at the blood and gore on the metal axe head. ‘About twelve…’ I say, looking back up at him as he blinks, with a glance of confusion.

‘Twelve what?’

‘First one with a hammer, then two with my feet. I tried saving her but… 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 start walking 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 and laugh just as Giselle drops down and sinks her teeth into the top of his head; her hands clawing at his cheeks. She bites down hard too, with blood spurting out and pouring down his face.

He screams and lashes out. The knife 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 he drops down as Giselle tears a chunk of scalp with a horrible, wet ripping sound, leaving him writhing in agony, clutching the top of his bloodied head while Giselle strains forward, with a chunk of hairy scalp hanging from her mouth.

Giving them both a wide berth, I run around the side of the catwalk, looking for the exit. The toilet door is there, but nothing else. It must be through the stage.

I climb up and push through the curtain. The back area is dark and dimly lit by red bulbs. Not giving my eyes enough time to adjust to the gloom, I go blundering through and trip over a big box, sprawling onto the stage floor surrounded by feather boas, thongs, chains, whips, and bottles of pressurised whipped cream.

Lifting my hand up, I stare in wonder at the set of glittery handcuffs and look down to see another one of the neck collars, with a chain attached. Moving quickly, I 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 writhing about on the floor in front of her; his wails of pain sounding easily above the disco porn music. From this view, I can see where she was bitten – right on her once perfect backside, with a huge chunk of flesh torn away.

Once I am at Marcus’ side, I put one end of the handcuffs through the chain and close the loop. I then lean down and grab at Marcus’ wrist, attaching the handcuff and locking it securely on him before jumping back as he surges up to attack me.

‘YOU CUNT,’ he screams; his face covered in blood.

I move backwards away from him as he comes at me. The handcuffs pull the chain, which goes taut from being secured to the pole, and he is jerked back off his feet, screaming as he starts clutching at the manacle on his wrist. ‘No! Fuck! NO!’

He keeps pulling, 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 fucking runt,’ he growls as he starts towards the edge of the stage, but Giselle lunges at him again, driving him back. With his back turned, I rush forward and grab the fallen knife from the ground.

‘Looks like you’re stuck, mate.’

He spins round to me. His face immediately changing as the fury ebbs away. ‘Please, I was only joking. I wouldn’t have done anything to you. Come on, Howie. Please let me go.’ He grimaces in pain, rubbing his hand on his stomach.

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, but the fiery liquid burns my throat and makes me cough and spit it out over the bar.

Cool, very cool.

‘Howie, come on, mate,’ he pleads. ‘Let me go, eh? Eh, mate? You wouldn’t leave me like this, would you? YOU FUCKING CUNT, I’LL SLICE YOU INTO BITS AND FUCKING FEED YOU TO HER!’ He switches between sobbing and wild fury as the cocaine and adrenalin pulse through his body. Constantly working at the handcuff, as though he can slip his wrist through, then pulling at the chain. He finally stops pulling and touches the top of his head. His hand comes away bloody, which he stares at, looking confused, and then grimaces again, and bends over from obvious pain in his stomach. ‘Jesus, that fucking hurts!’ he gasps and pulls the cocaine from his jacket, shaking and trembling as he fumbles to get it open but drops it on the floor; the white powder bursting out over the carpet. He drops down and snorts his nose against the floor, snuffling about like a hungry pig.

‘Howie, you can’t leave me like this. I’ll die,’ he begs, on his knees, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and his face covered in white power turning pink from the blood pouring down his face. ‘Fucking hell, not like this… NOT LIKE THIS!’ he shouts into the air before attacking the handcuff with his free hand, ramming his arm back again and again, which drives the metal edge deep into the flesh on his wrist, cutting him open. More blood pumps out, but he doesn't stop. If anything, it drives him on to tug and yank with all his might.

He stops instantly. Going completely still, he stares at me with wide eyes before grabbing at his stomach and bending double. Edging forward, I watch him sink to the floor, clutching his mid-section as he screams in agony. The pain seems to intensify as he screams louder and then trails off, breathing in hard, shallow pants.

Then he’s gone. Dead. Completely still, and there’s no doubt about it – he just died. Not breathing, not moving, nothing. Shit, I did that. I caused him to die. Was it from the bite or the cocaine, or too much blood loss?

Rocking back, I cast about in shock until movement catches my eye. He twitches, his limbs spasm, and the twitches increase, as though an electric current is being put through him. He doesn't scream or cry out, but just spasms for a few seconds until he sits up in one smooth movement, turning his head to stare at me through red, bloodshot eyes and drool already coming out of his mouth as he tries to stand up with jerky, spasmodic movements.

Giselle has already lost interest in him and has turned to face me. Both of them drooling and groaning quietly, but thankfully, both of them are chained up.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The exit is through the back of the stage, a rear door that leads out onto a set of concrete steps going down to the ground floor.

Doors at the bottom of the stairs leading 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. 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 infected are there, I might not be able to close it again. I try the doors that must lead into the shops, but they’re locked. They don’t look that formidable, so I try to push against one of them. It yields slightly, so I take a step back and slam my shoulder against the door, just like they do on TV, and bounce straight off, yelping at the pain in my shoulder. 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 still holds, but I can feel it starting to buckle. Another two hard kicks, and the door bursts open.

My great plan backfires as I hear a loud and constant beeping sound. The alarm. There’s maybe a minute before it starts sounding properly, alerting every one of those things in the area. Here’s Howie. Come and eat him.

I rush in through a storeroom. Boxes stacked up and clothes rails, with garments hanging off them, but without lights, the place is shadowy and foreboding.

I go through the eerie storeroom to an office area, where I find the alarm panel illuminated on the wall. A standard 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 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 a yearly planner on the wall, with the staff annual leave marked out. Box files and folders are stacked untidily on shelves, with new till receipt rolls spilling out of them.

I check on the desk, sifting through bits of paper as the constant beeping sound spurs me on, then the desk jotter which is just full of doodles, scribbles, and mobile phone numbers. Opening drawers, I root through calculators, highlighter pens, a stapler, a hole punch, and more crap that all goes flying as I get more frantic.

The countdown is done, and as I reach for the shelves to check along them, the alarm starts wailing properly. A full-on ear-splitting warble that makes me want to shake my head to get the noise away.

In my mind, I can imagine every infected stopping still to slowly turn and listen to the stonking great alarm blaring out.

I stare daggers at the alarm panel, contemplating smashing the fucking thing with my axe. Then I see the six-digit number. Right there on the panel, written in pencil. Shaking my head, I key the numbers in and press ENTER, breathing a sigh of relief when the alarm cuts out.

I go back into the storeroom. A door leads to a toilet, and I find the staff room – just a small kitchen really, with a cheap table and chairs. There is a small worktop, with a sink, a 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.

Something about the kettle and toaster, and the thought of tea and toast sends a pang of sadness through me like being really homesick.

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, holding drinks, and pulling faces. They look young and carefree. 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, having relationships. Listening to music, discussing what outfits to wear.

Bloody hell, it’s all gone now.

That sense of sadness fills me completely, and I suddenly feel very lonely. Maybe it’s better to be like Marcus and get smashed out of your face on drugs and alcohol.

Leaving the staff room, I decide to check the rest of the store. If it’s safe, I will stay for a little while.

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, and I can see the brand name New Look on every available surface and wall. Of all the shops I could have gone into, I get a ladies’ fashion store. Hang on, they do men’s clothing as well, don’t they?

I move deeper into the store, crouching down to move between the rails until I’m flat on my tummy, poking my head out from under a load of dresses to stare at the large display windows at the front. Dressed up mannequins adorn the plinth, glittering and looking just fabulous, darling under the subdued and expertly fitted lights.

Other than the mannequins, there are shit loads of infected staring in. Nasty, bloodied faces pushing against the glass as they sway and move 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.

On my way back towards the door of the stock room, I stop at 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.

I head into the dark staff room and start trying to put the kettle on. The cardigan is so big the sleeves extend well beyond the length of my arms, and the thick collar pretty much swallows my head too. After squabbling about to roll the sleeves up and free my eyes, I get the kettle on and root about until I find a large, chipped mug. Two big teaspoons of sugar, a tea bag, and some milk from the fridge. Opening the fridge, I find a loaf of bread on the middle shelf. Who keeps bread in the fridge? Maybe it’s a policy of the store. Rule one of The New Look Charter. Section one, subsection two: all bread will be kept in the fridge.

Shaking my head, I finish brewing up and make use of the bread by getting some toast on the go. A couple of minutes later, and I’ve got a fresh, steaming cup of tea and two slices of lovely toast, which are devoured almost instantly.

It tastes lovely and serves to remind me how hungry I am, so I keep going, toasting more bread, and even finding some marmalade in the fridge.

Sitting back, I feel the first slightest sense of contentment since last night. Bloody hell, this only started last night. It feels like that was weeks ago.

I’ve already had countless lucky escapes, but I have got to be more careful and think clearly. I have to get back to my parents and see if they have returned, then head for London to find my sister.

Right now though, I can’t do anything until the hundreds of infected outside piss off and go somewhere else. I lean forward to rest my head against the thick material of the cardigan.

Better go and check in a few minutes.

Can’t stay here too long.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I wake with a start. Wondering where I am. I 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 as the slightly too tight jeans are pressing into my bladder, which is full from all the tea I drank.

Blundering about in the dark, I find the staff toilet and take a long piss, feeling that lovely, relieving sensation as my bladder empties. Even in the gloom, I can see my piss is dark, and I remember the urine colour chart on the wall of the 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 and supplies in, 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 infected have gone. I can’t see any now.

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 are essential 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 crawl through until I’m completely blocked from view and start looking for something to change into.

I need dark clothing that I can move quickly in. I find some black cargo trousers, with 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 covered in dried blood, so next, I head for the shoe 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, just fashionable explorer-type bags with thin straps. Mind you, they’ll have to do. I take one and find new boxer shorts and socks, and stuff several pairs of each into the bag. Then I put another top in after pulling off the tags.

Finally, I put a slightly thicker jumper in the bag too before heading back into the staff room to use the small sink to wash my body and change my underwear.

Dressed again, I feel better, cleaner, and more prepared. I’ll need sturdier shoes, though. I have had to use my feet several times already to kick and stamp, and these flimsy trainers don’t give any protection.

The Tesco supermarket where I work isn’t too far away, and I know we sell work boots in our clothes section. Plus, my store is open twenty-four hours, so it would have been open when this started on Friday night, and there’s 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 would mean getting decent supplies, a good bag, strong boots, and a big van to drive about in rather than a little Micra.

All I have to do is get out of here and use the side streets to reach it.

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 infected 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 the massive horde milling around the door that I went through some time ago. There must be hundreds of them.

Looking intently at the horde on the left, I fail to see the single male infected staggering past the window from my right until he is inches away, and I stand stock still as 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’ve outrun them so far, I can’t take that chance of getting trapped again.

The rear exit is the only choice.

I get to the back and cinch the rucksack straps as tight as they will go, and heft my axe while 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, and it will be a lot quieter as well. I push the metal bar down gently, keeping my movements very slow and controlled. The door is well used and is fairly easy to open. I peer out, alert for the slightest movement.

All clear.

Axe in my left hand, and a firm grip on the door handle with my right, I lean forward.

Still no infected, and I look up and down the small service road running along the back of the shops. Then 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.

I stay to the side, keeping low and using the cars to cover me. It is much darker here, with no street lighting, and it’s not long until I’m away from the shops and back into well-lit suburbia. Rushing along while trying not to make a sound.

After a few minutes, I pass a car in the middle of the road that has crashed into the parked vehicles. The windscreen smashed, and the doors hanging open. I quicken my pace and rush by.

Some of the houses have lights on inside that offer the street a warm, inviting glow, and I want to think of people sitting inside, watching television, and drinking tea instead of having to deal with this horror. I make haste until I reach the end of the junction and stop to stare across the road to the Tesco garage on the other side now 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, 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. Brightly lit like a glowing beacon standing proud in the night, with the massive, red Tesco sign shining on top, but I can’t see anyone moving about from this distance.

To the right of the building, there’s a very high fence, which runs around the back to the gated entry point for delivery trucks.

I move right and keep to the edge of the car park, skirting round until I reach the high fencing. At the 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 make 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 and someone moving around in the shadows. Watching quietly, I wait until the figure moves into the moonlit road, and I see that it’s an infected male, big built and shuffling along slowly towards 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 around 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 as he starts 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’s 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, but he looks like a truck driver.

I will only get one shot at this before he is on 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. There’s a sickening crunch and squelch as his skull bursts open, and the soft matter underneath is destroyed.

I pull the axe out and look around me, checking that the noise hasn’t drawn anyone else and feeling rather proud of myself. How many is that now? I told Marcus it was about twelve. So including Marcus and this truck driver, I make that about fourteen of the things I’ve killed. No, hang on. Marcus wasn’t one of them; he turned into one, but that was after he got killed. Shit, so can I count him or not? Actually, that makes me feel quite bad that I killed a real person. Fair enough, he was waving a knife at me while snorting cocaine, and trying to urge me to shag his zombie stripper girlfriend, but even so.

Shit, get a grip, Howie. Standing here like a fool, adding up your body count. At the staff door, I key the numbered code into the keypad and listen for the buzz and click as the lock releases. Easing the door open, I peer into the gloomy interior, pausing so I can listen for movement.

Inside, I move down the corridor to the security office. The door is closed but not locked. I enter the room and see 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, with his arms hanging 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, and bizarrely, I notice that even at the point of taking his own life, he still took the time to roll his sleeves smartly above the elbow. I can see old, army-style tattoos on his forearms, faded with time.

He was a very proud man, and in a way, I almost feel glad that he decided to choose his own fate rather than face becoming one of them.

The problem now is that in order to get to the monitors, I’m going to have to go through the big pools of blood on the floor.

I walk gently through 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 as my head stops inches above Bert’s groin. I go to stand up, but the floor is like ice now, and my trainers can’t get a grip, so I have to use the chair to lever myself upright, then twist round, and fall into the second seat, by which time my trouser legs are soaked through. I only just put these on too. Idiot.

Shaking my head at my own incompetence, I look toward the monitors.

I know 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 live feeds, and I’m surprised that there are no infected in the back rooms. I go through the different sections: the canteen, the office areas, and the locker rooms, but they’re all clear.

In the dry goods stock room, the largest of the storage areas, I can see a big 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 see that the heap is made from stacked-up bodies. It’s too dark to see clearly, but there are at least seven or eight bodies, all on top of each other.

‘What the fuck…’ muttering to myself, I move the camera about but cannot see anything else, and all the rest of the staff area is clear.

Selecting the shop floor cameras, I start looking at the main store feeds and instantly see another huge pile of bodies in the wide central aisle. Full colour, and with the lights on within the store, I can make out every gory detail.

Bodies, lots of bodies, all piled on top of each other into a big mound. Men, women, and children, and all of them with various injuries, bite marks, ragged flesh hanging open, limbs bitten through, bones exposed. The sheer amount of blood is immense, with large pools spreading out from the big mound.

Several mops and buckets stand nearby, and I can see someone has made an effort to clean up. With shaking hands, I use the joystick to flick through the other camera feeds, spotting slick, bloody drag marks going through the aisles, where the bodies have been dragged along.

Most of them have severed jugulars, necks slashed open with deep wounds. Some of the bodies on the top and outer edges are visible to the camera, and I can see the red, bloodshot eyes staring lifelessly.

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 infected, but I wasn’t expecting them to be proper dead and certainly not stacked up like this.

The next monitor along has been left focussed on the store entrance. Movement catches my eye, and I see an infected female staggering into the store like she’s seen prey. I check the list for the camera numbers and track her through various feeds. I lose her for a second, then find the right feed, and blink in surprise at seeing a man in Tesco uniform standing in front of the customer service desk, facing the oncoming infected female.

For a second I think he must be infected, given that he stands completely still, with his arms hanging by his sides, and I try to zoom in closer to see who it is, but the infected woman blocks my view as she charges at him.

‘What’s he doing?’ I murmur, thinking he’ll be taken down, but at the last second, 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. I can’t see who it is, but I do see the orange-handled butcher’s knife in his hand and notice the knife is reversed, with the blade upright, resting against his forearm. The blade that just sliced across the throat of the infected woman, who has crashed into the desk and is now on the floor, with blood spurting from the gash in her jugular.

I watch on in stunned silence as the man walks over to stare down at the woman he just killed and bends down to pick one of her legs up by the ankle, then starts dragging her towards the central aisle as I frantically change camera view.

He comes into view in the central aisle, but with his head down and the promotional banners hanging from the ceiling tiles, I still can’t see who it is and watch as he carefully avoids walking in the slippery wakes of blood he must have left before.

I hit buttons, changing cameras, cursing when I get the wrong ones, and working through all manner of aisles, nearly all of them covered in blood stains, until I get back to the middle aisle and stop to gawp in utter shock.

Dave.

It’s him. The small bloke that never really speaks. What the fuck? I check again, blinking and shaking my head. It’s definitely him. The same short, fair hair cut close to his scalp. The small build. The same man. He could be anywhere from late twenties to early forties. There was even a bet running in the canteen on his age. The other night, staff were asking him how old he was, but he never said. In fact, I can’t think of a time when he said more than five words in the same sentence.

I watch on as Dave drags the body round to the far side of the heap and pushes it onto the pile. An arm flops out, and he lifts it up and pushes it back in. It flops out again, and he tucks it under another body. Neat and tidy.

He then turns and walks back down to the service desk covered in knives. Small to large, and all laid out neatly.

Dave stops, picks up a thin, metallic sharpening tool, and turns away to watch the door while running his blade up and down. Otherwise motionless. Unblinking. Unflinching and appearing entirely and completely unafraid.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I leave the security office and make my way onto the shop floor with my axe, listening to the awful, piped music still playing through the speakers. Sickeningly redolent against the macabre view of the blood smears criss-crossing the once polished floor.

I reach the end of the middle aisle and look up to huge mound of bodies, never thinking that in my life I would ever see such a thing. The smell of it too. A strong tang of metal in the air. The minerals from the blood. Faeces too. Piss and sweat, but that blood, so crimson and stark on the floor, and the mop buckets that have obviously been used to try and clean up.

Then I get very nervous at creeping up on Dave while carrying an axe.

‘Dave… It’s Howie,’ I call out, but my voice breaks, so I cough and try again. ‘Dave? You there, mate? Is it okay if I come down?’

Dave appears at the end of the aisle ahead of me, with his knife and sharpener held in his hands. ‘Mr Howie,’ he says in greeting, as though everything is entirely normal. Then I remember the stack of bodies out the back too and glance again at the mound in the central aisle.

He must have killed at least a hundred of them, and in the glaring light, with that stench hanging in the air, and that fucking awful music playing, my insides react, and I bend double to puke and heave the contents of my stomach over the floor. I pause, thinking it’s over; then more comes, and I retch again until nothing but bile comes out, burning my throat and bringing tears to my eyes.

‘Some water, Mr Howie.’

I blink up to see him holding a bottle of water out. I didn’t hear him move, and for a second, my eyes rest on the blade in his hand before I nod and take the water, unscrewing the cap to take big, soothing gulps to ease the pain in my throat.

‘Sorry, Mr Howie.’

I look up again, thinking he’s saying sorry before cutting my head off, but he just stands there, with a very slight, pained expression on his face.

‘For the bodies,’ he continues, and I turn to slowly look back at the mound. ‘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 tucked into his blue trousers, and his fleece zipped up, with the collar down. Then I notice a single spot of blood on the back of his hand, and he blinks at it before walking off back to the service desk. I follow him down and watch as he takes an antibacterial wipe from a pack and starts methodically cleaning the blood from his hand. I don’t know what to say or even think but just stand in silence, watching him until he finally glances at me.

‘I paid for them, Mr Howie.’

‘Eh? Do what?’

‘The wipes. I left some money by till number one.’

‘Right,’ I say, looking over to till number one. ‘Er, it’s fine, Dave. Don’t worry.’

It’s all too much, and I sway a little, then flinch as Dave rushes to my side and helps lower me down to the ground to sit, with my head between my knees, the axe at my side.

‘Rest, Mr Howie.’

He goes back to sharpening the knife and watching the door but then stops, and walks off towards the chilled drinks cabinet by the front, and returns to hand me a bottle of Lucozade. I take it with a nod and once more start drinking.

‘I haven’t paid for it,’ he says.

‘S’fine,’ I say after guzzling most of it down. ‘How long have you been here, Dave?’

‘Eleven months, Mr Howie.’

‘No, I know that. I mean how long now?’

‘Since Friday.’

‘You’ve been here since Friday? Since this started?’ He nods. ‘Why are you here, Dave?’ He stares at me, expressionless, then 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 doesn’t say anything. ‘Don’t you have a family?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘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 infected.

‘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. I twist round but can’t see anything, so I stand up and look out the front to see several infected coming across the car park.

Dave calmly puts the sharpener back on the desk, then hovers his hand over the handles of the knives, and selects a smaller, straight-bladed, black-handled knife, then reverses both so the blades 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 grab my axe, lumber to my feet, 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 infected. Four of them, three males and one female, and all dressed in formal evening wear. Like they’ve been to a posh function. The men in dark suits and white shirts, and the woman in a gold-coloured, shimmering gown, and the sight is just another odd thing to see. The four of them staggering in a line all dressed up, with blood on their faces as they lurch across a vast car park.

‘What the fuck?’ I mouth the words, earning a glance from Dave just before he runs out, going straight towards the female, and as she leans in for the bite, he sidesteps and brushes the straight-bladed knife against her throat, slicing the flesh apart while extending the other knife out front like a sword that he plunges into the neck of the next one, driving it deep into his throat before spinning with incredible dexterity, pulling the knife free, and dropping down to a crouch. A pause. A beat of a heart. A blink of an eye, and he explodes up and into the next one, repeatedly stabbing into the ribcage as he drives it back before pushing the point of one of the knives in through the infected male’s eye.

One left, and Dave lets him come on. Waiting until the last second before spinning round the back of the infected man to grip his hair and yank him back, exposing his throat that he saws into with the knife, cutting through an artery that sprays an arc of hot, red blood high into the air.

Then he simply lets the body slump to the ground and turns a slow circle to scan the rest of the car park while I stand by the entrance, still holding my axe, with my mouth hanging open.

He was so clinical. Not savage or violent. Well, it was violent, incredibly violent, but not in a demented sense, like when I swing my axe about and hope for the best. He was precise and exact.

Dave checks the area and then walks back to the one with the knife sticking out of his eye, leans down, puts his foot on the dead infected man’s face, and pulls the knife out. He wipes both blades on the guy’s suit and starts walking back towards me, but stops at the female, bends down to grasp her ankle, and starts pulling her into the store, nodding as he passes me. ‘Mr Howie.’

I go after him as he pulls the body up the aisle. ‘Dave, you don’t have to stack them up.’

He stops and looks back me, then down at the body, and after a second’s worth of thought, he lets go, and the leg splats down in the bloody pool. ‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ he says before walking back to the desk and the pack of wipes.

‘Dave, have you got anywhere else to go?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Listen, mate, you can’t stay here. They’ll just keep coming, and you can’t keep stacking them up. They’ll decay and rot, and… Fuck me, the electricity won’t last that long either.’ He doesn’t reply but carries on scrubbing his hands and the blades of his knives with the wipes. ‘Dave, I heard there’s survivors heading to the forts on the coast. You could go there. Just take a delivery truck from the back.’

He pauses to look at me. ‘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’s no police or authority now; there’s no anything. I saw it on the news as it happened. The whole world’s gone, mate. Everything. You can do what you want, but staying here is…it’s just nuts.’

He seems suddenly unsure, with an expression on his face that I have never seen before, like the notion is too much to grasp, and despite watching what he did, I can’t help but see a raw vulnerability laid bare as he just blinks and stares at me.

‘Or,’ I say slowly, ‘you could come with me?’ He stays looking at me and doesn’t move a muscle, but somehow his focus sharpens. ‘I have to find my parents, then my sister. She’s in London. Then I’m going to the fort.’

I stop gabbling, not knowing why I’m telling him all this. He could kill me without hesitation, but then he looked so lost and floundering, and he hasn’t shown any threat or signs of evil intent towards me. In fact, he has acted the same as always, and he would be very handy to have nearby.

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ he says promptly. The worried look now completely gone from his face.

That’s it. No hesitation or questions, no wondering about who or where. He makes an instant decision, and he is back to being normal Dave.

‘I need to change my clothes. I’m covered in blood,’ I say, walking off towards the clothing section on the far side.

‘Blood, Mr Howie?’

‘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.’

‘I don’t have enough money.’

‘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.’

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. I’ve been using dark clothes so far, trying to keep hidden in the shadows. What do you reckon? About right?’

‘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 for a second and process what is probably the biggest speech I have ever heard him give, and he said it parrot-fashion, reeling it off from memory.

‘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 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 to 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, and 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. 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, Mr Howie.’

I follow behind as he selects 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, and he stops to look at me. ‘We should eat now.’

Then he’s off into the aisles, taking cooked chicken from the meat section, then packets of microwavable rice, and finally, tinned vegetables.

I follow behind, taking the same things while figuring he seems to know what he’s doing, and I did promise earlier that I would plan and prepare better.

We go through to the staff canteen area, where Dave dumps the contents of his packets and tins onto a plate and starts digging in, eating it all cold.

‘We could heat them up in the microwave. There’s still power,’ I suggest, pointing at the microwaves.

He looks at me, then carries on eating.

‘Fair enough. Cold it is.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A few minutes later, and we’re in a Tesco home delivery van, pausing as the back gates open from a sensor, and just for a second, I hold my breath, expecting to see hundreds of infected charging in.

There isn’t. Just a big, empty car park, and we head across it, leaving the bright lights and giant mounds of human corpses behind, and I glance at the blood red Tesco sign in my mirror and snort a dry laugh. ‘If they only knew…’

‘Knew what, Mr Howie?’ Dave asks.

‘Nothing, mate. Talking to myself. So you were in army, then? How long for?’

‘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.’

‘Sure, yeah, of course, um, right…’

Bloody hell. It feels rude to keep asking questions. He’s obviously a private man, but the silence is uncomfortable, and I feel the need to fill it. ‘I live in the town too, other side of the High Street.’

Silence.

‘I was at home when it happened. Yeah, er…watched it on the news. It’s everywhere. Russia and some other countries…’

Silence.

‘My parents live the other side of Littleton. I went there, to their place, I mean, not Littleton. Although I did go to Littleton too and then burnt it down. Um…’

Nothing.

‘They left me a note. My parents, I mean. Said they’re coming to look for me, so that’s why I came back, but I can’t find them.’

And still more silence.

‘My sister lives in London. She called my parents and said that she was locked in her flat. That’s where I’m going to try and find her… There was an emergency broadcast that said people should head to those forts on the coast. That’s where I thought we would go, you know, after I find my family.’

Silence again, and this time I leave it unfilled.

On the motorway, I slow down as we pass the wreck from Saturday morning. The woman’s body is still there, and the male corpse is still half out of the upturned car.

Dave looks at the wreckage as we go through.

‘I saw that happen; 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, then looks ahead again.

We pass the shop where I met the Indian lady and the estate survivors, but the cars are all gone now, and the shop looks deserted. Even the shelves look empty. I guess those people took everything and got away. I hope they made it.

Then we drive into the estate, and I feel my insides tense up as I navigate the turns, praying my mum and dad will be at home, waiting for me.

‘Fuck,’ I whisper the word and clench my jaw at seeing Dad’s car still isn’t back, then try to give myself false hope by thinking they could have ditched the car and walked back.

They haven’t. I know they haven’t, and I lock the van up and walk into the house to find it is exactly as I left it a few hours ago, and the note still on the table. I come to a stop, not doing anything, not thinking anything, and not really paying attention to Dave rushing off about the house.

‘All clear, Mr Howie,’ he says, coming back to the dining room.

‘What is?’ I ask him, my voice dull and lifeless.

‘The house, Mr Howie. I checked it.’

I stare at him for a moment then finally nod. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Dave.’

Grief and loss surge through me. They must be gone. Their note said they’d come back after checking my place, and they’re not here. Something’s happened. An image of my mum and dad being infected flashes through my mind, making me turn away and tense up again. Then I think of them running in terror or suffering slow, agonising deaths. Christ, they might have been in one of the hordes that chased me or even killed by Dave in the supermarket.

The thought sickens me, and I slump down at the dining table and wonder if they would try and attack me if they were infected. ‘Dave, did any of the other staff from work turn into those things?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Did they try and come for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they show any signs that they recognised you?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

That’s it, then. My parents would go for me. I already knew the answer, really. The fat bloke knew me, and he still tried to attack. The same with my neighbours.

Bloody hell, that hurts so much. The pain inside at the thought of my mum and dad being killed, and it’s getting worse as memories from childhood flood through my mind.

I think of Christmas and the effort my parents always made for our birthdays. Then I think of the retirement party we had for my dad, who then went back to work a few weeks later.

The pain is too much. They’re 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. 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, and if I find my sister… No, when I find my sister, I will have to tell her that they are gone.

I look about, seeing the things they worked so hard for and rest my eyes on the note Mum left me as that rage starts to build again. 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 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 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 gets worse. The thought of it. The very suggestion that they are dead, or worse, that they’re infected and one of them.

The infected did this. They took them away from me. That’s not right. I think of that little kid in the teddy bear pyjamas and the young woman in the blue dress. I think of the woman in the car accident and realise I don’t even know her name. I think of Marcus and Giselle, and Bert in his office, and once more, I think of my mum and dad and surge up from the chair, and head into the kitchen. This isn’t right. Not right at all, and it can’t be left like this. Not like this.

I wrench the knife drawer from the cabinet and slam it down onto the kitchen top, then look up at the rows of knives stuck to the magnetic strip on the wall.

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. Dave gets in next to me without a word said, and I notice he’s taken two more of the knives from the same set on the wall.

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. Something. I don’t know. I don’t care, but I’ll find it, and I’ll hurt it; then I’ll purge that town and raze it to the fucking ground.

‘Where now?’ Dave asks as we pull away.

‘Boroughfare.’

‘Okay.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The pain consumes me. The need for revenge blots out all thought and reason.

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, but there has to be punishment, and if I can’t deliver it, then I will die trying.

I stop the van just before the precinct, not remembering having driven here, not realising I’m back in Boroughfare already.

The metal barrier ahead of me, and I can see the massed infected beyond it. I press the horn down and keep it held. Watching as the infected start toward me, but it’s daylight again, and they shuffle along, barely at walking pace.

I push my anger and impatience through that horn; my fist pressing into the middle of the steering wheel. Then I start to punch it, with pure grief taking over my mind, slamming one fist after the other, rhythmic and constant.

Dave is saying something, but I can’t hear him from the blood pounding through my skull. ‘What?’ I snap, glaring at him.

‘Keep your space. Don’t get drawn in. Strike and move. Keep a firm grip on your weapon, aim for the head or neck.’

I stare at him and nod. ‘Right.’

I wait for more of them to get round the barrier and start revving the engine; foot pushed all the way down. The engine screaming out, readying to go for it.

I put my seat belt on and see Dave doing the same. He looks at me, then back at them, and motions forward with the flat of his hand.

‘NOW.’

I lift the clutch up, and the engine surges ahead as I work through the gears, building speed, building power, and the last few seconds before impact seem like slow motion.

I see the infected coming forward and take in all the incredible details. The spittle and drool hanging from their mouths. The injuries on them. The dried blood and their red eyes staring at us; then in the weirdness of that second, I notice a picture stuck to the front of the radio. A young boy smiling, blond hair and white teeth, and my mind makes me think it’s the same boy I saw in the teddy bear pyjamas, and I feel a fresh surge of utter rage inside me. That poor kid. My family. My mum. My dad. That little boy. Rage. Rage unlike anything I have ever known, and at the last second, time speeds back up.

Then we’re impacting, and I see the first infected lean forward, with mouths opening for the bite as the van ploughs into them, pulverising their heads before sending their bodies flying off to the sides. Bumps and bangs sound out, and the wheels jolt as we go over bodies. Everything happening so quickly. The noise of it. The feel of it. Slamming into people, into bodies, into the infected and driving deeper into the crowd.

I keep my foot pressed down until 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, setting off the airbags that explode out with more sensations. Pain to my chest from the seatbelt. Pain in my neck from the jolt, and as we come to rest so I look ahead and see bodies of squashed infected between the van and the barrier, pressed like fruit. I had no idea that the human body could be compressed so much.

Dave is out of the door ahead of me, and I rip my seatbelt off and burst out too, with the axe in my hands to see a large, thick, gory wake of blood and bodies behind the van. But there are more on their feet, coming towards me, and 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, then step away, and strike again, bringing the axe down over my head, bursting them apart, and almost cutting heads in half.

That rage gets worse. Searing and awful. Like a whole new reality inside of me. Like I’ve stepped into another plateau of existence, where everything I do is sped up and faster. Every detail in microscopic glory, and in my head, in the middle of that utter fury, all I can think is that I am death, and I have come for you. For them. For what they did. For that boy in the teddy bear pyjamas. For my mum. For my dad.

I dart forward, cracking skulls and destroying them. The axe isn’t sharp and will not slice into their jugulars, but it has weight, and more than that, it has anger and fury behind it, and a thirst for revenge, and that 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, strike and move.

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, but 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 crushed skulls. 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, with a huge wake of bodies left behind him.

My hands are covered in blood, and my grip is failing. I clench the axe handle and step forward with a massive overhead heave, and 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 next one coming at me, smashing it down and away.

‘EYES ON,’ Dave shouts from my left.

I look over and see that he has taken the massive cleaver from the van 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 while looking at the huge crowd of infected still coming on. Fuck yes. I charge in with wild abandon and start slashing at anything close to me. Cutting through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Bloody hell this thing is sharp as anything, and I drive too hard, biting the blade deep into someone’s rib cage.

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 towards the building line behind me and glance back, then double take at seeing a DIY shop just a few doors up.

Oh, yes. Fucking yes.

I run up, but the doors are locked.

An infected 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 to kick at the frame until the door bursts open. The alarm goes off instantly, but it’s a mere distraction to me.

The shop is a Viking wonderland, chock full of heavy, sharp things that make my eyes light up.

I take a sledgehammer and move back towards the door, and wait for the first infected to come through the door, and take a huge, overhead swing, bringing it down hard enough to burst the skull apart, with brains flying off all over the place. I step back as another tries to push in, and again, I heave the hammer overhead and watch as the head explodes like a melon bursting apart.

I leave the bodies in the doorway making a natural barrier and head back inside, perusing weapons. The sledgehammer is good, but it’s heavy and 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 to see more infected coming towards me, and go at them, with a hammer in each hand like clapping the hammers together.

The effect is amazing, and I batter away as the rage builds in me again. I kill men and women, the elderly, and the young. I don’t care. I only want them to die.

After a few minutes, I ditch the hammers and get back inside the DIY shop to find something else, and spot a brightly-coloured display stand at the back, with a huge sign over the top, offering a free demonstration in tree cutting this Saturday.

Tree cutting?

I rush over to blink at the massive chainsaw resting on the display top with a long, fierce-looking blade full of big teeth. I pick it up and test it. Very heavy. A switch marked ON/OFF. A long pull cord. I put the switch to ON and pull the cord. The engine roars to life, but the blades remain still.

Two handles, one at front and one at the back. A lever is at the front. I pick the chainsaw up and press the lever. The engine increases in pitch, and the blades spin round. Then I notice a pair of protective glasses nearby and pop them.

Safety first.

The infected are already in the shop, coming for a chomp, so I go into the first one and scream out as the spinning blade tears a rib cage apart. I kick that one aside and keep going, sawing through them one after the other, with chunks of flesh and bone, and blood, and gore spray-coating me from head to toe.

I get outside and keep going, then lift the chainsaw to head height, and start sweeping left and right, cutting through neck after neck, with this magnificent machine ripping through bone, tendons, sinews, and flesh.

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 only to be torn apart and kicked away.

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 not men or women, not adults or children, but they are something else. A new species, like an evil entity sent to consume us.

The chainsaw doesn’t stop. It keeps hacking and cutting through the crowd, but the weight is heavy, and I’m soon sweating and breathing hard, but the exertion is worth it, and I keep going, ignoring the pain in my arms and shoulders as I twist and attack, and tear them apart.

Then it runs out of fuel and simply stops while wedged halfway through an infected body, who falls away, taking the chainsaw with him while my arms and shoulders scream out in relief.

I move backwards and look about. The mess is an awesome sight. Not awesome like in a cool movie. It’s awesome like something you can’t otherwise describe, with a long trail of broken and destroyed bodies leading from the DIY shop back to the Tesco van. The other side is even worse, and I realise Dave has easily killed three or four times the amount I took down.

Exhausted, filthy, but somehow satisfied, I walk back into the DIY store and take two new axes, then go over to the Tesco van while ignoring the remaining infected still shuffling about.

I climb into the driver’s seat, slam the door closed, and sit slumped, looking down at the gore coating my clothes.

Dave gets into the passenger side, looking remarkably clean, save for some blood splatter on his hands and arms.

‘Better?’ he asks.

‘Much better.’

He doesn’t reply but takes a pack of wipes from his bag, and starts the cleaning process I saw him do in Tesco. Hands, arms, face, and then weapons.

I put the van in neutral and switch the keys off, then back on. Surprisingly, the van starts first time, so we sit in silence, working through the pack of antibacterial wipes as I catch glimpse of myself in the side mirror and the two clean eye patches on my face where the glasses were. Everywhere else is covered in gore.

We drive in silence to my parents’ house, and this time, I don’t even glance at the car accident on the motorway. 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 before coming back into the kitchen.

‘Sleep now?’

I nod. ‘There’s two spare rooms upstairs. 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, and the last I remember before sleep pulls me under is the light going off as the electricity cuts out.

ALSO BY RR HAYWOOD

Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, Audible & Amazon Allstar bestselling author, RR Haywood. One of the top ten most downloaded indie authors in the UK with over four million books sold and nearly 40 Kindle bestsellers.

GASLIT

The Instant #1 Amazon Bestseller.

A Twisted Tale Of Manipulation & Murder.

Audio Narrated by Gethin Anthony

A dark, noir, psychological thriller with rave reviews across multiple countries.

A new job awaits. Huntington House needs a live-in security guard to prevent access during an inheritance dispute.

This is exactly what Mike needs: a new start in a new place and a chance to turn things around.

It all seems perfect, especially when he meets Tessa.

But Huntington House holds dark secrets. Bumps in the night. Flickering lights. Music playing from somewhere.

Mike’s mind starts to unravel as he questions his sanity in the dark, claustrophobic corridors and rooms.

Something isn’t right.

There is someone else in the house.

The pressure grows as the people around Mike get pulled into a web of lies and manipulation, forcing him to take action before it’s too late.

DELIO. PHASE ONE

*WINNER OF “BEST NEW BOOK” DISCOVER SCI-FI 2023

#1 Amazon & Audible bestseller

A single bed in a small room.

The centre of Piccadilly Circus.

A street in New York city outside of a 7-Eleven.

A young woman taken from her country.

A drug dealer who paid his debt.

A suicidal, washed-up cop.

The rest of the world now frozen.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

"Brilliant."

"A gripping story. Harrowing, and often hysterical."

"This book is very different to anything else out there - and brilliantly so."

"You'll fall so hard for these characters, you'll wish the world would freeze just so you could stay with them forever."

*

FICTION LAND

*Nominated for Best Audio Book at the British Book Awards 2023

*Narrated by Gethin Anthony

*The #1 Most Requested Audio Book in the UK 2023

*Now Optioned For A TV Series

*#1 Amazon bestseller

#1 Audible bestseller

“Imagine John Wick wakes up in a city full of characters from novels – that’s Fiction Land.”

Not many men get to start over.

John Croker did and left his old life behind – until crooks stole his delivery van. No van means no pay, which means his niece doesn’t get the life-saving operation she needs, and so in desperation, John uses the skills of his former life one last time… That is until he dies and wakes up in Fiction Land. A city occupied by characters from unfinished novels.

But the world around him doesn’t feel right, and when he starts asking questions, the authorities soon take extreme measures to stop him finding the truth about Fiction Land.

*

EXTRACTED SERIES

EXTRACTED

EXECUTED

EXTINCT

Blockbuster Time-Travel

#1 Amazon US

#1 Amazon UK

#1 Audible US & UK

Washington Post & Wall Street Journal Bestseller

In 2061, a young scientist invents a time machine to fix a tragedy in his past. But his good intentions turn catastrophic when an early test reveals something unexpected: the end of the world.

A desperate plan is formed. Recruit three heroes, ordinary humans capable of extraordinary things, and change the future.

Safa Patel is an elite police officer, on duty when Downing Street comes under terrorist attack. As armed men storm through the breach, she dispatches them all.

'Mad' Harry Madden is a legend of the Second World War. Not only did he complete an impossible mission—to plant charges on a heavily defended submarine base—but he also escaped with his life.

Ben Ryder is just an insurance investigator. But as a young man he witnessed a gang assaulting a woman and her child. He went to their rescue, and killed all five.

Can these three heroes, extracted from their timelines at the point of death, save the world?

*

THE CODE SERIES

The Worldship Humility

The Elfor Drop

The Elfor One

#1 Audible bestselling smash hit narrated by Colin Morgan

#1 Amazon bestselling Science-Fiction

“A rollicking, action packed space adventure…”

“Best read of the year!”

“An original and exceptionally entertaining book.”

“A beautifully written and humorous adventure.”

Sam, an airlock operative, is bored. Living in space should be full of adventure, except it isn’t, and he fills his time hacking 3-D movie posters.

Petty thief Yasmine Dufont grew up in the lawless lower levels of the ship, surrounded by violence and squalor, and now she wants out. She wants to escape to the luxury of the Ab-Spa, where they eat real food instead of rats and synth cubes.

Meanwhile, the sleek-hulled, unmanned Gagarin has come back from the ever-continuing search for a new home. Nearly all hope is lost that a new planet will ever be found, until the Gagarin returns with a code of information that suggests a habitable planet has been found. This news should be shared with the whole fleet, but a few rogue captains want to colonise it for themselves.

When Yasmine inadvertently steals the code, she and Sam become caught up in a dangerous game of murder, corruption, political wrangling and...porridge, with sex-addicted Detective Zhang Woo hot on their heels, his own life at risk if he fails to get the code back.

*

THE UNDEAD SERIES

THE UK’s #1 Horror Series

Available on Amazon & Audible

“The Best Series Ever…”

The Undead. The First Seven Days

The Undead. The Second Week.

The Undead Day Fifteen.

The Undead Day Sixteen.

The Undead Day Seventeen

The Undead Day Eighteen

The Undead Day Nineteen

The Undead Day Twenty

The Undead Day Twenty-One

The Undead Twenty-Two

The Undead Twenty-Three: The Fort

The Undead Twenty-Four: Equilibrium

The Undead Twenty-Five: The Heat

The Undead Twenty-Six: Rye

The Undead Twenty-Seven: The Garden Centre

The Undead Twenty-Eight: Return To The Fort

The Undead Twenty-Nine: Hindhead Part 1

The Undead Thirty: Hindhead Part 2

The Undead Thirty-One: Winchester

The Undead Thirty-Two: The Battle For Winchester

The Undead Thirty-Three: The One True Race

Blood on the Floor

An Undead novel

Blood at the Premiere

An Undead novel

The Camping Shop

An Undead novella

*

A Town Called Discovery

The #1 Amazon & Audible Time Travel Thriller

A man falls from the sky. He has no memory.

What lies ahead are a series of tests. Each more brutal than the last, and if he gets through them all, he might just reach A Town Called Discovery.

*

THE FOUR WORLDS OF BERTIE CAVENDISH

A rip-roaring multiverse time-travel crossover starring:

The Undead

Extracted.

A Town Called Discovery
and featuring

The Worldship Humility

*
www.rrhaywood.com

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Table of Contents

- Copyright
- Contents
- Untitled
- Day Two
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Also by RR Haywood