Day Three (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 Three

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Also by RR Haywood

THE UNDEAD

Day 3

DAY THREE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Day Three

Sunday Afternoon

I wake quickly, transitioning from sleep to awake in an instant to find I’m bathed in sweat and sitting bolt upright in bed. Fleeting images of torn bodies ease back from my mind as the dream fades and disappears, leaving me momentarily confused.

I’m at home. Not my home in Boroughfare. My parents’ house. Why am I here? A few seconds to blink as the memories of the last two days come crashing back. The world is over. Everyone is either dead or infected and one of those things.

One of those things. What are those things? Zombies are from the movies, and it feels weird to even think of them like that. This is real. This is happening.

Too many thoughts too soon from wakening, and I blink at the window, seeing it’s light outside.

Anyway, zombies are dead, and dead bodies don’t bleed. Those things certainly bleed. Especially when Dave cuts their heads off, and they spray blood all over the place. I cut a few open like that too, but that was more by accident than design. Dave was something else, the way he was killing them. The speed of him, and I think, on reflection, that I am more of a blunt trauma man. The axe was good. Nice and heavy, and easy to split skulls open, and if you get the swing right, you can easily lop arms and legs off.

What else did I use? Oh, yeah, the sledgehammer. That was amazing, but really only a one-trick weapon, great for an overhead smash but too heavy and tiring.

Then there were the two lump hammers. Again, they were effective at one on one or even a couple of them at a time, but again, they lack the range. The chainsaw was bloody amazing, really, truly amazing, and I regret not bringing it with us. A few people armed with chainsaws could destroy tons of infected, but again, they are heavy and too reliant on fuel. If one part breaks or jams, it would be rendered useless. Good point. I’ll stick with the axe until we find some guns.

Guns? What the fuck? I’m a supermarket manager, not a soldier. What do I know about combat or fighting techniques? Dave, on the other hand, is not all he seems. He said he was in the army for fourteen years, but he wouldn’t say anything else about his time in the service. I’ve met loads of ex-service people; quite a lot of them had seen action in the Middle East. Some had physical scars. Others had scars that weren’t so noticeable. Post-traumatic stress disorder, they called it.

But Dave doesn’t betray any feelings or emotions. The only time I have seen him give anything away was last night in the supermarket when I told him he could do what he wanted. He clearly had nowhere to go, no family or friends. The thought of taking away his routine must have scared him. He could have run or even closed the doors. Every staff member is shown how to close and shut off the automatic doors in case of emergency. Dave didn’t shut them, though. He stayed on the shop floor. He even killed the rest of the staff as they were turned. I wonder if any of them fought alongside him until they were taken down. If they did, then Dave didn’t hesitate but killed them too. Blimey. Would he do that to me if I get bit?

Routine must be important to him, as well as having someone in a position of authority – of perceived authority, anyway. Fourteen years of army life must have moulded him. But then other long-serving military people I have known weren’t like that.

Anyway. What now? What’s next? My parents clearly haven’t got back, so from that I can only assume they are not coming back. Shit, that hurts. A pang inside. Deep and raw. The thought of them going out to look for me and getting hurt by those things brings back that rage I had yesterday. That searing, driving energy that made me attack and kill. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not even close. What I felt was something else, something deeper, a base state of being, an instinct to exact revenge and hurt those that hurt me.

To be honest, I didn’t even know people could have such feelings. Other than maybe serial killers.

Am I a serial killer? Crumbs. That’s a bit worrying. No, but hang on. Those things aren’t people. The bodies are just carriers for the infection inside. An infection that just happens to make them want to eat other people.

Whoa. That’s a bit alarming. If they can bleed, and what possesses them is an infection, then maybe they will recover. What if it’s just a forty-eight-hour bug? Jesus, they might recover of their own accord, and I’ve already slain shitloads of them. Plus, I burnt down a village. What will I say if they all go back to normal?

Oops! Sorry about that. I thought you were all zombies. My mistake. Never mind. No harm done.

I banish such thoughts away and finally get off the bed to look out the window at a gorgeous summer day. The air almost looks hazy with the scorching sun. I glance at my watch. It’s almost 3 p.m. I’ve had a few hours of sleep, but my body is hurting like hell from all the physical exertion. My legs hurt, my arms too. Actually, pretty much everything hurts.

I head downstairs, pausing to flick the light switches a few times while remembering the power went off as I fell asleep. I always thought it would last longer if like the world ended or something. Shows you what I know.

I reach the kitchen to see Dave sitting at the counter, drinking what looks like coffee. I cross to the fridge and open the door, but the light doesn’t come on.

‘Power’s gone,’ he says in that dull, monotone voice.

‘How did you make the coffee, then?’ I ask, somewhat gruff and somewhat sleepy while somewhat squinting.

‘Gas.’

‘Gas?’ I look over to the gas hob with a nod of realisation. A saucepan of water steaming away, and I spot a bottle of milk in a bowl of water. A few seconds of staring, of looking from the pan and milk to Dave sitting silently at the breakfast bar. An urge to say something and fill the silence. Instead, I just nod again and make coffee while feeling spaced out. Like there is no order or sense to my thoughts.

Coffee made, and I lean back against the counter to sip the hot liquid, holding the mug two handed while studying Dave and how he looks so clean and freshly shaved. Even his top is tucked in. I glance down to see I’m just in boxer shorts and suddenly feel very self-conscious that I’m in my undies with a man I hardly know. The fact we slaughtered a raging horde of infected zombie things together doesn’t really register. What happened to my clothes? I squint, frown, think on this, and then spot them neatly folded on top of the tumble dryer. I remember we stripped off and put them on to wash, then in the tumble dryer before I went to sleep.

I look at Dave. He stares back. ‘At least the clothes dried before the power went off, then,’ I say casually, which just sounds weird and forced.

‘Almost. I put them outside.’

‘What, in the garden? On the washing line? Bloody hell, Dave. Thank you.’

‘That’s okay, Mr Howie.’

‘Dave, you don’t have to call me Mr Howie anymore. Howie is fine.’

‘Okay.’

He won’t call me Howie. I know that.

I head into the lounge to dress. The thought of getting dressed in front of him feels weird. Mind you, everything feels weird. I stand up from tugging my shoes on and spot Dad’s road atlas on the bookshelf. My dad loved technology and would always have the latest gadget: new computer, latest phones, but despite all of that, he would lecture me that society has become too reliant on technology.

‘It has its uses and should be enjoyed, but not taken for granted.’

I listened but never really took it in. Looking at the atlas now reminds me of what a careful and prepared man he was. Then I get an idea and take the atlas into the kitchen, and start flicking the pages. Dave doesn’t say a word but sits in silence.

I find the southeast and rest my finger on my location now. Brighton is east of here. London is north – about two hours on a good day. But then the roads are empty now, so reaching London should be easy; however, getting through London will be an entirely different matter. Bloody hell, you’d need a tank.

‘Dave?’ I ask. He looks at me but stays silent. ‘Nothing,’ I say, feeling stupid for a second. ‘Where could I get a tank from?’ I ask, deciding that feeling stupid is the least of my worries right now.

He doesn’t even flinch. ‘Salisbury.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘Are they hard to drive?’

‘I don’t have a licence.’

‘It must be hard. How about those armoured vehicles?’

‘APCs.’

‘Yeah, them. They must be like cars to drive.’

‘I don’t know, Mr Howie.’

‘Do they have those APC things in Salisbury too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, so we need to get into London to get my sister, but I heard an emergency broadcast that said London is infested and to stay away, so I reckon we should get to Salisbury, nick an APS, and get going.’

‘An APC.’

‘What?’

‘You said APS. It’s an APC. Armoured personnel carrier.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry. We get an APC and try for London. Oh, hang on. I mean I need to go to London. I didn’t mean to assume that you were coming with me.’

‘I’ll come with you, Mr Howie,’ he says in that flat way.

‘Okay. Great,’ I say into the slightly awkward silence. ‘Er, so Salisbury is here, and we are here. It should take us around two hours to get there, I think, and it’s 3 p.m. now. It gets dark at about half nine. So if we leave now, we should make it before nightfall.’

‘Okay.’

No questions. No anything.

I nod and finish my coffee.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Half an hour later, and we stand outside, staring at the blood and gore smeared over the front of the Tesco home delivery van. Should have washed it off really.

However, I did think ahead and fill some bags with food from the kitchen. Snack food and a few tins. Dave then put some bedding from the spare rooms in the back of the van, then found a gas lamp from the garage. I should have thought of that really and chide myself to start thinking properly.

I grab my two new axes, and with a last look back at the house, I get into the front of the van and slot the axes down next to me as Dave gets in, with a load of knife handles poking from the top of his rucksack. Another second of silence as I look at them, then at him.

‘I like knives,’ he says.

I nod and start the engine. Not quite knowing what you say to that. I pull off and start driving away, then realise I don’t know where my sister actually lives. ‘Arse,’ I mutter, bringing the vehicle to a stop, then selecting reverse to go back as the air fills with the reversing alarm. ‘Need my mum’s address book,’ I tell Dave, but Dave doesn’t appear to wish to chat.

I rush back into the house and find Mum’s old address book. Hard-backed and brightly coloured, with a flowery pattern. The sight of it brings forth a rush of pain inside. I remember this book from childhood, and the sight of my mother’s handwriting is almost too much to see.

I flick to ‘S’. There it is – ‘Sarah, London’. I kiss the book and offer a silent prayer to my mother, still taking care of me. Back outside and into the van. The book goes into my rucksack, and then I think better of it and give it to Dave.

‘Can you look after this, please, mate. My sister’s address is inside, and I can’t afford to lose it. Her name is Sarah – her address is under Sarah, London. If anything happens to me…’

He takes the book like I’m passing him a priceless antique, staring at it for a second before taking a small hand towel from his knife-loaded bag that he wraps the book in like it’s a valuable relic.

‘Ready?’ I ask.

He looks at me, devoid of expression, devoid of anything. ‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ he says simply, and we set off.

It feels wrong not to be going straight for my sister, but if a little coastal town like Boroughfare can amass a few hundred, then what will a city centre will be like? I think of my own town and the first night, and that cash-in-transit van driving past my house. Who was that? It worked, though. Luring them away like that.

Then I think of the way the infected things group together. It was the same in Littleton. They all grouped together in the village square. Maybe that was the last place they took a survivor down, so they stayed there, hopeful of another one, or maybe a survivor got away from there, and they stayed in the last place of contact, like when I ran through the precinct into the nightclub, they stayed outside those doors for a long time.

But then, in Boroughfare, it looked like more were joining the crowd. There must be something that passes between them. An alert state? So if one senses prey, then they all join in, and the signal passes until they are coming from all around. Can that even happen?

This might be something we could use – draw them together and create a safe passage like the cash-in-transit driver but on a bigger scale. A much bigger scale. How would we do that? I don’t know the roads in London well enough to know where to draw them to. We could easily get ourselves trapped or stuck in a far worse situation if we start pissing about, trying to be clever.

I look up at the sky and realise we won’t have enough time to get to Sarah today. By the time we have found a suitable vehicle and then get into London, it could be late evening. We don’t have satellite navigation, so finding her address in the city will be hard enough. If only I could get a message to her, tell her to wait. Hang on, satnav might work. The mobile networks are down, but do satnavs use the same network systems as mobiles? They all work off satellites and something to do with GPS. Maybe they are still online?

I go through the radio stations in the van, flicking through all of the pre-set ones first and then manually through the frequencies. The message is gone. I didn’t make a note of the frequency setting from the Micra. I check FM, MW, and LW but get only static, and so we drive on in a slightly awkward silence. Moving from the town into the countryside, passing fields and meadows. Trees overhead and long, winding country lanes. Birdsong heard outside, and the summer sun bearing down. The odd house or turning for a tiny village. An idyllic Home Counties-type of setting, worthy of picture postcards.

‘You hungry?’ I ask, opening one of the bags of food. I take an apple and start eating while thinking on this and that, on the infection inside the people, on satellites, and London, and all manner of things. I still feel spaced out and achy, but the normalcy of driving and eating sooths my nerves.

I cast the remains of the apple out the window and catch Dave glancing at me. A few seconds later, I take a banana and scoff that too before flinging the skin out the window, which earns me another sharp look as he takes the waste bag he was using and pointedly places it on the seat between us.

‘Sorry, mate, I wasn’t thinking. I’m leaving a trail behind us, aren’t I?’ I say while glancing at the wing mirrors and looking about out the windows. ‘They’ll be able to follow us. I guess you learnt that in the army?’ I look back at him to see his face is still devoid of all expression while somehow managing to imply I am a dick.

‘Keep Britain tidy,’ he says, facing the front again.

‘Right,’ I say slowly. ‘Sure. Er, Dave, what you said to me before about keeping a firm grip, strike, and move. How do you know that stuff? And the way you use those knives, you must have studied martial arts or something?’

‘No.’

‘Where did you learn it, then?’

He pauses for a few seconds.

‘The army.’

‘Wow, why did they teach you all that? I thought it was more about guns and stuff.’ Silence. ‘So, like, they teach you hand to hand combat and things, then?’

Silence.

I nod and take a breath. ‘Dave, the army has probably fallen, mate. Christ, I think the whole country has fallen. Probably the whole world… What I mean is that I’m sure it will be okay if you tell me.’

‘I can’t, Mr Howie.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not allowed to say.’

‘Eh? You’re not allowed to say why you can’t tell me, or are you just not allowed to say anything?’

‘Yes.’

‘What the fuck?’ I ask, shaking my head at the confusing answer as a sudden cramping hits my stomach, with an urgent message being passed from bowel to brain that I really need a poo.

I look about, thinking I really don’t want to squat anywhere Dave can see me and spot the entrance to a lane up ahead. That’ll do. I stop the van. Grab some wet wipes and start rushing out as the cramping comes back harder.

‘Mr Howie …’ Dave calls. I turn back to see him holding one of the axes out. I grab the handle, offer a wan smile, and leg it off into the lane entrance while trying to clench my bum cheeks. A few yards in. A quick look about. All clear. I tug my trousers and boxers down and squat at the side of the road. The smell is disgusting. My stomach must be upset from the extreme lifestyle of the last couple of days; plus, the sporadic eating. I guess the copious fruit we just ate hasn’t helped matters either.

However, and despite the smell and the thought of taking a crap in broad daylight in a country lane, the feeling of relief is amazing, and I’m moaning with the pleasure. I almost sound like one of the infected, and that makes me try and mimic their noise. Groaning while pooing in a country lane at the same time as pondering if zombies need to shit. I bet they just poo in their pants. Dirty infected.

A noise behind me, and I twist round to see an entrance a few metres into the lane that was concealed by the bushes when I first looked. A shuffle, footsteps maybe; then I spot something in the darkness of the shadows and grab the wipes to start cleaning my arse. It might be the end of the world, and I understand we all have to make sacrifices and change our normal behaviour in this new world, but walking around with a shitty arse isn’t one of them.

Then the sound comes closer, so I think stuff it and yank my trousers up as a black and white farm dog emerges out of the entrance. I freeze and go stock still; my mind filling with images of being chased by a zombie dog, but then my eyes adjust to the gloom, and I can see it looks normal. It doesn’t have red eyes anyway, and its head keeps flicking from me to something else set back that I can’t see. I swallow, blink a few times, then call out.

‘Hello, boy! Who’s a good doggy? You’re a good doggy.’

I love dogs, always have done. We had dogs when I was younger, ones from rescue shelters, so we had a good mix of crosses and mongrels.

The growl coming low and deep makes me stop, and as the view opens up, so I gain sight of a very fat, middle-aged infected man shuffling slowly towards me in rubber boots, looking every inch the stereotypical farmer. He just needs one of those long sticks, with the crook at the end. I imagine his wife making apple pies and Sunday roast dinners.

Dave comes around the corner, obviously concerned that I have been gone for too long. I point at the entrance, guessing that he can’t see them from where he is. He comes down further and joins me, then stops on seeing the infected, and silently draws a knife from his belt.

‘I don’t think the dog will let you near him, mate. Mind you, he doesn’t look aggressive either. Maybe we can try and get him out of that lane. His farm must be close.’ Dave looks at me. ‘Most farms have shotguns, don’t they?’

He nods and walks a bit closer to the dog, who crouches lower and growls more. Dave stops and waits for the infected man to make his way out of the entrance. The dog keeps glancing at his master, then moves position, edging closer to Dave, who backs away just a little at a time.

I drop the axe head onto the raised verge and lean on the handle. Despite the horrible circumstances, the lane is pleasant and quiet. Sunlight dapples through the canopy, causing shadows to dance across the surface of the road. It feels like it is getting hotter. There is no wind and the air is very close.

That makes me look back at the dog and the big tongue hanging out the side. Poor thing must be so hot.

‘Wait here a sec,’ I say to Dave and rush back to the van to find a bottle of water and a mug, and run back to see them all pretty much in the same position.

‘You thirsty?’ I ask the dog, crouching down to pour water into the mug. The dog watches me closely, eyeing the water while glancing back to his owner. ‘Good boy. Come on, get some water.’

We back away enough for the dog to feel safe and watch as it rushes forward to lap thirstily at the water in the mug.

We skirt them both and go wide to get behind and into a narrow track rutted with wheel marks, and head off, moving slowly uphill. Minutes later, and I’m sweating from the heat and exertion while Dave looks as fresh as anything.

The lane ends at a metal five-bar gate, which is wedged open. A rusty cattle grid lies just beyond the gate. The dark metal poles are evenly spaced, with weeds growing up between them. A few hundred metres to some buildings. Some of them are sheds and barns, long and low, with corrugated roofs. Plant machinery dotted about, things that farmers attach to tractors.

Our raised position means that we can see the fields beyond the buildings. We both wait and stare at the view.

Finally, Dave looks at me and nods, and we go through the gate and onto the driveway. There is a herd of black and white cows standing at the gate in a field adjacent to the buildings. As we get closer, I can see that the udders look full. I had heard that cows will get so used to the routine of milking, they will wait at the gate. I also heard that cows explode if they don’t get milked, so I watch them as we pass, ready to duck in case of bovine explosion.

The cows haven’t been bitten, and the dog was okay too. The farmer would have access to all types of animals, but they look unharmed.

I had thought of using rotting flesh or an animal carcass to lure them away in London, but it appears the infected people only crave human flesh. If we are going to use meat as a trap, then it has to be human meat and alive too. I force the thought away, disgusted that I’m even thinking of it.

We reach the farmhouse, circling it quietly while looking for entry points or signs of movement. The windows all have heavy net curtains inside in order to prevent the farmhands looking in the house, I guess.

The front door is dark wood and inward opening. I slowly push the handle down, and the door opens a fraction. I look at Dave, nod, and then slowly start to step forward. The axe bangs noisily on the lower half of the door, which remains closed. I look at Dave with an apologetic grimace.

‘Sorry. It’s a stable door.’ I reach in and unlock the bottom half of the door, and we proceed.

The floor is made from flagstones, and there is a flight of exposed wooden stairs ahead of us.

Dave taps me on the shoulder and motions for me to stay still. He moves off to the right into a doorway and is gone from view for a few seconds. He returns and gives me a thumbs up signal, then motions, with his hand, towards the door on the left. He goes first, easing each foot down, treading carefully.

He gets to the door, pushes it open, and leans his head in. Without looking at me, he takes both knives in his left hand and raises his right to the side of his head. He makes a fist and then extends two fingers, giving me the V. He makes a fist again and then extends one finger, pointing it to the room, then a fist, and again, he extends a finger and points into the room, more off to the side this time. Then he makes a flat hand and runs it across his throat. Next, he extends all his fingers out straight and reverses his hand so that the palm is facing towards the door; then more palms and fingers are waved about.

I have no idea what this all means.

I think he is telling me that there is someone in there; the rest leaves me clueless. He looks back at me, and I shrug my shoulders, and again, even though his face wears the usual devoid-of-expression look, I could swear he is wondering why he got stuck with me. He then points two fingers directly at his own eyes and motions for me to look. He eases back, and I peek inside. There are two infected in the room.

Ah, so that’s what he meant – two of them. Then the hand across the throat must have implied they are dead or infected. I get it, anyway, even though I have no clue what the rest of the waving and pointing was about.

One of them is a fat woman, a really fat woman. She must be the farmer’s wife, all jolly and large, wearing a white apron over a flowery dress. The other is an adult male, wearing dirty and stained overalls tucked into rubber boots.

They are standing side by side, with their backs to the door, facing out the window. The farmer’s wife has a huge chunk torn out of her meaty upper arm, and dried blood splattered all down her dress.

There are bloodstains on the male too, but I can’t see any injury from here. They’re in the kitchen area in front of the sink. There is another closed door opposite me, so there must be more rooms beyond it as the house extends further than the size of this room.

I ease back and gently pull the door closed. Dave motions with his head for me to follow him, and he starts climbing the stairs. I climb up behind him, looking back at the kitchen door to make sure that I closed it, and walk into the back of Dave, with my head nudging his backside.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

He doesn’t reply or even look back.

‘I didn’t know you had stopped,’ I add.

He stays still for a second, doesn’t look back, and then carries on going up. I wait for a gap to form between us, then start to follow him to the landing and a corridor stretching off, with closed doors on either side.

Dave motions for me to stay put, then goes left, gingerly working his way down the corridor. I watch how he walks, swinging each foot slow and purposefully – the heel going down first in an almost exaggerated manner; then he slowly moves forward and puts his weight onto the front foot, then repeats the movement in complete silence.

He stops at the first door and listens, craning his head, and then leans in closer until his ear is almost touching the door, his mouth open.

He eases the door open, steps inside, and is back out within seconds. He repeats the action until all of the rooms on that end are clear. Then he creeps back to me and motions for me to move forward. I think he wants me to check my end.

I start forward a few steps, copying his movement and putting my heels down first. It seems to take ages to work my way down. At the first door, I stop and listen, but I can’t hear anything above my heart hammering away in my chest.

I lean into the first door, but still can’t hear anything. I take hold of the handle and twist it back. The handle squeaks really loudly, and I stop twisting. I look back at Dave, who nods for me to carry on. I keep twisting the handle, which sounds like it’s screaming in protest. The door gives, and I push it open too fast, almost tripping in and banging the axe against the frame.

This time I don’t look back. I’m too embarrassed to face him. I know that his face will be blank, but he still manages to convey a message through that vacant gaze. I peer into the room – it’s all clear.

I move off down the corridor, treading carefully and trying to show that I can do this too.

At the next door, I grasp the handle and hold my breath as I twist.

Silence.

I breathe a sigh of relief and start to push the door open, which creaks loudly on the hinges.

For fuck’s sake, this is a conspiracy. How did he get all of the silent handles and doors?

I keep pushing slowly. The hinges creaking and groaning. I stop. Pushing slowly is making it worse. If I push it open quickly, the hinges won’t grate so much. I heave with force to a cacophony of metallic screams. At least the room is clear.

The final door at the end facing the corridor, and again, I take hold of the handle and push. It opens into a large bathroom: white tiles, white bath, and white shower curtain around the bath, nice and bright apart from the large pool of blood on the floor and the infected woman in the white nightdress standing in the middle of it.

She is fat, incredibly fat, quite possibly one of the fattest people that I have ever seen, and the sight isn’t helped by the fact her white nightdress has thin sleeves, which only serve to accentuate the rolls of fat on her upper arms. She’s got very long, dark hair, with a wooden-handled hairbrush tangled in the flowing locks.

She slowly turns round to face me, and I see the red, bloodshot eyes. Her wrist has been bitten deeply, leaving a nasty, gaping wound.

I look back at Dave and raise my hand to the side of my head, making a fist. He nods. Then I extend one finger and point into the room. Again, he nods. Then I puff out my cheeks, hold my arms out, and waddle slightly on the spot while motioning to the door behind me. He just stares at me.

I keep waddling on the spot, holding my arms out and pretending to rub my big belly. Dave looks so serious, and after the tension of creeping down the corridor, I let go and start giggling like a schoolboy. Then I pretend to brush my hair and extend one finger, and point it into my pretend hair. Within seconds, I am trying to stifle my laughter, but the farmer’s daughter starts waddling towards the door, and I back away.

She is taller than me, and the girth of her is amazing. Puffed cheeks making her mouth look small and pouty.

I back off down the corridor, still trying to stop myself laughing. She makes it to the doorway and gets stuck face on – too fat to get through. She keeps pushing forward though, grunting and straining against the effort.

That’s it. I’m gone. Tears of laughter are falling down my face, and I’m leaning against the wall. All of the stress of the last few days has built up, and the sight of the fat woman unable to walk through the door has finished me off.

I try to be quiet at first, but knowing that we have to be silent makes it worse, and I can’t stop myself from howling. Within minutes, my stomach is hurting. I manage to get myself under control, then look back at her wedged in the doorway, with her stomach pushing through, but her shoulders and arms can’t fit, and she is sort of leaning back and trying to get through belly first. I’m off again, sliding down the wall onto the floor. The laughing is hurting, but I can’t stop. I try to look at Dave, but the tears have misted my eyes. I imagine him standing there, stony-faced.

It takes many minutes, but eventually, I get myself under control and get back up. Dave is standing there, impassive as ever, but I swear there is a glint in his eye.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

We make our way down the stairs and stare at the kitchen door. There was no sign of a gun cabinet anywhere upstairs. The only place left to check is the kitchen and the room on the other side, but that means going through the room containing two infected people.

‘What do you reckon?’ I ask. ‘We could lead them out again.’

Dave nods, and I check my watch.

‘It’s gone 5 p.m. already. Shit, we really have to get going.’

‘Okay.’

He walks straight past me into the kitchen, disappearing round the door, with two loud thumps following within seconds.

‘What the…’ I rush in behind him to see the farmer’s wife now almost decapitated, with her spinal column showing through her severed neck. ‘Fuck,’ I gasp and blanch as Dave drags the dead infected male on top of the farmer’s wife, showing his OCD for tidiness again, and the humour from a few minutes ago disappears instantly.

The brutal yet reserved nature of this man is staggering. His mind must be so straightforward when he is completing a task, whether it’s filling shelves at Tesco or severing the head of a zombie farmer’s wife.

A second for my brain to try and catch up as I blink and widen my eyes. Dave stands back, looking down at his work, then over to me. Silence again. I swallow and nod, then head through the other door into a utility area. An old, stained kitchen top with a deep, white ceramic sink. Dirty pairs of rubber boots up against the wall, and overalls hanging from rails. There are two washing machines, labelled HOUSE and FARM.

There is a back door to the right. To the left is the promised bounty – a large metal cabinet fixed on the wall, complete with a massive padlock hanging from a clasp. The padlock has a thick metal loop, and the clasp has multiple strong rivets securing the cabinet.

‘I bet the farmer has the key in his pocket,’ I say quietly. Dave doesn’t reply.

We start searching the area, checking drawers and the pockets of the overalls. We find keys, but none of them fit. ‘Cock it,’ I mutter while staring at the padlock, figuring we’ll have to break it open. I take a step back and reverse the axe so that the blunt end will be used.

‘Watch out, mate.’

Five minutes later, and I’m out of breath, with the metal cabinet bashed and dented but still holding firm and decidedly locked. I even try wedging the blade of the axe into the gap of the cabinet door, but I can’t get enough leverage.

‘Fucking thing. Any suggestions, mate?’

I look around, but Dave is gone, and the back door is open. I step over, half thinking he’s probably seen sense and legged it as far away from me as possible, but there he is, coming back with a sledgehammer and a big metal spike. He walks in without saying a word, hands me the sledgehammer, and sticks the pointy end of the spike into the gap between the cabinet and the padlock clasp, and looks at me with an air of expectation. Not that his expression changes. I heft the big sledgehammer and look at the spike, then back at Dave, then at the cabinet all covered in dinks and dents.

‘Um, maybe we should swap,’ I suggest, thinking I’m highly likely to miss and bludgeon Dave to death.

We move places in the confined space as I take the spike and realise just how close I am to the cabinet, and start thinking maybe this is a bad idea because Dave could now bludgeon me to death. Then Dave swings and hits the spike, making me yelp and flinch, and half pull back while waiting for the pain to explode. None comes, and I open my eyes to see the spike has been driven in an inch. He hits it again with near on surgical precision. It’s a big, heavy hammer too, and he doesn’t show any signs of exertion either. A few hits later, and the padlock falls away as I step back, rubbing my arm, now tingling from the energy transference sent through my hand.

I watch Dave as he takes the weapons out and recognise three shotguns from having two big barrels and big, wooden bases or stocks, or bottom bits. Whatever they’re called.

There is also a long camouflage bag in the cabinet, holding a rifle that looks very slim compared to the shotguns.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Lee-Enfield point three zero three bolt-action rifle.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Yes.’

Ask a question. Get an answer. Within seconds, the gun is separated into parts, with Dave’s hands working like machines. He checks the separate sections and then puts it back together, and pulls the bolt back several times, listening to the sound. Satisfied, he turns to the shotguns and takes them out of the cabinet, laying them on the worktop.

Two of them have barrels side by side. The other one also has two barrels, but one on top of the other. They are heavy and feel alien to hold.

I push the wooden end of one into my shoulder and look down the barrel. There are two triggers, one in front of the other. I guess it’s one trigger for each barrel.

There is a lever, where the metal barrel meets the wooden bit. I push this over, and the shotgun bends in the middle. I remember that shotguns have cartridges, not bullets. The cartridges must just slot in the holes. Then close the barrel and pull the triggers. I’ve seen it done on television and movies, and it looks simple enough.

There are boxes of bright, red cartridges in the cabinet. They are marked 12 Gauge. I’ve heard of that but don’t know what it means.

Dave has found a shoulder strap for the rifle and has fitted it on, checking the length and making adjustments until he seems satisfied. I guess he has chosen the rifle, then. After my debacle in the corridor upstairs, he probably wouldn’t trust me with a paintball gun.

He next takes a box of shiny bullets, picks up the shotgun with the two barrels on top of each other, and heads out of the back door. I take the other two shotguns and boxes of the shiny, red cartridges and follow him out into the bright sunshine.

He stops in the middle of the central yard area, and I look about at the outbuildings and barns nearby, then watch as Dave holds the rifle and looks down the sights, aiming into the empty barn. He pulls the trigger and listens to the noise. I’m sure they call it dry firing.

Dave takes a strip of bullets, all stuck together in a line, and presses them into a hole in the top of the gun. Then he raises it to his shoulder and pulls the bolt back and forth once. He aims into the barn and fires. The sound is really loud, and I was expecting him to be jerked back from the recoil, but he hardly seemed to move. He slides the bolt, and a shiny bullet case springs out. He fires again and repeats the action, with the percussive bangs rolling out across the quietness of the land.

‘You try,’ he says, holding the rifle out.

He shows me how to pull the bolt back, push the strip of bullets in and how to use the bolt to get the first bullet ready. Then he pushes the butt of the rifle into my shoulder and extends my left hand so it is holding the rifle on the wooden frame underneath the barrel. He then aligns my finger to the trigger and steps back.

‘Squeeze gently.’

I pull the trigger. The recoil feels awful, jerking my shoulder back with a violent push. I have no idea what I am aiming for. I do the bolt thing and try again, repeating the action.

The recoil frightens me, and I feel myself bracing in readiness. I end up closing my eyes. I fire three times and hand the rifle back, trying to do what he did and point the rifle down to the ground.

‘I’m no good at it, mate. You use it. We’ll just waste bullets if I keep trying.’

He nods and picks up one of the shotguns, breaks it, and pushes a red cartridge into each hole, slamming the barrel closed.

He steps forward and again raises the gun into his shoulder. His finger pulls the first trigger, then drops back, and pulls the second one. Both times, there is a loud bang, but he hardly moves from the recoil. I pick up another shotgun and copy his actions, breaking the gun, pushing the red cartridge in, and snapping it closed.

I brace my feet and fire. The first blast feels almighty and slams me backwards. I’m more prepared for the second barrel, and the recoil doesn’t feel so bad. I try again, loading and firing, readying for the recoil, and getting used to it.

‘Mr Howie,’ Dave gets my attention, pointing off to a male infected shuffling from one of the outbuildings, drawn by the noise and action. He is also fat, but this one clearly works and has big, meaty shoulders and arms.

‘I thought farmers led healthy lives?’ I murmur.

Dave just shrugs and takes the rifle back out of the bag, pushes in another strip of bullets, and raises it to his shoulder. He fires, and the infected man is thrown backwards, hitting the side of the building and slumping down, with the back of his head spread across the peeling boards, with bits of brain and bone dripping down.

The sight makes me feel weird. Like my heart is thumping too hard. I just saw a man getting shot dead right in front of me. We’ve killed countless with hand weapons, but nothing like this. It was so easy. Dave just lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

For the first time in my life, I realise why firearms are so talked about. Their power is staggering. I’ve watched hundreds of war films and seen news reports of war footage, but I guess that I became desensitised over the years. It was just make-believe or footage from somewhere far away. The sheer brutality of it – point and shoot, and you make someone die. I’m suddenly very uncomfortable here, and I want to leave. I want to be back in the safety of the van and moving away.

We load up and head back down the lane, stopping halfway so that I can hop into the bushes and open my bowels again.

Dave looks a little rosy in the cheeks when we reach the van, but I’m melting, with sweat coming off me in buckets. We load the weapons, clamber in, and get going, with the lovely air conditioning kicking in. I want to eat, but my stomach is still gurgling away, so I just drink lots of water instead.

Back to the motion of driving, and my mind starts thinking how the shotguns are really quite heavy and cumbersome. The rifle is good, and Dave handles it beautifully, but I won’t be fast enough to keep breaking the shotguns open if we get trapped. That makes me think I’ll need to keep my axe with me at the same time as the shotgun.

I start imagining ways to fit the axe head to the end of the shotgun so I can fire, then reverse it, and chop them. I wonder if anyone has invented one. I could have patented it and made a fortune selling it to the crazy survivalists, who kept going on about the end of the world.

Mind you, they weren’t so crazy, were they? Are they feeling self-righteous and pious, walking round their communes, patting each other on the back? Maybe one of them even started it? A mad scientist, a fundamentalist, end-of-world theorist doing it on purpose to prove they were right. Cleansing the Earth of all the sin while they sit back and gloat at the genocide they have created.

Fucking fundamentalists.

They’re just mentalists; no funda about it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

We are in a town. I was too busy thinking of my new shotgunaxe invention to realise we were out of the countryside. I was just following the road, and without looking at the map, I can tell we’re in grimy Portsmouth. I should have been paying better attention and avoided the city area.

I’ve been here a few times. The old part of Portsmouth, with the historic ships, is nice, but the rest just looks horrible, with old, grey buildings and graffiti everywhere.

We used to come shopping here, and I’ve been for a few nights out with friends, but everyone seemed so aggressive and angry. Blokes with tattoos and earrings and barely clad women with scraped-back hair, big, hooped bangles, and mouths like sailors. Portsmouth is just a small city in the Home Counties, and I could never understand why they all tried talking like mockney Londoners, walking about with bandy swaggers.

We are on a wide road, with crappy-looking shops on either side. The metal shuttering on some of them has already been forced open or wrenched off. There are windows smashed and debris litters the place. We spot a few people too, running in and out of the smashed windows, taking armfuls of gear. They look furtive and scared, staying low or hunkering down out of sight until we pass.

We move further into the city, seeing more signs of civil breakdown. Bodies scattered in the road. Burnt out cars and vans. Some of the bodies are clearly infected. Sadly, a lot of them look like normal people. We pass cars still alight and others smouldering, with thick, black smoke coiling up into the hot summer air already stinking of burning rubber and chemicals.

I feel myself tensing up at the sight of it all. At the sinister vibe hanging in the air, at the weird silence where there should be noise and life. A noise to my side, and I snap my head over to see Dave pushing a fresh strip of bullets into the rifle and ramming the bolt back. He grabs the shotguns next, breaking them in turn to load with cartridges.

I stare front and think that places like Portsmouth were always on the brink of civil collapse anyway. Hard places full of hard people.

Dave pulls his Tesco fleece out of the bag and puts it on. It’s roasting weather, and I can’t understand why he’s doing that. He zips it and then loads more of the ammunition clips into the pockets of the fleece. Next, he takes an empty plastic bag and puts shotgun cartridges into it. He leans over and threads the handles through my belt, tying them off. He makes a small, hand-sized hole in the top of the bag. I look down at the bag and feel for the hole with my left hand while slowing down to navigate the obstacles in the road. Cursing myself for coming this way and feeling a growing sense of dread in my gut. Silence in all directions. I look about, trying to see through the smoke to the smashed-in stores as we pass through a narrow gap underneath a concrete footbridge going over the road.

‘Ambush,’ Dave says; his voice still flat but more urgent, harder maybe. I snap my head up to see the top of the bridge alive with kids and teenagers leaning over, launching rocks and stones that thud on the bonnet and sides. ‘Go,’ he says, motioning ahead of us. I push my foot down to speed up and hear the sides scraping the debris as we get through.

‘Shit,’ I spot the barricade ahead running flush to the walls of the junction beyond it. Vehicles parked end on end and more stuff pulled on top – wheelie bins, sofas, beds, cabinets, and all manner of furniture. Worse than that, however, is the huge horde of infected gathered between us and the barricade. There must be hundreds of them.

I clench my jaw while my heart starts racing, cursing myself for coming this way and getting trapped between a huge horde of infected and a bunch of nasty kids chucking missiles about.

The van is strong, and the infected are slow moving, but if they mass in front of us, there will be no way through and too many to go over. I look back at the bridge and see the children running down the walkways towards the van with more missiles in their hands.

‘Shit. Look at that lot,’ I say as Dave leans forward, peers into the wing mirror, grabs a shotgun, and drops out to run down the side of the van while lifting the gun to aim.

‘Dave!’ I rush out and round the van to see him aiming towards the teenagers. His face so passive it sends a chill running down my spine. ‘Don’t shoot them!’ I blurt the words out, thinking he’ll do it or that the kids will keep coming, and he’ll have to bloody do it. Another noise comes to the fore at that same second from the horde of infected all groaning as they turn and start moving towards us as the tension ramps, and the first missiles start getting lobbed towards us, but the distance is too great to risk harm, and the bricks and rubble they chuck just bounces off the road.

We have to get out of here. I glance about, thinking the safest thing will be to drive back under the bridge and hope we don’t get hurt by them throwing things down. Maybe Dave could fire a warning shot? Would that work? I twist back to the barricade beyond the infected and realise that someone must have built it, and a barricade is used to keep somewhere safe, which must mean there is a safe place behind it.

‘Dave,’ I say, pointing to the closest building near the edge of the barricade. ‘See those doors? Maybe we can get through?’

He shakes his head at me. ‘We’ll lose the vehicle and the weapons.’

‘Well, we can’t bloody stay here…’ I trail off as one of the doors set in the wall next to the barricade slams open, and in that split second, I figure someone is trying to help us. ‘Dave, see that? Quick!’ I set off as a group of people rush through the door. A woman struggling between two men gripping her arms. She screams out, loud and terrified, fighting hard to break free and get back inside, and even from this distance, I can see the men cast fearful looks at the horde as they throw her out, sending her sprawling over the ground. She hits hard, grazing her knees and hands, but springs back up and runs back as the men get through the door and slam it closed.

She pounds hard. Screaming and shouting as the closest infected people start shuffling back towards her, then more, and more. She’s empty handed too, with no way to fight them.

‘PLEASE!’ she screams out, hammering on the door. Her voice cracking with fear and panic. ‘PLEASE! IT WAS FOR MY KID. I SWEAR IT.’

‘Fucking hell, she’ll get torn apart,’ I mutter the words. Dave at my side as more of the horde start turning back towards her as she thrashes and begs to be let back in. Screaming that she’s sorry.

‘I SWEAR! IT WAS FOR MY BABY.’

‘We can’t just leave her,’ I say. I don’t know what she’s done, but that is wrong, just plain wrong.

I run back to the van and shove more cartridges into the plastic bag, and grab the other shotgun before running back to Dave.

‘Dave, you go for her. I’ll draw them away,’ I say. ‘OI! OVER HERE!’ I shout loudly as Dave runs behind me.

‘Don’t shoot me, Mr Howie.’

As if I would. It does make me pause and think, though, and also realise that if I fired now, I’d be shooting towards the woman. ‘OI! COME ON!’ I shout at the horde and start moving to the side, leading them on. ‘HEY! STOP SHOUTING, LOVE! LET ME GET THEM AWAY,’ I scream out for the woman to stop shouting, but she doesn’t hear me, locked in her cycle of panic and terror, hammering on the door and still drawing the infected towards her.

‘STOP SCREAMING. STAY QUIET.’

Holy shit. That came from Dave. A full-on, proper parade square voice roaring out. I look over, amazed that such a quiet man can produce such a noise. Mind you, it does the job, though, and she spins about, seemingly stunned at the sight of me and Dave.

‘Stay still and be quiet, let me draw them off,’ I call over. She looks terrified and doesn’t show any sign of understanding me, but then she doesn’t start screaming out again either. ‘HEY! THIS WAY. COME THIS WAY.’ I shout out again, trying to draw them away. A few turn and head my way, but many still keep going towards her, fixed on their prey.

There’s nothing for it. She can’t get back in the house, and she’s too scared to think to run. Instinct inside. Nothing but pure instinct, and I lift the shotgun, aim at the infected, and pull the first trigger, then watch as the first person is blown back off their feet. I move the aim a little and pull the second trigger, taking another one down. My heart booms, and my hands shake when I start reloading, doing what Dave taught me: lever, break, cartridges out, cartridges in, closed, raise and fire.

I don’t notice the recoil this time or the noise. I just see bits of body flying off as the pellets strike them. And at such close range, the effect is devastating.

I move back and keep drawing them away from the woman, not watching my sides enough as an infected man looms at me from the side. An instinctual reaction again, and I slam the butt into his face, making him stagger back as Dave steps in and slices through his jugular with a knife. The rifle on his back, hanging from the strap.

No time to think. No time for thought, and I reload to fire again. Filling the air with shotgun blasts and watching as the infected get blown away. Gunning them down one after the other. Another reload, and I glance over to see Dave fighting through the infected that had almost reached the woman. His knife slicing necks, severing arteries, and spraying bright red blood across the pavement. I reload and notice that the cartridges are the same colour as the blood.

I keep firing into the crowd.

An infected goes down just as I fire; the pellets spread out and knock several more over behind him.

Beautiful.

A gap in the horde, and I spot Dave reaching the woman, but she seems frozen to the spot, looking down at the bloody bodies lying at her feet. I start running over, veering around the slow infected, and jumping over bodies either shot down by me or killed by Dave. Blood everywhere. Thick pools of it on the ground and a few crawlers too, pawing their way over the road, with legs all shot to bits from pellet blasts.

‘Is she okay?’ I call out as the door opens again, with one of the men reaching out to grab a fistful of hair and yank the woman back inside. Brutal and harsh. ‘HEY!’ I shout out as Dave lunges at the door, getting his body into the gap before it slams shut. More infected in front of me, and I veer while running, catching sight of Dave pushing hard to get inside; then suddenly, he’s gone, and the door slams shut behind him.

Shit.

‘Dave?’ I shout out, reaching the door. ‘DAVE?’ I kick at it, then spin to see the rest of the horde all aiming in towards me. Hundreds of them. I aim and fire, sending a few spinning away, then use the butt to hammer on the door.

‘Dave. Open up!’

A woman screams from inside; then I hear muffled thuds and male voices yelling. It goes quiet, and I start hammering again as the door opens, spilling me inside as Dave slams it shut behind me.

A front room stripped of furniture. Like someone’s lounge emptied out, and that awful droning groan of the horde fades away as I look about at the bodies. Men lying on a faded carpet with their throats cut open, with huge pools of blood already forming.

‘What the fuck?’ I gasp, looking from them to Dave standing perfectly still, with his hands at his sides, and not a drop of blood on him. Even the knife looks clean. ‘Seriously… What the fuck?’

‘They tried to grab me,’ he says in that flat voice.

‘Right,’ I say, not knowing what else to say. ‘Are they all dead?’ I ask, which is a dumb question, considering most of them are nearly decapitated.

‘Yes,’ he says as calmly as ever.

I spot the woman cowering at the far end of the room; her hands covering her face. Then the interior door opens, and she ups and scarpers quick as you like as the door slams shut.

‘Well. This isn’t weird at all,’ I mutter. ‘Did you have to kill all of them?’ I ask, looking about the room again. ‘Fuck it, let’s just go,’ again, I trail off as a new sound breaks through that groan of infected. The steady beep-beep of a Tesco delivery van being reversed. ‘Wankers, they’re nicking our van…’

I burst out through the door into the street, blanching at the size of the horde now cramming towards us as Dave runs out behind me; both of us threading a wide route just in time to see our van reversing away, with kids in the front. Then it stops, and I hear the engine being restarted from one of the thieving little shits stalling it.

‘OI! GET OUT!’ I shout, running towards it.

Dave stops, and my heart misses a beat when he fires at the van, thinking he has shot a child – a thieving little shit, but still a child.

The front driver’s side tire blows out, and the van drops down a little. He then slams the bolt and shoots again – the passenger side tire deflates. The van then stops, and three children get out and start running away.

Dave immediately raises the rifle and takes aim.

‘NO!’

He pauses for a second and drops the rifle down, then looks back at me.

‘They’re just kids…’

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ he says as though nothing just happened.

Fuck, this man is cold. I swear he would have shot them as they ran away. The front tires are blown out, and the van is resting lower.

‘Grab the stuff. We’ll have to run for it.’

Cartridges and ammo are shoved into the rucksacks. Dave goes around to the rear as I pull my rucksack on, fastening the waist and chest straps. The axe is there, but I can’t carry it and two shotguns. I take the axe and drop the shaft down between my back and the bag. The large metal head catches on the top of the bag and holds steady. I tighten the chest straps, drawing it closer to my body. It might be cumbersome, but it’s better than leaving it here.

Dave comes back with the other two shotguns and the rifle strapped to his back, over the rucksack.

If we go back, we’ll get brained by rocks and missiles from the bridge. I move out, looking down to the building to see the door is now shut again. There’s no clear way out. I spin around again and look at the row of shops and stores off to the right. We’ll have to go through them and out a back door.

‘That way,’ I say and head off, giving thanks that the windows and doors are already smashed in.

‘I’ll go in, Mr Howie,’ Dave says as we reach the closest one. ‘Wait here…’ He rushes on by with the rifle up and aimed as I come to a stop and wonder what I’m meant to do. Like cover him or something? I turn around and aim my shotgun about at different things. A wall. A car. A building. Some zombies. That sort of thing.

‘No way through,’ he says, running back out. We go down and repeat the same thing, with Dave running in, and me aiming at stuff. He comes back, and we try the next one. A hair salon, but even that has been looted. Someone has even stolen one of the big, heavy hairdressing chairs. Unbelievable.

‘This way, Mr Howie,’ Dave calls out.

‘Righto,’ I head in and follow through to the back to see Dave battering a back door open, and we squeeze through into a back service alley littered with rubbish.

We start off, following the alley into a residential area of small, terraced houses – a cheap rental area, already rough and grotty anyway, but it is looking even worse now.

There are small streets leading off to the left. They must loop around the back of the barricade, and seeing as Dave has just killed several of them, I think we should try and avoid it.

We keep going until we have passed several of the side streets; then we turn left and head down one of them. We get about halfway down and hear a loud bang from behind us. Dave instantly grabs my arm and drops down, pulling me behind the back of a parked car. I look around to see a group of men holding handguns running towards us as the bullets whizz by, into cars and bounce off walls.

‘Fuck, they’ve got guns. Where’d they get them from?’

Dave doesn’t reply but pulls the rifle around, and lifts the rifle to aim as he stands up.

‘Dave! What the fuck you doing? They’ve got guns…’

Dave fires, dropping the lead man, who goes down hard, slamming face first into the ground. Not that he’ll feel anything, what with half of his head now missing. The others scatter into the road, dodging behind parked cars as Dave slams the bolt back and steps out into the road, aiming this way and that as he scans the area while I listen to the loud, panic-filled voices of the men shouting at each other.

A head pops up, and Dave fires, with staggering reactional speed, and I see the head explode, with blood and matter spraying out as the guy is flung backwards against another car.

Dave rams the bolt and keeps moving. His movements are fast but controlled; the rifle looks steady in his hands.

‘Go down the other side, Mr Howie,’ he says, as calm as ever while motioning with his left hand, indicating for me to head down the side we just came up.

My chest is heaving, and I can feel my hands shaking as I set off with the shotgun braced in my shoulder. My vision seemingly coming in strobing flashes. Men shouting. Hoarse, ragged voices, but they sound confused, as though they’re all trying to tell the others what to do at the same time.

‘I’LL KILL YOU ALL!’ Dave bellows out in that drill sergeant voice again. ‘I’LL KILL YOUR FAMILIES. YOUR WIVES AND YOUR CHILDREN.’

‘Fuck me,’ I mumble, feeling the dread myself of his threats and the brutal, awful way he shouts the words. The effect seems to work, though, and the men starburst out to start running. Dave fires fast, dropping one. Bolt back, and he aims, firing again, killing another that sprawls out on the ground. Bolt back, and he turns to aim at the last one.

‘Please! Please don’t shoot, yeah?’

I reach Dave to see a young man cowering on his knees in the gap between two cars. His hands on his head; his eyes wild and full of fear, with tears spilling down over his spotty cheeks. ‘Please, mate! Please don’t kill me,’ he gabbles the words out in that harsh Portsmouth accent as Dave aims the rifle at his head.

‘Are you armed?’ Dave demands.

‘Please don’t shoot, please…’ the lad stammers the words out as Dave kicks him hard, knocking him over onto the ground.

‘ARE YOU ARMED?’ Dave shouts the words out.

‘No, no, I’m not. I swear.’

‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’

‘Please, please.’

Dave kicks him again.

‘DO IT NOW. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.’

The man responds, putting his hands to the back of his head.

‘STAND UP. SLOWLY.’

‘Oh fuck… Please don’t. Please don’t,’ he begs as he gets to his feet. He’s just a skinny kid, maybe eighteen years old. Tattoos on his arms and neck; the obligatory earring hanging from his ear. Dave looks at me and nods firmly towards the boy. I shrug my shoulders, not understanding what he wants me to do.

‘Would you search him, please, Mr Howie.’

‘Oh, right… Of course.’

Dave steps forward and pushes the end of the rifle into the boy’s neck, which sets him off whimpering again as I step forward and start patting him down. He’s only wearing tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, and I’m finished in seconds.

‘Check the waistband, please, Mr Howie.’

I run my fingers around the waistband. ‘He’s clear,’ I try to sound military but just feel silly.

‘MOVE.’

Dave pushes the lad over the pavement up against a wall, then turns, and once more nods at me. ‘All yours, Mr Howie.’

All mine? What am I supposed to do with him?

‘Er. Right. Um…where are you from?’ I ask, still trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.

‘What?’ the boy stammers, still terrified.

‘I said where are you from?’

‘Carter Street.’

‘Is that where the barricade is?’

‘Yeah. Don’t kill me, yeah? I didn’t wanna do nuffin’ but he said I had to, didn’t he…?’

‘Who said?’ I ask.

‘My dad did, didn’t he? That’s his brother, innit, my uncle, yeah…’

‘What the fuck?’ I say, struggling to understand the spew of words. ‘Who is?’

The boy nods at the body on the ground, the one that Dave shot first.

‘That’s your uncle?’ I ask. He nods again, fast and shallow. His eyes flicking from me to Dave, but I can still see the feral cunning in them. ‘Who’s your dad?’

‘John Jones?’

He says it like it means something.

‘Who is he?’

‘John Jones, innit. Like fuckin’ everyone knows him, don’t they? He runs the area, don’t he? He’s the fucking boss, innit…’ the boy’s tones grow more confident as he speaks.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Everyone knows him, don’t they? Like, this is his patch, yeah. Even the pigs don’t touch him.’

‘And you’re his son?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So he sent you after us?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, starting to sneer as he talks, puffing himself up.

‘Why?’

‘Cos of what you did, yeah,’ he says, eyeballing me.

‘What did we do?’

‘You killed his mates. No one does that.’

‘His mates? Oh, you mean the men in that room? We were trying to help that woman. Why was she pushed out?’

‘She didn’t do as she was told. Dad said we got to keep a firm grip of ’em. Stop ’em thieving and fuckin’ about, yeah. Like, like, my dad, yeah. He said there’s rules, and there’s gotta be rules, and if cunts break ’em, then they can fuck right off…’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jim Jones, ain’t it?’

‘What wouldn’t she do, Jim?’

‘Fucking bitch, she thieved, didn’t she?’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘The fucking bitch thieved. She stole from my dad, didn’t she?’

‘What did she steal?’

‘Milk.’

‘Milk? Why didn’t she have her own milk?’

‘We got it all stacked in the fuckin’ house, yeah. Dad said we needs to ration it and stop the greedy cunts eating it all now…’

‘So you took everyone’s food and put it in your house?’

‘Yeah, fucking right, we did.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos the greedy cunts will have the lot.’

‘Why did she steal milk? Why not something else?’

I already know why she took milk. I heard what she shouted out, but I want him to say it.

A pause. A second’s worth of hesitation. ‘Dunno,’ he says, instantly sulky and petulant.

‘Why did she take the milk?’

‘I dunno, do I?’ he snaps, glaring at me. ‘Fuckin askin’ me for…’

‘Yes, you do, Jim Jones. You do know why, so tell me why she took the milk?’

I can feel anger building in me – the arrogance and cocky attitude is winding me up. I can just imagine this little shit bullying his way through life, knowing his dad is the local big man.

‘I don’t fucking know, do I?’

‘Jim, I will ask you once more,’ I say in a voice now very low. ‘Why did she take the milk?’

‘I fuckin’ said that I don’t fuckin’ know,’ he sneers, defiant and angry.

I slap him across the face. Hard and stinging. Then I step in and take a fistful of his hair to yank his head back. ‘You listen to me, you little cunt. I don’t fucking care who your dad is. Right now, there is me and you, and that’s it.’

He squirms in my grip, still cocky, still arrogant, still entitled, and that anger inside spikes again, so I head-butt him square in the face, driving my forehead into his nose. He drops down and puts his hands to his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers, but I wrench his head up again.

My own forehead really stings. I had no idea it hurt that much when you head-butt someone. I want to rub it, but don’t want to do it in front of him.

‘Why did she take the milk?’

‘Her kids,’ he gasps, spraying blood as he speaks. ‘She took it for her kids, didn’t she…’

‘You forced a mother out into that lot because she took milk for her kids? You tell me now, why? Why did you do that?’

‘Dad said to…’

‘Did you help?’

‘No, no, I swear I didn’t.’

‘You’re fucking lying to me. Your dad is the big man, so you’re the big man too. You fucking helped, didn’t you?’

‘No, no, I didn’t.’

‘Lie again and see what happens.’

‘I had to… Dad told me to.’

‘What happened when she went back in? You killed her, didn’t you?’

‘They did, not me. I swear it wasn’t me that did it …’

‘You fucking little cunt.’ I punch the boy in the face, then rain blows into him, with fists pounding his head. He drops down, and I kick him several times in the stomach and ribs. I step back, breathing hard. The fury is taking over. ‘Get up.’

He staggers to his feet; his face is bloodied and bruised. I take the shotgun back from Dave.

‘You are going to lead us out of here, do you understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s yes, not yeah.’

‘Okay, yes.’

‘Now walk.’

I push him forward, down the street, and he staggers, then gains his composure, and starts walking slowly.

‘Take your clothes off,’ Dave says to the boy.

‘What?’

‘Take your clothes off.’ I look at Dave, confused at the strange order. ‘It’s hard to run away when you’re naked.’

‘Okay, you heard him – strip off!’

‘No, please. Please don’t do that.’

Dave shoves the rifle into his face, pushing him hard against the wall.

‘Now.’

‘Okay, okay.’

The boy starts stripping, taking his shirt off first, then his shoes, and trousers, stripping down to his filthy, once-white boxer shorts.

‘Please, I won’t run. I swear.’

‘Off. Now.’

He slowly bends down and pulls his boxer shorts off, covering his privates with his hands.

‘Nice skid marks, Jim Jones. Did your dad tell you to do them too? Try wiping your arse next time, you filthy little shit.’

A few days ago, this act would have sickened me. If someone explained this situation to me in the staff canteen, I would deny that it was right and say no person should ever be treated like that, that we have law and order, and everyone is entitled to respect and dignity.

Not now.

‘Hang on, Mr Howie.’

Dave runs back to the body lying on the pavement. I see him pick the gun up and pull the top bit back; then a magazine pops out of the bottom. He checks inside, then takes the gun apart, flinging bits in different directions. He puts one piece in his pocket, then runs back.

‘It was empty, Mr Howie.’

We start walking down the road, with Jim covering his bollocks, but Dave makes him put his hands back on his head. He looks pathetic. Just a skinny kid – black tribal tattoos stand out on his pale skin. We reach the end of the road, and Jim turns left.

‘Where are we going, Jim?’

‘You said you wanted to get out, didn’t you? Please, I’ll tell you the way. Just let me go home, yeah.’

‘You want to go home, do you, Jim?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What?’

‘I mean yes. Yes, please, Mr Howie.’

Fuck it, now he’s calling me that too.

‘Okay, take us to the barricade at this end.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, but do as you’re told, or we’ll kill you.’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

We walk on past houses with doors battered in and broken windows. Like a warzone, with blood and gore smeared over walls and cars.

‘Did you take all of the food from here too?’

‘Dad sent the boys out, didn’t he. Told ’em to bring it all back so’s everyone has enough.’

‘Regular saint, your dad.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

The barricade comes into view. Well constructed and dense too. Stretching from the end of the last house on one side and right across the junction to the end of the next house, sealing off Carter Street. There’s also lots of bodies lying broken and dead and left to rot in the high sun. Grotesque and awful. A few infected too, shuffling and groaning off to one side, close to one of the building entry doors.

‘Who killed them, Jim?’

‘We did,’ he says, surly and sulky from being forced to walk naked.

‘What with?’

‘I dunno, anything we could find.’

‘Got any more guns in there?’

He pauses.

‘No.’

A look passes between Dave and I.

‘So, what are the rules in your street?’

‘What rules?’

‘There must be rules. Can people leave if they want to?’

‘Yeah, ’course they fucking can,’ he snaps in that nasty, goading tone. Dave reacts quickly, yanking the bolt back on the rifle as he prods the end into the back of Jim’s head.

‘Don’t lie, Jim,’ I say calmly. ‘He will kill you, trust me. He won’t think twice about it.’ That’s probably very true, and from what I’ve seen so far, Dave wouldn’t even blink.

‘Okay, okay. They can’t leave, but Dad said it was for their own benefit cos they would just get eaten by the fuckin’ zombie things, and then the zombies would get inside.’

‘How would they get inside?’

‘I dunno… Dad said they would.’

‘So how does your dad stop people getting out?’

‘He’s got the boys watching both ends, ain’t he?’

‘How do you get in from this end?’

‘Through the houses.’

‘And I suppose the boys have got the end houses to stay in?’

‘Yeah.’

Dave prods him again.

‘Sorry, yes, Mr Howie.’

We stop about a hundred metres down from the end of the barricade. I look at Dave and motion towards a brick wall on the other side of the road.

‘Get on your knees,’ I tell Jim, pushing him towards the wall. ‘Keep your hands on your head.’

The lad does as he is told as I clamber over the waist-high wall and prop one of the shotguns down while pressing the other end to the back of his head as Dave gets over and hunkers down.

‘John Jones!’ I shout out, but my voice cracks and doesn’t come out so loud; then I remember Dave shouting earlier. ‘Dave, can you shout?’

‘JOHN JONES!’ The voice is just huge, and I imagine it booming out across a parade square, terrifying new recruits. ‘JOHN JONES! COME OUT, OR WE’LL KILL THE BOY.’

Within seconds, we spot faces in the windows of the houses overlooking us. Men seen snatching views as they try and stay hidden. Then one of the ground floor doors opens, and a burly man walks out, looking supremely confident. Swinging his thick arms as he swaggers almost casually and glances at the infected staggering across the road towards young Jim Jones on his knees, with his hands on his head.

‘Dad,’ Jim whimpers. He cuts off when I prod the shotgun a bit harder and watch the closest infected. An adult male that looks the same type as John Jones, with thick arms and torso and tattoos on his arms. Half of his face is missing, bitten off, and the skin is shredded down to the bone, exposing teeth through the ragged holes in his cheek. Drool hanging from his lips but also coming from the holes too, and his red, bloodshot eyes stay fixed on Jim as he staggers on, jerky and slow, but still closing the distance.

‘Fuck. Oh fuck,’ Jim squirms as John Jones stops in the middle of the road with arms hanging down at his sides. Tension in the air. Thick and palpable. Dave standing silently. The infected groaning and scuffing their feet as they shuffle forever on. Two of them veer off towards John Jones, who just watches them without expression before exploding with violent motion, lashing out to slam a fist into the closest infected, sending it reeling backwards. He grabs the next one by the throat, seemingly fearless of the risk of infection and throws it down like a ragdoll before stamping on the head, with a sickening display of utter brutality. Like a message is being sent.

Then he looks up; his face flushed, and his eyes set and hard as he moves towards us while lifting an arm to point. ‘IF YOU TOUCH MY FACKIN’ BOY…’

I raise the shotgun and fire over Jim’s head at another infected, blowing it away. Jim drops to the ground, screaming in fear at the noise. If John Jones wants to show force, we can both play that game. I drop the gun back down to aim at the sorry sight of a naked Jim sobbing on the ground. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ I say, looking from the lad to his father.

‘Dad, do something!’ Jim cries out.

‘Shut up, Jimmy,’ John snaps, his voice hard and rasping. ‘Easy now, boys. What’s the problem, eh?’ he asks, switching instantly to a charm offensive, smiling as he speaks.

‘You killed that woman.’

‘Yes. I did,’ he says firmly. ‘Is that your problem? Yeah, I killed her, and I’ll kill others if I have to. There’s plenty of people in there, you see. They need protection, and the food won’t last forever, will it? I’ve got kids and families, haven’t I. Who’s gonna feed ’em and look out for ’em? You?’

‘She only took some milk.’

‘Is that what Jimmy told you?’ he asks with a roll of his eyes. ‘The lad’s a fuckwit. He ain’t all there. Kids these days… They’re different in the head,’ he adds, tapping the side of his head as though to demonstrate the point. His tone stays calm and natural, easy going, like he’s talking to his best mate – the charm oozes off him. ‘Now listen, gents. Fair enough, you thought we done wrong, fair play. I appreciate you keeping to yer principles. I admire that in a man, but that woman was a smackhead, and she kept thieving from us. We told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. I gotta whole street to take care of, and well… It might look hard to you, boys, but there’s gotta be order. Now, do me a favour, boys, and let the lad go, eh?’

He sounds so reasonable, so calm and genuine.

‘Between me and you, gents,’ he says, lowering his tone as though imparting a secret. ‘I don’t much care for the little shit, but hiss mum, yeah, you know what women are like. He can’t do no wrong in her eyes, and she’ll give me hell if anything happens to ’im.’

‘I’ll tell you what, John. I’ll let him go, but only if you tell everyone in there that they are free to leave if they want to.’

‘Sure, sure, I’ll do that. They can go anytime they want. But where to? Have you seen what’s going on? They won’t last five minutes out here. They ain’t like us; they ain’t survivors. Those things will tear ’em apart. You must have seen what they’re like at night? They change, don’t they? Get all fast and angry, eh?’

‘Yeah. We’ve seen.’

‘Well, there you go, I’m only protecting ’em till help arrives, just for now until the law gets a grip of it. You boys can see that, can’t you?’

Fuck me, he sounds so normal. I imagined some tyrant with a harem and armed bandits surrounding him. Fair enough, he was shouting when he came out, but I am holding a gun to his son’s head.

‘So, let me take the boy in. I’ll give him a good hiding for the trouble he’s caused you, gents. Then you can be on your way. Or, here’s an idea, tell you what, why don’t you join us? We got food and plenty of booze…’ He takes a step closer, nodding earnestly. ‘And we got some nice looking birds in there too, if you know what I mean, gents. Couple of young lads like you, well, they’ll be all over you,’ he adds with a wink and a sneer, and a flash of his true colours.

‘No, you tell those people they can leave if they want to.’

‘Or what?’ he asks, staring straight at me, unblinking, unflinching.

‘Or we’ll kill Jimmy.’

‘You’ll kill him, will you? What, just shoot him dead right here? Go on, then! One less mouth to feed if I’m honest.’

‘Jimmy, you tell your dad what we did to his brother and his mates.’

‘They shot him, Dad. They shot Uncle Jamie.’

John, Jimmy, Jamie – talk about inbred families.

John Jones’ face flushes red. His fists start clenching, and he breathes hard. Then he stares straight at me, and although I’m the one holding the gun, I can see the power in the man and why his son said he was the boss.

‘You killed my bruvver? You fucking cunts.’

He takes a step forward, and Dave shoots him in the leg.

‘Fuck,’ I gasp as John drops to roll on the ground, writhing and clutching his leg.

‘DAD!’ Jimmy screams out.

‘Jimmy,’ I shout. ‘You run in there, and you tell those people they can leave if they want to. You do that now, or we’ll finish your old man off, you got it?’

‘You shot my dad…’ Jimmy whimpers, scuttling over to his father. His bare arse poking up into the sky as he bends down to him.

‘Jimmy, you listen to me. We’ll kill him if you don’t get in there now and tell them.’

‘Go on,’ John grunts, pushing his son roughly with blood smeared hands before going back to grunting in agony as I notice Dave appears to have shot him through the kneecap. Just the sight makes me wince, and I catch sight of Jim legging it across the road towards the door just as another man comes out, grabs Jimmy, and disappears inside.

‘FACK OFF,’ I snap back to see John Jones trying to crawl away from an infected woman staggering towards him

I take aim and shoot her down, watching again as the pellets tear chunks from her body and send her flying back. A few seconds to reload, and I glance to the blood pouring from John’s knee, leaving a slick across the road as he tries crawling away, sobbing and crying as he goes.

The sound of breaking glass comes a split second before a deep crack and a chunk of the wall in front of us peppers with pellets, making me and Dave drop quickly from someone firing a shotgun. A second shot comes, hitting the wall, but with a few pellets going overhead, where we were standing but a second ago.

Everything happening so quickly, and once more, I think I should have watched where we were bloody going and avoided the city. Motion to my side, and Dave surges up to his feet, aiming and sending a shot back at the window used by the shotgun man, who falls away out of view. Another shot from somewhere near the top of the barricade. This one strikes the wall with a loud ricochet. Not a shotgun this time.

‘Any ideas?’ I ask Dave.

‘Shoot back, Mr Howie,’ he says in a way that would sound sarcastic coming from anyone else. It does, however, seem like sound advice, so I jump up and fire both barrels of the shotgun in the rough direction of the barricade as someone screams out in pain.

‘Good shot, Mr Howie.’

‘Trust me, that was more luck than judgment.’

A loud crack, and splinters of brick chip off near my head. Whoever is firing from the window is using the rifle now and is getting better with their aiming. Another shot comes, closer again, with more brick chunks flying off.

‘Bloody hell. He’s getting closer.’

Dave lays down on the ground and starts wriggling along the base of the wall, towards the entrance.

A groan above me, and I twist over with a yelp to see an infected man leaning over the wall. His mouth already opening to bite, with bloodied saliva hanging down. ‘Shit!’ I gasp out and push the end of the shotgun barrel into the face, and pull the trigger. ‘Holy fuck,’ I say when his whole head disappears, flinging his body backwards.

‘Mr Howie, can you draw him out, please?’ Dave asks.

‘Eh?’ I ask, still wide-eyed from shooting someone’s head off.

‘Can you draw him out, please?’

‘Who?’ I ask as the rifle from the building line fires again, tearing another chunk out of the wall. ‘Ah, right, you mean him…er…what do I do?

‘Give him something to shoot at.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’ I don’t know Dave that well, but I really don’t think he’s taking the piss. ‘Fucking hell… Okay, hang on.’

I take the other shotgun that Dave was using – the one with the barrels on top of each other – and start to raise it up to the wall until the barrel is poking out of the top. Two shots ring out. One of them from the window, which hits the barrel and sends it flying out of my hands. The other shot is a split second after the first and comes from Dave.

‘Got him, Mr Howie,’ Dave says calmly.

‘Thank fuck for that,’ I say, not so calmly, peering at the dented barrel of the shotgun. ‘He broke your shotgun.’

‘You used my shotgun?’ Dave asks, looking back at me.

‘Err…yeah. He broke it.’

‘Right.’

He almost sounds annoyed as he shuffles back and takes it from me, inspecting the damaged barrels.

‘Sorry, Dave.’

‘It was a good gun.’

‘We still have two more. You can have one of these if you want.’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Honestly, mate, I really don’t mind. I shouldn’t have used it.’

‘It’s okay, Mr Howie.’

‘I feel bad now… Shit, I’m sorry, mate.’

He looks genuinely upset. His face is impassive as ever, but just the slightest change in his manner portrays his feelings.

‘Honestly, Dave, have one of these. I can’t carry both of them anyway. Just take it for now until we get you another one.’

He slowly raises his head and looks at me, then at the shotgun lying by the wall.

‘Really, mate, go on, take it.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Howie?’

I pass the shotgun along so that the wooden end is just in front of him.

‘Honestly, please have it. I want you to.’

He takes the gun and pulls it towards him.

‘Thanks, Mr Howie. I’ll look after it.’

‘It’s all yours.’

He busies himself for the next couple of minutes, reloading the rifle first, and then he looks at me before starting on the shotgun.

‘Where now, Mr Howie?’

‘I don’t know. We should get going, I guess. Mind you, I feel awful if the people in there are being trapped by that wanker. Talking of which…’ I pop my head up and look over the wall, then straight back down again. ‘Or rather, until you shot him in the leg, and he got eaten by a zombie.’

We both raise up and look over the wall.

John Jones is dead. He had crawled most of the way back to the door, but the infected got him. Two of them are bent over him now – one gnawing on his already injured leg; the other on his face.

‘He’s almost at the door. Why didn’t they come out and rescue him? They could have got him in while we were pinned down.’

‘I guess they didn’t want to, Mr Howie.’

‘Hmmm… I guess you are right.’

The door opens, and a still naked Jimmy gets launched out. He looks even more battered and bruised now, with blood pouring from his face, and there are clear, distinct welt marks on his back. Behind Jimmy, another boy of roughly the same age also gets pushed out.

Several men come out behind them, holding long sticks. One of them has a samurai sword.

They start pushing the two boys away, beating them with hard strikes across the legs and back, making the lads scream out, begging them to stop as another man steps out of the doorway, holding a rifle in one hand.

He looks at the boys being beaten and says something to the men. They stop and all step away from the boys. The man with the rifle looks over and starts walking towards us.

Dave is over the wall instantly, rifle up and aimed. The man stops and raises his hands up to his sides, then looks at his rifle, and seems to realise what he’s doing. He turns back and hands the rifle to one of the other men, then starts walking towards us again, arms up and palms facing us, a clear gesture to show that he isn’t threatening.

He veers around John Jones and the infected munching on him. Several of the other men are on them instantly, beating them with the sticks.

‘It’s all right. I’m not armed,’ the guy says, pausing to spit on the corpse of John Jones before walking on towards us.

I start to climb over the wall, but the axe handle hanging from my back gets caught, and I fall backwards with a gargled yell, then spring back up, and try, and smooth it out by walking through the entrance a few feet up. The guy pretends not to have noticed, but then Dave is aiming a rifle at him.

‘Easy, Dave,’ I say.

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

Dave lowers the rifle but keeps his hands in the same position, and I have no doubt that it would take him less than a second to shoot the man, who keeps glancing at the weapon, clearly thinking the same thing.

‘So you are Mr Howie? I’m John.’

Another John? Carter Street clearly has no imagination when it comes to names.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not related to that prick,’ he motions towards John Jones, then looks to the group of males gazing down at him.

‘Derek, you’d better finish him off before he turns into one of them.’

The man with the sword nods and thrusts the blade into the throat of John Jones, then hacks away, ripping the flesh open. More of the men start beating the corpse. They are clearly angry and are whacking the shit out of him.

‘As you can see, he wasn’t well liked around here,’ new John says.

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘He was a nasty bastard,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Loved throwing his weight around, but got this barricaded quickly and his mates all tooled up and took over …’

‘His boys must still be in there. What about them?’

‘I think your man here did most of them in that room on the other side. Jones went nuts and sent more after you, but only a couple of those came back. I’ve never seen him so angry. It was bloody great. We took care of the other couple when you lot were shooting each other, and them two there, of course …’ He nods towards Jimmy and the other boy. ‘That Jimmy is an evil little shit, untouchable cos of his dad.’

‘Who’s the other one? Don’t tell me. James? John? Jamie?’

He smiles. ‘Close. It’s Jack.’

Another commotion at the door as a group of women come steaming out, dragging another woman with bleached, blond hair and orange-looking skin with them, and I watch her fighting back and screaming out. Thrashing and kicking as the women grab her hair and pull her on.

A large, well-built woman breaks away and marches up to the men standing over John Jones’ corpse. ‘Give me that stick, Terry,’ she snaps at one of the guys, who hesitates and looks about for help. ‘TERRY, GIVE ME THAT BLOODY STICK.’

She snatches it from his hand and marches back to the thrashing woman, pulling the stick back and striking at the back of her legs. She goes down to the ground. The other women start kicking at her; blows hitting her stomach and back. The woman starts trying to fight her way back up, but is beaten back down and eventually curls up into a little ball.

The women are screaming at her, spitting down. One of them grabs her hair and yanks her head back, then starts slapping her in the face. Jimmy and Jack start running up, but the men move closer, brandishing the sticks, and they stop still – both of them crying and putting their hands over their faces, taking steps forward, then backing off again.

‘That’s John’s wife – she was the worst one. Trust me, she had this coming for a long time.’

I look at the man, and he grimaces at the beating the woman is taking. The large lady drops the stick and grabs at the woman’s feet, then starts pulling her shoes off. The other women grasp the idea, and within seconds, the woman is stripped bare. Scrawny, sinewy, and near on bright orange from fake tan.

‘That’s enough. Leave her be now,’ new John shouts.

The well-built woman spins around and screams back at John, ‘You stay out of this, John. You saw what she did. Fucking bitch!’

John raises his hands and takes a step back. The large woman is furious. Spittle shooting from her mouth as she screams and goes back to pull the woman onto her feet by her hair. ‘YOU CAN FUCKING BEG. GET DOWN AND BEG NOW.’

The woman drops to her knees and crawls around, sobbing and begging at the women’s feet.

‘Look at those saggy tits. No wonder he kept trying to shag us,’ one of the other women says. The rest start cackling, joining in with the humiliation while the fake-tanned woman clutches at their feet, but they kick her away, laughing at her plight, and I look away, unable to watch it.

‘TAKE YOUR FUCKIN’ MOTHER AND FUCK OFF.’

The boys gather the woman up and start walking her away, hobbling and limping from the beating they’ve all had.

John turns back to me as the women start heading back inside. A strained silence. Awkward and heavy.

‘Er, so Jimmy said people can go if they want,’ new John says.

I nod, not sure what to say.

‘Great,’ he says, nodding. ‘Er, so… I think a few might stay now John’s dead, and his mates are…you know…’

‘Also dead,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks with a sudden change of topic.

‘Boroughfare.’

‘I know it. Is it the same as here?’

‘Everywhere is. I heard a radio broadcast saying that London has gone.’

‘Yeah, we heard about that. John Jones said someone told him.’

He doesn’t mention the other part of the radio message.

‘What about the forts?’ I ask.

‘What forts?’

‘The radio message said for survivors to head for the forts on the coast.’

‘That fucking shit! He told us the message said that the cities had gone, and we had to wait for help. The fucking wanker… Is that where you’re going?’

‘Eventually. I’m going for my sister first.’

‘Where is she?’

‘London. She got a message out, saying she’s locked in her flat.’

‘Well, I was going to ask you to stay with us. We could do with the extra protection, and we’ve got plenty of food. John saw to that.’

‘Thanks, mate, but I can’t.’

‘Well, lads, if you change your mind… I guess we’ll stick here for today and see about them forts tomorrow. Did they say which ones?’

‘No, but I guess any of them will do the job.’

‘I might see if we can send someone out to check first.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Right. Well, I’ll let you boys get on then.’

‘One more thing, mate. Sorry, but how do we get out of here?’

‘To London? Well, that’s easy enough…’

‘No, er, we’ve got to run another errand first. Something else we got to take care off. We’re heading towards Salisbury.’

He raises both his eyebrows and nods knowingly.

‘Ah, Salisbury. Yeah, I understand. Don’t worry – I won’t say anything. You need to head for Southampton.’

‘Is there another way, without going through the towns?’

‘Yeah, head north on the London Road, then work your way over, but it’ll take much longer.’

He gives directions to a junction, then explains that we have to decide: north through the countryside or west to Southampton, which will be much quicker but will keep us in the towns.

Dave shoulders the rifle and takes the shotgun in his hands. My shotgun is loaded and ready, and I can feel the weight of the axe hanging from my back.

We turn from the barricade and walk away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘It will be dark soon, Mr Howie.’

I glance over at him as we walk on through the deserted suburban streets. A heavy silence hangs in the air that’s filled with the stench of death and fire. Bodies everywhere. Lying in the road or across doorways. We saw a crawler a few streets back too. An old woman dragging her legless torso along the road. We just stopped, stared, and carried on walking. Flies too. Not too many but enough to start the spread of disease, and these corpses will soon be writhing with maggots.

A few more days, and this will be a very dangerous place, not just with the infected but also from the risk of decaying bodies festering in the baking summer sun. I swallow in the heat, feeling oppressed and hemmed in.

Coming here has sucked the spirit out of me. Up until now I had a purpose, a plan, and somewhere to go. We still have that plan, but the last few hours have taken their toll. Seeing real people being killed, not infected but real, normal people, has left me feeling empty. The world is crumbling at such an alarming rate. Everything we know has been taken away, and men still want to hurt each other.

I’m not some naïve dreamer, and I know what people are capable of, but seeing it happen and the speed it’s taking place has left me appalled, with a pervading sense of shame inside me. Shame that we had to do what we did. Shame that I beat Jimmy and made him walk naked back to the barricade. I was no better than them.

The clear lines of distinction between right and wrong have merged. John Jones was an evil psychopath – of that there is no doubt – but in his mind, he was providing protection. Maybe he felt that he was doing the right thing.

He wasn’t a James Bond baddie, stroking a cat and laughing evilly. He was violent and nasty, but he had the sense to build that barricade and gather food, and he offered protection to people who couldn’t defend themselves.

I guess this was how the world was in times gone by – the strong protecting the weak, but at a cost? The end result was that we took John Jones out, but the people that replaced him could be worse, far worse. Maybe they’ll get a taste of power and grow corrupt too. Power corrupts, after all.

At the supermarket, it was common for shop workers to be promoted and enter into the management team. Some of them were hungry for it, and people could see that they were different. Most of the lads always said they wouldn’t change, that they would represent the floor workers and do what they could to make it better for them: better hours, better pay, more breaks. For the first few days, they would keep to their word and keep the banter going and sit with the floor workers at break times, but within a short time, they changed.

Just wearing a shirt and a tie marked them out, and before long, the gap was there – evident and clear for all to see.

I know because I did it. I tried to keep in with the lads, stay as one of them, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t change, but I did. I made myself get out on the floor with them. When I didn’t have my own duties, I would be working alongside them, but then familiarity breeds contempt, and some would try to take advantage, which was uncomfortable at times. I remember the general manager taking me to one side just after I was promoted and telling me to keep a healthy distance from them.

I blink the sweat from my eyes and bring my mind back to the now and this harsh reality of feeling like the buildings are pressing in. It’s too quiet. Too hot, and I glance around at the dark windows that look like they’re watching us. This city was active, rough, and violent, but it had life, a vibrant life, full of people of all colours and backgrounds. Now it’s empty and sullen. It’s only been a couple of days. What will it be like in a week, a month, or a year?

Stick to the plan, Howie. Get your sister and get to the forts. The forts are strong and safe and will be full of good people: soldiers, policemen, doctors, and nurses. There will be structure and order.

‘I said it will be dark soon, Mr Howie.’

I look at Dave, assessing his quiet demeanour and manner – no chit-chat or witty banter, but then he doesn’t show any sign that what we are seeing or doing is affecting him either. Then I think of the giant mound of bodies in Tesco and come to a stop while staring at him. He stops too and stares back. Silent. Expressionless.

‘Dave, why are you here?’

He looks about. ‘We walked here, Mr Howie.’

‘No! I mean… I mean why are you here with me.’

‘To get your sister, Mr Howie.’

‘No, I mean why did you come? Why go through all of this with me just because of my sister? You didn’t have to come. You could walk away any time you want. You worked for Tesco, and that’s gone; it doesn’t exist anymore. You can do whatever you want now.’

He doesn’t say anything but just looks at me.

‘So why come with me? Why do this? What about back there? You killed loads of people, Dave. You slit their throats and shot them. You shot them as they ran away. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Why? How can it not bother you?’

‘They would have killed us.’

‘But it’s only because you were with me that it happened in the first place. If you hadn’t come with me, you wouldn’t have had to kill those people.’

He just stares.

‘It’s not okay, Dave. None of this is okay, and it’ll never be okay. Never again. We stripped a man naked and beat him. We killed people. We took their lives away. Why are you here? Why are you with me? What for? You don’t owe me anything. Tesco is gone. It’s all gone, Dave. You’re free to…to…to do what you want. I’m not your manager now.’ I stop from suddenly becoming acutely aware that I’m ranting in the street. Even my heart is going like the clappers. I rub the stress from my face and groan softly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Those things didn’t happen because of you. I shouldn’t have come through the city.’ I stop again to sigh heavily, glancing around, then back at him, and although he looks exactly the same, there is a change in the energy about him. Like he’s a bit crestfallen.

‘I’m not like other people, Mr Howie.’

‘No, mate. You are decidedly not like other people…’ I say quietly, rubbing my face again. ‘How the hell you can do what you do is something else. You’re an amazing person, Dave, and I’m glad you’re with me. I don’t know who trained you or what they trained you for, but it’s incredible.’ I open my eyes to see him staring unblinking at me as though studying every word I say. ‘Okay, look, mate. I’m sorry for sounding off. I shouldn’t have. It’s just… It’s fucking mental. Just know you can go whenever you want. You don’t owe me anything. Okay?’

He nods, then goes back to scanning around, eventually looking up at the sky. ‘It will be dark soon. We should find shelter,’ he says, as though that entire conversation just didn’t happen.

‘We’ll look for a car,’ I say, heading off back along the filthy, oppressive street.

We keep going, moving away from the epicentre of the mass civil unrest. There are still signs of devastation here but less so. Another few streets over, and we find some houses that look quite normal, with just the front doors open.

‘There’s a lot of undamaged cars here. What do you fancy? Sports car? Van? Something executive perhaps? Or shall we go for a four-wheel drive?’

‘I don’t mind, Mr Howie.’

‘Oh, but sir must have a choice. Sir must choose one from our exciting range.’

Silence.

‘How about the colour, sir? What colour would you like your vehicle to be? Metallic paint and alloys may incur an additional fee …’

‘How about that one?’ Dave asks, pointing to a very old, beaten-up Skoda Fabia.

‘You really can’t drive, can you?’ I say, moving on towards a Range Rover parked up ahead. ‘Now that is more like it. What do you reckon?’

Dave looks back at the Skoda, then at the Range Rover and shrugs. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘You really have no taste, Dave. No taste at all.’

I try to keep the tone light to make up for my outburst a short while ago. There’s something about Dave that makes me want to keep my head and wits about me, and I feel a bit embarrassed about having a go at him. ‘Let’s try in here.’

We move up to the front door of the house next to the parked Range Rover. The door is shut and locked. I knock several times. ‘Hello, anyone there? We’re not zombies. We promise.’

A terraced house with no obvious way of getting to the rear. I step back and aim a kick at the central panel of the UPVC door that rattles but remains undamaged. ‘Like that is it,’ I mutter, propping my shotgun down to start kicking hard, whacking the flat of my foot into the door that bounces and flexes, but stays shut.

‘Mr, Howie.’

‘Hang on, mate,’ I gasp, kicking away merrily, but the flexible material absorbs most of the energy from my kicks, rendering me pretty much useless until I give up and bend forward to suck air into my lungs. ‘It’s no good, mate. We’ll have to use the axe or find another house.’

‘What about this?’ he asks, standing nearby, holding a key in his hand.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Under that gnome.’

‘Right. You could have told me, though.’

‘I tried to.’

Again, I swear there is a glimmer in his eye.

‘Shall we, then?’

He steps up and unlocks the door, pushes it open, and waits with the shotgun raised at waist height. He stands still and listens for several minutes. I know what’s coming… Yep, here he goes, waving his hands around, twirling, and pointing.

‘Dave, if there are zombies, just say so.’

He turns to face me. ‘Stay here, and I’ll check, Mr Howie.’

‘Okay, mate, we really have to practise these hand signals, though. I’ll wait here, then.’

He enters and starts checking each room, which takes seconds as the house is tiny, with just two rooms downstairs – a lounge and a kitchen-diner room at the back. He comes back to the front door.

‘Would you like me to check upstairs, old chap?’

He looks at me, then at the stairs, then back to me.

‘Tell you what, why don’t I stay at the door, and you check it.’

He’s up the stairs within seconds, and I’m not surprised after my bumbling performance at the farmhouse. I hear him banging about, and then he’s back down.

‘All clear.’

‘I wonder where they went to, then?’

‘Who?’

‘The people that lived here.’

‘They’re upstairs.’

‘You said that it was clear.’

‘It is.’

‘Then who is upstairs?’

‘The people that live here.’

‘Are they zombies?’

‘No.’

‘Then why haven’t they said anything or come down?’

‘They can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘Shit.’

I run up the stairs into the bedroom and see an old couple in the front bedroom covered in the blankets. The woman snuggled into the man, with her head resting on his chest. Both with dried vomit around their mouths, and I spot the empty pill containers next to the bed.

I stare at them for a few minutes. At how they look so peaceful and serene, and it breaks my heart to see this – an old couple, who made the choice to see the end in peace. Together in death as in life.

I go to turn away and pause on seeing a photograph of young children clutched in the woman’s hand, and something about it chokes me up, with tears stinging my eyes, and suddenly I feel like an intruder. I rush out, closing the door quietly while murmuring an apology.

Downstairs, I find the coats on the rack in the hallway and search the pockets until I find the keys to the Range Rover.

We lock the door and put the key back under the gnome; then I think better of it and put the key back into the door lock, and leave it there. The house is secure, and it might just save someone else’s life. I feel bad for the old couple, but the living will need it more than them now.

We backtrack through the side streets until we are back in town. It wastes a few minutes, but at least this way we can stick to the directions that John gave us. A heavy sigh, and maybe we can get on and make progress, or at least get out of the city before nightfall. Then I glance down at the display. ‘Shit! No fucking fuel. Trust us to pick the only car with no petrol. Cock it. We’ve got less than hour before it’s dark. Keep an eye out for a fuel station.’ Then I smack myself in the forehead. ‘There’s no power,’ I add with a groan. ‘The bloody pumps won’t work without power …’

‘We can siphon it.’

‘Do you know how to do that?’

‘Yes, Mr Howie.’

‘Dave, you’re a bloody genius.’

I check the fuel gauge. It’s on the right, so the filling cap will be on the right too. I pull the Range Rover up alongside a row of parked vehicles and cruise along until we see one with a cap on my side.

‘We need a tube and a jerry can, Mr Howie.’

‘Oh, my fucking days, this just gets better and better. Where can we get a tube from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’ll take too long. We need to find another vehicle we can take,’ I say with a look at the sky. ‘And we need to be quick. Keep your eyes open.’

We drive on with panic starting to rise in me. I remember the howling from the infected as night fell and then seeing them switch to fast moving, evil fuckers. I really don’t want to be here when that happens. Although having said that, we haven't seen any of them about for a while now.

‘Stop. Go back, Mr Howie.’

‘What? What did you see?’ I select reverse and pull the car back to a junction on the left. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘Down there.’ He points down the road to a recovery truck, with an orange light bar on the top. The back of the truck is lowered down to the ground like a ramp.

‘Dave, you beauty. Well done, mate.’

The recovery truck has a double cab and the words POLICE RECOVERY written on the side. I look to the row of vehicles and see a police car parked; the recovery truck positioned ready to start winching it onto the back.

The police car is an old Ford Focus and has seen better days. It must have broken down on Friday night, and they’d called for it to be recovered just as the world went nuts.

I park alongside and get out as Dave moves up to check the cab of the recovery vehicle.

‘Mr Howie,’ he calls. I follow his voice to see him looking intently at an infected uniformed police officer a few feet away, shuffling towards us with his hands ravaged down to the bone, and blood all over his face. He must have been on the ground, on his back and punching up at them. His knuckles have taken most of the damage, and I imagine him laid out, with infected leaning down into him, punching up repeatedly until they bit into his fists. Poor bastard.

‘Dave, you get what we need, and I’ll take care of him.’ I wait for him to get a little closer, then move away a few steps, keeping him busy while Dave hunts around for whatever we need.

‘Got it …’

He comes out of the cab of the truck, holding a length of pipe and a green, plastic fuel can, and sets to work, syphoning fuel from the police car into the Range Rover.

I keep dancing around the copper, leading him a few steps one way, then back in another direction, figuring just to keep him busy until we can go. Then I realise that if we leave him here, he could infect someone else. I rush back to the Range Rover, grab my axe, and run back while Dave starts pouring the newly filled fuel can into the Range Rover.

‘Sorry about this,’ I say with an apologetic wince and rush forward to chop down into the infected coppers head. Bursting apart with bone and flesh spewing out as he falls to the floor. I wipe the axe on his trousers and walk back to the Range Rover. Which is when I glance at the green fuel can on the ground, then at the open fuel cap on the police car, and the one word that stops me in my tracks – DIESEL.

I run around the back of the Range Rover, hoping and praying that it has a letter D somewhere in the model type: TDCi, TDC, or anything that will indicate it’s a diesel engine. Nothing on the back. I open the fuel cap, and my heart sinks – PETROL ONLY.

‘Dave, quick. Check the recovery truck! Are the keys in the ignition?’

Dave runs off and sticks his head into the driver’s side. ‘No, Mr Howie.’

‘Bollocks. Fuck it, we’ll have to run. Get the stuff quick. We’ll have to go on foot.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve put diesel in the car, and it only takes petrol. It’s fucked.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mr Howie.’

He looks distraught, with the same fleeting look of panic and confusion that he had in the supermarket when I told him he should go home.

‘Dave, honestly, it’s okay. It’s really okay. Christ, look how many times I’ve fucked up.’

I put my bag on and drop the axe down before tightening the straps. Next, I break the shotgun and check that it’s loaded and ready.

Within seconds, Dave is kitted up, the rifle on his back, and the shotgun in his hands. We start off back the way we came, but within a few steps, we stop.

There are several infected shuffling down the road towards us. They must have come out of the buildings on the side. I look over and see more of them slowly emerging.

‘Fuck it. Back this way, come on.’

We start running down the road and around the recovery truck, with the light fading fast. We need to find somewhere quickly, but the houses here are all smashed in. Plus, the infected behind will see where we’ve gone.

‘We can’t hide here. They’ll see where we’ve gone and surround us.’ I’m gasping for breath from speaking while running.

‘Okay, Mr Howie,’ he says; the fit bastard not showing even breathing hard yet.

We run down a straight road towards a T-junction. The buildings on both sides prevent us from seeing any further than a few metres in either direction. The running causes the axe to slip down and catch between my legs, tripping me over. I fall with a yelp, inadvertently clenching my grip on the shotgun and pulling the trigger, with a deafening bang as I shoot the side of a parked car, with loud, metallic ricochets pinging off.

A second for me to gawp at the shotgun, then up to Dave staring at me. ‘Sorry, mate. I shot that car.’

‘Keep your hand away from the trigger until you need it, Mr Howie.’

‘Righto. Yep. Will do, mate.’

I wince as I get up, with both of my knees hurting from the impact of falling. I take the axe in one hand and the shotgun in the other and set off running again, albeit a bit slower and a bit more carefully now.

We reach the end of the road to the T junction, with one long, grey building ahead of us running in both directions.

‘Shit,’ I gasp at seeing the left side entirely blocked by a huge crowd of infected a few hundred metres up the road. All of them facing in, towards the big, grey building, but the crowd is too dense for me to see what they are looking for.

We look right, and my stomach sinks again. A set of very high, blue metal gates topped with rolls of razor wire blocking that side off. We can’t go back as there are too many infected. We can’t go left or right either. ‘Fuck. Fuck,’ I grunt the words out at our misfortune, clenching my jaw while trying to think what to do as some of the closest infected start turning towards us, groaning and moaning as more seem to notice us.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the last tendrils of light fade, and the shadows drop as daylight sods off and lets the night come down upon us, and the air charges. Everything charges.

The crowd of infected all stop moving. All of them growing still. The sight sends a creep running down my spine, and I spin to see more behind us doing the same. Just standing still, blocking our way out.

I run over to the gates, hammering and tugging to see if they’ll budge, but they’re solid and strong. The only way out is to climb up, but the razor wire at the top will cut us to pieces.

Dave drops down onto one knee and shrugs his bag off, then opens the main compartment, and takes out a plastic bag full of rifle ammunition, and lays it on the ground. Next, he fills his pockets with shotgun shells, then puts the bag back on.

That’s it, then. No way back, and no way forward. I take my cartridge shell bag and fill it up, then tie it off on my belt the way Dave did; the hole ready for my hand to dip into. Neither Dave or I say a word, and strangely, I don’t feel that scared either. More annoyed. Irritated even. Pissed off and frustrated at not being able to get where I want.

Then, as one, every single infected looks up to the sky at the same time, with a silence that holds forever. And the darkness grows deeper; the night coming proper. The land growing dark.

They howl as one, and that noise, that awful, terrible, inhuman noise makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

That long, continuous, drawn-out, blood-chilling roar. An immense sound, and my throat goes dry as the fear ramps. Pushing into my mind and gut. Or maybe it’s adrenalin. I don’t know. My hands and legs are shaking, and I’m bloody glad that I’m not using that rifle; I’d probably miss all of them.

I can feel my knees weakening. I heard this first last night, but I only had one infected in front of me then. Now there are hundreds all letting out the same deep, guttural bellow.

I look to Dave, but he doesn’t flinch or do anything other than stare ahead. Even his hands holding the rifle are rock steady, and in this second, in this place, I take comfort from his courage.

‘Dave, I just want to say… What the fuck is that?’

He looks at me in puzzlement, but I’m looking over his shoulder at the light on in the window behind him. There is a light on, in a building with power.

Then the light goes out, and the window goes black like the rest.

‘That light went on and off – there’s someone in there.’

I look deeper into the shadows and see a door secreted in the corner, recessed in a small porch area.

‘Fuck me. There’s a door.’

I race over and start banging on the solid metal door, using the flat of my fists to rain blows down on it while shouting out. ‘HEY! LET US IN…PLEASE!’ I scream out while the infected howl, and the world fills with noise.

Then the silence comes as the roaring ceases, and the hundreds of infected all stop at the same time and lower their heads to stare directly at me and Dave. The lolling, shuffling slow things are gone. This is night. These are different. Fixed. Murderous and driven with hunger.

Dave stands stock still. The rifle braced in his shoulder. The entire horde now silent and staring as though all waiting. Everything poised, holding on a knife edge.

An infected male out front. A twitch in his head. A growl coming from his throat, and as he lifts a foot to start running, so Dave shoots him in the face, and the whole fucking lot of them start charging at us. Screeching wildly, and once more, the air fills with noise.

‘HEY! LET US IN. PLEASE…’ I hammer on the door while Dave aims, fires, yanks the bolt back, and repeats with the pauses in between becoming less as he speeds up. His accuracy is awesome, with every bullet striking a head, but still they charge, closing that distance fast.

Dave pauses with the rifle to lift the shotgun that was resting against his leg and blasts both barrels at the front of the crowd. The pellets spread with a ripple effect as bodies are slammed backwards into the dense crowd, causing more to trip and fall. The effect is marginal. For every one he drops, more are coming, filling the gaps.

I give up hammering at the door and start back towards him, firing my shotgun at them, then breaking the thing open to reload and do it again.

A buzzing sound behind me, on and off, urgent and loud. I glance back, and the buzzer keeps sounding, with a clicking noise coming from the door that signifies the lock being activated on and off.

‘Dave! We’re in. Come on!’

I rush over and push the door, finding it opens easily, with bright light flooding out. Dave grabs his shotgun and runs for it, rushing through as I spot my axe propped against the metal gates. A reaction born only from instinct, and I dart out to run for it, ducking to grab the handle before running back. Dave holds the door open and fires the rifle over my shoulder as I run back with snarls and screeches sounding out behind me.

‘GET IN,’ he shouts, grabbing my arm and wrenching me in before slamming the door shut as the infected reach the recessed area and slam into it from the other side. I bounce off a wall from running in so hard and slam back into the door, heaving with Dave to get it closed. Both of us bracing to push as we fight to get it closed; then finally, with an audible click, the door seals shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A brightly lit, small room with a wooden bench on one side fixed to the ground with big bolts. Concrete walls painted institutional beige, all covered in frayed and peeling posters telling people to take their offences into consideration, and that they are entitled to legal advice. A police station. We’re in a police station. The big gates topped with razor wire make sense now. So does the solid metal door. This looks like a waiting area where arrested people are held, and I spot another poster pinned to an internal door.

OFFICERS SHOULD WAIT UNTIL THE CHARGE ROOM IS CLEAR BEFORE TAKING THE DETAINED PERSON THROUGH.

A hatch opens above the poster as I finish reading, with a small female face peering out, twisting side to side to get a good look at Dave and me. ‘Are you infected?’ she asks in a bossy, high-pitched, squeaky voice.

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘You’re bleeding.’

‘Eh?’

‘I said you are bleeding,’ she repeats.

‘I fell over,’ I say, turning to look at the metal door behind us and the wild screeches and loud bangs coming from the other side. ‘I promise we’re not infected. We haven’t been bit or scratched. Nothing.’

The hatch closes, and we hear muffled voices. It reopens after a few seconds.

‘We need to make sure you are not infected. Strip off.’

‘Strip off? Now, just hang on a minute…’

‘I’m not arguing with you. Strip off or get out.’

Dave and I look at each other. ‘But no… This is a police station, right? You are meant to protect us.’

‘Listen to me. You are bleeding, and you are both armed. You won’t get through this door, and I can easily unlock the outer door and let them in.’

I nod grimly and cast another look back at the outer door before dropping my bag and tugging my top off. We undress in silence, using the bench to unlace and pull our boots off until we’re both just in our boxer shorts, and without trying to look, I notice that although Dave appears to be a small built man, his body is rock hard with lean muscle without an ounce of fat. He looks like someone from a movie, and his thigh muscles look solid as anything.

I look down at my wobbly stomach and untoned body in embarrassed comparison. Actually, maybe my tummy has gone down a bit. Probably through lack of food. I wasn’t like fat or anything, just not lean or defined. I tuck my gut in, then push it out, and twist a little to the side, examining my own form while thinking I’m really sure I’ve lost a bit of weight. Then I look up to see Dave watching me silently, then glance over to the woman peering through the hatch, with my face flushing red.

‘Lost a bit of weight,’ I say, trying to sound casual and nonchalant. ‘Running and…you know…er…’

‘Pants off, then,’ the woman says.

‘Do what now?’ I ask.

‘We have to be sure you are not bitten.’

‘Right. Look, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been bitten on my willy…’ I say, only realising how stupid the word willy sounds while standing mostly naked in a police detention room.

‘Off or out – your choice,’ she says primly.

Quietly seething, but with no choice, I take my boxer shorts off and step out of them, covering my privates with my hands. Dave does the same but stands with his arms at his sides without any concern at all.

‘Drop your hands and turn around.’

I take my hands away and copy Dave by staring at a spot on the wall for a second before we both do an about turn and face the other way. Another second goes by, and I turn to catch her taking a lingering look at Dave’s backside and lift an eyebrow at her.

‘Yep, that’s fine,’ she snaps. ‘Get dressed,’ she adds, slamming the hatch shut.

‘They won’t let us in with the weapons, Mr Howie,’ Dave says as we get dressed.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Let’s see what happens.’

‘Well done,’ the woman says after opening the hatch a few minutes later. ‘Now, if you want to come in, you will have to leave those weapons there.’

‘Do we get them back later?’ I ask.

She pauses for a minute before answering, ‘We’ll see about that. Right, put the guns over by that far wall and stand in front of the door. And the bags too.’

We do as told, stacking our kit and guns before moving back to the door.

‘Hands on your heads, please, gentlemen, and we’ll open the door. Got it?’

‘Yep,’ I say.

We both put our hands up on the top of our heads and hear the buzz of a lock being turned off, and the door swings in to show a long, narrow room with a high desk to the right side, with a larger space behind it.

Painted concrete walls and floor with two feet-marks set at the base of a long wall ruler measuring up to seven feet. I glance behind the desk to see monitors fixed high showing CCTV images, one of which shows the outside door and the infected throwing themselves at it. Black and white, soundless too, and somehow more sinister. Another monitor shows a man lying on a bench within a cell, apparently fast asleep. Either that or he’s dead.

Then I look back to the front at the young policeman aiming a bright yellow Taser at us with trembling hands.

‘Don’t move, or you’ll be tasered!’ he says, trying to sound manly and in charge, with a quavering voice.

‘Okay, mate, no problem,’ I say calmly as he twitches aim from Dave to me.

The woman that spoke to us through the hatch has retreated behind the desk. She looks to be in her mid-forties, with a pinched face and lines in her pursed mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Sergeant’s stripes on her shoulders.

‘Right,’ she snaps, all high-pitched and bossy again. ‘If you’re coming into my police station, then you will be searched while PC Jenkins covers you with the Taser.’

‘Okay, miss,’ I say, trying to stay polite and calm.

‘It’s not miss. It’s Sergeant,’ she snaps.

‘Okay, sorry, Sergeant.’

A silence descends while PC Jenkins and the sergeant stare at us, then at each other, then back to us.

‘Um… Who is searching us?’ I ask politely.

‘PC Jenkins will be searching you.’

‘I can’t, Sarge… I’ve got the Taser.’

‘Right. Where’s Ted?’

‘He went to the toilet, Sarge.’

‘What about Steven? STEVEN!’ she yells out, and a very thin man with large, thick glasses appears at the doorway, dressed in the blue shirt of a community officer as I notice the sergeant and PC Jenkins have black shirts on.

‘Yes, Sergeant?’ Steven asks.

‘Search the prisoners… I mean these men while PC Jenkins covers you with the Taser.’

‘Me? I’m just a PCSO. I can’t search people…’ he says, looking scared witless.

‘It’s not a request, Steven, and you can search persons under the supervision of a uniformed police officer.’

‘Why don’t I take the Taser and let Tom search them?’

‘He can’t take the Taser – he’s not had the training,’ PC Jenkins says, looking very alarmed at the prospect of his Taser being taken away.

‘Oh, but I can search people, can I?’

‘Well, yeah, it’s completely different. It takes training and skill to use a Taser. It’s not a toy.’

‘Enough! Thank you. Tom will cover with the Taser, and Steven will search them,’ the Sergeant barks out, and they both fall quiet.

Steven moves forward and stops in front of me. I smile at him, feeling sorry for the position he is in and the fact he’s clearly terrified.

‘Steven, you’re in the way,’ PC Jenkins says with a huff.

‘Eh?’ Steven asks, turning to see he’s in the way. ‘Oh, sorry…er…can you move over a bit, mate,’ he says to Dave. ‘Then you go back a bit,’ he adds, looking at me. I go to move as Dave steps into me, then turns to go back where he was.

‘No, that way,’ Steven says.

‘Er, I’ve got no aim.’ Tom says, moving over as Dave turns and bumps into me again, then goes back the wrong way, and does it again as Steven starts getting stressed, and I glance over to see the sergeant rolling her eyes, and PC Jenkins shaking his head while telling Steven to tell Dave to move.

‘I’m trying!’ Steven says, tutting as Dave steps towards him. ‘No! That way…’

‘Can you just search them, please!’ the sergeant snaps.

‘Steven’s in the way,’ PC Jenkins says.

‘I’m not! He is,’ Steven says, pointing at Dave.

‘Sorry, sir, I’ll move,’ Dave gets it wrong again, seemingly confused at the orders and moving into me as I move to block the copper with the Taser while Steven grows red in the face.

‘Steven. Get a grip and search these men!’ the sergeant yells at him.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll go this way,’ Dave says, stepping around Steven so he’s between him and PC Jenkins. ‘Is that right?’ he asks.

‘Oh, my god, this is just stupid.’ PC Jenkins says, squeezing his eyes closed in frustration. Which is the precise second Dave spins and snatches the Taser while driving the flat of his hand into the copper’s chest, sending him staggering back. Dave moves past him and aims the Taser at the sergeant, then at Steven, then back to PC Jenkins still righting himself as the room falls silent with shock at the speed of the man.

‘Now, just you wait…’ the sergeant starts to yell at Dave in her squeaky voice.

‘SIT DOWN,’ Dave shouts. She drops instantly onto her high chair, and I imagine her feet dangling down, not touching the floor. Then I smile as I stare at Dave in admiration.

‘Bloody hell, mate, well done.’

‘Thank you, Mr Howie,’ he replies, moving his aim from one to the other to show he has a clear shot as Steven and PC Jenkins stand slack-jawed and wide eyed, somewhat frozen to the spot.

‘Ello, ello, what’s going on here, then?’ An older man walks in – late fifties, thick set, and bald, with weathered features. A folded newspaper under his arm as he carries two disposable cups of hot liquid and pauses with a brief look about the room. ‘Oh, dear… Tut-tut! Well, this seems a bit of a pickle, don’t it? Excuse me, mate. These cups are scalding hot; it’s these cheap cardboard things. They burn your bloody fingers off.’ He moves past Dave, behind the desk and puts the cups down before blowing on his fingers. ‘Tea’s there, Debbie,’ he says without a glance at the silent sergeant, and I notice he’s also wearing a black shirt but has the letters DO on the shoulders. He sits heavily in the other chair, groaning as though with pleasure at taking the weight from his feet, and finally looks at Dave, then at me.

‘So? What’s it like out there? Still hot ‘n’ horrible, is it?’

‘Er, yeah, you could say that,’ I say.

‘Well, it had to happen, didn’t it? So, which one of you has the army voice? I heard it all the way down the block, and I thought to myself there’s a voice from the services, if ever I heard one. It took me back a few years, I can tell you.’

‘It was him.’ I point at Dave, almost feeling like a schoolboy, dropping my mate in it.

‘It was you, was it? What were you in?’

‘I can’t say.’

I bloody knew he would say that.

‘Ah, I get it,’ the older guy taps his nose and winks knowingly at Dave, then looks at the Taser with distaste. ‘You got that off young Jenkins, didn’t you? I kept telling him not to keep waving it about. Did he listen, though? No, he didn’t. They never do, these young ’uns. Mind you, we never needed ’em in my day.’

‘Oh, you’re a policeman too?’ I ask him.

‘No, no, not anymore. I did my time and got out.’ He points to the letters on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Detention officer now. Five years army, then twenty-five in the job, and I thought to myself, Ted, it’s time to get out, but I keep coming back, like an old fool.’

He speaks calm and easy, but I can see that he is appraising Dave and me constantly. Years of hard situations and having to rely on his wits have left him sharp, and the experience is oozing off of him.

‘Ted? I’m Howie, and this is Dave. It’s very nice to meet you.’ I step up to the desk and extend my hand. It’s awkward, but Ted stands up and leans over, dwarfing my hand in his.

‘Nice to see someone still has manners,’ he says, offering his hand to Dave, who just aims the Taser at him.

‘Dave, I think we can put it down now,’ I say.

‘Yes, Mr Howie,’ Dave says, lowering the Taser and putting his hand out to Ted. They shake hands very briefly, and then Dave pulls back and wipes his hand on his trousers.

‘I did wash them, you know,’ Ted says.

Dave looks at his hand, then back at Ted.

‘I’m only joking,’ Ted says, deadpan. ‘I didn’t wash them, really.’

Dave goes back to wiping, and Ted laughs out loud – a nice, deep, hearty laugh.

‘Ah, you Special Forces boys are all the same. Trained killers, I’ll grant you, but funny buggers, though.’

PC Jenkins’ mouth drops open at the mention of Special Forces as his eyes start shining with love hearts. ‘Bloody hell, are you SF? I knew you were SF the way you took that Taser off me. Wow! Two SF in here. Are you on operations then? I knew they would send the SF in.’

‘We aren’t Special Forces,’ I say. ‘We’re just trying to get somewhere and got caught out, that’s all.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ted asks.

‘Salisbury.’

I knew it was a mistake the second it came out of my mouth.

‘Salisbury?’ Tom asks, his eyes now even wider. ‘The army base? Wow, that’s so cool! Is that where your HQ is?’

‘What? No. Look, we aren’t Special Forces.’

‘Are you like planning a counterattack, yeah? Did they send you to rescue us? Can I have gun? I’d be good with a gun.’

‘That’s enough,’ Ted says heavily, nodding at the young copper. ‘You leave it alone with all the questions.’

‘Dave, I think we can give the officer his Taser back.’

Dave looks at me, then at PC Jenkins. He checks again to make sure I’m not going to change my mind, then slowly hands it over, turning it so that the handle is facing PC Jenkins, who takes it and looks at Dave like a puppy.

‘You can keep it if you want.’

‘PC Jenkins, that is the property of the constabulary and not yours to give away,’ the sergeant says, clearly feeling confident again now that Ted is here, and Dave has handed the weapon over.

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ He looks crestfallen, chastised in front of his new hero.

‘Can we get our weapons back now?’ Dave looks to Ted, not at the sergeant.

‘I don’t think that will be a problem, will it, Sergeant?’

Ted defers to the sergeant but has made it clear what he thinks. She looks trapped and scared.

‘Look, Sergeant. I promise you that we are not psychos or anything. We just got caught out. You’ve seen what’s happening out there. The weapons can stay there if you’re sure we’re safe in here…’

‘Oh, this nick is safe enough,’ Ted says. ‘It’s built to handle terror suspects, so the security is very enhanced. The only way into this part of the building is through the big gates or that outer door. The interior door is solid and can only be opened from this side.’

‘Okay, then we’ll leave them there for now.’

‘Tell you what, gents. Why don’t I take you to the canteen for a brew? That all right with you, Debbie?’

‘Well, it’s time for the emergency strategy meeting anyway, and you two can come.’

She gets up and walks out from behind the desk. Stepping down from the raised area, she looks tiny, shorter than Dave by inches, but with the same, wiry frame. She walks out of the room and down the corridor.

‘I’ll show you the way. After me!’ Ted goes out next, followed by Steven and PC Jenkins.

Finally, Dave and I leave the room and start down the corridor.

The corridor is long, and we pass cell doors on both sides, and every few metres, we have to turn sharp left or right. ‘It’s designed like that on purpose,’ Ted explains. ‘Stops anyone being able to shoot all the way down the corridor, and it disorientates anyone trying to escape.’

‘Are we leaving this area?’ I ask as we reach another fortified door being opened by the sergeant.

‘It’s okay. The whole building is safe,’ Ted says.

The sergeant opens the door with a key and steps out. Steven follows her, then PC Jenkins.

‘Tom, where are you going?’ she asks.

‘To the meeting, Sarge.’

‘Tom, you know you have to stay here.’

‘But, Sarge…’

‘No buts. Stay here to let us back in and watch the prisoner.’

‘But that’s not fair. Why can’t he do it?’ PC Jenkins points to Steven.

‘Don’t drag me into this. I’m not trained to look after a prisoner.’

PC Jenkins then stares at Ted, clearly thinking the detention officer should do it, but Ted just lifts an eyebrow and stares down at the young officer. ‘Something on your mind, lad?’

‘No, I’ll stay…’ Tom sighs and steps back in, holding the door open for Dave and me to step through.

Ted chuckles as the door closes. ‘Keen as mustard and just about as bright too.’

‘Did he say prisoner?’

‘One of our locals,’ Ted replies.

‘You’ve got a prisoner with all this going on? Can’t you just let him go?’

‘Old Harry?’ Ted chuckles. ‘He don’t want to go anywhere – he’s homeless. He spends more time in here than at the shelters. Every time it gets too cold or too hot, he breaks something and waits to be arrested, bless him.’

‘Bloody hell, does he know what’s going on out there?’

‘What, him? He’s madder than a bucket of frogs. We tried telling him, but he just gibbers on. Nah, he’s alright. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘So… Why is he in a cell, then?’

‘He always has the same cell and gets very strange if someone else is in there. Besides, the door’s wide open, and he can help himself to a drink or food. Not that he will. He’ll just press the buzzer and wait to be served, the cheeky sod.’

We go up a flight of stairs, and Dave is keenly looking about, taking in all of the exits and windows, checking and rechecking constantly. We head along a carpeted corridor, passing several dark and empty offices on the way, full of blank monitor screens and office swivel chairs.

‘Where do you get the power from? The grid went out everywhere else,’ I ask.

‘There’s a generator in the basement. We have to be able to run the cell block in the event of a terrorist attack. We turned everything else off so we don’t use too much juice,’ Ted says as the sergeant opens a door into a large conference room and switches the lights on, flooding it with bright, fluorescent light.

I walk in after her, feeling better now that we are with the organised authorities. They must have contingency plans and regular updates from the government, and they might be able to help find my sister.

The sergeant is odd, but I guess she is just the "desk” sergeant or whatever they call them. We enter the room, and the sergeant indicates for us to be seated at the large, oval desk. Then she goes to one end and sits down in front of a bunch of hardback files and manuals resting on the tabletop.

‘Steven, make everyone a drink, please,’ she orders in that curt tone.

‘Yes, Sergeant,’ he replies, toddling off to the end of the room to busy himself with a kettle plugged into the wall.

Within minutes, we both have a steaming mug of tea in front of us as we hear voices coming down the corridor. I look to the door in expectation of seeing senior officers, but only two people enter, both young women. One with a blue shirt on, and one with a black. I realise now that the blue shirts are for the Police Community Support Officers, and the black shirts for the proper officers. They sit down, and I realise that Steven has made them a drink, and that he hasn’t made any more, which suggests there is no one else coming.

‘Where’s everyone else?’ I ask.

‘Err, thank you. We’ll come to you in a minute. There is an order to these meetings, you know,’ the sergeant says, giving me a withering look.

Ted just sits back and drinks his tea.

‘Right, everyone’s here,’ she says crisply, looking about the room. ‘Then let us begin. The time is now 22:07 hours, and I am opening the emergency strategy meeting. As the senior officer, I will chair the meeting, and PC Trixey will take the minutes.’

I look to the new female officer; blonde hair pulled back into a bun. She looks very young but very serious and is studiously holding a pen over some writing paper.

‘PC Trixey, please record that we have two members of the Armed Forces with us.’

‘We’re not in the army,’ I say.

‘Yes, okay, I understand. PC Trixey will note that we have two members of the public as observers. Just note down, separately, that they are Armed Forces. Obviously, they can’t officially be here in this meeting,’ the sergeant says, making air quotes as she speaks.

‘For god’s sake. We’re not in the bloody army!’

‘Er, thank you, Mr…?’

‘It’s Howie,’ I say tightly, rubbing my temples.

‘Thank you, Mr Howie, but please stop interrupting the proceedings.’

Bloody hell, why is everyone calling me Mr Howie?

‘Now, for the record, also present is PCSO Steven Taylor, PCSO Jane Downton, Detention Officer Ted Harding, PC Terri Trixey and…?’ she looks at Dave.

‘Dave,’ he says.

‘Dave what?’

‘Just Dave.’

‘Oh, of course. Terri, mark that down, will you? Obviously, they can’t give their full names for security reasons. Now, on to proceedings. PC Trixey will just go over the minutes from the last meeting.’

PC Trixey flicks to some previous notes made on the same writing paper, then clears her throat. ‘The last emergency strategy meeting was held today at twenty hundred hours.’ She looks up and glances round at everyone. ‘Er, the same people were present at the previous meeting, with the exception of our two members of the public here.’ She does the quote things with her fingers too. ‘At the last meeting it was required for a full inventory of supplies to be done. There was also an issue with PC Jenkins walking into the female officers’ shower room, and consideration to be given to the fuel supply for the generator.’

‘Thank you, PC Trixey,’ the sergeant says. ‘First, I would like to say that in relation to agenda item two, I have spoken with PC Jenkins, who assures me it was an accident and promises that it won’t happen again.’

‘Fucking pervert.’

‘Yes, thank you, PCSO Downton. I have dealt with the matter and made it clear that disciplinary procedures will be instigated if it happens again. Now, in relation to item number one, who undertook the assessment of the supplies?’

‘You said that you would ask Tom,’ says PC Trixey.

‘Ah yes, of course, I did… Well, he isn’t here, so we can find out later. What about the fuel for the generator? Who did we task with that one?’

‘It was Tom, again.’

‘Right, well, we can find that out later too. On to new items. We need to establish a cleaning rota. Any volunteers to draft one for approval?’

‘I can do that.’

‘Thank you, Steven. Please draft the cleaning rota and submit to me for approval. Once it has been approved, it will be posted in the canteen. Now we also need a sleeping rota so that we make sure we don’t all sleep at the same time, like we did last night.’

‘I can do that, too.’

‘Thank you, Steven. Please draft the schedule and submit it to me for approval. Once it has been approved, it will be posted in the canteen.’

‘Tom should go first. He slept all bloody night.’

‘Yes, thank you, PCSO Downton, good point. Steven, make sure that Tom goes down for the first night.’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Right, well, that just about covers everything. Questions from the floor? Steven, do you have anything?’

‘Er. just one thing, Sergeant. Tom keeps eating all of the lasagnes from the prisoners’ food cupboard. He knows I can’t eat the curry, and I don’t like the all-day breakfast.’

‘Thank you, Steven. I will speak to Tom and request that he does not eat all of the lasagnes. PCSO Downton?’

‘Nothing from me. Just keep that pervert out of the showers.’

‘Yes, I’ve already covered that. Listen, Jane, if this is really bothering you, then you can take out a grievance against PC Jenkins. Just submit a report to me for approval, and I will deal with it.’

‘Okay, thanks, Sarge.’

‘PC Trixey?’

‘Yes, I have a point to raise. At a previous meeting, a decision was taken to limit each person to a five-minute shower each. Now, while I accept that the water supply and power are important, I feel this is victimisation and prejudice. Female officers have longer hair, and it takes more time to wash and rinse out; therefore, I request that the showering time for female officers be extended to ten minutes.’

‘Good point, PC Trixey. I am in favour of this. It is true that female officers generally have longer hair and need more time for adequate cleaning. I pass the notion, and this will be effective immediately. Please note that down PC Trixey.’

‘Noted, Sarge.’

‘I hope that isn’t just female police officers. I have longer hair too, and I don’t wish to be discriminated against just because I am a community support officer.’

‘Very true, PCSO Downton – and a good point raised. Please amend the notes to show that all female employees are entitled to the extended shower period. DO Harding?’

‘No, nothing to raise, thank you.’

‘Thank you, DO Harding. And now the observers… Dave, do you have any points?’

‘When can we get our weapons back?’

‘Ah, right. A good point for discussion. Mr Howie? Do you have anything?’

‘Yes! I bloody do. What kind of shit is this? What the fuck are you lot going on about? Showers, cleaning rota? What the…?’

‘Stop right there, Mr Howie. I will not allow the use of profane or abusive language within this building.’

‘I DON’T GIVE A FUCK,’ I say, slamming my hand down hard on the table, making them all jump, with the exception of Dave and Ted, who both just carry on drinking tea. ‘Where’s the senior officers? Where’s the inspectors and superintendents? Where’s the bloody policemen?’

‘Er, excuse me. The term is police officer, actually, not policemen,’ PC Trixey says, glaring at me.

‘I don’t give a fuck what the term is, and forgive me for not being politically fucking correct, Miss or whoever the hell you are, but what are you all going to do about that lot out there? The…the…the fucking thousands of zombie things running about, eating people. Other people are killing each other too. Where’s the riot squad and the armed officers? Why aren’t they here? What about the government? What have they said to you? Have you had updates or been told anything?’ I glare at the sergeant.

‘No, we haven’t been told anything,’ she says softly.

‘Nothing? No updates?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘What about your radios? You must be able to speak to each other?’

‘They went down with the phones. They work off mobile phone networks,’ she says, dropping her eyes.

‘Fuck me. What about the old radios that use radio frequencies?’

‘They were destroyed when we got the new ones.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ I rub my temples again.

‘You must have secure phone networks, some hotline to your headquarters?’

‘This isn’t the movies, Mr Howie. We don’t have anything like that.’

‘Email? You have power. What about emails? Oh, they won’t work without phone lines. Policemen or officers, people in fucking uniforms. Where are they all and the senior officers?’

‘They’ve gone…’

‘Gone where? Be specific.’

‘It was a Friday night. We had a duty inspector, but he left when the troubles started. Some of the officers were out patrolling and just never came back, and those that did left to be with their families.’

‘What about your armed officers?’

‘We didn’t have any on. We don’t have enough as it is. The next division was covering our sector.’

‘So, this is it? The glorious British police reduced to a couple of community support officers, two infant coppers, and you?’

I don’t mention Ted, out of respect. He doesn’t seem to notice but carries on drinking the tea. That cup must be bloody deep.

‘Yes, this is it.’

‘So why are you here? Why didn’t you leave to be with your families?’

‘We don’t have anyone. Steven and Jane are both single. Terri and Tom are new and got posted away from where they grew up. I’m not married and, I have no family.’

‘Ted?’ I ask, softening my tone.

‘Me? Oh no, I’m quite happy here. The wife took my kids to Australia years ago. The job’s been my family ever since.’

I lean forward and rest my head in my hands, looking down at the desk as the realisation hits me that this is it. The end of the world.

‘We lost the plot a few years ago, I’d say,’ Ted says with a long sigh. ‘We used to be good at this sort of thing. Oh, we were shit at the community policing, and yeah, we did isolate people, but we nicked more then than we do now, and we were good at major incidents. We always trained and undertook exercises to prepare, but now it’s all done from a desk. We, old dinosaurs, tried telling them about the new radios, but they didn’t listen. These young ’uns get more training in diversity than they do in crime or major incidents now.’

I sit back, rubbing at my chin, which is fast becoming stubbly. ‘I guess you couldn’t have done much anyway,’ I say quietly. ‘It spread so fast. I don’t know, I was just hoping that there’d be some plan or something, you know? Hold on. Help is coming – that sort of thing.’

He shakes his head. ‘Nope.’

‘So what will you do? Just wait here?’ Silence. No one wants to answer me. I look at Dave, but he is devoid of expression as usual. ‘Armoury? You must have one, with weapons, firearms?’

The sergeant shakes her head.

‘No, we used to, but they centralised it, and all the firearms officers have to go to the divisional HQ to arm up.’

I shake my head slowly, dumbfounded at the turn of events and looking at the desperate people around me clinging on to a world that has already disappeared, trying to use grievance procedures, and making cleaning rotas. Maybe it’s better than John Jones and his way, but it’s sad, very sad.

‘So you have no weapons, no communication, no direction. What will you do?’

‘We do have weapons,’ PC Trixey butts in.

Dave looks at her.

‘In the evidence room,’ she continues. ‘We seized a load of stuff a few days ago.’

‘What are they?’ I ask her.

‘There’s quite a few air rifles.’

Dave carries on drinking his tea.

‘And some bullets,’ she adds.

‘What kind?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. They all look the same to me.’

‘Can we see?’ I ask the sergeant.

‘Terri will show you.’

‘Dave, do you want to go?’

‘Okay, Mr Howie.’

He gets up and follows PC Trixey out of the room. The sergeant then asks Steven and Jane to leave us in private for a few minutes, and as soon as the door closes, she turns to me.

‘I’m not stupid, Howie. I know how this looks, but they have nowhere to go. None of us do,’ she pauses, looking at me. ‘But we’re safe here, the building is strong, and we can wait it out. We have plenty of food and water.’

I look to Ted who just nods. What else can he say?

‘It must seem strange to you,’ she continues. ‘But they won’t last five minutes out there, so we keep on. It gives them hope. Anyway, what have you seen out there? What do you know?’

I recount to them what we had seen so far, but I leave out the bit about Giselle, the stripper, and Marcus. I guess they wouldn’t be that interested.

I also tell them about John Jones and the Carter Street barricade, then about the radio message and the forts. They both lean forward and listen intently, asking probing questions. I answer all of the questions as best I can, which doesn’t take long, seeing as I don’t know much.

Finally, I tell them of my plan to head to London for my sister, then trail off into silence.

‘Well, we can’t do anything tonight, Debbie.’ Ted says, looking at her. ‘But those forts sound good, and they’ll need a good sergeant.’

‘And an experienced officer, Ted,’ she replies.

‘How will you get there?’ I ask. ‘You’ve got a few hundred infected outside your gates.’

‘There’s an old riot van in the yard outside. We can put the grille down to cover the windscreen and plough through,’ Ted answers.

‘Sounds good. Mind you, you said you’re safe here. Maybe you could just wait it out and hope help comes.’

‘No, I, er, I don’t think any help will be coming,’ Debbie says. ‘And I think we need to be with other people.’

‘What about you?’ Ted asks.

‘We have to push on. We’ll join you later when I’ve found my sister,’ I sit back and rub my face again, feeling weary to the bone. ‘Do you mind if we bed down here for the night and get going in the morning? When they’re slow again.’

They look at each other and nod.

Twenty minutes later, we sit in the canteen, eating microwaved ready-made prisoner food with the others, and even Tom has been let out of the custody section.

‘What about Harry?’ I ask.

‘He’s alright, fast asleep on his bed; besides, he can’t go anywhere,’ Tom replies but looks to the sergeant for confirmation.

‘He’ll be fine for a few minutes, Tom.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

A change to the atmosphere. A softening perhaps. I know Ted and the sergeant told them about the forts and the plan to leave, and I guess that has eased the tensions a little.

We’ve even got our weapons back, which Dave is clearly happy about. And when I say happy, I mean he shows no reaction whatsoever other than stripping them down to clean while Tom stays glued to his side, watching every move and asking questions about Special Forces.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Dave replies each and every time, which just seems to excite Tom even more.

It’s only been two days since this began. Three if you count today, but it feels like weeks, and if these past few days have been anything to go by, then getting into London will be a bloody nightmare. I eat my fill, drink tea, and grow sleepy until Dave and I are left alone, with thick blankets to use as mattresses, and start settling down, ready to sleep.

The lights go out as they are killed to preserve power coming from the generator, and I sit still for long minutes, looking about the room bathed in moonlight coming through the windows.

Tomorrow, we go to Salisbury, find an armoured vehicle, and head for London. Not the best plan in the world, but it’s a start.

I look over at Dave, thinking maybe we’ll chat and talk it through, but spot him lying flat on his back, with his hands folded across his front, seemingly fast asleep.

Fair play. It’s been a hell of a day, and we’ve been lucky so far.

How long will it last?

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 Three
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Also by RR Haywood