Walter is running for his life. Down a dead, empty street, he runs, pausing momentarily to throw a few shots towards the group following him. Two of them fall. Another, only hit in the shoulder, staggers on, completely unaware. They do not feel pain, only hunger. An insatiable, never-ending hunger.

It’s nearly dark, Walter notices, and knows he has to get back before the 7 pm curfew. Before the others lock down for the night. He knew he shouldn’t have gone so far from the compound for supplies, but the Brantford police station was just too good to pass up; it had all kinds of rifles, pistols, and ammo. But, the fucking truck he had taken ran out of gas. He knew he should have taken the extra minute to siphon gas from another car’s tank, but he had been in a hurry, and figured he could do without. Now, he was hoofing it back to base, with at least twenty of them following, and more and more picking up on the trail every mile.

Walter looked at his watch. Fuck! It was 7:02. He had missed his chance. Lara, bless her, would have taken his earlier advice. “If I’m not back by lockdown tonight, do not open the gates. I will have to find somewhere to spend the night, don’t risk anything on me, just keep everyone else safe,” he had said, “Don’t go, it isn’t worth it,” she’d said, but that was over ten hours ago now. She had been right, like usual. Now, he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see her again.

Ahead, in the gathering dusk, he saw a ladder leaning up against the roof of a two story, Victorian-style house, on the corner of Banfield St. and John Ave, according to the signs. If he could make it to that ladder, he would be safe for the night, and get back to the compound in the morning. Even if he had to use the ladder to bridge the gap between a few houses to get far enough from them to climb down, he could manage. He’d done it before. Everyone had, in the early days.

He ran for it, the rest of the way down Banfield, from where he had spotted the house, just around the bend off Grand River St. He ran through the intersection, and vaulted over the curb and was starting up the short hill onto the house’s yard, when a skeletal, decomposing hand seized him by the ankle. In his haste, he hadn’t seen it, in the bush to his left. He fell roughly to the ground, on his stomach, his rifle clattering away on the sidewalk. He called out in pain. The thing had broken his ankle, he was sure, but it hadn’t broken the skin, and it hadn’t bit him, so if he could wrench himself free……

He heard moans from just behind him. Rolling around, he saw, just in time, the decayed remains of what had probably been a suburban housewife fall on his other leg and bite his calf roughly. Still, he didn’t panic, he would be fine if he could get away and sterilize the wound. He would be all right, if he could only reach the revolver on his right hip…. But the holster had twisted, and he now sat on the revolver. He tried to turn again, to grab for it, but the two of them now had a death grip on his legs, and, even as he twisted, he could feel his right boot pulled off. It was all over, and he couldn’t even reach his revolver to end his own life before they did.

* * *

Walter awoke, sweating, screaming, and reached for his Smith &Wesson 686 revolver, which he kept beside him every night. Bringing it to bear and thumbing back the hammer in one fluent motion, he leapt from the bed, scanned the room, and found it empty except for his no longer sleeping wife, Lara. She sat up in bed, and Walter, realizing he was still screaming, set the revolver back on the bedside table, and crawled back in next to Lara. “Bad dream?” she asked. “The same one,” said Walter, and he took her in his arms and they fell back to sleep.