Wayne carefully opened the curtains and peeked out.

“It’s quiet outside” he said. “I’m going to the shops, get some supplies.”

Simone turned her head in the direction of his voice, glad for a noise other than the baby’s unending cries. “Have you got the gun?” she asked.

“Yes”

“How many rounds have you got?”

Wayne checked the magazine. There weren’t many. He had a spare magazine in his inside pocket but if he ran into a group of the things he was in real trouble.

“Enough.” He said. He had a couple of grenades as well, in case of real emergency, but after the accident last week, they were definitely a last resort. He still limped when he walked, the shrapnel in his leg impossible to remove without surgery – and doctors had been among the first to go, working as they did amongst the dead and the dying.

Simone had come off the worst though. Whether her sight would return was down to whatever gods ruled over a world as fucked as this one. The baby had been fine thanks to those same gods and was the only one without a mark on him.

“Do you have to go?”

“We’re running low on food. If I don’t go today we’re going to run out.”

“If you see any baby food pick it up, I was thinking of starting Gary on solids”

“If I see any I will. Do you think that’ll keep him quiet? The noise is going to attract those things if it gets any louder”

“He’s not feeling well poor mite. He’s running a temperature. What’s his colour like? I hate this not being able to…” Simone choked on her words, tears flowing from her sightless eyes.

“He looks fine, a little bit red, but that’s only to be expected, the energy he’s putting into those bloody screams. Look, I’ve got to go while there’s none of them about. If I see any Calpol I’ll grab that as well, help with his temperature.”

Wayne checked he had everything, one more time, and opened the front door, locking it securely behind him before he ran in a strained gait to the range rover outside, leaving Simone to deal with the baby’s screams. It was almost a relief to just have the shambling hordes of the dead to deal with.

Simone heard the door shut and lock. The baby took the noise as a cue to scream louder. There were times when Simone wondered what the point was of staying alive in a world like this, thought about taking a pillow and putting the baby out of it’s misery before taking a gun or a knife or finding a nice high bridge to…

But then her mother instincts would kick in. No matter how desperate the world was she could never bring herself to hurt Gary. It seemed clichéd, even to herself, but the mother/baby bond was stronger than anything she’d ever felt. She would kill or be killed to ensure her baby’s survival, even in a fucked up, zombie infested shithole like this.

It had been so different just a few months ago. Zombies weren’t real then. They were something out of those shit horror movies that her brother (god rest his soul if he wasn’t out there shambling with the rest of them) would make her watch. Then the illness came and whole communities were quarantined. It struck fast and hit hard. People started dying in their hundreds every day. Hospitals closed as the doctors, despite all attempts at infection control, (even the yellow hazmat suits were either ineffective or used too late) succumbed to the disease.

Then came the reports that the dead were walking.

It was a joke at first. No one believed it – until it was too late. Until the dead invaded the streets and survival became day to day life’s top priority. Just like the movies, if you were bitten, you became one of them within a day. If you died of any natural or (nearly any) unnatural cause you would get up and join the hordes. Also, just like the films, the only way to stop them was to destroy the brain. Now the dead outnumbered the living and the living had become a rare breed. Life was harsh but, for the sake of her child, necessary.

Simone stood from her chair and reached for the walking stick that had once belonged to the man next door. It was her improvised white stick for feeling her way round. She tapped her way across the room till she found the wall, which she followed through to the baby’s bedroom.

In the last few days Wayne had moved all the furniture in the house to give as much space as possible for Simone to navigate. It wasn’t entirely successful. Simone’s body still remembered for itself where the furniture was before she’d been blinded. As a result she’d walked into tables several times, leaving her with a temporary limp almost as pronounced as his (although she’d never seen it) before Wayne had found the walking stick for her. At least she knew he was trying for her although she’d shouted at him more than once for moving things.

She reached Gary’s room and tapped her way to the cot. Reaching in, she realised how warm he was. She unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, apologising to the infant for her sightless clumsiness. She picked him up and nursed him, checking his nappy with a briefly probing finger as she did so. Nappies had been Wayne’s job since she’d lost her sight but she was sure that even blind she could manage it if she needed to.

She didn’t need to as he was dry, but he was still crying. He quieted slightly as she walked round in small circles, making cooing noises and patting him gently on the back. “Are you hungry?” she asked. It was only an hour since his last feed so she didn’t think this was likely – and her nipples were still tender from the last feed.

It was a good thing he was still on breast milk as it made feeding him easier on the supplies front. However he was nearly six months old and his teeth were pushing through. She poked a finger into his mouth to feel for any new lumps in there – not the same finger she’d checked the nappy with. There it was, at the back, a new molar pushing through.

“Is that what’s wrong darling?” she cooed gently into his sweaty forehead. “Daddy will be back soon with some lovely medicine for you. You’ll like that won’t you? You’ll like that won’t you?”

The baby bit down as if in answer to this and Simone withdrew her finger quickly. “Ow, little baba’s getting sharp teeth now isn’t he?”

After a few minutes more nursing, the baby settled and started snoring softly against Simone’s shoulder. Simone breathed a sigh of relief and, gently, laid him back in his cot, hovering over him for another minute in case he woke again before retrieving her stick and tip-tapping back to the living room.

Once there she settled into her chair to wait for Wayne’s return with nothing but her personal darkness and the sound of Gary’s soft breath on the baby monitor for company.

—–

A few miles away Wayne was worried. The baby’s colour wasn’t good. He really looked ill and Wayne thought he needed more than Calpol. Without a doctor or even the internet to check though, Wayne had no idea what to do. And Simone wasn’t coping well with blindness, accusing him of moving the furniture when he hadn’t touched it. The baby’s illness was easier to cope with than the thought that Simone might be losing her mind.

There was a pharmacy in the next road which miraculously hadn’t been raided last time Wayne had driven past. He would have to break in and see if any of the pharmacist’s handbooks could help him. There had to be some kind of guide they used to match drugs to symptoms.

Once round the corner he saw the pharmacy was still apparently untouched. The shutters were all down and the glass in the windows behind was still intact. A quick check for any zombies and he was out of the car, gun in hand in his pocket, just in case, and peering through the gaps in the shutter. The shelves inside still appeared to be stocked. This was incredible. The estate agent had been right when she said this was a quiet area. Even looting gangs in a post apocalypse world left your local pharmacy alone.

Of course one reason for that might have been the security of the locks on the damned shutters. Wayne tested the shutters but there was no give at all. He reached for a hacksaw blade but then realised he couldn’t see the locks to cut through.

A snuffling noise made him start. He turned round to see a zombie shuffling up the street, one arm stretched out in front of it, one arm dangling, no, actually missing – an empty blood-stained sleeve dangling down it’s left side. It had once been a blonde girl and possibly quite pretty. Wayne could imagine if he’d seen her in a pub after a few drinks he might even have flirted with her when alive, but now he took no hesitation in reaching for his gun and shooting her.

The first bullet went wide, but the second was a direct hit to the temple, a small hole forming below the hairline a fraction of a second before the back of her head exploded, spilling brains and skull to the floor before she… it crumpled at the knees and fell face first into the tarmac. The silencer was still working. Good, that meant less noise to attract further distractions.

Wayne walked slowly round the three sides of the pharmacy. There was no way in short of chaining those bloody shutters to the back of the range rover and driving off, but that was likely to cause far too much noise and attract every walking corpse in a mile radius. There had to be another way.

In his previous life, soon after leaving the army, Wayne had once worked for a few months insulating lofts. It was this that gave him a potential answer to his problem. In several streets in this area, in houses of this style, the lofts were interconnected and it was possible to climb from one to the next. All he needed to do was break into one of the less well protected houses – like the one two doors down with the front door wide open – climb into the loft and hopefully he’d be able to drop down into the flat above the pharmacy.

Gun in hand, he entered the house, listening for the grunting/snuffling noise the zombies made instead of breathing. Hearing nothing he limped up the stairs as quickly as he could and scanned the ceilings for the trapdoor into the loft. He found it in the second bedroom which had a convenient set of bunk-beds he could drag underneath to use as a ladder. Within a minute he was in the roof space. He shone his torch round and almost cheered when he saw the open spaces that extended near roof level from one end of the terrace to the other.

He carefully clambered over the low walls into the attic of the pharmacy. The trapdoor was awkward to open from the inside but Wayne managed it and looked through. It was going to be a painful drop with his leg the way it was but he could handle it if it meant finding the medicine for the baby. He lowered himself as far as he could and braced himself as he let go. He hit the ground and managed to stay standing despite the pain.

Pausing to catch his breath he heard a grunting noise from behind the door nearest him. He pulled his gun and quickly pushed the door open, levelling the barrel of the gun at the source of the noise and stopped, finger frozen on the trigger. I didn’t know zombies still did that, he thought.

“Mick! I’m in here,” yelled the figure in the bathroom angrily before it turned to face Wayne, at which point it screamed and pulled its pants up quickly. “Mick! Help!” he yelled. “There’s someone here”

“I’m sorry” Wayne said, his face as beetroot red as the teenager’s in front of him. “I heard noises and thought you were a zom…”

The young man adopted a fighting stance. “I’m a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, don’t come any closer,” he said as menacingly as he could. The image was somewhat spoiled when his rapidly shrinking (but still rather large, Wayne noted involuntarily) penis flopped out of his boxer shorts and he had to tuck it back in.

Wayne heard the noise of a man barrelling up the stairs and a shout “Stuart, are you ok? Where are you?”

“In here!” Stuart grinned at Wayne, “You’re for it now you looting scum.”

Wayne turned from the teenager as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs. A large man, six foot five at least with dark hair and glasses, appeared on the landing wielding a golf club – a man Wayne had thought he’d never see again.

“Mick?” Wayne laughed out loud. “Mick you old bastard! You’re still alive?”

“Wayne? What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in? We’ve got this place sealed up tighter than a gnat’s arsehole.” The big man dropped the golf club and grabbed Wayne in a tight hug. “Stuart, Wayne, Wayne, Stuart,” he said as he released Wayne. “Put some clothes on Stu and come downstairs. So what are you doing here Wayne?”

“The baby’s ill, I needed to find some medicine.”

“I’m sure we can sort you out with that,” the large man guided Wayne down the stairs and into the back of the shop. Reaching into a drawer he removed a yellow book – BNF for Children 2009 – then turned to Wayne and asked “so what are his symptoms? We’ll see what this little bible says.”

—–

Simone woke in her chair from bright dreams of colour and light into her world of darkness. She was thirsty but she knew it was a real obstacle course to reach the kitchen. Reaching round for her stick she knocked over an object, God only knew what, on the table. She heard it roll off the table and smash.

She wished she hadn’t kicked off her shoes. Now she was barefoot with possibly broken glass on the floor. Her groping fingers finally found the stick and she used it to find her shoes and drag them over to her. They had no laces so it was a quick job for her to slip them on. Feet now safely clad she stood up and started tip tapping with the stick toward the kitchen.

She was only 29, she shouldn’t be feeling so old and helpless, but being blinded like she had been in a nightmare world like this was bound to affect her somehow. The stick hit the wall and she groped for it with her hands. The only sound was the baby’s breathing through the monitor.

Only a few weeks ago she would have been desperate for the other neighbour, a Salford lass called Lisa, to turn her bloody music down. Lisa had been an early casualty of the zombies. Simone herself had beaten her walking corpse with a table leg with a bolt in the end of it till her face no longer resembled anything human and her lank black hair suck to the wood in gloopy strands. It was the first time she’d killed anything bigger than an insect.

She’d almost started to enjoy it until Wayne had pulled her away and held her tightly.

Now she would have killed a living person just to hear music playing again, but with no electricity that wasn’t going to happen soon. Wayne had several talents, but music wasn’t one of them. He’d been the one who managed to steal the gun and ammunition from the house of a local(ish) recently deceased wannabe gangster – sometimes it paid to have friends in low places. He’d also stolen the grenades from the same illegal arms store… That had turned out to be a mixed blessing to say the least. He was the reason they were all still alive, but he had the musical ability of a zombie with its jaw ripped off.

Her leg suddenly collided with the edge of the telephone table. She yelped in pain and dropped her stick. “Damn you Wayne!” she yelled as another unidentified object smashed on the floor.

“But I didn’t move the table” Wayne’s voice behind her in the darkness.

“You did, I saw you!”

“But you’re blind, you couldn’t have seen me.”

Even in her confused state she had to admit he had a point.

“And I’m not even here. Who are you talking to?” his voice continued. In her head or behind her or even in front of her in the dark she couldn’t tell.

“You must have moved the table!”

“Or you turned the wrong way. Is the kitchen left or right from the living room?”

“Left, no right, no I… I don’t know…” Simone sank to the floor, ignoring the sharpness of whatever broken object on the floor that stuck into her leg. “I don’t know.” She cried. Wayne’s voice was gone again and the only sound in her world of darkness was the baby’s rasping snore.

As if in sympathy with his mother, Gary woke and screamed. Simone listened from her seat on the floor but did nothing. He could scream like that till the zombies knocked down the door. She couldn’t cope any more. She needed Wayne, the real one, not some voice in her head, and she needed him soon.

—–

The real Wayne was talking over old times (if six weeks ago counted as old) with Mick over a snifter each of Talisker. They’d been in the same quiz team at the Farmer’s Arms and won more often than they lost. As Stuart reached the bottom of the stairs (now wearing black tracksuit bottoms and an old brown leather jacket), they were bemoaning the fact that they still had vouchers for free drinks that it was unlikely they’d ever be able to cash in.

They’d sorted out medication for the baby, they weren’t entirely sure but the drugs seemed to match the symptoms. The book even gave advice on correct dosage so Wayne was feeling a lot happier.

“Hey Stuart, sorry again for busting in on you like that… all I could hear was grunting noises behind the door. I thought you…” He couldn’t keep a straight face any longer and both Wayne and Mick collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Stuart’s face turned bright red again. “Bastards,” he said in a strong northern accent, before starting to giggle himself. “Hey, if you’ve opened that whisky I’ll have a shot as well.”

Mick looked at him with a sly grin. “How old are you again?” He poured one finger of the pale amber liquid into a glass for Stuart. “Don’t get too drunk. We’re going on a food run. Then we’re going to pick up Wayne’s wife and baby and bring them here to live – if that’s ok with you. This place is more secure than their house”

“A baby?” for a second he looked like he was going to object but then his face softened and he grinned. “I didn’t think I’d get to see one of those again. I’m not doing nappy changes though.”

They finished their drinks and prepared to leave the house. Mick and Stuart’s entrance was the exact opposite of the one Wayne had used to get in. They dropped through a manhole in the cellar and climbed up out of the rat free sewers (possibly the only advantage of a zombie infestation – even the rats were dead) into a secured yard a hundred metres away. From here they climbed a ladder and looked over the wall to see if the path was clear.

It wasn’t. A group of four zombies were shuffling down the street, snuffling and grunting. There were three ex-men and an ex-woman. From the looks of them they’d all died violently, their clothes torn and rotting flesh and wounds visible underneath.

Mick looked at Wayne. “How many bullets you got mate? These are the only weapons we’ve got.” He indicated the golf club he was carrying and the baseball bat that Stuart had slung in a makeshift harness across his back.

Mick had filled Wayne in on the details earlier. Stuart was the seventeen year old son of the ex-owner of the pharmacy. He’d locked himself in with a few weeks’ supply of food when the outbreak started, only leaving through his secret exit he used to use to sneak out to visit his girlfriend when he needed more.

Mick had been lucky enough to run into him on his first trip out. Mick’s car had run out of fuel and he was on foot, travelling light, desperate for safe shelter and armed only with the golf club – the only weapon he could grab before a pair of zombies had seen him and started toward him. He’d been forced to abandon a whole stack of sharp and blunt instruments in the car. Stuart had invited Mick to stay and was now almost like an adopted son. When they returned to the car a day later, it had been looted and vandalised so they couldn’t even use it for transport.

They’d managed to carry back stacks more tinned food from nearby empty houses to keep themselves going. One wielding a weapon, the other carrying the food they’d snuck though the quiet streets, picking off the occasional lone zombie and somehow avoiding large packs.

Now Wayne climbed the ladder and checked the gun. He had five bullets in the magazine; he needed to be a good shot this time. He breathed in deeply and took aim. The first shot was a direct hit and the largest of the zombies fell in a shower of brain and skull fragments. The second shot was also true and the female zombie fell backwards into one of the remaining zombies.

Knocked off balance it stumbled and turned so Wayne’s third bullet only clipped its shoulder and it needed the fourth bullet to finish it off. The final zombie seemed to register that its companions were dead for a second time and it started walking in the direction of the gunshots, each one louder than the last as the silencer wore out.

Wayne only had the one bullet left before he would need to reload. He sighted slowly and carefully down the barrel, centred the sights on its forehead and gently squeezed the trigger just as he’d been taught all those years ago.

Unfortunately, at that precise moment, the corpse slipped on the spilled brains of one of its “companions” and the bullet flew high and embedded itself in a nearby telegraph pole.. The zombie fell to the floor and the three men on the wall cheered and jumped to the ground.

Wayne’s car was round the corner still. They’d decided to drive to the outskirts of the town to raid empty houses there – the zombies seemed to congregate in the centre, a shambling crowd of stinking corpses in grotesque imitation of a busy shopping day, their snuffling breath noises all merging into a disturbing simulacrum of conversation.

As they walked to the car, Wayne removed the magazine. They were custom-made add-ons for the gun and supposed to hold 20 rounds each. When in place, they dangled below the butt of the handle, spoiling the look of the weapon somewhat, but very useful when facing hordes of ravenous zombies. He slid the empty magazine into his pocket and pulled out the spare. He checked it before loading. Damnit! There were only 8 rounds in it.

Behind them, the last zombie climbed to its feet. It shuffled toward the living flesh in front of it, snuffling and snorting in hungry anticipation of the meal to come.

“Bad news guys. This clip’s only half full. I need to find more ammo from somewhere fast.”

“Where did you get it from last time?” Mick asked.

“Remember that guy who always used to shoot his mouth off in the pub about the weapons he had at home, turns out he wasn’t bullshitting. I broke into his house and took it. But this was the only ammo I could find. I’ve got the gun and a couple of grenades left.”

Stuart’s eyes lit up. “Grenades?”

Behind them the zombie moved ever closer, it had already halved the distance between them.

“They’re not toys you stupid kid. It’s thanks to a grenade that I’m limping and my wife might be blinded for life.”

Mick put a warning hand on Wayne’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to him like that. He didn’t know.”

The zombie sniffed the air. The smell of life made it hungry and excited. It was now only ten meters away.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Stu.” Wayne held out his hand and they shook.

“He used to hang out with that Irish bloke didn’t he?”

Wayne gave a quizzical look.

They’d stopped at the car and the zombie was closing in. Five meters to go.

“Mr Gangsta, used to hang with the Irish bloke…You know the one, six foot two, ginger hair…” Mick said. “He lived near the mad cat woman. We could try his house; see if he’s got a stash as well.”

“Good idea…” Wayne started to reply when Stuart cried out in panic.

“Zombie!” he yelled, looking at the reflection in the car window of the fourth zombie which had nearly reached them. It reached out for Stuart who was closest, succeeding in grabbing his baseball bat. Stuart struggled for a second before unclipping the harness and spinning round, delivering a perfect palm heel strike to the tip of the zombie’s nose, pushing upwards with the blow, breaking the nose and driving the cartilage through the nasal cavity and straight into the brain. The zombie fell backwards to the pavement with a wet slap.

“They always told us that could kill with one punch… I never knew if it was true.” Stuart sounded more than a little proud of himself. His Tae Kwon Do prowess hadn’t been an idle boast after all.

“Check your gloves. If you caught its teeth that counts as a bite.” Wayne levelled the gun at Stuart. “If you’ve been bitten, you know what we have to do.”

Stuart’s face dropped. He looked pleadingly at Mick who shook his head sadly and stood next to Wayne. Stuart swallowed nervously, the movement of his Adam’s apple starkly visible against his thin neck. He flicked his long hair from his eyes and examined the glove on his right hand.

“It’s fine. I hit it in the nose. I didn’t touch the mouth!” he held his hands out for Wayne and Mick to check. The gloves, though dirty, were intact. He bent down and wrested the baseball bat and harness from the grip of the dead thing at his feet. Then he fastened the harness in place, removed the bat and slapped it in his palm. “Now are we going shopping or what? I promise I’ll use this on the next one.”

Mick grinned, the relief as plain on his face as on Stuart’s, and opened his arms wide. “You see that you do.” He said as he hugged Stuart tightly, engulfing the slim built teen in his massive six foot five frame.

—–

“You’re a bad mother!” Simone heard her mother shouting at her. “Listen to that screaming. Can’t you do anything right?”

The baby’s screaming seemed to surround her, echoing from the walls, making the direction of the sound impossible to locate.

She staggered to her feet. “Mum, that’s not fair! What am I supposed to do when I can’t even see him?”

“He’s a miserable baby! That’s your fault! When was the last time you heard him laugh. He does nothing but cry!”

This wasn’t true, Simone wanted to cry out herself. He was always giggling. He was a brilliant. beautiful and happy child normally. What she wouldn’t give to hear him giggle now instead of the incessant cries. He had a giggle that made the world happy.

“You’re still breastfeeding him! When are you going to start him on solid food like a good mother would?”

“Shut up, you’re not even here!” Simone lashed out at the darkness, not knowing who or what she thought she might hit. Part of her knew she was completely alone in the house and her internal darkness made the feelings of isolation so much worse. That must be what was causing these hallucinations, the sane, logical part of her argued. Unfortunately, the rest of her was in control at the moment and wasn’t listening.

She stumbled forward, forgetting her stick, and her head struck the opposite wall. For a second she saw stars. The sane logical part of her brain saw that as a good sign that maybe the optic nerve wasn’t permanently damaged. The rest of her just felt the pain and the blood that trickled down the side of her nose.

The baby’s screaming quieted somewhat; growing weaker, exhaustion setting in from the sound of it. How long had she been sitting on the floor? She was a bad mother, just like her mother told her she was. She spun round, arms wheeling, trying to work out where exactly she was in the fucking house. Her left hand struck painfully against what felt like the hallway cabinet and she yelped.

“Calm the fuck down you silly bitch!” her father’s voice shouted at her from the darkness. “Your mother was always a bitch to you! Ignore her.”

Simone stopped. Her father never sounded that angry. “Sorry Dad” she pleaded.

“That’s it. Now you’ve stopped, get your bearings you silly cow.”

She did as she was told. The cabinet was here, and nearby was the coat stand, that meant she was near the front door and behind her must be the living room which meant the kitchen must be over… there. The baby’s mewling cry was behind her, the echo fading as the volume grew quieter.

“That’s better,” her father sounded calmer now. “Your stick is by your feet, pick it up and use it properly so you don’t crack your head off every bloody wall.”

She shuffled forward till she felt her foot hit the stick, then slowly bent and picked it up.

“You were going to the kitchen, remember. You’re going to get yourself a drink and then you’re going to check on the baby.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She tapped her way across the hall to the kitchen and felt her way round to the fridge. Of course it no longer worked but it protected food from any mice or rats – not that there was much vermin around these days. They used the fridge as much out of comfort as anything else. Also with its nice compartmentalised layout it was easy for Simone while she was sightless to find things.

She reached in and found a can of soft drink. She pulled the ring-pull and drank. It was orange juice of some kind. It would have been nicer if it was cold but the sweet fizzy liquid felt like nectar flowing down her throat.

The baby’s screams had stopped, finally. There was silence from his room. For a few minutes Simone struggled to hear even the smallest sound of breathing from the monitor in the next room. She must have been too far away to hear it. When she tapped her way back to the living room to listen more closely, she could hear him again.

“Poor thing must have a bit of a cold” she said to any of the voices that might be listening.

He’d stopped screaming though so she sat down to rest for a while. She would be up to feed him soon, once she’d finished her drink. For now she listened to his quiet snuffling breath over the monitor.

—–

Wayne stopped the car. They’d reached the very outskirts of the town. They were killing two birds with one stone. The Irish friend of the wannabe gangster used to live close by so they were going to look for the ammo at the same time as the food.

He’d stopped the car beside a house with baby toys in the front garden. He remembered what Simone had said three hours ago about finding baby food to start Gary on solids. This house might have supplies. It looked good – the door hadn’t been smashed in so it probably hadn’t been looted already and there was no sign of movement inside…

“This one” he said.

Mick and Stuart nodded. They piled out of the car and ran to the front door, checking for any signs of life, or un-life, around them. Mick tested the front door; it was locked. They ran round the side of the house to the back door. This was also locked.

Stuart checked the windows, looking for any movement inside at the same time as trying to open them. As the smallest of the group, he was the one who would have to climb through and open the door for the rest of them. He didn’t want any surprises.

Mick had noticed the garden shed was open. He looked inside quickly, to see if there were any tools they might be able to use as weapons.

“Bingo!” he yelled and ran back to the house with a crowbar in hand. “Housebreaking and zombie skullbreaking in one!”

Stuart grinned. “Can I have first go with it?”

Mick handed it over and Stuart, after only a moment’s hesitation, used it to pop the lock on the back door.

“You look like you’ve done that before…” Mick said with a raised eyebrow as they entered the house.

The kitchen was messy, plates piled in the sink and a strong smell from the dustbin. No one had been in here for weeks. There were no signs of a panicked exit or violence in the house. The prior occupants had clearly gone out never to return. The cupboards were still well stocked with food which the three men loaded into their bags. There was even the stash of baby food Wayne had wanted. This was turning into a good day. Reunited with old friends, plentiful supplies and a more secure new home in the offing.

As they loaded the supplies into the back of the car Wayne asked “Where did the Irish guy live?”

“Next door to mad cat woman. It was one of those two over there. I can never remember which one was which.” Mick pointed at a pair of semi detached houses further up the road. He’d been the local postman in his previous life and knew most people in the small town they lived in.

“I’m on it.” said Stuart, running over to the first of them with the crowbar in his hands. He looked round quickly and started working on the front door which appeared to be locked in at least three places.

“Be careful Stu,” yelled Mick. “He’s too eager that kid.”

Mick and Wayne followed more cautiously and checked round the back and side of the house. There was no sign of life; the back door was locked, except for the cat flap which was too small to be useful. They heard a crack from the front of the house as the last of the locks popped.

“I’m in” shouted Stuart. A brief pause and then, “Hey, when was the last time you guys saw a cat?”

—–

Five weeks earlier, Caroline Callaghan, known to all and sundry as the mad cat woman because of the dozens of cats she shared her house with, had locked herself in and waited for the end.

When the cat food ran out, Balrog, small black cat with a small white bib and alpha male of her clowder, had gone hunting. Despite wanting to protect her little babies, she couldn’t bear the thought of watching them starve to death – or worse – she knew that when she died she would turn into one of those… things – that she might be the thing that killed them. Far better to leave the cat flap open so they could take their chances and hunt for their own food outside. Her cats were tough, they could fend for themselves.

While out sniffing for mice, Balrog was grabbed by a passing corpse. He instinctively lashed out as the zombie bit down on his back leg. Even a zombie with limited use of its pain receptors will drop what it’s holding when it receives a full set of cat claws across the eyes. Balrog hit the floor with feline grace and ran with a slight limp back home.

The infection had set in though.

Being so small, Balrog was a walking corpse almost as soon as he entered the house. Caroline saw the limping walk and heard the snuffling noise in his mewling and dropped to her knees to tend to the wound in his leg. The ex-cat bit her hard and scratched at her face. She threw him away from her and backed off, shaking, into the bathroom and slammed the door.

She was in her fifties, with grey permed hair, dyed dark brown. Her gold rimmed glasses had fallen off her almost too-big-for-her-round-face nose when the dead cat had scratched her. Her normally rosy cheeks faded to the same pale shade as the rest of her skin as she lay sobbing on the floor by the bathtub. Within a day she was dead and walking about the house, unable to operate the locks to escape to the outside world.

Balrog in the mean time had attacked other cats in the house and the infection had spread through the whole clowder. Except for those who were so small they had been completely devoured, they all walked with a shuffling gait and mewled with a strange snuffling sound. Every now and then they went hunting for fresh meat.

It was this house that Stuart had just broken into.

—–

Wayne and Mick ran round to the front of the house just in time to see Stuart step in and kneel down with an outstretched hand, the crowbar forgotten on the doorstep behind him.

“Be careful.” Mick yelled.

“It’s only a cat.” Stuart replied as he tried to click his fingers in his thick gloves.

“My god this place stinks.” Wayne wrinkled his nose in disgust. He stared for a moment at the cat. “Stay away from that thing!” he warned.

Stuart ignored him and took off his glove. “You’re not scared of cats are you?” He clicked his fingers to attract the cat’s attention.

“Look at it. Smell it for God’s sake! It’s dead. Look at the hole in its leg!”

Mick looked at his friend, “A zombie cat? Are you kidding? It’s just been locked up for a while.”

The cat sprang forward, uncertainly. It wasn’t as agile as when it had been alive but it was faster than any human corpse and clamped its teeth into the fingers of Stuart’s bare right hand.

“You little bastard!” he yelled and swung his arm against the doorframe, trying to dislodge the snarling ball of fur attached sharply to his hand. After the third blow it left go and Stuart kicked it hard. It limped into the main body of the house.

Wayne reached for the gun. “Sorry Stuart. You know I’ve got to do this.” He held the gun out with a shaking hand, pointing it at Stuart’s face.

“Please no, it’s just a cat! It’s not a fucking zom…” Stuart raised his hands either side of his head. “Like Mick said, it’s just been locked in.”

Wayne released the safety catch. Suddenly Stuart whipped both arms forward, his hands in tight fists with one finger of each raised into a charley horse. He punched Wayne’s inside forearm and the back of his hand simultaneously; the pain and the reflex action making Wayne open his fingers and throw the gun to his left.

Mick grabbed Wayne from behind and Stuart quickly went through his pockets, taking the grenades before picking up the gun from the floor.

Mick held onto Wayne a moment longer. “Let him prove things one way or another before you do anything. That’s only a fucking cat. You’re not killing that kid for a fucking cat bite!”

Stuart ran into the house shouting “It’s not dead! I’ll bring it out for you and prove it!”

Mick let go of Wayne and followed, brandishing the golf club. Wayne was left outside, weaponless. He picked up the discarded crowbar and slowly followed the other two into the house.

The next thing he heard was the gun firing twice and Mick yelling. He raced in the direction of the noise and saw Mick standing opposite the zombified form of mad cat woman. She advanced on Mick with a limping gait not too dissimilar to her walk when alive, her snuffling breath sounds louder and more excited with the prospect of a fresh meal. She had a bullet hole in her left shoulder where Stuart had just shot her and there was a fresh hole in the plaster where the other shot had gone wide. Stuart might have been good at hand-to-hand fighting but his marksmanship was questionable.

“Throw me the gun!” Wayne yelled at Stuart. “With that hand you can’t shoot straight, you’ll kill Mick instead!”

Mick took a step back to get the right distance and swung his golf club as hard as he could. The clubbed end struck the ex-caroline just above the left ear, tearing the skin and leaving a large dent in the skull. She fell to the floor and Mick clubbed her again and again till her plump cheeks and round face no longer existed, replaced by a gaping maw and pulped brain matter. Her dyed hair hung in strands from the end of the club.

Before they could relax they heard a sound from their deepest nightmares – a mewling noise like a choir of ghost infants wailing. Underneath that noise, and clear in the magnified volume of dozens of cats singing at once was the all too familiar snuffling of the recently revived.

They turned slowly to see nearly fifty cats approaching. If there was doubt as to the living status of the first one they’d seen, there was no doubting with some of these, flesh hanging off in strips, chunks gouged out of them, they had no right to be walking. A damp patch appeared in Stuart’s crotch and spread down his left leg. He looked at the wound on his hand and threw the gun across the room to Wayne.

“You were right man,” he said.

The cats shambled forward and a dozen of them leaped at Mick, who was closest. He tried to bat them away but, armed with no more than a golf club, he couldn’t stop them as they climbed up his clothes, claws digging through into his skin as they tried for uncovered flesh to bite into. He staggered backward and stumbled over more of them, landing on the floor and squashing three of them into a more permanent death.

As he hit the deck they swarmed over him, tearing with their claws and biting where they could. Half a dozen found his face and ripped the flesh from it.

“Helf eee!” was the last thing he managed to say before Wayne recovered enough from the shock of what was happening to put a bullet through his head.

Most of the remaining cats that weren’t feasting on Mick’s body advanced on Stuart, attracted by the smell of fresh blood from the wound on his hand. He was in the corner of the living room and completely surrounded.

Wayne swung the crowbar at the cats closest to him, batting one across the room and spearing one of them when it was caught between the crowbar and the wall. It didn’t seem to notice the metal skewering its flanks and continued hissing and spitting at Wayne. He threw the crowbar and it’s occupant at the next closest grouping of cats and started shooting. The first bullet took out the hindquarters of one of the cats, the second bullet disappeared into the writhing throng of fur with no noticeable effect and the third went astray, taking out a beautiful leather bound edition of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

“Come on Stuart, we can get you out of this!” He yelled. “If you run you might get through them.”

Five minutes ago he’d been looking forward to a new chapter of life in this world and now… If he could just rescue the boy, look after him for Mick’s sake, maybe something could be salvaged from this mess.

Stuart reached into his own pocket and withdrew a grenade. “Wayne, get out of here!” he said. He took off the leather jacket and threw it over a clump of the feline undead, delaying them for a few seconds.

“Wayne! I mean it, get out of here! That first one bit me, I’m already dead” Stuart pulled the pin from the grenade and jabbed it into his arm, drawing more blood. He raked the pin through the artery in his wrist with a cry of pain and a spurt of blood jetted ten feet across the room. All the cats turned from wherever they were and ran towards the source of fresh blood. The last Wayne saw of him was as he collapsed to the floor buried in the creatures, all ripping and tearing at his now exposed flesh.

He turned and ran out of the house towards the car. Halfway down the garden he heard the grenade explode. The window shattered, glass flying outwards, mixed with blood and fur. Wayne opened the car door, sat inside and sobbed.

—–

Simone heard a thumping noise through the baby monitor. Little Gary sounded like he was getting restless. She was impressed he hadn’t started crying again yet, it must be time for his feed now and that snuffling on his breathing sounded like he was coming down with a really bad cold.

She drained the last dregs from the can of juice and stood up. She needed to keep her bearings this time. No more freaking out. She reached for her stick and tripped, her head hit the floor and the cut from earlier opened up again.

“For fuck’s sake girl, can you not even stay on your feet?” her mother’s voice again.

“Shut it Mam!” Simone reached round for her stick and, slowly, climbed back onto her feet. She tip-tapped to the doorway and paused, taking a moment to get her internal map correct before moving toward the baby’s bedroom.

The blood from the cut on her head trickled down the left side of her face and dripped from her chin onto her breast. She blinked her eyes to try to clear them of the blood and then used her sleeve to wipe it clean. If Wayne was here he’d do it for her, he’d take his time, tenderly wiping her face with his strong hands. She needed him back soon.

Her stick missed the wall and entered swung into openness. She was at the baby’s room and his snuffling breathing was clearly audible here. Nine paces straight ahead and she was at his cot. Reaching in she realised he wasn’t at the same end where she’d lain him earlier and the bedding was ruffled and… was that torn? When did that happen? Wayne could sort more bedding out when he got back.

She felt round the cot till she found the baby. His temperature was down and he certainly was more active, trying to crawl already. She felt simultaneously proud that he was such an advanced child and sad that she couldn’t see it. His forehead felt damp, almost clammy. Poor mite, he’d gone from being too hot and now he was cold to the touch. She needed to put his pyjamas back on him. He’d catch his death lying there in just his nappy.

She lay him on his back again and felt her way to the drawers where she picked out a fresh pair of pyjamas. No wonder he was snuffling like that. Maybe her mother’s voice was right and she was a bad mothe… No she wasn’t. She loved this boy and would die for him. It wasn’t her fault she was blind and finding it difficult to cope.

She shuffled back to the cot and awkwardly started dressing Gary in his fresh new pyjamas. Bloody hell he was wriggling a lot, trying to suck at her wrist as she sat him to put his top on. “Calm down,” she said, pulling the top over his forehead, covering his face. “You need to get some clothes back on you.” She pulled at the lower hem of the pyjama top and heard the slight pop as his head was exposed again. She lay him down again and manipulated his arms through the sleeves.

“Are you trying to scratch Mummy?” she asked, as his little cold fingers closed over the fleshy section of her palm. “Good thing daddy cut your nails yesterday isn’t it? Oh yes it is.” She lifted the pyjama top to expose his stomach and blew a raspberry into his belly. Strangely this didn’t make him giggle the way it normally would.

“You must really be hungry. Are you a hungry Gary?” she asked him as she pulled his pants over his chubby cold legs. She ticked his feet but still he didn’t giggle. Wow! Normally his giggles when you tickled his feet were enough to set Wayne and Simone laughing like drains (whatever that strange northern expression meant).

“Now you’re all dressed and lovely, mammy’s going to feed you, is that what babby Gary wants? Is that what babby Gary wants?” Simone sat down with the baby on her knee and loosened her gown, exposing her bloodstained left breast.

The baby on her knee reached out, wriggling and grabbing for the breast with his short stubby arms. His snuffling became an excited gurgling noise.

“Be patient, you’ll get it in a second,” Simone cooed softly. “If you’re lucky, Daddy might be bringing you some proper food.” She stood Gary up and turned him round so he could suckle.

The baby grabbed her breast with both hands and started licking the blood from the nipple and surrounding skin.

“What are you doing?” Simone scolded gently as she placed the nipple securely in the baby’s mouth.

She grunted in pain as the dead baby in her arms bit down, tearing the nipple away and suckling on the blood that flowed out. He bit further and deeper, now the pleasure sensors in his brain did activate the giggle that Simone had wanted to hear.

She sat back, a beatific smile on her face.

—–

Wayne had driven straight home as fast as he could after leaving Mad-cat-lady’s house. He’d run over half a dozen zombies in the car, stopping to reverse over one that was still twitching. The fucking bastard things! He shot at another two as he drove past them, the bullets missing by considerable distances.

His house was a welcome sight and he practically raced up the stairs to the front door and threw himself in. Simone would make him feel happy again. He knew this as certainly as he knew the sun would rise again the next day on this blighted fucking world. Simone was what made this shithole worth living in since…

She wasn’t in the living room or kitchen so he ran to the baby’s room where he stopped dead in his tracks and took the gun very slowly from his pocket.

Simone looked up from her chair. The baby was in her lap, clearly dead and chewing at her breast, gurgling and snuffling happily. The blood covered his chubby cheeks as he turned and grinned at Daddy.

“I told you he wanted to start on solid food.” Simone said.

He raised the gun and checked the magazine. In a final prayer to the bastard gods he no longer believed in, he wished “Please god, let there be three bullets left…”