A town at last! thought Cory as he looked down the hill at the buildings. The last few days wandering around the countryside had been peaceful but unproductive. Amongst the trees and fields there were no supermarkets or shops to loot, and he was down to his last tin of food. He got it out of his rucksack; there was no label on its silvery surface, it could be anything. Vegetables, fruit, dog meat; he’d eaten them all in the past. He was tempted to open it but decided not to; for all he knew the town might have been stripped of everything long ago. He noticed a few thin trails of smoke coming from the town, drifting into the sunlit sky. Cory lifted his binoculars; perhaps the town wasn’t dead? He’d come across a few settlements in the years following the day of rising; none had lasted long. The zombies overwhelmed some and everyone fled in a panic, but equally as often human folly was responsible for the downfall. Petty jealousies, greed, stupidity; all had caused organised groups of survivors to collapse into anarchy. Sadly for Cory, the few settlements that had persevered didn’t welcome outsiders. That’s probably the secret of their success.

Cory continued walking towards the bridge at the bottom of the hill that gave access to the town. He could see there were no barricades or fences or guards at the bridge, which indicated that the town was deserted. So what had caused the smoke? Well, zombies don’t start fires; could be a roaming gang of scavengers. I hope they’re friendly. He briefly touched the handle of the revolver tucked into his jeans; where the mangled corpse he’d taken it from last year had got it he had no idea, but it had saved his life on a number of occasions. It wasn’t his only defence – under his combat jacket were a few knives – but it was his best. If someone had told him years ago he’d be walking around tooled up with weapons, he’d have laughed derisively and carried on acting like the struggling, tortured artist he used to pretend to be. Now he was a much different person, the pretensions and affectations he’d had in London had gone, he’d become strong, practical and could handle himself in a crisis, unlike the whining pothead he once was. And to think, all it took was a zombie apocalypse.

Cory reached the bridge and paused, frowning. The bridge did have some additions after all. Attached to the safety railings, which were there to stop people falling into the shallow stream below, were bits of meat held by string. The pieces were hand sized lumps and Cory couldn’t tell if it was animal or human meat that was decorating the metal bars; whatever it was had rotted somewhat judging by the smell and flies. What’s that all about? His footsteps echoed on the cattle grid as he crossed the bridge. Clearly someone had tidied this place up; there were no abandoned or burnt out cars on the streets, most of the broken windows had been boarded up and there wasn’t a single corpse in sight, moving or otherwise. An old-fashioned village post office was the building closest to him and Cory jumped back a step when the wooden door opened. Stood there was a portly middle-aged man, wearing a shabby tweed suit and holding a rifle. The weapon wasn’t pointed at Cory, the barrel was pointing at the ground, which struck him as unusual in this day and age.

‘And who do we have here?’ the man asked, stepping into the sunlight and squinting.

‘Cory. I’m not looking for any trouble.’

‘Good lad, good lad. No trouble. I’m Leonard. Lovely morning, eh?’

‘As lovely as it gets nowadays, I suppose.’

‘I saw you coming down the hill,’ Leonard told him with a chuckle, ‘but the sun was in my eyes, couldn’t tell if you were one of them or not at first.’

‘Good job you didn’t take a shot at me.’

‘Wouldn’t have bothered, we let them get to the bridge usually.’

‘Why let them get so close?’

‘You’ll see. Come on, lad, I’ll introduce you to the others.’

Cory, like many, was wary about meeting new people given the current climate. In a zombie-eat-human world where resources were scarce, banditry was a common danger. The fact that Leonard could have shot him but didn’t helped put him at ease. As they walked through the neat streets Leonard waved in greeting to a few people working in gardens.

‘Nearly all the gardens are used for crops,’ he said, ‘it’s not safe out in the fields. Did you have much trouble on your way here?’

‘A couple of times. Worst was when I tried scavenging at one of the farms a few miles away. Everything was quiet until I opened the pantry; three of them jumped out at me, God knows how they got trapped in there.’

‘Might have been one of us that shut them in, we’ve cleared all the farms of pretty much anything useful ages ago. Sorry about that.’

‘I didn’t expect to come across much anyway,’ Cory sighed, ‘it’s getting harder to find stuff out there.’

‘None of us venture out much, we’re quite self-sufficient. Plenty of fresh food, emergency generators we took from the farms to provide power if we need it, which isn’t often, we’ve even got livestock. The thing we really lack is fuel and medical supplies, which are as rare as rocking horse shit.’ said Leonard, surprising Cory with the expletive. ‘Yes, lad, we’ve got it better than most..’

‘So, who’s in charge?’ At previous settlements Cory had found that the leaders were often violent bullies, holding on to their meagre power through force and intimidation. Some of them had lived like medieval warlords, with slaves and harems; eventually such regimes resulted in revolt and the entire structure would come crashing down in a mess of bloodshed, destruction and zombies. He sometimes got the feeling that the undead were waiting for the defences of such places to be breached by chaos or incompetence, as if their decaying brains knew it was just a matter of time before the living fucked things up.

‘That would be Alistair.’ said Leonard. ‘He’s not an official leader, we’ve not voted on it or anything like that. It’s just assumed he’s in charge, mainly because it’s due to him that the zombies can’t get into town.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ll let him explain.’

They reached a large house, one of the few that had no boarded windows.

‘The mayor used to live here.’ Leonard said sadly. Cory had no need to ask what happened to the previous tenant. Sat on a green, wooden bench out side the house was a thin, young man reading a book. He looked up as they approached and his eyes immediately examined Cory.

‘Morning, Leonard. A new arrival?’

‘His name’s Cory.’

‘I’m Alistair, nice to meet you.’ the young man held out his bony hand. His clothes were informal, as was his manner, but there was clearly a calculating mind behind that friendly face. Cory shook his hand.

‘Nice to be met. Seems like you’ve got quite a set up here.’

‘Yes, we’ve not had any trouble from zombies for a while. Or from strangers.’ Alistair said. He put the book to one side and stood up; he was taller than Cory and despite his skinny frame there was an air of confidence about him. ‘I hate to seem impolite, but these are…interesting times. Can I ask you to hand over that gun? Until we get to know you better.’ He held out his hand again.

Leonard blushed. ‘Sorry Alistair,’ he murmured, ‘I should have done that already.’

‘Too friendly for your own good.’ Alistair said with no trace of anger or disappointment. ‘The gun, if you please?’

Cory knew this was a test; he’d been in similar situations before. First off Alistair was asserting his place as the alpha male when confronted by a potential challenger. Secondly the request would reveal a number of things about Cory himself. Can he be trusted, can he trust others, is he willing to take orders? Both men knew the game, and the eye contact showed that each knew what the other was thinking.

Cory pulled out the gun and paused. He hated to give it up; it was his primary defence and relinquishing it made him almost helpless. He smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Here you go. Keep it safe, just in case, eh?’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Alistair said, holding the gun distastefully, ‘I very much doubt you’ll have need for it while you’re here. The zombies aren’t a problem, our only danger is from gangs of scavengers, and most of them have wiped themselves out. We’ve not had trouble in a good couple of years.’

‘How many people are here?’

‘About thirty. We’re like one big family.’ Alistair patted him on the shoulder in a patronising fashion.

Over the next few hours Cory was introduced to a number of people, a mixture of folk who had always lived in the village and wanderers like him who had settled. He didn’t try to remember their names, there were too many. Most of the villagers spent time producing food and Cory saw little effort when it came to defending the place. In the afternoon he sat in Alistair’s posh study and brought up the subject as they sipped wine.

‘What’s with the meat on the bridge?’ he asked. The wine was warm and not to his taste. Alistair was looking at the books on the shelves, and hardly seemed to hear him.

‘Hmm? Oh, right, that must have seemed a little strange.’

‘Yeah, I mean if any zombies catch a whiff of flesh they’ll come running. Well, shambling.’

‘I read a lot of books,’ Alistair said, gesturing at the tomes, ‘and it’s helped a great deal. This village was almost lost during the rising, everything was chaos. You know what it was like. We couldn’t believe what was happening. We tried guarding ourselves against the dead but panic and fear were just as dangerous. Tell me, do you know anything about voodoo?’

‘Not really.’

‘One night I was helping guard one of the entrances to the town and by torchlight happened to be reading a book which mentioned the subject. Zombies are, of course, part of voodoo belief. You’re aware of that much?’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No,’ said Alistair thoughtfully, ‘you’re not. In this book it said that according to legend if a zombie eats salt it remembers its former life and will return to the grave. Until the dead started roaming the streets eating people, everyone thought zombies were just monsters in horror films. A myth. I decided to use one myth against another. Out I went a few nights later, and it wasn’t long before I came across a solitary zombie in one of the fields, trying to eat a scarecrow. I hurled a hunk of salted meat at it. He picked it up and tore into it. After the first bite he stopped. Illuminated by my torch a look of sorrow and recognition passed over the rotting features. The zombie staggered away to the corner of the field, and started gouging at the soil with its hands. I watched as the creature buried itself in a shallow grave.’

Cory poured himself more wine.

‘At all the entrances to the town we still have guards like Leonard,’ continued Alistair,  ‘but our most effective defence is the salted meat. Any of the dead who take a bite – and they invariably do – wander off and bury themselves.’

Cory leaned forward. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘You’re seriously telling me that instead of shooting these bastards in the head, I should’ve been throwing bacon at them?’

‘I know it’s hard to believe, but think about it, weren’t zombies themselves hard to believe years ago? If one superstitious idea can be true, why not another? It may be difficult to accept, but the old ways do work.’

Cory shook his head. The evidence was clear, they had a thriving small community and no signs of trouble, but the idea of using something as simple as salt…

‘Hold on,’ said Cory, ‘I see a flaw here. Zombies eat humans, right? But there’s salt in the human body, we’re all salted meat. All the zombies that have tasted human flesh would be gone, and that’s certainly not the case.’

‘Very astute of you to pick up on that, none of the others have.’ Alistair pointed at him. ‘Yes, you certainly aren’t stupid. In this case you are wrong, however. You see, due to the water in the human body salt separates into its basic elements of sodium and chlorine. We have the necessary ions that make sodium chloride, but it doesn’t exist as actual salt in the body.’

‘You’ve done your research, I’ll give you that.’ Cory raised his glass in salute.

‘As I said, I read a lot. Besides, we’re talking about supernatural creatures, not science. There’s no point trying to be too rational. This concerns beliefs, rather than chemistry. Enough chit chat, you must be looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed, let’s get you some accommodation.’

Cory looked around the small cottage he’d been allocated. It stood just around the corner from the post office and bridge. As most of the windows were boarded up candles lighted the interior. The furniture was basic, he got the feeling all the best stuff had been taken long ago, but it had all he needed.

‘If you do decide to stay with us permanently,’ said Alistair, ‘you’ll be responsible for tending to the garden. It’s already up and running, you just have to look after it. And take your turn at guard duty.’

‘Fair enough.’ It seemed a small price to ask. Alistair was a little pushy, but Cory was liking the feel of the place; quiet and organised. For the first time since the day of rising he felt optimistic, and tried to rein it in for fear of disappointment. This place could work; Alistair’s idea with the salt had thrown him, but he had to admit that it was no more insane than the idea of zombies in the first place.

Over the next couple of weeks he learned a lot about growing crops, mainly from Leonard. Nothing special, potatoes, carrots and peas mainly, but all had to be nurtured and would be much needed come winter. It was nice to have routine chores again; life almost seemed normal to a degree.

Until he was woken one night by the feel of cold metal against his face. He opened his eyes and saw figures stood around his bed; a shotgun was pressing against his cheek.

‘Get dressed and come with us.’ said Alistair from the shadows. Cory remained silent as he dressed, although questions ran through his mind. Why rob me now, after two weeks? It makes no sense. He recognised most of the other villagers as he was led outside towards the bridge. Torches of burning rags had been set up at either side of it; as they got closer he could see a figure stood on the bridge.

They stopped and Alistair stepped in front of Cory.

‘As I’ve told you before,’ he said, ‘the old ways do work, or at least some of them. It’s a matter of finding the bits that function I suppose.’

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Cory desperately missed having his gun now.

‘Ancient cultures had a number of beliefs, one that featured in many was the idea that a society’s ills could be blamed on a single cause or person.’ Alistair said, sounding like a lecturer. ‘This unfortunate person would be blamed for the failure of crops or the spread of disease. Sometimes this would only result in the person having to wear foolish clothes and be ridiculed or chased through town, in an almost celebratory festival. Other times it resulted in human sacrifice.’

‘Now hold on-‘

‘Every year, Cory. Every year we make an offering.’

‘To who?’

‘Does it matter? Who cares? The fact is each year we make a sacrifice, and each year we have peace.’

‘You fucking loons. So, the newcomer gets the chop, eh?’ Cory tensed, getting ready to start throwing kicks and punches; no way was he going without a fight.

‘Not quite.’ Alistair took a torch from his pocket, switched it on and aimed it at the bridge. The figure there was Leonard, tied to a post, gagged and struggling. ‘You see, Cory, to sacrifice a newcomer just by virtue of him being new makes no practical sense. Much more logical to get rid of your least useful member, that way it keeps the others on their toes and encourages them to be productive.’

‘Jesus Christ, this is insane.’

‘Perhaps,’ Alistair sighed, ‘but look at it this way, the world is fucking insane. We’ve got fucking zombies walking around! Compared to that, offering a sacrificial scapegoat makes perfect sense.’

‘So you’re going to kill Leonard?’

‘Not at all,’ Alistair smiled, ‘you are.’ He pressed Cory’s own gun into his hand.

‘But…why me?’

‘To make sure you’re committed to being part of our little community. Do this, and it’ll show that you want to be one of us.’

Cory looked across at Leonard, wrestling with the ropes, expression one of panic.

‘But, he’s never done anything wrong to me.’ muttered Cory, feeling the reassuring weight of his gun.

‘He should’ve taken your gun the first moment he saw you.’ Alistair told him. ‘That’s when I knew he’d have to go. It’s nothing personal. You either want to stay here or you don’t. Was life out there better than in here? Always watching your back, eating whatever shit you could steal or scavenge, was that better than regular food and shelter? I think not.’

‘Well. no, but-‘

‘No buts Cory. We’ve already covered him in salt, just put a bullet through his head and belong.’

Cory looked down at the gun and then across at the terrified Leonard. He thought about his life as a wanderer, and how it compared to life in the village.

Head low with shame he headed towards the scapegoat, raising the gun.

It was time to rejoin society.

THE END