The sky was bruised, wounded and heavy. Gravid clouds wallowed menacingly above the unsightly concrete stain of a retail park. Thunder growled and lightning split the horizon as indistinct figures moved despondently through the deepening gloom, shambling to and from the various shops and fast food outlets. Unintelligible murmurings caught the wind, orphaned and wretched.  Assorted vehicles, seemingly discarded by lackadaisical owners who no longer had need of them, lay dotted over the vast parking area, lending the scene an irrefutable air of neglect and decay.

As the thunder’s rumbling echo receded it was swallowed inside the distinct snarl of an engine. A car swung down the incline of the car park’s entrance, its growl abruptly fading as the driver turned the keys. Momentum carried it into a u-turn before losing the resolve to carry the vehicle any further. The car came to a rest at an angle, facing up the entrance ramp. It meant a hill start, but the driver figured it was the quickest way to get out once he had what he came for. He had contemplated leaving the engine running, or parking closer, but discarded these thoughts as needless risks, afraid that the noise would attract unwanted attention.

He sat, holding tight onto the steering wheel, steeling himself for what lay ahead. His mind ran through the list of items that he had been mentally compiling throughout the short journey.  Uninvited images of his wife’s battered remains kept forcing themselves to the forefront of his consciousness, trampling roughly over thoughts of hiking boots and water purifiers.  He shook his head in an abortive effort to eradicate the haunting visions that stubbornly refused to dissipate. He had been given no other choice, the outbreak occurring so suddenly, harsh and inexorable.  He had thought initially that it had been delusion, a product of an unstable mind, but the reality of his dead wife’s caved-in skull refused to be ignored.  A wave of despair crashed against his sanity at the recall of her expectant abdomen, dark with her blood, as she laid groaning and clutching for him as he raised the bat for the final time. He would never be a father now; they had taken even that from him.

He glanced over his shoulder, the blood stained cricket bat on the back seat testament to the veracity of the situation. He wished now he had cleaned it, or at least removed the clotted tufts of her hair, but expedience had prevented that. He had had to move, swift and resolute. Even the three legged cat that they had rescued had turned, all the more dreadful as he had never considered the idea of a zombie cat. It had followed, slowly plodding after him as he staggered from the house, its pitiful mewling adding to the horror he felt.

He reached back and grasped the bat handle, its perishing rubber crumbling under his tightening grip as, with a final shudder, he grasped the door handle. The door swung open and he clambered out, his empty hand pulling the keys from the ignition, fearful that some other survivor may inadvertently strand him whilst he was away from the vehicle. Pushing the door shut softly until he heard a tinny click, he began to assess which way he should head towards the nearest of the shops he intended to ransack.

He planned his route quickly, deciding to approach via a tall-sided white van, hopeful that its bulk would shield him from the insensible eyes of the shambling dead. Already he could see half a dozen of them shuffling towards him, drawn by the sound of his arrival. He jogged out of the eye line of the undead, shifting his approach towards the van. He gripped the keys tightly in one hand, afraid to push them into his pocket, just in case he had to make a quick dash back to the car. He didn’t want to be fumbling for them if he needed to get out of here in a hurry.

A heavy spot of rain landed on the roof of a car, followed by a staccato of others. The downpour began in earnest, the once distant storm invading the hush. The smell of ozone and wet concrete brought back unexpected memories of the playground that used to be his second home as a child. Many a summer’s day’s escapade had been brought to a premature close by ill-timed downpours.

Weaving quickly between parked vehicles, he reached the front of the van and glanced through the windscreen, assessing his next step. There were numerous zombies, aimlessly shuffling to and fro between the van and the shop, seemingly forgotten purchases dangling from lifeless hands. One clutched a burger, hopelessly trying to consume it with inept, automaton-like jerking. He would have to skirt round the edge of the van and then dash from its cover into the outdoor shop that was his primary objective. With any luck his speed would carry him through the loose crowd of the living corpses lumbering around by the doorway. They seemed to be getting in each other’s way, some trying to enter, others attempting to leave. If any did get in his way, he always had the bat.

He glanced over his shoulder, checking his route back to the car. Concern crept into his mind as he noticed at least eight of them between him and the tempting security of the vehicle. He had to move quickly, or risk being cut off from his means of escape. The rain fell remorselessly, bouncing off the ground, soaking his clothes. He had to keep going, presenting a stationary target was foolhardy and he had to be somewhere secure before nightfall.

Breaking into a jog, he skirted the van, momentarily shielded from the rain. He wiped his hand across his eyes as he rounded the corner of the vehicle and collided with an obese zombie that had been stood motionless next to the rear doors of the van. The force of the impact knocked both the zombie and the man backwards, the man’s hand involuntarily opening as his arm went out to break his fall. The keys dropped to the wet ground and skittered under the van as he recovered his balance. The zombie moaned unintelligibly and, reaching out with flabby hands, lunged for him. The pale, bloated corpse was too slow and the cricket bat connected solidly with the top of its head, the strident cracking sound of the breaking skull voluble over the noise of the storm. The bat fell twice more before the man was sure that the zombie would not be getting up again.

He glanced round; checking that he was able to drop onto his front and retrieve the keys in safety, but the noise of the confrontation had attracted the attention of over a dozen of the nearest walking dead, some were almost upon him already, their incoherent groans filling his ears. He would be an easy target for them lying prone on the floor, he would have to draw them off and return. With this in mind, he made a break for his car, swinging the bat as he ran. Several zombies collapsed under the blows, but most regained their feet and began to shamble after him once more.

Jerking the door open, he threw the bat into the car, dived into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut behind him. His palm smacked down on the door lock button as he sat panting with fear. The rain was running in streamlets down the windows, making it hard for him to distinguish individual forms, but a large mass of them was converging on the car. He sat there racking his brains for a coherent course of action; the car became surrounded as what seemed like dozens of the undead arrived all at once. He was trapped.

Dull thuds filled the car as dead hands began to bang on the windows, seeking a way inside. It seemed a small vestige of intelligence still lurked somewhere in the slowly rotting brains of a few of the zombies, as they tried the door handles, although this could have been purely motor function.  The driver sat, numb and bewildered, his shocked mind desperately searching for a way out. He had no idea of how to hotwire a car and he had left the second set of keys in his wife’s handbag, unremembered until now. He had to get back to the van, had to get the keys, it was the only way.

Twisting in the seat as he turned to stare out of the rear windscreen at the van, he inadvertently touched the handbrake. As he did so, the solution sprang into his mind. He could remove the break and roll backwards until he was closer to the van. He estimated that the momentum of the car would outdistance the mass of the dead for long enough for him to dive out and grab the keys.

He took a deep breath and lowered the break handle. The car began to roll slowly backwards, its progress impeded by the weight of the bodies massed behind it. Suddenly there was a low thump and the right-hand side of the car rose perceptibly as one of zombies fell under the rear wheel. The body jammed under the car, bringing it to a complete halt, one wheel off the ground.

The man sobbed inadvertently, what was he to do now? It looked like he was going to have to get out and fight his way free, but he knew that that was suicide. He would end up one of them, wandering around this damned car park forever. He closed his eyes as tears ran down his cheeks. He sat still lost in bitter dreams of how his life was supposed to have been, the illness behind him and his wife and child at his side, happy and smiling. A faint tracery of spider web cracks appeared on the driver’s window as the blows became more numerous.

After an indeterminable length of time the rain began to die off, falling to a low rattle on the roof, making the pounding and groaning all the more threatening.  Suddenly, he thought he heard sirens cutting through the cacophony. His heart leapt, maybe the authorities had been able to get the crisis under control, and after all, they had in the 60’s. He opened his eyes and began to sound the horn, hoping to attract attention. Possibly he would survive after all. Staring in the direction he thought he had heard the sirens from, he thought he could make out a police car, its blue lights piercing the gloom.

The pounding of the zombies seemed to diminish as they turned towards this new sound, momentarily distracted from their prey. He rested his head on the steering wheel; he was going to make it. His breathing began to slow, calmness returned as the tears dried up. A sudden strident banging made him jump, and, as he turned to glance out of the driver’s window, his mind cracked. The pale, expressionless face of a freshly reanimated policeman stared at him from the other side of the glass, now hungering for his flesh. He broke completely and merciful unconsciousness claimed him as the window smashed under the forceful blows of the living dead.

*

Excerpt from Form A36: Mental Health Act 1983 Section 36

I have interviewed the patient and am satisfied that detention in hospital is in all the circumstances of the case the most appropriate way of providing the care and medical treatment of which the patient stands in need, whilst awaiting trial for a serious crime and to provide an alternative to remanding the patient in prison.

It is my professional opinion that the patient presents a critical risk to self and the public following a complete mental health relapse resulting in the death of the patient’s wife, along with two serious assaults leading to the deaths of the victims. This relapse is thought to have been brought about as a result of the patients non-compliance with medication coupled with severe and longstanding delusional ideologies wherein the patient believes himself to be the last man alive in a world of the reanimated dead or ‘zombies’