Grand designs

I slept surprisingly soundly last night despite our unsecured building and a possibly infected house guest. I listened to the radio in the shower—the government had just up and disappeared, with no one having any idea where they had gone. London is lost, along with Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle, Cardiff, and just about any other major population area you can imagine.

But apparently, some areas are holding out. Hastings is in the process of organizing a wall to be built. Being on the coast, they will only have to do half the job we would. Canterbury is also holding out—the ancient walls around it have more or less channeled the dead in one direction for them, stopping them from being surrounded. Nothing has been heard from Ireland or the rest of the world.

I left the peace of the shower and returned to grim reality—another busy day surviving. At least we would be relatively safe once we had made our cosmetic changes to the building. I thought about the Territorial Army base a few miles up the road near the last stand. Last I saw, the fence surrounding it was intact. Maybe there were soldiers waiting to take back the town. I dismissed the thought almost immediately; I would only have used it as an excuse to go back to bed.

After a few pieces of dry toast—we forgot to get butter on our trip—not much was said over breakfast. We were all too aware of what might have to be done soon, with Jane still handcuffed to the radiator a couple of rooms down. Jon took the lead.

"Right, let's get started. We have stairs to smash."

He was right. If we sat here, filled with melancholy, we were dead. We needed to destroy two sets of stairs to make sure the things couldn't get up to the living area. In between was a small landing on the first floor—we elected to keep that to make passing supplies up easier. To get up to the landing, we would have to do a delicate balancing act on the postboxes. To reach the last part, we would use a large cupboard I found in my room, laid across the gap—easy to push away if the creatures got up to the landing, but solid enough to hold our weight.

But first, we would have to clear the ground and first-floor flats. Toby and the girls were fairly sure everyone had left, but we didn't want to bump into one just because we hadn't been careful. Plus, it would be a good opportunity to scavenge supplies from the other rooms. We would start on the first floor, then the ground floor, then destroy the staircase. What a fun day.

Toby and I both grabbed bats. Jon took the rifle, being the only one of us who had fired a gun before. He shot a heron once. But it would be a last resort—we didn't want the extra noise to attract them.

Lara unlocked the door on the landing, and we went in. There was an odd smell—the smell you always get in buildings like this, making you wonder what the hell they were cooking in there. Toby dragged the sledgehammer behind him. I could tell he was excited to smash something. But hopefully, he wouldn't get the chance until the stairs.

Maybe I had been reading the "how-to" book too much, but I had been looking at the article on picking locks with a paperclip. I had tried last night while on watch and got mixed results. I straightened out the paperclip and approached the closest door, kneeling down.

"Two packs of fags says you can't do it," Toby said gleefully.

"You're on," I said.

I knocked on the door.

"Hello, Ghostbusters!" I yelled.

Jon gave me a weird look.

"Like it matters what I say," I replied.

After ten seconds of no reply, I inserted the pick, and Jon and Toby got ready. I gave up after twenty minutes and pulled out a hammer and screwdriver. I inserted the screwdriver and smashed the other end with the hammer, taking out my frustration that I had just lost two packs of cigs. The lock broke, the door opened, and I rolled to the left.

Nothing.

I went in first, keeping the cricket bat in front of me. It was dim in the room—all the curtains and doors were closed. We cleared it—empty of dead or living occupants. We cleared all five rooms on the first floor. It took a couple of hours, and by then, it was midday. Lara and Jenna would now move in and scrape the place clean for things we could use.

We stopped for a lovely bread sandwich, a can of drink, and a fag—delicious.

We repeated the process on the ground floor. All was well until we got to the last room. I forced the door and went in.

Bedroom—clear.

Bathroom—clear.

Down the hallway, I opened the door to the living room/kitchen. Toby was following me too closely, and the two of us fell into the room. He landed on top of me.

"Get off me, you oaf!"

He got up, and I realized the floor was damp. I looked at my hand.

Red. A lot of it.

I scrambled to my feet and saw it all. Three of us stood there, gaping. The source of the blood was clear—a golf club, bent in the middle. The corpse, its head caved in. But the most shocking was the body suspended from the ceiling, a rope around its neck. A man, dressed in a white shirt smeared with red and black trousers, barefoot.

The most disturbing part?

It was still moving.

It was reaching out as if trying to embrace us, its feet kicking uselessly.

"Er… what do we do about that?" Toby questioned.

It was a good question. Suspended like that, it would be difficult to smash its head without getting grabbed. We could try to cut it down, but then it would be mobile. Shooting it was an option, but the damn noise…

It started to moan.

"Go get your machete and my mop stick," I said.

Toby ran off to get them. I looked around the room. It was simply decorated—god-awful green wallpaper, a brown leather sofa, and a matching chair crammed into the small space along with a TV that looked older than Jon and me put together. A small coffee table sat in the center, with pictures scattered on it—wedding photos, clearly showing the man who was now intent on trying to unhook himself from the roof, and a woman. Probably her on the floor—not that you could tell anymore.

It didn't take a genius to work out what happened here.

Toby returned.

"Okay, here's the plan. I'm going to distract it from the front with the stick. Toby, you climb on the armchair, and, well, you know."

He nodded grimly. Jon would cover us.

I moved towards it, just out of its reach. It got more excited, kicking furiously. I prodded it in the chest with the pole—it grabbed hold, trying to pull me toward it. Toby went around as it focused on me.

The fury in its eyes was like something I had never seen. Like an animal's.

No, you can see emotion, intelligence in an animal's eyes.

Here, you saw nothing.

I was so mesmerized by it that I didn't notice Toby's swing. It cut deep but didn't remove the head. The thing lost interest in me and tried to twist around to Toby. He took another swing.

The body thudded to the floor.

The head came loose from the knot and landed on the coffee table.

We couldn't believe it—its head was still moving, chomping at the bit as if daring us to come closer.

We watched it. Three minutes passed. Still, it moved.

The reason for watching and not throwing it out the window was simple—information.

I poked it with the pole. It bit down on it. I pulled back and lifted it into the air slightly.

Decapitation did not work. You had to actually destroy the brain.

Jon finished the head off with a carving knife.

We headed over to the hanging body and checked his pockets— a wallet and pocket garbage. Nothing else. While I went through the wallet, Jon was looking at the now headless body. He lifted up the shirt.

"Gay," I said.

"Help me get his trousers off," Jon said, not smiling.

"Dude, necrophilia is not the answer."

"Shut up and get them off."

I complied. We took him down to his skivvies.

"What do you see?"

"Your ideal boyfriend," I replied.

"Seriously, what do you see?"

I took a second and answered, "No bites, scratches, nothing. How did he turn?"

"Maybe it's airborne," Toby chimed in.

That was a horrifying thought.

"Maybe it doesn't kick in until you're dead, and bites just accelerate the process," Jon mused.

"Walking dead style," I muttered.

"We're all infected. When you stop breathing, you turn."

Silence descended on the room. There wasn't much we could do with our new musings. We couldn't prove or disprove any of it. We rolled the bodies up in the airing cupboard's bedsheets, used the rope to secure them, and dragged them into the main entranceway.

"Should we say something?" Toby asked.

The man's wallet said his name was Mark. I couldn't find anything for his wife.

"I'll say something then," I said. It's been a while since I said a prayer, but Frank and his wife had been wearing matching silver crucifixes, so they obviously believed. It would be right to say something.

"Ah-hem, bow your heads and close your eyes. Dear God, please take your servant Mark and, er, Mark's wife into your loving arms, where there will be no suffering or pain. This we ask in your name. Amen."

The other two murmured "Amen."

We unceremoniously dropped the two bodies on the doorstep of a church round the corner. Why were there so many churches around here?

We would have liked to do a bit more, but the dead prevented this. We reentered the flats, and the next job began. The staircases were quickly demolished with the sledgehammer, and we were soon on the top floor, looking down at the mess we had created. We were safe for now. Maybe. We hoped.

But one thing was left. It was now 5 o'clock. I had been putting it off for a while, but we had to check on Jane, handcuffed in the other room. No matter how much I wanted the problem to disappear, it wouldn't. Me and Jon got up.

We carefully opened the door and headed toward the living room. I turned the handle.

"Don't come in!"

I jumped back from the door, tripping on Jon's foot. I recovered my composure.

"Er, are you OK in there?" I asked.

"No, you didn't leave me any fucking toilet paper!"

"Oh, er, sorry about that. Can we come in?"

"Hold on, OK, I'm decent."

We entered the room. Jane was still handcuffed. She had drunk all the water and eaten the food I had left.

"You still haven't turned," I said. "Can I see your arm?"

She pulled back defensively.

I kneeled beside her. "Please, Jane."

She relaxed and held out her arm. It was unmistakably a bite, a human one too, so why wasn't she turning?

"Jon, I need to speak with her. Do you mind if we do it privately?"

He grunted and walked away. He couldn't get out of there quick enough. It was clear he didn't like Jane— not that I could blame him. Holding kids hostage does not endear yourself to anyone.

"Be back in a sec."

I left the room, grabbed a couple of things, and returned. I emptied her toilet bucket (with toilet roll this time), some more water, and a couple of pot noodles. I passed her one and started on mine.

"So, want to tell me what happened?" I questioned, slurping a noodle that was bigger than I expected.

"You know what happened. You know it's a bite, and you're gonna kill me for it."

She started to eat.

I sighed. "You're not turning. You were bitten over 24 hours ago, but you are still you. You aren't trying to eat my brains, but we don't know why. We can't let you just wander around the place. I am sorry. I wish it could be different."

I looked down at my noodles; they didn't look so good anymore. There was a pause and suddenly:

"I forgive you."

"What?" I looked up, shocked.

"I forgive you, and I'm sorry for what I did. It wasn't right for me to do that. Nothing excuses it."

She looked down at the floor.

"Look, how about we just eat?" I said.

We did. We chatted and told each other about ourselves. She used to be a personal trainer at the gym near the shopping center— standard back story, single, lived in a small house near where we found her, with a greyhound called Duke. He was still there, apparently, without food. God, I like cats, but I also like dogs. The thought of him slowly starving to death got to me.

"What's the address?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Do you want your dog back or not?"

She gave me the address. Before I left the room, I cleaned the bite with antiseptic and put a fresh bandage on. I said we would take a vote at 8 p.m. tomorrow night. Everyone, including her, would get to give their point of view. I would try and get her dog back. I uncuffed her hand that was high up on the radiator and lowered it before snapping it shut again so it would be more comfortable.

"Good night," she said as I went to step out.

"Night," I replied without turning around.

10 p.m. I'm sitting here in the dark, watching walls of metal fencing, wood, cars— anything the locals can get their hands on in Hastings to build a wall against the undead. The battle could go either way. I know who I would be betting on. Sky had fallen asleep next to me on the sofa halfway through Finding Nemo. I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom and tucked her in.

"Night night," she muttered, rolled over, and fell asleep. I half-closed the door behind me. Jon didn't approve of the idea of going to get a dog, but has decided to come with me. I lied down on the sofa, and the darkness enveloped me