Alone

The sea of undead in front of us was growing larger, their fists pummeling the screen. The door to the back was no better—the numbers banging against it sent panic through my head. There was no way out. We couldn't escape.

I sat down on a table. Jon put his backpack on the ground and started rummaging through it as I stared out at the screen. I looked around for something we could use. Nutty ideas ran through my head, but one jumped out. Jon was following my train of thought. I grabbed a microwave from the opposite table, found an extension cord, and plugged it in. Jon pulled out a small container of petrol. We then proceeded to put any flammable medical items we could find inside, along with a scalpel to spark. Jon pulled a small oxygen cylinder next to the counter while I carried the microwave.

"Okay, on the count of three—lift the screen, chuck the microwave and the oxygen tank, duck, cross your fingers, and have a little cry," I said.

"Sounds like a plan," Jon groaned, lifting up the cylinder.

"Okay, one... two... three!"

I pushed the screen up. Jon hit the cook button on the microwave and shoved it out, and I pushed out the tank. I tried to pull the screen back down, but a couple of creatures were spread-eagled on the counter. I pulled it down as far as it would go, and Jon and I ducked.

"Think it will work?" I asked.

"Well, if not, we are utterly fucked."

"What setting did you put it on?"

"Popcorn."

"There's a joke in there, I kno—"

An explosion interrupted me.

Even though we were ducked behind the counter, we felt the shockwave pass over us and saw a flash of fire and flying glass. As soon as it faded, we stood up and leaped over. The sea that was there before wasn't completely destroyed by any means, but it had taken off limbs and floored them, allowing us to run through.

The way towards the main entrance was still choked with dead, so we went straight—which wasn't much better. I grabbed a cleaning trolley and pushed it in front of me, straight into their midst. Jon was behind me. We slammed into the crowd. I jumped up on the trolley, ran across, kicked a creature in the face—feeling its teeth snap—and jumped off.

The route ahead of us was clearer. We closed a set of double doors and put a nearby chair through the handles, slowing the dead—at least for a little while. We stopped to catch our breath.

"Which way is it?"

"Back the way we came, but I don't think our buddies will let us through. The only other way is to go down two floors and head out the loading bay."

Something snapped—not the door we blocked, but the one between me and Jon. Dead spilled out. We both backed up.

Jon was near the stairs and the way out, but between me and him, a dozen undead locked their eyes on me.

Jon moved forward to attack.

"No, don't! I know the hospital—I'll find a way out."

Jon looked like he wanted to say something. Before he could, I shouted to make myself heard over the dead.

"Get out! Wait an hour—if I'm not back by then, head home!"

Jon looked solemn but nodded.

"See you in a bit then," he yelled.

"Yeah, no worries," I called back.

The sound of wood splintering drew my attention away from Jon as he disappeared down the stairs. The door we blocked was starting to give. I headed down the corridor. The dead here were mercifully thin and easily avoidable. I made my way to another stairwell and peeked through the glass. I couldn't see anything on the other side, so I opened it.

Damn.

The stairs didn't go down—only up. But if I went up, I could probably make my way around and back down, avoiding the horde. I couldn't see another option, so I went up to the first floor.

I burst through onto the floor just in time to see something large and red flashing toward me.

It hit me.

Pain erupted from my forehead, and blood trickled down. It felt like someone had hit me with a brick.

The source of the object was clear—a creature, ten feet away, was now shambling towards me as my head began to spin. I fought to remain conscious.

I looked down at the floor.

A fire extinguisher. That was what hit me.

I backed up to the stairwell door and reached into my satchel.

Five feet away.

Four.

Three.

THWIP!

The creature stopped, dropped to its knees, then collapsed.

I slid back against the door, my crossbow dropping next to me. The practice had been worth it.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there on the floor. I pulled myself up and retrieved my bolt—a bloody task, as it had pierced the eyeball. I staggered down the corridor, clutching my head. I was seeing double.

I looked through door windows, seeing undead occupants in all of them. Near the end of the corridor, I found a room with no one inside. I tried the handle—it was open. I poked my crossbow in first and scanned the room.

Just an office. Books lined two walls. The third was a large window with the blinds drawn across. A handsome mahogany desk with a swivel leather chair faced opposite the window.

So this is where the NHS budget went.

I locked the door, dropped the shade behind me, and lumbered to the desk, putting my crossbow on the table. I sat in the chair.

There was a mini fridge with bottled water. I opened one up and looked to see if we had any painkillers in the bag. I was in luck. I swallowed four of whatever they were and reclined the chair.

The room started to spin.

Just a second—that's all I need. Just one second.

I awoke with a start, snatched up my crossbow, and fired.

The bolt hit the door.

Nothing was there.

No banging. Nothing.

My head was pounding. I searched my pockets for my phone—

Not there. Crap. Must have dropped it.

I looked at the clock on the wall.

8:15.

I was out for a while.

I stood up, and the room spun again, making me sit. I tried to log on to the PC, but it was password-protected. In a fit of rage, I threw every single item on the desk onto the floor. It made a satisfying smash as it hit.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Damn, that was a mistake.

I wandered over to the door and pulled back the shade.

Dead eyes greeted me.

I backed away and looked at the ceiling—solid. Shit.

I ran over to the wall window. A 25-foot drop on a dark night greeted me.

I picked up my crossbow, retrieved the bolt from the wall, and put it in my satchel. I walked back to the window, extended the baton, and hit it.

It took a few hits before I had a large enough hole to climb through.

Okay, I can do this. I've done it in video games a million times—

OH CRAP, I'M GOING TO DIE!

I never liked heights. I got vertigo just looking out a hospital window on a normal workday, let alone throwing myself out of one.

The door splintered—

And I jumped.

As I fell, the rules for surviving a high drop ran through my head. Knowledge I had gained when I was bored one night.

Land on the balls of your feet. Lean forward. Roll. Protect your head.

All good advice—except organizing that while falling is hard.

The ground rose to greet me. I hit it, rolling on impact. I landed flat on my back—winded.

I realized I was alive.

I coughed—then laughed.

I gazed up at the sky, chuckling.

"Haha—OH FUCK!"

I rolled to the right as a creature hit the ground where I was a fraction of a second ago.

Still laughing, I got up, booted the creature in the head, and looked back up at the window.

A few more dead were taking the plunge.

I stepped away and let gravity do the work for me.

Jon better not have waited for me.

I headed off-site through the woods, following the main road past the Tesco's. It was dark; the streetlights still had power. That was something, but it would be dangerous to travel like this. My head was still giving me trouble; occasionally, I felt dizzy, and my vision blurred. Although I wanted to get back and make sure no one worried, I wanted to come back most of all. They would just have to forgive me.

I selected a two-floor detached house for my home away from home. I broke open the back door with the crowbar and swept the downstairs—empty. I headed upstairs and cleared it. One door left. I knocked—no response. I pushed the door open, aiming my flashlight in, closely followed by the crossbow.

The light swept the bedroom. A body.

On the bed was a man in his late 40s, in blue overalls. He had a good week's worth of stubble that matched his long, greasy jet-black hair. "Jack" was on the name tag. He didn't seem dead. I moved closer; the flashlight illuminated the bed more clearly. Blood was splashed on the white sheets.

I backed off and stuck my head under the bed—nothing there. I sat back up and looked closer. The source of the blood soon became evident: a large knife and cut wrists.

I took a step closer to him and cautiously put my hand on his neck.

I found a weak pulse.