Gone fishin'

I come from Burnage, an area three streets away from where I live in Levenshulme. Burnage is famous for two things: Oasis and Kingsway. Oasis are (were?) a Beatles cover band with a shaved gorilla for a front man and an homunculus on lead guitar. Kingsway is a big road that leads out of Manchester to the south and is notable mostly for the fact that it leads out of Manchester.

When I was young I had a mate called Scott. He lived next door to me. Scott was the sort of kid who would tell you that the woman living in the creepy old house next to Cringle Fields was a witch and you’d believe him. He’d even persuade you to stake out her house with him and then bombard it with water balloons when you both got bored. When the police inevitably turned up Scott would say:

‘See how easy they are to manipulate? She hexed them and made them tell us off!’

Scott was a force of nature. I always seemed to be in trouble whenever he was around. Strangely enough that never stopped me being friends with him. Life was fun with Scott. Every day was filled with danger – usually in the form of someone we’d thrown something at. Scott scared the shit out of me but he also made me feel alive.

He was interested in just about anything and would talk endlessly about the most ridiculous stuff. Scott once told me that cats can’t look sideways. Despite the immense amount of bollocks there was usually a smidgeon of truth in what he said (except for the cat thing). It was something he said to me in his attic when we were 13 that came back to me today.

Scott: You see that gap there?
Me: Yeah.
Scott: That leads into next door.
Me: Fuck off!
Scott: Honest. All the houses around here have them.
Me: Why?
Scott: In case of fire. You can run away through the attic.
Me: Like fuck.

Turns out he was right. We both got arrested that day for trespassing in the neighbour’s bathroom.

This nugget of information returned to me as I sat there watching the sun rise, snails and beetles dissolving in my stomach. I live on the first floor of a terraced house. Somewhere in this flat, I thought, there would be an entrance into the attic. With luck I could have access to the entire row of houses on Albert Road.

I found the attic hatch in the kitchen ceiling. It was a small square peeking down at me from among the cheap foam tiles. I stood there for a while, staring up at it. Then I grabbed the only chair in the kitchen – an elderly three legged stool – and slid it over the sticky lino until it was placed directly underneath the hatch.

Climbing on to the stool was a disaster. I fell off twice. The second time I banged my forehead so hard it bled. I pulled a towel out of the drawer and wrapped it around my head. The towel hung uncomfortably around my ears, reeking of mildew. Despite the revolting headgear I climbed up on the stool again and this time managed to retain my balance.

I reached up and pushed at the hatch. I was expecting a harmless yet mildly ominous creak. If this was a crap Hollywood movie that’s exactly what would have happened. Instead I received a flood of dust and tiny dead spiders directly into my face. I fell off the stool again, my eyes streaming, and bit a chunk out of my tongue. Blood filled my mouth and I drooled what felt like gallons of the stuff over my chin. My tongue began to sting immediately.

I ran to the sink and switched on the cold tap. Nothing. I tried the hot tap, which was stupid now I think about it. Still nothing. The water had finally run out on me. I stepped around the fallen stool and flicked the light switch. The bulb snapped on. I had electricity at least.

With my tongue flopping against my bottom lip, leaking blood and throbbing, I picked up the stool and looked up at the hatch again. I’d succeeded in throwing it open - a depthless black square now hovered above my head. I re-secured the towel, stuck my tongue back in with a wince and heaved myself on to the stool. I hung my arms out to the side to help my balance and stared up at the open attic. Reaching out with both hands I gripped the sides of the hole and pulled…

…there is no point describing in detail the agony of lifting an unhealthy body through a hole in a ceiling. It hurt but I succeeded. I pulled myself up into the hatch. Then I sat on the edge with my legs dangling down into the kitchen. I took a few seconds getting my breath back then looked around me. It was totally and utterly black. I couldn’t see a thing. I explored the immediate area with my hands but found nothing, no switch or pull cord. The attic was a void.

With arms that were nothing more than aching, torturous lengths of raw nerve I lowered myself back down to the stool. I managed to hop quietly and with a small amount of grace on to the gummy lino. My entire body trembled with exhaustion.

This would take more forward planning than I had originally thought.

-------------

Essential items

A torch

Batteries

A bag, preferably a backpack

Camouflage gear

Matches

An up to date medical kit

A wide array of tools: screwdrivers, pliers, spanners, hammer, scissors, hacksaw etc

Rope

Essential weapons

An assault rifle

A crossbow

An automatic pistol

Ninja throwing stars

A chainsaw

Lots of ammunition

Available items

A penlight

Two ancient batteries retrieved from the telly remote control

A yellow rucksack with a smiley face printed on the back

A pair of black cargo pants I bought in BHS a year ago, wore once and then chucked in the wardrobe because the groin split

Zippo

Three plasters, a tube of Savlon and half a bottle of Dettol

A Swiss army knife given to me at the age of 10 by my granddad

A ball of string I found under the kitchen sink

Available weapons

A large carving knife

An equally large frying pan

A broom handle that, when plucked out of the head and chiseled to a fine point at one end with the knife, actually looked quite dangerous

Industrial strength bleach spray

Bottle of deodorant (to be used in conjunction with the Zippo)

---------

I fitted the penlight with one of the batteries and tested it. It worked fine, casting a surprisingly bright but narrow beam. The Zippo went into a utility pocket in the cargo pants next to the spare battery. I’d slipped a pair of shorts on underneath the cargo pants to minimize the risk of testicular attack from one of the undead, not that I really thought this extra layer would protect me.

The plasters and the Swiss army knife went into the pocket on the other side. The Savlon and Dettol I placed into the rucksack along with the bleach spray and the deodorant.

The string came in very handy. It had been easy to secure the knife – I simply slipped it between my belt and the cargo pants where it sat nice and snug. The frying pan and broom handle were an altogether different issue. I wracked my brains for about half an hour, trying to figure out how to attach these objects to my person in a comfortable and quiet fashion.

An idea dawned on me slowly. I took the knife and began to slice out lengths of string. I tied two equal lengths around my stomach; tight but not so tight that I was in any pain. Then I used the knife to poke two holes in the chest area of my t-shirt, side by side, taking care not to cut myself (my forehead and tongue had stopped bleeding but both still ached). A quick rummage in the kitchen cupboard threw up several old curtain hooks. I cut a smaller length of string, threaded the curtain hook on to it and then laced the string through the holes in my shirt. I now had an outward facing hook balanced between my nipples. I slipped the frying pan between the two lengths of string around my stomach and placed the metal ring at the end of the handle over the curtain hook. With a little adjustment I found myself with a perfectly secure frying pan resting flush against my front. I practiced moving around and unsheathing the frying pan. Pretty soon I had become a master of kitchenware warfare (in my hunger-addled brain at least).

The broom handle was trickier. I spent a while trying to figure out the best way to secure it to my back. Eventually I cut a long piece of string and secured it over one shoulder and under the opposite armpit. Then I put on the rucksack and tightened the straps against my back. I slipped the broom handle, point aiming at the floor, between the string and the rucksack with the end jutting out behind my right ear. It sat firmly against my spine. A couple of attempts at taking it out made me realise it was not going to be as quick a draw as the frying pan or knife. I concluded that I had two decent short range weapons (three if you counted the deodorant and Zippo) and one potentially devastating long range weapon.

Climbing back in to the attic was a nightmare. I have no idea how I managed it. There must be some truth in the myth that desperate situations bring out a freakish strength and determination in people. Even though I could feel my arms stretching to their limits with the added weight of my equipment I pulled myself off the stool and into the waiting darkness. I fell into the attic gasping, clutching at my chest and waiting for my heart to explode.

After several minutes lying on my side, panting ragged breaths into the gloom, I took the penlight out of my pocket and switched it on.

The thin beam of light picked out scattered, half-formed shapes: corners of boxes, the edge of a rolled up carpet; a rotted blade on what turned out to be an ancient rocking chair tipped over on its side. I scanned the whole place, flicking the light over the roof and floor. Thick beams were spaced out at half foot intervals on the floor. I would have to tread very carefully.

I began to scan the walls, looking for any sign of a hole or maybe even another hatch. After several fruitless minutes I stopped and decided to get my bearings. The front of my house was there, the back there. That meant the north and south walls were connected to neighboring houses. I started with the south facing wall. There were only two houses to the north and at least twenty to the south: there would be more food in that direction.

I crawled over to the south wall slowly, concentrating on the beams set into the floor. Finally I reached the wall. It was thick with grey spider webs and green mold. I shone the light over the surface of the wall, watching for any sign of a gap in the brickwork. The light swept over the crumbling bricks, scaring insects and spiders back into their crevices. There were no indentations and nothing that would suggest a way out. It looked like my friend had been wrong. I sat on the beam closest to the wall, adjusting the broom handle and frying pan for comfort, and muttered,

‘You’re full of shit Scott. Your house was the only one.’

I was about to head back to the dim pool of light that led down into my kitchen when I noticed something pressed up against the corner of the wall. I pointed the penlight in that direction and spotted a small cardboard box I hadn’t seen before. I stuck the penlight between my teeth (careful not to let it touch my wounded tongue) and focused the beam on the box. I crawled towards it.

I reached the box and perched myself on the beam, cross legged. The broom handle slid half a foot up my spine as my backside rested on the rough wood. I took the penlight out of my mouth and tugged at the box. It was about three foot square. Further investigation with the light revealed that it was half filled with wrinkled books. The box was quite heavy, especially in my weakened state, but I managed to drag it away from the wall and bring it to rest on the two beams behind me. I directed the penlight at the space behind the box. There was an opening and it looked large enough for me to squeeze through.

I stuck the light in my mouth again, lowered myself to my hands and knees, and crawled over to the hole. I aimed the penlight into the hole and saw a narrow corridor, no more than three feet deep. The corridor opened out into a larger space beyond. I moved the light around and spotted more boxes in this space, an empty picture frame leaning against a wall and a stuffed bear propped against a wall. Scott, I thought, I take it all back.

---------

I squeezed myself through the hole with some difficulty. The frying pan bit into my stomach and the broom handle repeatedly caught itself in the craggy bricks overhead. Finally I made it through into next door’s attic space.

I paused and sat cross legged again on the beams. This house had loft insulation which made for a flatter, but no less perilous, surface. The loft insulation had the benefit of making the attic hatch easier to spot. Several sweeps with the penlight revealed a dark indentation over to the right. I began to crawl in that direction.

I tried to make my movements as quiet as possible, realising I was now outside of my own personal fortress and in unknown territory. As I reached the hatch my bowels loosened and my hands began to tremble. I lay on my back for a few seconds, breathing shallow silent breaths, and tried to control my insides. I had no idea what was down there and no idea how well those things could smell. Cargo pants full of shit were unacceptable at this point.

Gradually my hands became still and my bowels ceased their terrible rumbling.

I heaved myself on to my side and pointed the penlight towards the attic hatch. The hatch was roughly the same size as my own. A small circle of metal set into a bracket at one edge formed the handle. I could see daylight oozing out around the sides. As a precaution I slid the broom handle out and held it flush against my side. I switched off the penlight, parked it behind my left ear and reached towards the handle. Then I heard it: A low, unsettling groan somewhere below. The sound was so discordant and bizarre that I couldn’t tell if it was directly underneath me or coming from somewhere further away. It seemed to emanate directly out of the air, disembodied. My stomach responded with an altogether more insistent groan and I realised all my choices were gone.

I wrapped my fingers around the metal loop and pulled gently. The hatch lifted up smoothly and silently.

Below I could see a white carpet and a slice of the banister leading downstairs. Daylight flooded in from a window nearby. There was a dark, circular stain close to the banister – I peered in closer and spotted tufts of hair sticking to the brownish mess on the carpet. Further along was a toy train splattered with more stains.

I gripped the broom handle tight against me.

Then I saw movement, over to the right where the banister swept upwards and vanished from my field of vision. I heard another groan, louder and definitely closer this time. A shadow fell over the carpet followed by the steady thump of unsteady, slow moving feet. I pulled myself away from the hatch and huddled in the attic, gripping the broom handle and peeking down into the space below.

One of the undead shuffled into view beneath the hatch. It was impossible to tell if it was male or female – all I could see was the top of its head. The creature’s scalp was dark and soaked with various substances which had dried and turned the hair into matted dreadlocks. As it shuffled further into view I saw that a piece of its skull towards the back had broken clean away. A small section of brain, mottled with caked blood, was exposed to the morning light. I choked back vomit.

The zombie stopped instantly at the sound of me retching into my hand.

As it raised its head to stare up at me I lifted the broom handle in preparation. After weeks of being trapped in my flat I was determined to face these things, determined to find something to eat. I had the upper hand: I was in an elevated position with a long, pointed weapon at my disposal. The zombie was slow, clumsy and vulnerable. I felt a surge of confidence.

Then I saw its face.

It was still impossible to tell whether the thing was male or female. What skin remained on its cheeks looked slippery, as though it would slide off at any moment. The forehead was stripped clean of flesh and the nose had been eaten off long ago leaving a dark triangular space. There was a gaping hole in the left side of the zombie’s cheek; a blackened, slug-like lump poked out and jerked spasmodically. I realised this was its tongue. I felt myself begin to panic again at this awful sight. My hand holding the broom handle started to shake uncontrollably. I fought to control myself. The zombie opened what was left of its ruined mouth and let out another one of those mournful, alien groans. It reached up towards me with greenish white hands, as though it were pleading for me to give myself up and let it feed.

Only one eye peered out of that rotting mask, milky white with a pupil like a tiny black head spot. The other eye was gone. I saw tiny, rippled bodies seething in the gaping socket. It was fight or flight time.

My body reacted almost without any input from my brain. Starvation was driving me now, not rational thought. I plunged the broom handle through the attic hatch into the zombie’s face. The point glanced off its forehead, scraping bone. The thing stumbled backwards but soon regained its balance, grunting horrible little grunts. It snatched at the handle. I withdrew my home made spear and tried to focus. My second thrust hit the zombie in the right ear which split and fell off onto the carpet with a plop.

I thought about all the kung-fu films I’d watched. At this point in the movie the hero would be channelling some Zen bullshit in order to defeat overwhelming odds. I found myself lacking several decades of martial art training and simply trusted to chance again.

My third shot hit the zombie in its empty eye socket. The pointed end of the broom handle sank in by a few inches and then met resistance. The zombie’s arms began to flail around its body, its grunts and moans changed to tortured howls. I forced the handle in deeper, slamming it through the creature’s head. The point emerged through the hole at the back of the zombie’s skull, dripping greyish brown lumps of brain. The zombie grew still and then collapsed on to the carpet, sliding itself off the handle. I watched it for five minutes but it didn’t get up again.

I pulled the broom handle back up into the attic and wiped it on my cargo pants leaving a smear of brains and twitching maggots on the fabric. I now knew that these things could be killed. It looked like the movies had got that particular part right – remove the head or destroy the brain.

For the next fifteen minutes I waited silently, watching the hallway below for any more signs of undead activity. The zombie I’d killed had hit the floor with a solid thump and I still had no idea how well undead senses worked. When I was certain no others were coming to investigate I slid the handle onto my back again and lowered my head carefully through the hatch.

There were more stains, broader and darker, leading to the left of the hallway. Sinister dark lumps were scattered about the stains and, as I took in more of the passage, I spotted a tiny body lying outside an open door at the far end. I tried not to look too closely. The poor kid had died trying to run to the safety of his bedroom: I could see a small area beyond the door, littered with soft toys and plastic figures, a bunk bed in the corner. I screwed my eyes shut, turned my head and looked the other way.

Three more doors led off the hallway to the right. One was a bathroom, directly opposite the child’s room, the door was open and I could see a sink and part of the bath. The other two were closed. I concluded that these must be bedrooms. I decided to check them first.

I was becoming adept at pulling myself in and out of attics. I lowered myself to the carpet below with very little effort, landing with a foot on either side of the dead zombie’s cracked skull. I looked down at its rotting body (the stench was almost unbearable), then I glanced back at the dead child. A surge of rage hit me. I snorted, clearing my sinuses, and spat into the zombie’s face.

‘Bastard!’

I crept along the hallway to the first bedroom, one hand lightly gripping the broom handle above my shoulder, the other resting at my stomach close to the hook holding the frying pan. The bedroom door was very slightly ajar. I prodded it gently with my foot and it swung open.

The room beyond was brightly lit by sunlight streaming in through a bay window to the right. It was a clean room: cream carpet, double bed, fitted wardrobes; the master bedroom. I inched my way further inside. The room was empty of bodies, dead or undead. I spotted a wire frame chair sitting next to an ornate dresser. I grabbed this and stepped out of the room. I placed the chair under the attic hatch. If things got too fucked up I wanted to be out of this house as soon as possible.

I crept back into the master bedroom and went over to the bay window. I crouched low and snuck a look outside on to Albert Road. There they were, shambling around, bumping into each other. There were about thirty of them in the street, in various stages of decay. As always I tried not to focus on them as individuals but they’re so utterly terrifying that they mesmerise you.

I saw a zombie staggering around on one foot in circles, like a drunk who has lost all function in one leg. This zombie was female, tall and willowy but not as rotten as the rest. She wore a hat, some kind of black beanie, with the letters TDDO imprinted on it in white. In one hand she carried a tyre iron or some kind of giant alan key. She was using this to take clumsy swipes at another zombie lurching around next to her. This one was male and, bizarrely, was thrusting a brown walking stick at the sky. He also appeared to be less decayed than the others. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Gonzo from The Muppets printed on its front. The walking stick had something impaled on its end. Against my better judgement I took a closer look: it was a fat pigeon, speared through its stomach by the stick. The walking stick zombie was making more noise than the others, howling incoherently at the sky. I assumed the beanie zombie was either trying to fight him for the pigeon or was trying to make him shut up.

Others staggered around, monsters who had once been people. Policemen, shop workers, a couple of Manchester wardens (these ones were the least agitated, simply standing there watching everything but doing very little).

I stepped back from the window. I needed to check the last bedroom then head for the kitchen. Moving cautiously and with as little noise as possible, I made my way to the second bedroom. I reached out for the handle and eased the door open. A brief look was all I needed. Three bodies, torn apart, lay in what was clearly a girl’s room. Torrents of dried blood were sprayed around the walls. Two adults and another child, a little girl, lay in pieces on the floor. It was a charnel pit, a slaughterhouse. The stink was overwhelming: a cloying, sickening wave of liquefying flesh. My eyes found it impossible to take in the scene as a whole. I caught flashes of severed limbs, torn throats, staring eyes. That was enough for me. I needed to get the fuck out.

I headed for the stairs, unsheathing the broom handle as I moved.

I looked down into the ground floor hallway. Silence. I moved quickly, descended the stairs and stood for a few seconds in the hall to orientate myself. The front door was hanging on one hinge leaving the house fully exposed. I glanced in that direction and saw the horde of zombies out on Albert Road. I needed to move fast! I ignored the arch leading to the lounge and headed straight for the kitchen at the end of the hallway.

The kitchen was a sizeable mock-farmhouse affair. Unvarnished wood fittings and a giant stove in one corner, a knotted wood breakfast table in the middle of the floor. The back door was closed. Through the kitchen window I could see a small yard enclosed by tall brick walls. Conscious of the gaping wound at the front of the house I began to open cupboards and drawers as swiftly and silently as possible.

I found canned goods in one cupboard: beans, spaghetti, mixed veg, soup, stewed steak, fruit pieces. In another I found dried goods: rice, pasta, bags of nuts. I checked the fridge and sent up a brief prayer when the light came on. It was still working! I found unopened cartons of long life milk and orange juice, apples, slices of ham, cheese and 8 cans of beers. I looked in the freezer and found chips, frozen veg, waffles, sausages, burgers, pizza. This was a family with a diet after my own heart!

I shrugged the rucksack off my shoulders and opened it. I took out the bleach spray and deodorant to make more room. The spray I hooked through a belt loop in the cargo pants and the deodorant I slipped into a pocket. Then I crammed as much food as I could into the rucksack. Soon it was full and I was left with a pile of food on the floor. I needed to find another bag. I opened the cupboards under the sink, looking for a plastic bag, anything to contain the left over essentials.

Instead I found a boy, hiding beneath the plumbing below the sink. His face was turned away from me and his tiny body shook violently. Oh Christ, I thought, Bunk beds. There were two boys.

‘Hey, hey. It’s okay,’ I whispered, glancing back over my shoulder at the open front door. All clear still. I reached out to the boy, tapped him on his shoulder.

‘Come on, I’ll get you out of here.’

The boy reacted instantly at my touch. His body flopped towards me, still trembling violently, and I caught sight of a massive tear in the orange t-shirt he was wearing. Purple-blue tubes squeezed out through the hole. Something bright red and glistening dropped to the kitchen floor, leaving a thick smear.

He turned his face in my direction and I saw the damage that had been done. Half of one cheek was hanging in ragged strips. Two bloodshot blue eyes glared out at me.

I let out a yell and fell backwards over the rucksack, sprawling on my back across the floor.

I felt something tug at my shoe and lifted my head to look. The boy was pulling at my foot, his mouth open and straining towards me. I screamed and shuffled backwards across the floor, away from the dead boy. He crawled out of the cupboard, his eyes on my face.

Then I heard a sound behind me. I twisted to look and saw that the undead horde on Albert Road had heard the noise I’d made. They were shambling towards the unprotected front door, sniffing the air and moaning their dark, awful moans. The zombie with the Gonzo shirt was at the head of the horde, still making those incoherent wails, still waving his pigeon-skewer at the sky.

I felt a strong tug at my shoe and it flew off, hitting the window above the sink.

‘Oh Jesus,’ I thought, ‘I’m fucked…’

look at that Z car go

I now know what starvation feels like.

All the focus is on the stomach. When every last morsel of food has passed through your bowel you simply feel empty. This is nothing to worry about. You still feel quite satisfied, content even. You won’t need to eat for hours yet.

Hours pass.

A low growl resonates deep in the pit of your guts. This is the onset of hunger. You may think briefly of snack food; chocolate, nuts and crisps. Oh my!

Then you may think of all those wonderfully crap things available on the supermarket shelves; pot noodles, vacuum packed meat, cheese slices, bag after bag of Doritos. All of those quick fix foods.

Then you stop.

Your body is lying to you. You’re not hungry.

The quick fix has a deathly grip. You’re not actually hungry. Your stomach is empty but you can survive for hours, days, without food.

Until you starve you cannot possibly understand how pointless junk food is.

What was I saying?

Lets play guess the quote. These are all from films. See how many you can get:

“There are monsters, aren’t there?”

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.”

“If you ain’t on the whirlybird when I take off then you’re likely to have a very bad afternoon.”

No, fuck that. I can’t concentrate on anything other than my own twisted internal organs.

There was a space inside me. I could feel it right at the centre of my body. The growling in my stomach had ended ages ago. Jolts of agony followed. Acidic pain tore holes in my stomach, piping itself through my veins. It continued for hours then dwindled, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The space was the only thing left.

From my window I can see them. They’re gathered around that damn tree again. They’ve been there since last night.

It’s dark now but not dark enough to hide their ruined faces. Last night one of them glanced up at the window while I was peeping out. I ducked down but not before I saw the thing’s shredded lips pull back in a grin. I almost screamed but managed to bite my tongue instead. My mouth filled with blood which I drank gratefully.

The barricades were not attacked so it couldn’t have spotted me. The grin must have been some kind of reflex

I’m jealous of them. Even though their bodies are bloated with gas and rotting, even though their minds have become jellified collections of basic urges, I’m jealous. I’m in here losing my mind over images of sirloin steak and fried bacon. They’re outside filling their filthy stomachs with meat. Okay, the meat they’re filling their stomachs with is primarily human but at least they aren’t going without…

I looked behind the cooker earlier. Prior to this I searched the flat for anything edible and came up with nothing. The entire place is a testament to dietary abstinence. The back of the cooker was my final hope, my grail.

I found, in this order:

• A dead mouse.
• Two slowly moving snails.
• A slice of ancient bread crawling with tiny insects.
• An empty clipper lighter.
• Several brown lumps swimming in a pool of some putrid and foul smelling liquid.

I put the mouse, the snails and the bread in a plastic tub and sealed it. Then I placed the tub in the cupboard and told myself it was to be the very last resort.

Less than two minutes later I opened the cupboard door, tore the lid off the tub and grabbed one of the snails. I threw my head back, dropped the snail into my mouth and bit down hard. The shell cracked between my teeth and sent shudders through my jaw. Juices squirted out over my tongue, surprisingly viscous but not as bitter as I’d expected. My teeth crushed the shell and began to work on the snail’s chewy flesh. Within seconds I’d reduced the snail to a tightly rolled ball of protein. It sat at the back of my tongue waiting to be swallowed. I closed my eyes and let it go.

I felt the ball squeeze its way past my Adam’s apple. My stomach growled in anticipation. Food, glorious food…

Then a tiny noise drew my attention. My eyes fluttered open and I traced the noise to the tub containing the rest of my bounty from behind the cooker. I reached out and took the tub down from the cupboard shelf. I placed it on the counter in front of me and peered in.

The first thing I noticed was the bread. All the little insects living on the bread were huddled up in one corner instead of racing around the surface. It reminded me of herding instincts I’d seen on nature programs. Their bodies were tightly packed together so only their black shells were visible.

The noise distracted me. It sounded minutely wet and ever so slightly crunchy. I looked into the corner of the tub. It took a few seconds to figure out what I was seeing.

The dead mouse was being eaten by the other snail.

The snail had already chewed away a large portion of the mouse’s underbelly. Tiny grey ribs poked out of the wound. Strands of pink meat clung to the ribs like colored string. I peered in closer even as my stomach began to churn, focusing on the snail.

Greenish fur was growing on the snail’s shell in little patches. I noticed that it was missing one antenna and that its leathery neck had chunks torn out of it. It crawled over the mouse, its unseen teeth chomping miniature mouthfuls out of the dead flesh.

My stomach tried to turn itself inside out. I beat it back into submission, swallowing huge gulps of air. My saliva production went into overload. Within seconds I was drooling spit onto my t-shirt. Too late, I thought, Far, far too late.

At least I’d eaten something.

………

Oh for a New Scientist article detailing the adverse effects of consuming undead gastropods…

“Snails are harmful if eaten raw although the risk level is low. Undead snails, however, raise the question of cross-species infection.

Case studies have shown that only 3% of humans who ingested the snails of the living dead went on to lead full and happy lives. The rest died a slow, agonizing death and then returned to life as relentlessly hungry undead monsters.”

I don’t care if I turn into one of those things.

….Jesus, what am I saying?

………..

I ate the snail two hours ago and so far I feel fine. I’ve felt no changes in my mind or body. I think I’m okay except that my last resort is now gone.

The insects were the trickiest to eat. In the end I simply folded the slice of bread in half and shoved it in my mouth. My tongue tickled like mad as the insects tried to escape. The mouse was crunchier than the snail I’d eaten but mercifully bland.

The other snail is still sliding around inside the tub. I’ve replaced the lid and put it back in the cupboard.

Dawn is creeping in – the bedroom curtains are starting to glow a dull orange.

Today I'm going to find a way out of this flat.

"This is a dead place. Like all the others, you know..."

My living room window looks out over Albert Road. Once I’d completed the barricades and regained control of my own mind I looked out into the street. They were out there. Hordes of the shuffling undead. I peeked at them from behind the net curtain.

The zombies staggered in seemingly aimless directions up and down the street. I tried not to focus on individuals but it was hard to tear my eyes away. One man had such a severe rupture to his neck that his head hung loose over his shoulder. He kept trying to reposition his skull so that it balanced on the neck stump but every time it flopped to the side again. One of them held a bright yellow balloon in one hand. A rainbow coloured banner hung in tatters across his chest. ‘…py birthday Simo... ‘, was printed down the length in bold, happy colours. He was dragging a small body behind him, gripped by the ankle.

A cluster of the creatures were huddled round a corpse just outside the front garden. Lengths of intestine and clods of glistening meat were strewn around them, painting the grey concrete in shades of dark rust. Occasionally one of the undead would turn and snatch a piece of offal from the road, stuff it into their mouth and chew, eyes closed. They were experiencing some kind of awful, sublime pleasure from eating the dead body. Hands ripped into the corpse, lifting out dripping portions which were fought over and devoured as though it were fine steak. They swayed on their knees, moaning even when they were chewing. The noise of them made every hair on my body stand on end.

Most of the creatures were simply ambling around. They staggered into bushes, bumped into parked cars and shoved at each other. All of them had the same gait; they moved like marionettes, arms and legs jerking in staccato rhythms, heads lolling from side to side. Their bloated, purple lips pulled back from their teeth in a permanent, disquieting sneer. Some of them were quite badly damaged, limbs torn off; stomachs ripped open so that internal organs trailed around their knees.

It was a scene from some darkest region of Hell. I cursed the fact that I had no religion, no God to pray to. Then I realised that this must be the work of a God, some God, one of the hundreds. That was when I almost gave up hope. If an all powerful being sees fit to visit a plague such as this on It’s creation then what hope is there? The only outcome is complete destruction, a reckoning on a grand scale. Wipe out humanity, reset the counter to zero and begin again.

I was torn from my thoughts by a clattering noise somewhere further along the road. I looked to the right and caught a flash of colour. Then a horse appeared, a mounted policeman clinging to its back. The horse was one of those giant brown beasts used by the Greater Manchester Constabulary. It was clearly in distress – foaming sweat plastered its neck and flanks, its nostrils flared and jetted snot out on to the road. The copper glued to the horse’s back was screaming. I watched the pair, horse and man, plough through the congregation of undead. Zombies flew out to either side as the horse made frantic progress down the road. Living corpses were crushed beneath hooves the size of dinner plates. I found myself silently cheering the horse and rider on.

The horse had almost made it to the junction with Slade Lane when disaster struck. A motorcycle was lying on its side in the road. The horse leaped, tried to clear the bike, but terror and exhaustion had taken their toll. The horse clipped the bike with its back legs and crashed face first into the road. The policeman tumbled from his saddle and lay half-crushed beneath the fallen beast. The undead were on them in seconds. When the horse began to shriek I dropped the net curtain and moved away from the window.

I snuck into my bathroom like a mouse, checking that the barricades were still intact. I removed my trousers and boxer shorts. Then I began to peel moist strips of caked faeces from my buttocks and testicles. I cleaned myself up and then I cried.

………

With the clock on this website fucked it’s hard for me to tell how long I’ve been incarcerated. I don’t have a mobile phone, never needed an alarm clock (I wake up at 7.30am every day, on the dot) and the TV hasn’t worked since day one. Same with the radio. The radio just gives out static and the TV pisses out white noise whenever I switch it on.

The real shock was the internet. The web was designed to live after we’re dead and gone. At the end of time all that should be left are cockroaches and google. It didn’t work out that way. I got the same thing on-screen whichever site I visited: a black screen with a white, inverted smiley face plastered in the middle. For the first few nights that down turned mouth and vacant eyes haunted my nightmares along with the creeping undead.

After trying as many urls as I could remember I tried my bookmark folder on Firefox. www.blogger.com was the only site that worked - kind of. The homepage appeared but the only hypertexted sections of the screen were the link to one of my old blogs and the automated tech support template.

I deleted all previous entries on my blog and began writing this.

………

I’m so FUCKING HUNGRY!!!!!!!!!!

While I’ve been writing all that bollocks about what’s gone before my stomach has been eating itself.

I feel drowsy, sick. It feels as though some kind of poison is rushing through my blood. This must be what starvation feels like. I ran out of food last night. If I don’t go out tonight I won’t eat. Eat or get eaten? What a fucking question that is.

I need a weapon. I also need a plan - a good one. How do I escape unnoticed from the flat, a storey up? How do I defend myself against the overwhelming odds outside? Fuck, fuck. So hungry…

Gerald

It would seem that being trapped in an upstairs flat amidst a zombie holocaust is not enough of a head fuck for me. To add an extra dimension of weirdness to my situation the internal clock on this website has gone haywire.

Yesterday was 21/6/07. According to this site, today is 27/6/07. I’ve effectively lost a week.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky that this blog site even exists. Everywhere else on the net is gone: Google, the BBC homepage, Reuters. This was the only page that would load from my bookmark folder. I have no idea if it’s being maintained by actual people or if the whole thing is running on automatic from some isolated server. I’ve mailed tech support several times and received zero response.

Early evening is fading into night. The sky outside is a morbid grey. The clouds are so low they seem ready to collapse into the earth. I’m surprised at the lack of rain.

Outside I can hear the wind ripping through the leaves of the fallen tree, even with the window closed. The undead dispersed about midnight, shuffled off to do whatever the fuck it is they do. Hunting for other survivors I suppose. At one point there were 30 or more of them gathered around the tree, all swaying out of sync with each other and moaning. God, the moans! I found myself moaning along with them at one point. It was so disgustingly infectious and terrifying at the same time.

I need to talk about Gerald. That was how this siege really began.

After the nightmare of Stockport Road I swerved down a side street. I was literally a minute away from my flat in Levenshulme. All about me was chaos. People were running from burning houses, running away from groups of zombies, being torn apart by the things in their front gardens. I’ve never seen so much blood, so much mutilation.

A girl stumbled into the road at one point clutching both hands to her face. I swerved to avoid her but not before she took her hands away and I saw that the skin had been ripped down from her hairline to her upper lip. The top half of her skull was exposed to the air; her eyes bulged from their sockets and the gristle of her nose flapped loosely above her mouth. I could clearly see the ropes of her cheek muscles – they were stretching and contracting as she tried to scream. It would have been better if I’d knocked her down.

I managed to turn on to Slade Lane without being mobbed by zombies. I took a left on to Albert Road, narrowly missing an overturned truck, and pulled up outside the flat.

Albert Road was unnervingly quiet in comparison to the surrounding streets. There were no undead in sight but a car was burning in a driveway several doors down from my house. I opened the car door and ran for the flat. My bowels loosened as I left the comparative safety of the car and I looked around for a weapon, any weapon. Nothing useful presented itself so I dashed up the driveway. Then I stopped dead.

The flat is in an old terrace house, split into two. I live upstairs, Gerald lives…lived…downstairs. The front door opens onto a tiny hallway with a door to the left leading into Gerald’s place and a door directly ahead leading up to my flat. The front door was wide open but this was not what stopped me in my tracks. The bay window, Gerald’s living room window, was smashed. The curtains had been ripped from the fitting and I could see right into Gerald’s flat.

He was in there. He had his back to me. I knew it was him because he was wearing his favorite Carcass t-shirt.

Gerald was rocking gently from side to side. His head was bobbing up and down erratically. His whole body language seemed unnatural and with the benefit of hindsight I never would have done what I did next.

I ran through the open front door. The door to Gerald’s flat was also open so I peeked in. The living room was in disarray. The floor was littered with DVDs and books, an armchair was lying on its side in a corner and a plate of food had been dashed against the wall. I inched my way into the room.

As the room opened out I saw Gerald again, closer now. He still had his back to me. His hands were in front of his face. This posture, combined with the bobbing head, made it seem as though Gerald was sobbing. I discarded this theory when I heard the noise – a soft squelch followed by a tiny crack.

‘Gerald?’ I kept my voice low, snuck a glance over my shoulder through the broken window.

Gerald froze at the sound of my voice.

‘Gerald, we need to go somewhere safe. My flat. The world’s gone fucking crazy…’

He began to turn towards me. He moved like a drunk, pivoting on one foot while the other did all the work. I glanced at his feet and that was when I saw the pool of blood between his legs. Unidentified chunks of God knows what floated on the surface.

Gerald’s face appeared in profile. His cheek was marble white but splashed with a butterfly stain of garish red. As he turned further in my direction I could see what his hands were doing.

Gerald owned a small dog. A terrier called Hercules. I hated the fucking thing – yap, yap, yap and if you were lucky a bite on the hand whenever you tried to stroke him. Gerald was holding the dog in both hands. What was left of it anyway.

Hercules was sprouting guts. They hung in thin, pathetic grey loops from his ruptured stomach, black beads of liquid oozing down their lengths. Gerald had chewed away most of Hercules’ snout; a dark glistening hole sat below the animal’s staring eyes. One of Hercules’ ears was plastered to Gerald’s chin with sticky thick blood. The dog’s tiny body spasmed wildly – I have no idea if Hercules was still alive or if he had reanimated while Gerald was eating him.

As soon as Gerald locked eyes on me he dropped Hercules and lunged forward, arms outstretched. He let out a keening, hungry moan which turned my legs to jelly. I stumbled backwards and tripped. My head hit something solid and everything went black.

…... …

A cold sensation in my big toe woke me up.

I lifted my head as far as it would go which wasn’t far due to the pounding sensation behind my eyes. When my vision cleared I saw Gerald crouched at my feet. The shoe and sock on my left foot had been removed. Gerald was slowly lowering his mouth over the toe. His breath was like ice.

I panicked and by pure fluke managed to twist my body to the side and away before he took his first bite. I rolled across the carpet on my stomach and desperately tried to regain my footing. Gerald let out a cheated groan and staggered after me. His fish white hands, fingers hooked and wicked sharp, clutched at me as I back pedaled across the carpet on my arse.

I shuffled through the archway that led into the kitchen. Gerald’s face loomed over me as he crawled along in pursuit. He was grinning. Strands of dog-gut clung to his teeth. His eyes were bleached of all colour as though they had been replaced with egg whites. I could see a gaping wound in his neck, exposed flesh hanging in ragged shreds, where whoever had turned him had feasted.

My hands waved around for something, anything, to protect me from the horror creeping up between my knees. My fingers skimmed over the sticky surface of the kitchen floor, seeking, grasping, until they finally met something solid. I wrapped my fingers around whatever it was and brought the object down on to Gerald’s head as hard as I could.

Blind luck had granted me the gift of a saucepan - a big, heavy fucker.

The first blow bounced off the side of Gerald’s head and sent him reeling. This gave me time to grip my new weapon properly. It was one of those stainless steel affairs all single men have, pockmarked with age but capable of denting titanium if required. I grabbed it by the handle and staggered to my feet.

Gerald was rolling around on the floor in a daze.

I waited for him to climb up to his knees and turn his face towards me. I planted my feet solidly on the kitchen floor and looked down at him.

‘Sorry Gerald.’

My next blow dented his forehead. The impact sent shudders along my wrist. Gerald fell on to his back and stared vacantly at the ceiling, his fingers clutching spasmodically at nothing. I crouched over him and raised the saucepan over my head, the handle gripped in both hands. The second blow collapsed his nose, the third split his skull. The fourth produced a spray of greyish red tendrils which I took to be brains. I noticed a smell and thought, ‘Gerald’s brain smells like shit. So that’s what a brain smells like’. It was only later that I realised the smell was coming from me. Without noticing I had soiled myself for the first time as an adult.

A strange calm overtook me. I continued slamming the heavy base of the saucepan down on to Gerald’s head until only a thick bony paste remained. When I was done, nothing that could be called ‘Gerald’ was left. His body from the neck up was a nightmare rendered in mutilated flesh and bone.

After a while (who knows how long?) I dragged myself out of Gerald’s flat and closed the door. I also closed the front door to the house. Albert Road was still free of the undead. Nothing attacked me as I secured the place. I opened the door to my own flat, locked and bolted it behind me. Then I filled the stairwell leading up to my home with every heavy object I could find: An oak bookcase, an armchair, a table, five stools, a wardrobe. Somehow I found the strength to lift these things and place them down in the stairwell as securely as possible. All the time I could hear my mother’s name repeating over and over as though someone just behind my ear was calling for her.

When the last item was placed on the barricade I stopped and listened. It was me calling for my mother. I'd failed to recognise my own voice.

The Change

Last night was one of the calmest nights I’ve experienced since everything changed.

I’m not sure if revisiting this blog made a difference. Maybe I just needed to start writing it all down. They say things are put into perspective if you write out all your problems. I certainly slept better last night but I’m unconvinced that this was a result of typing my thoughts into a computer. I suspect the lack of explosions and screams helped more.

The silence of last night unnerves me. Has the city finally succumbed? Am I the last person alive? How long will I survive?

At least I got some decent sleep.

I’m hungry again. It’s hard to concentrate on writing when your stomach is asking if your throat has been cut. The boiled rice and mushy peas seem like a year ago. I only allow myself to eat once a day. I tend to make dinner before bed because it makes me sleepy.

My neighbour, Gerald, used to make a mean chili. I know how to make a mean chili myself but Gerald’s chili was something else. He never told me his secret ingredient and now he never will...

Gerald.

It happened like this…

…FUCK!

…………

A tree just fell over behind the house. A giant oak. Felt like a bomb had been dropped on me for a second there. I looked out the window and spotted four of the undead heading for the tree. Do they eat plant life? I hope the noise doesn’t attract more of them. What the fuck happened to the tree?

Anyway, Gerald.

It was a Thursday. Usual boring day at the office. Same old people, same old tasks. I first noticed something was different when I went out for lunch.

I was faced with the same dilemma as always. Should I buy a Greggs pasty, a sandwich from Fresh n Tasty, or wander round Asda to gaze at the fruit and veg meaningfully and then buy a pot noodle?

That day I decided on Asda. Except Asda appeared to be in a state of emergency. People were running away from the place. Five police cars, two riot vans and three ambulances sat in the car park. The alarm system was going haywire .

I approached a police officer (except he had a blue band round his hat which means he was a ‘community support officer’) and asked what the problem was.

He told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business and go away. I took his advice but not before I saw people being carted out of Asda on stretchers, some of them bleeding quite heavily from various parts of their bodies. I also saw real coppers, armed with automatic rifles, heading towards the building.

This got my mind in a twist. What was going on here?

I forgot lunch and headed back to work.

My manager was waiting outside when I arrived. The building was locked. Everyone appeared to be gone. I asked what was going on and he told me that the company was implementing its Business Continuity Plan.

I asked him what our Plan was.

He told me to go home and lock all the doors.

…………

So that’s what I did. I went home.

The drive back was a nightmare. Twice, stuck at traffic lights, people tried to get inside my car. The first was an old man with blood pouring from a cut in his cheek. The other was an eastern European woman clutching a baby to her breast. The woman was worse. She kept screaming, ‘Nekem! Nekem!’ The baby was silent but I’m sure I saw red seeping through the blanket it was wrapped in.

I kept the doors locked both times and drove on. By now my heart was fucking pounding.

Then I got to Longsight and the situation stepped up a gear.

Stockport Road was a scene from a war movie. A 192 bus had fishtailed across the entire road. A huge double decker with the front end embedded in a butcher’s shop and the back end in flames. Smoke was billowing into the sky. People were running around screaming. Some of them were on fire. I saw more community support officers trying to keep the peace. They were failing dismally, and not just because of the panic. It was because of the walking corpses.

This was my first experience of them. The undead. The fucking zombies. Whatever you want to call them.

They were easy to spot. They looked like people but they moved like puppets from an old stop motion film. I watched a man try to help a girl by lifting her up out of the road. She was lying on her side next to the bus. He almost had her upright when three of these things gathered round him and beat him to the concrete. The three zombies bent over the guy and for a second there was nothing. Then there was a scream which I’ll never forget.

Their arms began to work furiously, elbows pumping. I saw droplets of blood at first, flying over their heads in ever increasing waves. Then a bluish tube appeared and flopped onto the road. A flood of dark liquid followed. I’ve never seen a person's insides before. The three undead bent their heads and started to bite chunks out of him. I saw one of them bite his cheek off. The girl he had tried to help just stared, her face blank.

Someone ran towards my car. It was another living person, a little boy. He was about 12. His small fists hammered on the driver’s side door and I could hear him shouting for me to let him in. I could only focus on the other sounds around me, the horrible scene unfolding right in front of me. Sirens, screams, a crashing thump as the roof of the butcher’s shop caved in.

Then a screeching sound behind me. I glanced back at the boy just in time to see him vanish underneath the car that had almost broadsided me. The car was doing at least eighty and the driver tried to brake as it approached the burning bus. It didn’t work. The car spun sideways and flipped over on to the man who was being eaten.

I had one second, at most, to think 'Shit!’ before the car slammed into the bus and both vehicles exploded. The resulting mushroom cloud blew out all the windows within a 20 meter radius.

That was enough for me. I got the fuck out of there.

…………

It’s late. I’m starving.

I feel too sketchy to deal with Gerald tonight. If I don’t eat I’m going to throw up. With so little in my stomach to regurgitate I may lose a lung.

There are more of them around the tree that fell earlier. They’re not doing anything, just standing near the torn up roots and swaying. I hope they go away soon. I need to eat and get some sleep. The thought of those monsters walking around just outside the garden wall makes me very nervous.

That reminds me, I need to check the barricades before I make dinner.

Food etc...

It’s been a while since I wrote anything here. I suppose that’s not surprising, all things considered.

Food has become a problem. There is a distinct lack of the stuff. The cupboard is growing bare rapidly and it means one thing - either I go outside or I starve to death.

I suppose I’m lucky in some respects. The electricity is still working otherwise I’d be stumbling around in the dark. The gas also works so I’m able to cook.

Unlike the food, which I can account for, I have no idea how much longer the gas or electricity will stay on and the water could go at any time. The city looks darker each night when I look out the window. There are fewer pools of light out there, fewer signs of other survivors. Fuck…

I can’t do this.

Sometimes I shit myself.

I wake up and I feel that horrible warmth in my boxers and I know it’s happened again. Thankfully I’ve only done it once while awake. That happened right at the start, when the world went insane.

When I look out at the city 20 metres below me, the window cracked open to the night, I like to think nothing has happened. Everything seems so peaceful. No traffic, no drunken shouts, no sirens. Just silence.

Then I hear a moan or the dull thud of a wheelie bin toppling. Sometimes I hear a scream…or the liquid sound. The ripping sound is the worst. I cry every time I hear it.

I need to calm down.

……………

Calm.

I think I can tell it now.

One day I was a normal person, doing a boring job, the next I was beating my neighbour to death with a saucepan.

Let me elaborate: the world ended. Strange creatures, most probably undead human beings, invaded the city and began to systematically eat everyone and anyone alive. I assume they were zombies because the ones I saw looked rotten as fuck and the way they ripped people apart…well, it was a bit of a giveaway.

I don’t want to involve myself in a circular argument about the causes of the Apocalypse, and as I’m effectively writing to myself on this blog I’m going to continue with my undead / zombie theory until proved otherwise. If you don’t like it then you can kiss my shit-ridden pants.

Or you can post comments.

I need to eat something now. Its getting dark outside and I need to check the barricades. I hope they don’t hear me checking tonight. They always try to break in when they know I’m here. Luckily they have short memories.