The Return Home

After a couple of minutes when my heart had stopped racing. Stepped over the zombie and went to get the insulin. Found some and filled my pockets. Realised that I needed food and water. I was not far from the supermarket so decided to chance a raid. Crept out the back way and over the flat roof to the goods entrance and then easied myself inside through an open window. Seached quickly but carefully and surprisingly there were no undead anywhere.

The supermarket had been picked almost clean. It had been ransacked by a mob, looked more like a hurricane had hit. Nothing left on the shelves. But in the back I found some bottles of squash, packets of dehydrated potato and some christmas puddings. I jammed the lot into an old black bin bag. I decided to make my way back home. Went out the front which was quiet. Started picking my way through the wreckage.

Suddendly I heard a noise behind me. A moan. Then another. Then hundreds, combining into a terrible empty wail. Looked behind me. There were hundreds of zombies, diseased, blood-stained and rotting shuffling towards me. Suddenly realised I had no weapon, nothing to defend myself with. Left my knife in the chest of the undead in the chemists. Heart pounding, sweating, shaking I scrambled through the cars and bodies. The living dead were yards behind. As a stinking, drooling, grasping mass pouring over the wreckage, grasping at me. Dead eyes. I was hauling myself through and onto the road beyond. I sprinted away, only stopping to pick up a scaffolding pole that had been smashed through a car windscreen. I was getting away.

Slowing down now, could still hear them, but they were a hundred yards off now, held up by the wreckage. Breathing hard, lungs bursting, bag and pole weighing me down. Then in the road infront was another. Zombie charver lad in a base ball cap and bloody white tracksuit. Stumbling toward me. I dropped the bin bag, and swung the pole at him double handled, overhead like an axe. The pole is good, steel, hollow, about 4 feet long. Caught him right on the top of the head. Crunch. Split it open like a boiled egg. Finished him. Kept running.

Got home soon after with the bag. Barricaded myself in. Lay on the floor for an hour lungs bursting, recovering, slowly regaining my breath. Then I drank. John's gone.

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