I’ll never find out how Game of Thrones ends.
In the house’s front reception, Kamiyo located a spacious cloakroom, and scrounged a thick, padded coat and scarf. The weather was turning chilly, Summer at an end, so his current black denim jacket was fast becoming inadequate. He also took some woollen gloves, which he placed inside his rucksack. Finally, knowing no other choice existed, he took himself back into the kitchen. The sight of the homeowner and pets was still heartrending, even upon second viewing, but he needed to search for food. He had remained well-fed so far, but increasingly he was finding food spoiled or pilfered by animals. Before long, he feared he would have to learn how to hunt—if he lived long enough that is.
A glossy, slab-door larder cabinet filled one side of the kitchen, and inside he found a vast array of tins and dried packets, all assembled on pull-out wire shelves. Kamiyo stuffed his rucksack full of dried rice and tinned fruit until there was no room left, then filled his coat pockets with several tubes of tomato puree—high in calories and useful for moistening anything too dry to eat. Overall, it set him up for a good few days. If he could find medical supplies in the bathroom, he would call today a massive win. He’d had enough of fixing himself up with super-glue.
Kamiyo smiled, but the expression felt odd. Could it be that he was actually good at this survivor-man existence? Or had he been lucky so far? No, there’s no such thing as luck anymore. Not the good kind anyway.
He gathered as much food as he could carry, then shoved the wire trays back into the larder cabinet. As he went to close the door, he fumbled a can of peaches. It dented against the tiled floor, and in the silence of his solitary existence, the sound was jarring and made him flinch.
“Kelsey Grammer!” he garbled in fright. An odd habit he had picked up to avoid swearing on the ward. He clutched his chest and chuckled to himself, then knelt to pick the can up. He placed it back on the shelf and closed the larder door the rest of the way. Time to leave.
A demon glared at Kamiyo.
Kamiyo leapt back in fright, tripping over the dead homeowner and landing on his butt. The demon was one of the burnt kind, the smell of charred flesh intoxicating. How had he not noticed the stench earlier? Had the demon been hiding in the house this whole time?
The abomination clumsily stalked him—left leg seared to the ankle bone. Kamiyo scrambled to his feet and made for the door, but the demon closed the distance and wrapped its blackened hands around his throat. His lungs seized up, unable to draw breath. He gagged. If he didn’t get free, he might have as little as two minutes before he lost consciousness.
Was this it? Was this his death?
His borrowed time was due to be paid back.
No, I’m not ready.
Kamiyo threw his arms out, blindly groping along the granite work surface at his back. His hands found various objects—fingers slipping inside the crumby slots of a toaster one second and the handle of a coffee maker the next. When he yanked the appliances, they refused to come to him, plug and flex tethering them to the wall.
His vision swirled, pressure forcing the capillaries in his eyes to haemorrhage. Light-headedness set in, brain already deprived of oxygen. Time was running out. Fast.
He fumbled frantically along the counter, cajoling his attacker at his front. The demon’s eyes were soulless, two lumps of coal inside a blackened skull. Hatred poured off it in fumes. A flap of pink and black skin hung from its chin—rancid kebab meat.
Kamiyo’s hands finally found something hanging on the wall behind him. He knocked the thing loose. It made a loud clatter, something heavy, and thankfully it didn’t fall far from his reach. He closed his fingers around whatever it was and wasted no time in swinging it against the demon’s head.
Air rushed into Kamiyo’s lungs as the pipeline in his throat re-opened. He gasped and wheezed. Stars swirled in his vision. He was alive, but barely.
The demon stumbled backwards, the side of its head caved in like a dog-bitten football. Despite already being burnt to a crisp, its body smouldered. Kamiyo had struck it as hard as he could, yet it made little sense it would be so gravely injured. He looked down at his hands and found himself holding a cast-iron skillet. Bits of congealed flesh clung to its rim, sizzling like barbecue. He tossed the skillet down in disgust.
The demon slumped to the ground, coming to rest on top of one of the dead Alsatians. Kamiyo took it as his cue to leave, so he snatched up his rucksack and headed for the door.
Back out in the garden, he realised he was no longer alone—a dozen demons waited for him on the lawn, burnt faces sneering. All at once, they shrieked like devils.
Kamiyo fled.
6
DR KAMIYO
This was not the first time Kamiyo had run for his life—he’d been doing it regularly for months now—and the truth was he’d gotten rather sprightly. A slender individual before the fall of mankind, after surviving on the road for weeks, he was now all sinew and muscle. He bolted from the house, a thoroughbred horse, and made it back onto the road before the demons even entered a jog. That they were the burnt variety meant he had a hope of getting away, for they were clumsy and damaged, not at all like their hulking, ape-like cousins.
Kamiyo got himself a decent head-start, but was running down the middle of the road with a laden rucksack. Eventually, he would tire, and
