Their saviour halted, digging in a pocket for something. They saw then that it was a man, looked to be middle-aged. Light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, flecked with the odd grey strand here and there.
He was wearing what looked like a stab-proof vest over a loose brown shirt. The chain mace that he had cracked open the zombie’s skull with hung casually in a gloved hand, blood dribbling from the spiked head.
The man’s hand came out of his pocket with a key fob in it. He aimed it at the butcher’s van and pressed a button, and the vehicle alarm started whining, the blaring noise making Kingsley jump after the uncanny silence of the streets.
The other few zombies that had turned from their feast at the sign of new prey heard the alarm and instantly stopped, twisting their necks toward the source of the noise. Most of the zombies that were still eating the carcasses paused and turned their dumb gazes on the wailing van for several seconds, before burying their mouths again in ravaged chunks of pig flesh.
While the focus of the dead was no longer on them, the man raced back to the block of flats he’d sprung from. At the door, he looked back over his shoulder at the four of them and beckoned for them to follow.
9.
Perhaps it was the pent-up tension inside him wanting a release, but Kingsley suddenly felt a laugh rising to the top of his throat as they climbed a set of stairs to the first floor of the block of flats. They had just been bailed out of a bad situation by a fucking armoured guy wielding a medieval weapon – an actual knight in shining armour (minus the shine).
The sheer absurdity of it was funny.
He couldn’t hold it in any longer. The laughter spilled from him in a series of breathless chuckles, and everyone stopped and watched him like they thought he was about to reveal that this whole end of the world thing had been a huge prank or something. That the dead people walking around everywhere were just actors in hyper-realistic costumes.
After half a minute of inappropriate laughter, Kingsley started to feel awkward and stopped. Their new friend stood with his back to one of the doors a few feet away. He seemed to eye Kingsley with suspicion, glancing at everyone else with a strange face as well.
Kingsley straightened up and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but what the actual fuck is going on? Who are you, and why the hell do you have that thing?” He nodded at the chain mace in the man’s hand.
The suspicion disappeared from the guy’s face. “I... well, I got it from the dark web, actually,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that seemed just right for his lined forehead and sunken eyes. “Along with most of this,” he added, opening the door at his back and stepping in, one arm waving at something inside the flat.
They entered. Atop a dining table on the right, opposite a kitchenette in the far corner, was spread an impressive selection of weapons and equipment.
The thing that caught Kingsley’s eye first was the crossbow – compact and black, with a little scope and a collapsible stock folded across the butt. It was uncommon to see any kind of gun in Britain, and although the crossbow was not technically a firearm, it was surely just as lethal as one. And definitely just as rare to see in this country.
Four bolts were laid out next to it. They didn’t look fake.
Next to that were two knives in brown leather sheaths, intricate serpentine designs on them. And a larger machete beside the two blades, dwarfing them with its curvy, polished steel length.
The man walked straight past the table, through a spacious living room area, and cracked open a curtain just an inch, not letting any extra light into the dim, lamp-lit flat. The butcher’s van still droned on with its urgent alarm. The man peered left and right at the street below, then reached through the gap in the curtains and opened the window, the alarm becoming louder within the flat. He quickly stuck his key fob out and shut it off.
He closed the window. Facing the survivors and scratching his stubbly chin, the man’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’m Darren by the way,” he said. “Excuse me, I always forget to introduce myself properly. I’m not exactly... well-versed in social interaction, as you can likely imagine. Guys like me usually don’t have many friends.” He gestured toward the dining table.
“Guys like you,” Sammy said. “And that means... what?”
“I’m... Can’t you tell? I’m an apocalypse prepper. You must have seen the documentaries about people like me? I’ve been waiting for the fall of society for about five years now and, well, look what the fuck’s happening! This day has been coming ever since humanity started getting curious too curious for it’s own good – started digging it’s hands in genetic manipulation and nanotechnology and all that shit. But did anyone believe me when I told them? Fuck no.”
Darren went to the table, pulled a cloth and disinfectant spray from a duffel bag on one of the chairs, and began cleaning the blood from the spiked head of his chain mace.
“I have a group with me,” he continued. “There’s four of us, like you guys. We’ve been surviving together since everything went to hell yesterday and I saved them from a group of the undead. Snappers we’ve been calling them – because of that sound they make with their teeth, you know?
“Apologies for talking so much. I’ve never really had anyone to talk to and when I meet people who seem interested in what I have to say, I get a
