Hi there,
I had such a great time writing the first book Chemical Z, and was actually surprised that anyone read it, nevermind bought it, so I've started the second one in the series. I wanted to see how the first one was received, and I was pleasantly surprised. This gave me enough confidence to actually get started on the second and not just think about it.

Thanks to anyone who read the first book, and an even bigger thanX to anyone who bought it.

Below is the first chapter of the second book. It is not the final draft, it is the idea on paper (digital format) as it left my mind so don't be too hard on the mistakes, sometimes great things come from great mistakes. We all learn by our mistakes and that's certainly my angle on any faux pas I've made in the writing of this work.

Thanks again, and here it is....enjoy.

Onez

Tuesday 26 July 2011
13:08

I'm just back from snooping around the flats and houses in the area, to see if I could find any food or supplies, clothes or anything I might need for my journey down south. You'll be surprised what people keep in their homes. It's brilliant, from the perspective of a nosey bastard like me, to be able to rummage around peoples' homes without fear of retribution. In my personal view, I do not consider it to be burglary or any other act of law breaking. It's simply redistribution of wealth, or reclaimed goods whichever phrase makes you feel less guilty about theft. I hate waste.

Most of the houses were empty, anyway, save for a few animals mostly rats or mice. That's something I've noticed, it doesn't take the vermin long to realise there's a distinct lack of human presence in the area. Over the past few weeks I've noticed them running around in the backgreen. When I was out earlier, for want of a better word, pilfering, a few of the little furry brown fellows came real close to me. They don't even run away anymore. I was about to check out an abandoned car half way along Union Street, heading toward the high school, when I heard faint movement to my right and behind me. I turned to see a rat, almost the size of a cat, walking along the foot of a wall. Not running or scuttling, but walking, quite calmly. It stopped briefly, stood up on it's hind legs, gave the air a good sniff then moved on, as confidently as it arrived.

Don't tell me this is something else I'm going to have to watch out for? It's bad enough concentrating on my every move so I don't attract the living dead, now I have to be on my guard to avoid being bitten on the arse by a rat. Let's not forget, these furry fuckers spread diseases too, but with them, once you're dead, you stay dead. Let's take a moment out to reminisce about the times when viruses such as the black death and the plague would kill you stone dead! End of game, no coming back from heaven or hell, should they still exist, with an overwhelming desire to bite someone's head off. Ah (Sigh), the good old days.

I'm trying to be as organised as I can without treating it too much like I'm going on vacation. I actually thought about taking an overnight bag, but who am I kidding, there's not going to be a hotel fit for purpose. I reckon I'll be sleeping in the back of the Merc for the duration, so I'm hoping it's got nice comfortable seats. I'm not expecting it to be on a par with a leather recliner or anything but, I do expect it to be at least sleepable.

As I mentioned earlier, it's amazing what people keep in their homes. I managed to pick up a few more knives, some of which I'm convinced are illegal. There have been, over the years, many attempts at the knife amnesty, but what self respecting arsehole would be seen dead in the streets without a blade? My collection now consists of a 3ft machette, a 4ft samurai sword, (+others). Praise Greenock for its knife culture. No. Let's not.

I also took whatever tins of food I could find in peoples' cupboards because I don't think anyone will be back to collect them. If a house is lying open, freezing cold and has a certain unexplainable atmosphere that's as empty as a wideboy's brain, then you be pretty sure, no-one's going to be back and therefore anything in the house is fair game. I shouldn't need to shop at Tesco for a while, anything I need is stuck into the boot of the Merc. I don't have much ammo left for the Smith & Wesson, so I'm hoping to find a gun shop or somewhere I can stock up when I'm down south, or at least on the way down to England. Google has been playing up a bit so I may have to rely on male intuition to find supplies. Male intuition? That's me fucked then. Females got all the best things when they were created: breasts and common sense. I have a cock that has a mind of its own. Not really much use, is it.

I'm really excited about the prospect of seeing Connie again. I really did think I'd seen the last of her, but now that someone, I don't know who, has given me a lifeline.

I've had another look through the contents of the envelope and I think I can get to the place on the map. My coordination is pretty poor but the Merc has a built in satnav so I won't have to rely too much on my own initiative, thank Christ. I won't bother telling you where it is because I still don't know who I can trust. That weirdo Robert, or should I call him Doctor Death, has destroyed my trust in people.

There are a few photographs of the facility that, I'm told, holds Connie, and perhaps Steph, but they are all aerial photographs, bar one. The last photograph is an external shot of the front of the building, which looks like a little bit like my local Health Centre. Only my local Health Centre doesn't have wire fencing with barbed wire at the top to keep people out. The picture makes it look like a horrible place and I'm getting a really bad vibe from it. No matter, I have no option but to travel to the place and then once I'm there, figure out how to break her out. I'm assuming this place is going to be under some sort of guard. I don't expect to walk straight up to the perimeter fence, call them on the entry system and say ?iya. It's me. I've arrived, so I'd appreciate if you let me in now, sweatheart.”

That is not going to happen, no way, not ever, never.

Right, I'm thinking I should trim my hair before I leave. I've got an old pair of hair clippers that someone gave me years ago. They got them as a present and gave me a loan of them, because I resent paying someone to cut my hair. I've saved a small fortune by trimming and shaving my own hair. It's not the tidiest, but when it's shaved right down to the wood there's not really a lot that can go wrong, because there's nothing left to spoil. It's easy to maintain too, in and out of a shower in minutes.

13:35

I feel a lot better having shaved my head using a number 4 setting, so not right into the wood. I've also got a bit of growth on my face, not cancer, but a beard. It's not very attractive looking but who am I going to impress now? Maybe Connie would like to see my clean shaven face when I arrive. Nah. I like having a beard. It makes me feel manly. Kimbo Slice, the notorious streetfighter, had a cool beard. I say had, he may still be alive, punching the living fuck out of American zombies. I don't think the whole world is totally overrun by the undead, just yet. It can't be long now though.

I'm going to keep the beard.

Right, time I left. See you in a while...hopefully.

17:08

I'm at a place called Heathhall, just north of Dumfries, not far from where Robert died. It's been a long drive down here but I seriously don't think I could have done it any quicker, even with a Mercedes.

I'm hiding in a Spar supermarket - although there's nothing super about it - on Auchencrief Road. There's not much left on the shelves, in fact, most of the tinned stuff has gone. I've had a look around with my knife at the ready, just to make sure there is no undead walking around, but the place does seem to be safe. I found a torch, and a pack of C-size batteries to fit it, in the back of the shop. It must be the staff kitchen, but it is very basic. There is a sink, with unwashed crockery that will probably never feel the trickle of water on its porcelain surface ever again. The draining board beside the sink has a few dishes piled up. Most of the dishes, however, have fallen onto the floor and smashed, making it difficult to walk around the small kitchen area without making some sort of snapping, cracking or breaking noise. There is a square table in the middle of the floor, big enough to accommodate 8 chairs; 2 at each side. Two of the seats are occupied by dead bodies. I don't know what went on in the kitchen but the bodies are not that of zombies. The two corpses at the table were not reborn into the undead world, they were killed. For whatever reason, they were spared the transition into the monsters that appears to have befallen the rest of the UK, and the world, by the looks of it.

They had both been shot, in the back of the head, from close range, so I'm assuming that whoever shot them must have known them. I walked round the table and stood behind the bodies. One male; one female. I guess from the clothes they had on that they were both in their mid-thirties. He was my left, she on the right. His right hand was touching hers on the table. Maybe they were holding hands before someone emptied their brains onto the dinner plates sitting on the table. As much as I would like to say they looked so peaceful lying on the table, hands still touching in a last moment of tenderness and love, but it was nothing like that. It was a great big bloody mess. The guy's face was chalk white, on account of his blood having oozed out of his head and onto the table, then dripping onto the floor. And his partner, she was also white, maybe a shade whiter than he. I knelt down to get a better look at her face, or what was left of it. I could just about make out the rouge lipstick on her ruby red lips, as they were forced to pout with the weight of her head pushing her face against the table, parting her once full lips. Unfortunately, no amount of lippy could ever cover up the mess her face was in now. A few pints of blood had escaped from her head too, not as much as her friend, but still a fair amount, covering her side of the table and the front of her clothes.

I'm upstairs in what looks like the staff office. There are three grey metal cabinets, a table and a comfy leather chair in here. I've taken a few tins and a tin opener up with me. Also three x 500ml bottles of water still, not carbonated. I don't want to get wind if I have to make a sharp exit out of this place, burping and farting as I'm chased down the street. I've left the Merc unlocked. I don't see the point in locking it, I've yet to see one of those reborn nightmares drive, plus the car makes a chirp-chip-beeping noise when the locking is activated or deactivated. I can't risk attracting anyone's attention. The lower the profile I keep, the better.

I'll have a cold tin of beans, then pineapple rings in juice, a drink of water then I'll have a shite and then I'll start to think about moving on. My next stop is Carlisle, then hopefully on to Penrith. It may not be as straight forward as I hope because Glasgow was a bastard to get through. It wasn't any better than the last time I drove there, in fact, it was twice as bad in such a short a period of time too. I managed to touch the edges of the city centre, then had to turn back and find another way round.

17:40

I've taken a wrong turn and ended up in a house in Slater.....somewhere or other. It looks like a cul-de-sac, so there's only one way out and it's not a good time. I think it all went wrong when I took the wrong turn off from the roundabout at Milehouse Cottage and tried to recover some time by heading as much east as I could. Then I lost my bearings going along and round many avenues, places, groves and what have you. Too many names for a bloody length of road. Let's just stick with road, or street. I'm happy having an alternative that's been around for ever. Roads and streets are fine thanks. No drives, or courts or any shite like that. My satnav is getting confused. Every place is starting to sound like it's a couple of words just thrown together and then take you pick if you want to make it sound traditional, new age, or fancy schmancy nouveau bollocks. It's thanks to the people who decided on the names of roads that I'm stuck in this house. That said, it's not entirely hopeless, as I've met a new friend. His name is George C. Manning. He seems to be a nice old chap. And he won't mind me calling him old, because he is. I think seventy is fairly old these days. It's also a very optimistic age since the arrival of the virus. It was just luck that his was the first house I ran to, which was good timing. As I got to within a metre of the front door, it opened up and I feel in through it, not expecting the thing to open without any sort of force. He may be old but he's certainly not infirm, in fact, he's quite nimble and he tells me the secret of his youthful looks (his words, not mine) is a nice glass of cucumber juice in the morning. Two cucumbers into the juicer and if he's feeling a little boost may be in order then he simply adds in a baby beetroot. He had me worried briefly because he began by telling me he ads in a baby then he took a coughing fit. I though, fuck, a baby eating geriatric bastard! But the coughing eased off and he carried on with the sentence explaining that baby beetroot complements the cucumber wonderfully and gives him that bit of extra help he needs to get him through the day.

He told me he doesn't get the chance to juice cucumber any more as the noise of the juicer seems to attract the zombies. The cul-de-sac hasn't been the worst hit in the area and he says it has been reasonably quiet for the best part of two months, what with everyone moving away. George asked me where the people would run away to. I told him I didn't know but I'm sure there will be somewhere out there that will be safe. I don't know if he believed me. I don't blame him, because I don't know if I believe me. How can there be somewhere safe? Everywhere you turn there are dead people walking around, not just bad people, but things that used to be people, both bad and good. No-one's staying down anymore. How do you fight that?

18:00

George was kind enough to feed me and give me something to drink. He's very kind and has shown me hospitality that makes me blush. I don't remember the last time anyone was so civil. There is hope for the world after all. I hope he survives the shit because it's people like him that are needed to get us back on track. We don't need any more soldiers or policemen or anti-heroes fighting for the cause. There's already enough of them out there, waiting to chop the head off anything that walks in order to do their bit. But George, he strikes me as the sort of person that uses kind words and gestures. I like him.

One thing though. His wife's dead, only not dead if you see what I mean? He's so sentimental, he can't even kill his infected wife. When he told me she was still alive, I kinof got a shock and felt my right hand wanting to grip a knife. I resisted though. It's not my place to question his motives or morals. Who am I to decide his wife's fate? If it was up to me, I'd slit her throat and remove her head from her torso and kick the fucker into the bin, but it's not my call, is it? He's been trying to convince me that she's harmless. ?ary wouldn't hurt a fly.he keeps saying to me over and over. I want to believe him but I'm not sure he understands the full impact of feeding and keeping a zombie on a long term basis. He's not looking ahead. What happens when he dies? Who's going to feed her then? I don't know if they just rot away until there's no more rancid flesh or muscle left to support the dry, brittle bones.

19:00

I'm in the toilet having a shit, but that's only as a decoy. I really don't know what to do about Mary. I'm not convinced it's entirely the best thing for George. I asked him what he would do once he dies? He had obviously thought it through, so he quite calmly told me...

George made us both a cup of tea by popping the teabag into his cup, pouring in water from the hot tap, squeezing out the flavour, then transferring the bag to my cup. He poured milk, that looked a bit lumpy to me, into his cup. He motioned to pour into mine, but I managed to block my cup with my hand. I told him I don't take milk. When I told him I take two lumps with my tea, I didn't mean two lumps of milk. It was a cheery little cup with the words WORLD'S BEST GRAN on it. There was also a cartoon of an old lady, presumably a granny, standing with a broad smile, waving her clasped hands triumphantly above her head. George had cut out a picture of her face from a photograph and glued it, quite crudely, onto the cartoon granny. I suppose it was a charming sentiment, but it was also pretty fucking freaky. It's the sort of thing serial killers are always portrayed as doing, cutting pictures of people's faces and gluing them onto someone else's body, but it's usually a nice young girl's face onto a naked body, not the face of an old lady onto the two dimensional cartoon body of someone on the side of a tea cup.

I sat on the couch and George treated himself to the recliner and told me a bit about Mary and how he and Mary had met in Blackpool forty years ago. I wasn't really that interested to tell you the truth but I wanted to find out what his plan was, so I sat patiently listening to the past forty years of the George and Mary story until he got to the good stuff.

He apparently knew that it was going to end in tragedy when the virus first came too light. George had worked as a lab technician in the 1960s for a privately owned chemical company producing (?).

George paused before telling me about the day Mary turned. She hadn't been outside the house for months, after being attacked down at the lane, it wasn't even at night time but in broad daylight and that was enough to put her off even going out into her own garden. She would open the door to the garden but that was enough. The possibility of being attacked again was overwhelming, so she stayed within the confines of her home. Simply standing at the open door was a task in itself and she was happy to do so, for months on end. It wasn't easy for George to tell me this, but it all came out in one big mad rush, as though it had been welling up him for years. Something he was dying to scream out, even to a stranger. Maybe it had to be a stranger he told it to. Who knows?

George went into a sort of trance telling me about the date, May 13, when Mary finally succumbed to the virus. He took a sip of his tea, rested the cup on his lap and gave a big sigh.

I asked if he was ok. He said he was fine and then explained how he felt responsible for Mary's dead. She was at the back door, doing her usual, standing looking out into the back garden, but not actually venturing outside. George decided it was time to give a some encouragement to leave the house. He had bought a little plant, which he explained to her, needed care and loving but had to stay outside the house. George brought the plant out from his shed and placed it on a table, on the patio which was right in front of the back door. It took a while and some sweet talking to convince Mary to leave the house. She kicked off her blue slippers, pulled on her outdoor shoes, and walked slowly, with a little helping hand from George, across the patio to the table and plant.

George told me how Mary sat at the table and he sat beside her, on one of the two chairs he had laid out. Mary smiled a smile he hadn't seen in months, and for those few seconds of tranquility, everything seemed perfect and nothing else seemed to matter.

Mary stood up and the metal feet of the chair screeched along the stone of the patio. The sound was loud and attracted zombies. The latch on the gate was very weak. It was never made to keep anyone out. The neighbourhood was always so peaceful, friendly, ideal.

When George was telling me story all I could think of was the screeching of the metal chair on the stone of the patio. I had an idea where his tale was going.

George took another sip of his tea, but I don't think the taste or the action really registered with him. He was too busy in his story, reliving the moment, as Mary walked away from the table and began her short stroll around the garden, a garden that hadn't felt the weight of her feet in months.

I could almost see it as it happened, in George's eyes.

Mary took a few steps, unsure at first, then with a bit more confidence, then (George tells me) she turned to George, smiled and blew him a kiss and thanked him for buying the flowers and bringing her out into the garden.

My mouth hung open, waiting for George to continue.

George took a sharp intake of breath, and sighed a long sigh. He then told me how it was such a short time between Mary's first steps of confidence in the back garden and the latch in the gate being forced open by a dead boy.

I tried to tell George there was no need to carry on; I knew what he was going to say. George just waved a dismissive hand, smiled a stale smile, lips trembling slightly, and continued. It was as though he had to tell it, had to get it out of his system.

The dead boy was about sixteen years old and was handicapped. George had got to know the boy and his family well. The family moved there little over three years ago and were instantly likeable. The boy, Troy Templeton, had downs syndrome but was an absolute joy to be around.

George said he looked horrendous as a zombie, but Mary still saw him as the charming little boy.

Troy made a line straight for Mary. She turned only at the last minute, with a big broad smile on her face, which very quickly gave way to frown and then a face of terror.

George took another large breath, and carried on with his story, as tears began to form in his eyes. The dead boy, Troy, reached Mary and grabbed at her, but in Mary's frail condition, he simply knocked her over onto the grassy ground. She put her hands up as Troy grabbed at her, scratching, trying to bite her.

It was a short lived attack, as George rammed his gardening trowel into the boy's neck, severing the spinal column. Troy's limp body fell like a dead weight onto Mary, who was crying, almost screaming. George eventually managed to roll boy's body off Mary, and get her back into the house. She was in a bad way, but George helped her back into the house, and in to bed where she lay for two hours, building up a temperature, displaying symptoms of the CZ virus, before finally, her heart stopped. George knew what had to be done and tied her wrists and legs to the bed using bed linen.

He has been keeping her alive ever since. I asked him how he was keeping her alive. He told me with meat. Meat? Obviously I had to ask where he got his meat from, because I hadn't had a burger in months and would do pretty much anything for a taste of that cow slice. George said it was dog meat and I didn't think that zombies liked processed stuff like that because it was pretty much dead. He didn't really say much more after that, other than it was becoming increasingly difficult to find food for her and for himself. The only real chance he got was around 7pm, some nights he would go around the area wandering into the other houses, but only the ones with doors lying open, just to be sure there was no-one at home. He would gather whatever supplies he could, usually tinned food, and work his way back home. Each time he would have to go that little bit further from home and increase the risk of running into a zombie on the way back.

Everyone has a story to tell about how the virus has affected them and their lives. This is George and Mary's and now theirs has become part of mine. I'm glad I met George and very grateful he invited me in but he can't keep Mary, not in the state she's in. It's not safe.

19:24

George has asked if I would go out with him to find supplies. I'm not that keen but he has been more than hospitable to me and it seems to be quiet outside. We'll be quick. Out supplies back in. That's it.

21:28

I didn't expect to be out for that long. Luckily George knows this place like the back of his hand. He's also pretty familiar with the surrounding houses, having been in and out of them so much over the past months. He was telling me which cupboards to check, and which one's to ignore, so I didn't wast time looking for tins of beans in amongst the vacuum cleaners and mops.

In one of the houses, George went upstairs as I searched downstairs. I thought I heard a whimper then a thud. I called up to him then walked to the stairs. I was about to make my way upstairs when George appeared at the top holding a polythene bag.

“Big rat said. He told me it was messy and smelled awful. I took his word for it.

It was a good haul with plenty of variety, not just beans but soups, curries jars and tins, macaroni and other stuff that makes my mouth water just thinking about them.

George told me the further out we go from his house, the better the bounty. We stopped a few times, in various abandoned houses, and laid low until the walking dead passed us by. We swapped stories and had a good laugh, and once or twice actually forgot we were in very real danger.

21:45

George has asked a big favour of me. One that I'm not too sure I can carry out....

I helped George put the food away in the kitchen cupboards. He's going to check on Mary. He went upstairs with the bag with the rat in. I think he forgot I was there for a minute. I'm sure he was in a trance, of sorts, so I followed him upstairs. He reached the top of the stairs, and paused. I paused half way up the stairs. George turned to me and said ?o you want to see Mary?”

I hesitated, but then said ?ure.”

I followed him up the stairs, the along the corridor. He stopped outside the bedroom, smiled at me then turned the handle and walked in, beckoning a wave for me to follow him. I entered after him.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dark apart from a shaft of light slipping through the space between the curtains.

The room was small, and tidy but smelled awful. I raised my arm and pressed my sleeve against my nose and mouth, in an attempt to block out the stench. George apologised but I told him not to worry, we all get a bit smelly from time to time and that I was partial to the odd fart. He told me to keep a good distance between me and Mary because even though she was trust to the bed, she seemed to have developed a new lease of life when he began feeding her. Before George opened the bag, he apologised for lying to me. I didn't know what he meant, lying, until he pulled a small dog out from the bag. It was still alive. It whimpered and didn't struggle much. The little furry brown back legs kicked and twitched every now and again, but there was no real struggle. The shivering body jerked but the head didn't move. The neck was broken or fractured or something, preventing any real movement of the head. I called to George and ask what he thought he was doing. I must admit I used the word fuck quite a lot, probably more times than should be in such a short question based sentence. George looked at me and shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, then moved closer to Mary, who was grabbing at the dog.

George held the dog at arm's length and turned his own head away to the side so he wouldn't see the horrible scene of Mary's feeding time. The dog's legs kicked a little more frequently and violently, shuddering, going into spasm. Mary's right hand, still tied to the bed, grabbed hold of the dog. The dog whined. I couldn't believe what was going on, but I still watched. George was careful as he moved closer to the bed and released the hand holding the dog. The dead hand immediately swung the canine dinner up to her mouth, and she took a bite out of its stomach. I nearly vomited. She didn't even chew it, just swallowed it, then bit into both hind legs, crunching them and pulling them from the sockets of the dying body. Each time Mary squeezed the dog, he/she let out a high pitched whine that sent a wave of utter disgust along my spine, almost popping my brain. I looked over at George. He had a look of despair on his face as he slumped down onto a chair beside the window. The dog was no longer moving. Mary was almost finished her meal. She grabbed the tiny torso, or what was left of it, in her mouth and pulled on the head, ripping the two pieces apart. The head looked like a little reddish-brown tennis ball in her hand. She gulped down the body and I heard it making its way down her gullet, slowly rubbing and scraping its way down her throat.

I was still looking at Mary when George hit her with the stick. I hadn't noticed him rise from the chair, but he did, and he had grabbed a walking stick from the floor and was laying into Mary. He was shouting and screaming at her.

“Enough! ENOUGH! No more, Mary!”

He was crying and swinging the stick, bringing it down on Mary, on her face, smashing her face, her teeth, her nose. The stick destroyed anything and everything it touched. I shouted to George and rushed over to him, grabbing the stick from him. He fell to his knees and started to cry. A man of his age shouldn't cry. It was a bit awkward, to start with, then I felt sorry for him. I must be a bit of a soft touch. I told him it was going to be ok. It was the first cliche that came to mind and I knew that as soon as the words left my mouth. George knew it was cliche but told me I could help him make it OK. He looked at the knives on my belt and then to Mary. He asked if I would kill her for him. I told him I couldn't, he looked so helpless and started crying again. I didn't hug him, I'm not comfortable with that but I did sit on the floor in front of him. He asked me again, pleaded with me to kill her, told me he couldn't but she was driving him crazy and he wanted it to end. He said if I didn't do it, then he'd probably kill himself . Her mouth and face were covered in blood, as were the bed sheets, more blood that you would expect to come from a small dog. Chihuahuas, little dogs, big mess . It was a messy business.

She was still animated, chewing on the small blood covered skull. The bashing that George gave her didn't seem to register with her.

So there, you have it. That's the small favour George has asked of me. He wants me to kill his dead wife. That's not a proposition your given every day. I'm going to have to think about it, although I don't know why, it's just disposing of something that has no feelings, and feeds on dogs and God knows what else George is feeding her...it.

22:00

I'm going to do it. I'm going to destroy Mary. I just feel so sorry for George, but it's for the best. One quick slice at the nape of her neck; a good clean, fast strong cut and hopefully severing the spine. It seems the best way to disable them.

George you fucker! Why did you have to invite me into your home?!

23:30

I've done it. Mary is gone. Oh and that's not all......

I thought George would need to convince me a little more than he did, but to be honest I think he was glad to see the back of her too. I hat a chat with George in the kitchen, to make sure he wanted this done. He did, so I made sure my purple kitchen knife was nice and sharp and made my way back up the stairs to the bedroom. George accompanied me. Told me he wanted to say a few words to Mary before I cut her. I told him I would try and make it as quick as possible.

We entered the bedroom, me first, then George. He went over to Mary and started talking to her. She snuffled and snorted and made all sorts of disgusting noises, almost as though she was responding to his words. Once George was finished, he stood up, nodded to me and side stepped over to the window. I asked if he was sure. He nodded, so I moved in closer to Mary, holding the knife in my left hand, hoping to hold her head still with my right hand. I took a deep breath and grabbed Mary by what little hair she had left on her head. She bit at me but couldn't get to me. I brought the knife round to the back of her neck and prepared to pull the blade quickly and deeply into her skin. As I gripped the knife tightly, I felt a thwack on the back of my head. Then another. I dropped the knife on the floor and raised my hands to protect my head. The blows kept raining down. It was George. The prick was hitting me with the walking stick. He was saying ?orryover and over as he brought the wooden stick down me. My hands were beginning to throb and ache. My hair felt damp. Blood was coming from gashes in my head where the walking stick had broken the skin. George kicked me toward the bed and Mary. She was grabbing at me but I was just out of her reach.

My survival instinct kicked in. I saw the knife on the ground, picked it up and as George hit me three more times. On the third time, I stuck my knife in his stomach. He stopped hitting me.

George was an old man, so it didn't take much to fell him, although I didn't really expect him to put so much striking power behind his stick. I got to my feet and kicked the stick out of George's hand. Mary was thrashing around on the bed, trying her damnedest to grab me. I kicked George in the stomach and fell down flat on the floor, face down on top of his hands. I turned to Mary, and walked deliberately and swiftly to the bed. I grabbed her hair tight, as I did earlier, slid the knife behind her neck and drew the blade across her skin. It was a clean cut and I heard gas escaping from the wound. I pulled the head forward, ripping the skin open, revealing her spine. Her chin touched between her old breasts and I hacked at her spine. One, two, three. That's all it took before she stopped. No movement. No noise. Nothing.

I've had enough of this place. George is still on the floor upstairs. I don't know what to do about him. I'll figure something out before I leave. I've had a look out the window and there are a few zombies walking around. I'm going to have to make a run for it and hope I can get to the car.

23:49

I've stopped off at a lay-by after a tricky escape from George's house.

After I stuck him with my knife I gathered some of the tins I'd gathered with George - I figured I was entitled to them, after all I was the one that did most of the carrying. Now I come to think on it, he was probably using me. I threw in whatever I could find in his cupboards, but it didn't feel that good doing it. He was still alive when went through his belongings. I didn't go through everything, but I checked drawers for knives, cello tape, bandages. Then I looked in cupboards, for, well, I didn't know what I was looking for but it didn't hurt having a nose around his house. All the time, George lay on the floor moaning and groaning, I could hear him upstairs rolling around, crawling his way to the door. Once I had everything I needed, I checked outside to see how the zombie situation was. It wasn't good. More than a dozen dead bodies walking around, most of them pretty fresh corpses. I made my way to the front door, opened it, and George came at me with a knife, pushing me out into the street. The bag fell from my shoulder and well rolled onto his driveway. It was an open invitation for the dirty zombie dozen. They walked toward us, but I managed to get to my feet, avoiding George's knife as he swiped at my leg. I double checked the distance between me and the car, and the zombies between me and the car. I was ready to run when I felt a searing pain in my right ankle. George had dug his knife into me, and it hurt like fuck! I've never felt a pain like it before and I hope I never do, ever again. It just about floored me. I reached down and grabbed the knife, George still holding on to it with his pensioner's strength. I pulled my knife from it's belt and hacked at George's hand. He yelped like a pup (one back for the dog he Mary) and let go of the knife. I stood back up, stamp on his hand a few times, and actually had to resist kicking him in the stomach. That was the thing worrying me the most. I've never ever in my life felt the need to kick anyone in the body or the face. It disgusts me, the very idea of one person kicking another in the face, the head. It's barbaric and cowardly, especially when the person is already down. Three of the walking dead had reached us on the driveway and I managed to jump out of the way just as one large male made a grab for me. When he didn't get me, he focused his intentions on George, who was bleeding heavily, and calling after me. He was not just calling after me, but he was calling me every expletive under the sun. For an old man he had quite a collection of derogatory terms and curse words in his vocabulary.

I ran past another three zombies before I reached the car. I aimed the car key at the car and pressed the button triggering the remote-locking. The doors clicked open. I turned and had a quick look toward George's house before getting into the car. I could see shreds of skin being pulled up from his body, his face, pieces of clothing coming away with the flesh. He was still making noises, but the were barely audible whimpers now.

The Merc doesn't have bull bars or anything like that to protect it from a dozen bumps so I had to drive carefully, avoiding all the walking objects that strayed in my path.

I've had it with people. I let my guard down and that's what happens. Arseholes like that. The last person on earth you'd expect to be a threat. An old man, waiting on the next big kill for his dead wife. I'm on no-one's menu.

Anyway, here I am sitting at the edge of the road, yet again. I'm starting to feel a bit like hedgehog.

23:52

Fuck! I don't have a tin opener! I thought I 'd brought one. Two dozen tins of various foods and not an opener in sight. I'll have to try and use a knife to open them, baring in mind I'm not Bear Grills or anything like that.