The Human Condition

Wilcox braced himself as he forced the bus up and over a mound of rubble and mangled metal at the side of the road. The passengers behind him � not expecting the sudden jolt � were thrown up in their seats as the huge machine clattered up and then back down onto the road.

`Take it easy,' protested Hamilton.

`Next left,' Jones said for the second time, his voice now a little more definite than before.

`You sure?' `Positive,' he snapped, annoyed that he was being doubted. `I can see it. We're almost directly under the light now.'

Wilcox slammed on his brakes and swung the bus around to the left. The second street was as difficult to navigate as the first. Huge crowds of lumbering, rotting bodies turned and dragged themselves towards the approaching vehicle. Wilcox increased his already precarious speed, knowing that the quicker they were moving, the more chance they had of continuing to make progress through the rancid crowds. Countless corpses were obliterated by the flat-faced front of the heavy vehicle. They smashed into the bonnet with a relentless bang, bang, bang which sounded like rain clattering down onto a flat tin roof.

`How far now?' he asked breathlessly.

Jones crouched down low and looked up to his right.

`Almost there.'

Proctor got up from his seat and scurried towards the two men at the front of the bus, holding onto the passenger rails and supports and struggling to keep his balance as the vehicle tipped from side to side.

`It's a hotel,' he said, panting with excitement and nerves. `There's a sign on the side of the building.'

Wilcox nodded.

`So where do I go?' he asked, peering hopelessly into the relentless gloom.

`There must be a car park or something?' Proctor suggested. `Maybe it's around the back...?'

`Fancy walking out in the open carrying all our stuff, do you?' Jones immediately snapped. `Forget that, it's too dangerous. We need to get as close to the main entrance as we can. We need to minimise the distance we have to cover on foot.'

`How am I supposed to do that?' grumbled Wilcox. `I can't see a fucking thing.'

`Here it is,' Jones interrupted. `Sharp right now!'

With no time to properly consider his actions Wilcox turned the bus as instructed. The dark silhouette of the hotel loomed large in front of him.

`Where?' he screamed, desperate for some help and guidance.

`Just keep moving,' Jones yelled back. `Keep going forward until...'

He didn't have chance to finish his sentence. The low light and the constant criss-crossing movement of hundreds of bodies made the distance between the bus and the front of the hotel impossible to accurately gauge. Tired and terrified, Wilcox jammed his foot down on the accelerator and sent the bus crashing through the front of the building. Their velocity was such that the bus continued to move until the twisted metal and rubble trapped under its wheels eventually acted as a brake. Eighty percent inside the building with only the last twenty percent of its rear end sticking out into the cold night, the bus came to a sudden, juddering halt in the middle of the hotel's wide and imposing marble-floored reception, its front wheel wedged hopelessly in an ornate and long-since dried up decorative fountain. No-one moved.

`My back...' Doreen eventually wailed from somewhere on the floor under a pile of carrier bags full of clothes and other belongings.

`Is everyone all right?' Proctor asked. No-one answered. `Is anyone all right?' he asked again, slightly revising his original question.

Paul Jones shook his head and dragged himself back up onto his feet. He looked across at Wilcox who was trying to stem the flow of blood from a gash just above his right eye.

`Nice driving,' he sneered.

`Fuck off,' Wilcox spat.

`Shit,' Elizabeth cursed from somewhere in the darkness behind them. `Get out of here. We've got to get out of here.'

The sudden fear and desperation in her voice was clear for all to hear. Without pausing for explanation the six survivors picked themselves up, grabbed as many of their belongings as they could carry, and moved towards the door at the front of the bus which Jones had already forced open. He glanced down the side of the long vehicle and immediately saw what Elizabeth had seen. A large part of the hotel entrance had collapsed. Although still partially blocked by the bus, there was now a huge, gaping hole in the side of the hotel where the main doors had once been. Hundreds of bodies were already swarming into the building from outside.

`Over here,' an unexpected voice yelled. Barry Bushell stood at the bottom of the main hotel staircase at the other end of the vast, dust-filled and rubble-strewn lobby. He gestured for the survivors to follow him. The light inside the building was minimal and they struggled to make him out at first. Wilcox was the first to see him. He ran across the room, closely followed by Doreen, Elizabeth and Jones.

`Come on, Ted,' Proctor pleaded. `Leave your stuff, we have to move.'

Hamilton was busy collecting his belongings and supplies. Loaded up with bags and boxes he tripped and stumbled down from the bus after the others.

`Keep going,' he gasped, already out of breath. `I'll catch you up.'

Proctor looked back at the other man who was clearly struggling.

`Just leave that stuff,' he shouted. `We don't need it.'

`I need it,' Hamilton groaned.

`They're coming!'

Come on you idiot, thought Proctor. Drop the bags, drop your boxes and get your backside over here. Hamilton was oblivious to the swarm of bodies that were now dangerously close behind him. They moved like a thick, heavy liquid slowly seeping across the floor of the hotel reception. Already the bus had been swallowed up and surrounded, overcome in the same way that scavenging insects might cover and devour a dead animal. Proctor looked around to see that the rest of the survivors had all but disappeared. Just Elizabeth remained, standing at the bottom of the staircase.

`Move you fucking idiot!' screamed Proctor. Hamilton tried to speed up but, if anything, he was slowing down. He was desperately unfit and scared. He glanced back over his shoulder and, seeing how close the nearest bodies now were, he tried unsuccessfully to increase his speed again. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make his tired legs move any quicker. It was hopeless.

`Move!' Proctor screamed again as he nervously backed away and moved towards Elizabeth.

Whereas most people would have dug deep and done everything possible to cover the remaining difference between themselves and safety, Hamilton did not. He was already exhausted and the staircase ahead of him seemed to stretch up into the darkness forever. He'd never make it. An eternal pessimist, subconsciously he had already decided that his number was up. He made one last weak attempt to move quicker but it wasn't working. The distance still seemed huge. Hamilton stopped and dropped his bags and boxes. Proctor and Elizabeth watched helplessly as the bodies swarmed around him and over him and dragged him to the ground.

`Let's go,' Proctor sighed. Elizabeth was already on her way up the stairs. Proctor turned and disappeared into the shadows after her. Although he couldn't see where he was going, he could hear the others' voices up ahead.

`So what the fucking hell are you supposed to be?' Wilcox asked as they climbed. They had stopped momentarily to regroup a few flights up. Bushell carried a torch with him which he used to check who was with him. It was the first time that any of them had been able to see him clearly. He could see the puzzled expressions on their faces. Suddenly self-conscious, he didn't know what to say. He hadn't needed to explain his bizarre dress-code to anyone else yet. For a moment he felt foolish before remembering how good these clothes made him feel and how, when there was just a handful of people left now, what he was wearing was of absolutely no consequence to anyone.

`I'm Barry,' he eventually answered, `Barry Bushell.'

`So why are you wearing a dress?' Wilcox demanded.

`Because I want to,' he answered factually.

`You look lovely, dear,' Doreen said as she passed him on the landing. Already gasping for air and in need of a cigarette, she patted him on the shoulder and nodded her head upwards. `This way, is it?'

`Just keep going,' he replied. `I'm living in the suite on the top floor. It was as far away as I could get from everything that's been going on down here.'

Doreen nodded and kept climbing, her nervous fear helping her forget and overcome her tiredness. Wilcox waited on the landing with Bushell and Jones as Elizabeth and Proctor finally caught up.

`Where's Hamilton?' Wilcox asked. Proctor shook his head.

`Didn't make it,' he said, panting with the effort of the sudden climb. `Silly bastard got caught.'

`Shit,' Wilcox mumbled under his breath. He shook his head and carried on up the stairs.

The climb to the top of the building seemed to take an eternity to complete. Weighed down by their physical exhaustion and the bulky supplies they'd manage to salvage from the bus, the survivors struggled to make progress. Eventually, several stops later, they reached the impressive top floor penthouse which Bushell had claimed for his own. Even though their appreciation of material possessions and the value of property had been massively distorted by the events of the last seven days, the sheer luxurious scale of the huge apartment still impressed all of them.

`Nice place she's got here,' Wilcox hissed sarcastically as he gazed around the room. Some of the group had sat themselves around a rectangular dining table, others were sprawled out on a nearby sofa.

`Shh...' Elizabeth scowled. `Leave him alone. He's obviously got problems.'

`We've all got problems,' he sighed.

`Lovely place,' Doreen agreed. `Just think of all the famous people who must have stayed here. Royalty? Film stars?'

`Why?' Paul Jones grunted.

Doreen looked puzzled. How could he not be excited by the prospect of sleeping in a hotel room that might have been used by millionaires and mega-stars?

`Imagine who's sat round this table...' she continued.

`Why?' he interrupted again. `Why waste your time thinking about people like that? People like that who could afford to stay here had too much money and not enough sense. You shouldn't look up to them. The only difference between you and them was the size of their wallets compared to yours.'

`It was more than that,' Elizabeth protested. `It's about glamour and watching them do the things that you always dreamed about and...'

`So did you two read all the celebrity gossip and buy all the glossy magazines that were...?'

`Absolutely,' Doreen said quickly.

`And I bet you used to watch soap operas and reality TV shows and...'

`Never missed my soaps,' she told him with something approximating pride in her voice.

`Pathetic,' Jones snapped. `Bloody pathetic. It's got nothing to do with glamour or anything like that. I bet you used to swallow all that crap because your own lives were pointless and empty.'

`Thanks a lot,' Elizabeth said angrily. `Let us know when it's our turn to tear you to pieces.'

`Where are all your celebrities now?' he asked.

`Dead, probably,' Wilcox interjected. `Face down in the fucking gutter.'

`You know what I think?' Jones continued, even though he knew they didn't care what he thought. `I think that if by some strange twist of fate one of your precious celebrities had survived and was sat here now instead of one of us, you'd still be treating them like some kind of fucking god.'

`As long as it was you they were here instead of, I wouldn't care,' Elizabeth spat. `Sometimes you're so far up your own backside that...'

`I've got more food than this,' Bushell explained as he appeared from the kitchen, interrupting the conversation to the relief of the others. `I'm trying to make it last as long as possible. I'm trying to avoid going outside.' `I'd be trying to avoid going outside if I looked like that,' Wilcox smirked.

`Leave it, Nick,' sighed Proctor. `What's the matter with you lot? We've lost our transport and poor old Ted and...'

`Honestly,' Wilcox laughed, not listening to a word Proctor had been saying, `we wait all this time to find someone else alive, and when we find them it turns out to be a fucking faggot!'

The other survivors cringed with the sudden awkwardness of the situation. Proctor didn't know what was making him feel more uncomfortable, Wilcox's provocation or the fact that their host was wearing full drag. At six feet tall (almost six foot two in heels) Bushell cut an imposing figure. Strangely confident and unruffled, he sat down opposite Wilcox, opened a can of beer and passed another one across the table towards his aggressor.

`Look,' he began, his voice surprisingly calm and assured, `I'm not surprised you've got a problem with what I'm wearing. Fact is I like it and I'm not going to change. I don't know why, but dressing like this is helping me to come to terms with the fact that all my friends and family and probably everyone else I've ever known is dead. I'm not gay and I'm not a fucking faggot as you put it, I'm just a normal bloke who's decided to try wearing dresses for a while, okay?'

The wind had been taken out of Wilcox's sails by Bushell's brutal honesty.

`Okay,' he mumbled humbly as he reached for his beer.

`Anyway, It doesn't matter what any of us is wearing, does it?' Bushell continued. `It's not going to make any difference. Same as the colour of our hair won't make any difference either, or whether we're right or left handed. Fact is we're all stuck in this mess together and we'll need to work with each other to get ourselves sorted. Now then,' he said, his voice suddenly louder and more confident, `who have we got here and what the hell are we going to do now that you've made a fucking big hole in the front of my hotel?'

Dragging introductions and pointless, meandering hypothecations about what had happened to the world took the group through the last few hours of day seven and well into day eight. Spirits were temporarily high � Bushell had the company he'd craved and the others suddenly found themselves in a safer and much more stable and comfortable environment than that which they had become used to.

Proctor pulled up a chair and sat in front of the widest window in the suite for hours watching the night melt away and be overtaken by the first light of day. As the sun began to climb more and more of the shattered world was revealed. Whilst they had been down at street level it had been difficult to fully appreciate the enormity of what had happened to the landscape through which they'd travelled. From twenty-eight floors up, however, the catastrophic damage and devastation was clear.

`You okay?' Elizabeth asked. Her voice surprised him and distracted him from a particularly dark train of thought.

`I'm fine,' he replied, managing half a smile, `you?' She nodded but said nothing. `I was just looking out there,' he continued. `Look at it. The whole bloody world's in ruins.'

Elizabeth took a few steps closer to the window and leant against it. He was right. For as far as she could see the world looked dead and was drained of all colour and life. Apart from the bodies in the streets nothing moved. From this height they could see for endless miles into the distance. The sheer scale of what had happened around them was humbling and soul-destroying.

`Much happening?' Nick Wilcox asked as he joined them. He'd been sat on his own but he preferred the company of others. Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder at him but didn't bother to answer.

`Not a lot,' Proctor replied. `No surprise really.'

`I wouldn't be too sure,' Elizabeth said, her face still pressed hard against the glass. She'd diverted her attention away from the horizon to the more immediate area around the base of the hotel building. `Have you seen what we've done?'

Concerned, Wilcox peered down. The largest crowd of bodies that either of them had yet seen had gathered around the entrance to the building and were pushing their way inside through the huge hole the survivors had made with the bus last night.

`Bloody hell,' he cursed under his breath.

Proctor stood up and joined them. The sight of the massive gathering below them made his legs weaken with nerves. His mouth suddenly dry he swallowed hard and looked around for Bushell.

`Barry,' he shouted. Bushell appeared from the master bedroom and walked over to where the others were stood.

`What's the problem?' he asked anxiously. Proctor nodded down and Bushell looked towards the ground. `Christ almighty,' he sighed.

`They can't get up here, can they?' Wilcox wondered timidly, concerned that he really was to blame for this unsettling new development. He looked over towards Bushell for an answer. Bushell shrugged his shoulders.

`Don't know. Can't see why not. If enough of them keep pushing forward from behind, my guess is they'll start climbing eventually.'

`But they won't get up here, will they?'

Bushell shrugged his shoulders again.

`This place has one main staircase in the middle of the building,' he explained, still staring deep into the vast crowd below them. `There are a couple of fire escapes, but they're blocked off as far as I know. To be honest, I didn't look into security too deeply when I got here. There didn't seem to be any need when the place still had a front door.'

Wilcox glared at him for a moment.

`So what are you saying?'

`If there are enough of them and they keep coming, who knows what they'll be able to do. Give them enough time and there's every chance they'll manage to get up here.'

`Can we still get out of here if we need to?'

`Well, I think we can get back down no problem,' Bushell sighed, `but what we do once we're down there is anyone's guess. Thanks to you lot the building is surrounded. I can't see a way out.' `Let's all keep calm and try and get things into perspective,' Proctor said quietly, doing his best to prevent panic from spreading. `The chances of them getting to us are slim and we're so high up here that they'll probably disappear long before they even get close.'

`You reckon?' Elizabeth snapped. `There doesn't seem to be much else happening in town this morning, does there? It looks like we're the main attraction.'

Bushell, Elizabeth, Wilcox and Proctor stood side by side at the window and stared down. The streets below were filled with grey, staggering bodies and in the absence of any other distraction the whole damn rotting mass seemed to be making its way towards the hotel.

There were already thousands of them down there, and thousands more were dangerously close.

DAY NINE

THE GARDEN SHED

Lester Prescott thrives on order and uniformity. On many levels he has constantly proved himself to be an inept and dysfunctional human being. He finds it difficult to connect with people emotionally. Although he has tried, over the years he has proved himself to be a boring and dull husband, a passion-free and unimaginative lover and, perhaps worst of all, a disappointment both as a father and role model. Lester has, however, excelled in other areas of his life. His home is pristine and perfect and is situated in a relatively well-to-do residential area, he is well respected socially and is the most accurate and productive accountant ever to have been employed by the firm of Ashcroft, Jenkins and Harman. Lester Prescott thinks in black and white. Show a child a cardboard box and they'll turn it into a spaceship, a plane, a car, a robot suit or whatever else their unrestricted imaginations can create. As far as Lester Prescott has always been concerned, however, a cardboard box is, was and only ever could be a cardboard box.

Prescott and his long-suffering wife Janice have been married for twenty-seven years and two months. For twenty-five of those years they've lived in the same semi-detached house a third of the way down Baker Road West . Twenty-three years ago next month their only child � Madeline � was born. Maddy, as she's known, left home at the age of eighteen to study. She loves her parents dearly but does her level best to only go back and see them when she absolutely has to. She recently qualified as a nurse and now works in a large hospital on the other side of town.

Last Tuesday morning Janice, Maddy and more than six billion other people were killed by the most virulent virus ever to curse the face of the planet. Much to his surprise, Lester Prescott survived.

Day eight ends and day nine begins. What will this day bring? This last week has been harder than I could ever have imagined and I need to stop and take some time out now. None of it makes any sense. I sometimes come here at night to try and work it all out. I sit here on the end of Maddy's bed and look around her room. It's just as she left it when she went to university. Mother and I didn't see any point in changing it until she'd got herself married and settled down in her own home. It'll never happen now, of course. I'll never change this room now. It's a little oasis of normality in a world that's gone completely mad.

The passage of time hasn't made any of this any easier to understand or deal with. The chain of events which began last Tuesday are still as confusing, inexplicable and painful as they were when they first happened. It started like just about every other Tuesday has started since I've worked for AJH. I arrived at work at ten to eight, got my desk ready and then started on my figures. Bill Ashcroft (one of the senior partners) was the first person it caught. He was standing talking to his secretary Allison when it took him. I then watched it work its way around the office, killing everyone around me, and I just sat there, too afraid to move, waiting for my turn. I still don't understand why it didn't get me. I don't know why I escaped. Before I knew it I was the only one left alive.

I left the office as quickly as I could, stopping only to put away my papers again, pack my briefcase and fetch my newspaper and coat from the cloakroom. I made my way home as fast as I could but the journey was harrowing and painfully slow. Outside it was as if someone had simply flicked a switch. Everyone seemed to have died at almost exactly the same moment. I saw hundreds of bodies down and cars crashed. It seemed to take me forever to work my way through the wreckage and get back to the house.

I had been thinking about Janice and Maddy constantly since leaving the office and I had hoped to return home to find Janice sitting there waiting for me. After all I seemed to have survived, so why shouldn't she have too? Sadly it wasn't to be. I found her in the kitchen, lying on her back on the floor in an inch and a half of water. The tap had been left running and the room was awash. My dear Janice was soaked through. I set to work sorting things out straight away. I dried her off as best I could and then wrapped her in a blanket and covered her with black plastic refuse sacks which I taped up. It wasn't an easy or pleasant task but I managed to get it done. It seemed a little undignified at the time, but I was acting in accordance with the instructions contained in the government information booklet we received last summer. Janice used to mock me because, by nature, I am occasionally pedantic and perhaps a little obsessive. She used to say that my attention to detail was infuriating. Thank goodness I am that way is all that I can say. As a result of the filing system I've implemented in my study I was able to lay my hands on the booklet immediately and deal with my wife's body quickly, humanely and hygienically, just as the government had instructed.

As I worked to move Janice's body and clean up the mess in the kitchen I kept a constant eye out for Maddy. I felt sure that she'd come home before long and I wanted to make sure that Mother had been properly dealt with before she arrived. My mood darkened with every minute that passed. As if losing my closest companion hadn't been enough for one day, with each second that ticked by it looked increasingly likely that my only child was gone too. Eventually, at half-past one that afternoon, I could sit and wait no longer. I set out to find her. Once again my progress outside was frustratingly difficult and slow. I arrived at the hospital in an hour and ten minutes and immediately started to look for her. According to my notes she should have been on duty but I couldn't find her. I had an awful time searching through the bodies for Maddy. So many poor, innocent people had lost their lives so suddenly and inexplicably...

When I couldn't find her on any of the wards she covered I worked my way back from the hospital to the house she shared with her friends Jenny and Suzanne. It was there that I found our little girl in her front garden, lying on her back in the long grass. Bloody hell, she deserved much more than that. Such a cruel, sudden and undignified end to such a short and beautiful life. It broke my heart to see her like that. I put her in the car and brought her back home with me. I dealt with her body in accordance with official instructions, just as I had Mother's.

It was impossible and undignified to leave my family out on the patio as I had done. They both deserved so much more than that. I read through the government booklet again that afternoon. It said that the bodies of any fatalities should be buried away from the house. Dejectedly I decided I would have to do just that. I dragged them both the length of the garden to the small area of lawn between the garden shed and Maddy's old swing. We'd originally brought her that swing on her sixth birthday but Mother and I decided we'd keep it even after she'd grown out of it and stopped using it. It was always there to remind us of her. She used to have so much fun playing on it with her friends. Even now whenever I look at it all I can see is young Maddy swinging on it in the summer sunshine. We had hoped that we'd have grandchildren to use it one day.

I unlocked the shed and went inside.

The garden shed has always been my escape. As well as being a very practical and convenient storage space, it was also a quiet and comfortable little area where I could sit and work or read my paper or listen to sport on the radio. Maddy and her mother liked their television and their soap operas but I couldn't abide the constant noise and distraction. Quite often � almost daily in the summer months, certainly most weekends � I would shut myself away in the shed and relax in my own company with a cup of tea or a glass of something stronger.

Before I picked up my tools I sat down on the deck chair in the corner of the shed and tried to take stock of all that had suddenly happened around me. Sitting there it was hard to comprehend the enormity and finality of what had happened and I could hardly believe that my wife and daughter's lifeless bodies lay just inches away. With tears in my eyes I looked around the little wooden hut and remembered all that I had lost. The season was almost over and the mower and some of the garden tools had been cleaned and were ready to be put away. On the opposite wall was where I stored the summer things that Maddy and her mother used to use; plastic patio furniture, sun-loungers and deck chairs, garden games and the like. In a small wooden box tucked away in one corner I found a collection of brightly coloured buckets and spades which I had again kept for those grandchildren who would now never arrive. They reminded me of many summer holidays now long gone where Maddy, Mother and I would spend endless days playing on the beach in the blistering sun. All of that seemed hundreds of miles and thousands of years away now.

With a heavy heart I stood up, picked up my spade and the garden edging tool, and set to work. I took a rough measurement of the length and width of Maddy's body (she was slightly taller and thicker set than her mother) and marked out the shape of the two graves in the turf close together. I carefully lifted the turf and then spent the next two hours digging. Although we used to go to church most Sundays I wasn't quite sure what I should say before I covered up their bodies. It was difficult to think of the right words. I loved them both very much but I've always found it hard to properly express my feelings. Being gushing, emotional and romantic was something I've always struggled with, such words have never come naturally to me. In any event I thanked God for their lives and asked that they would now find peace. They were good people and I was confident they would. I was far less sure about what the future had in store for me.

I'm not the kind of man who sits around feeling sorry for myself. I wouldn't have been doing anyone any favours if I'd just sat there and done nothing. I spent a lot of time over the first two days of the crisis trying to make sense of what had happened but I soon realised that it was impossible. No answers were forthcoming. More to the point, I couldn't find anyone or anything to help me find those answers. Strange as it seemed, the whole world seemed to suddenly have died. The whole world, that was, except me. I read through the government booklet again and again but it was of little help. It kept talking about how the authorities would help and how I should sit and wait for further instructions from them. I was ready to sit and wait, but I was pretty certain that no further instructions were ever going to come. As far as I could tell (and I didn't do anything to verify the validity of my claim) I was the only man left alive.

So what did I need to do in order to sit and wait? I had plenty of food at the house, but it was already clear that I'd need more. With each hour that passed it seemed more and more likely that what had happened was going to take many weeks and months, possibly even years to sort out � if it ever got sorted out at all. I needed to be ready to fend for myself for a long, long time. With that in mind I took the car round to the shops and started to collect supplies. Food, cleaning materials, clothing, medicines... even books, paper and pens. I had already realised that it would be important to try and keep myself occupied both physically and mentally. I had written myself a comprehensive list that ran to almost two full sheets of paper. I managed to get just about everything I needed and it took two trips in the car to get it all back home. It didn't feel right taking such a large amount of goods without paying, but I had no means of making payment and there was obviously no-one there to make payment to. Instead I made a second list of what I'd taken and also the cost of each individual item. When some semblance of normality finally returned, I decided, I would go back and make a payment for everything I had been forced to take. The proprietors of the shops involved, if they ever returned, would undoubtedly understand.

The third morning was as frightening and disorientating as the first had been. Just when I was beginning to get used to my situation it changed again. On the third morning many of the bodies that had fallen and died suddenly began to drag themselves back up onto their feet again. When I saw the first of them I hoped that was the end of it, that this was the first indication of an impending return to normality. It quickly became clear that was not the case. The bodies that had moved were unresponsive and slow. I stood out in the middle of the road in front of the house and stopped the body of Judith Springer from number 19 as it staggered past the end of the drive. I had known Judith and her husband Roy for many years, but the cold, empty creature which stood in front of me that morning was most certainly not Mrs Springer. It looked the same (save for a few unpleasant signs of deterioration) but it failed to react as a normal human being should. For goodness sake, the bloody thing wasn't even breathing.

I shut my door on the rest of the world again and went through to the back of the house. What about Maddy and her mother? Had their condition changed also? I found myself faced with the bizarre and repulsive (but very real) possibility that the wife and daughter I had buried just two days earlier might now be trying to escape from their hastily dug graves. I made my way through to the back garden and crouched down next to the two slightly raised humps in the turf. There had been no change as far as I could see. I didn't know what to do for the best. I lay there and put my ear to the ground and listened but I couldn't hear anything and I couldn't feel any movement. I reminded myself that not all of the bodies outside were moving again, some still lay where they had fallen. I didn't know whether Maddy and her mother remained motionless or whether I had buried them too deep for them to be able to get out. For a second I seriously contemplated digging them up and exhuming their bodies, but what would that have achieved? If they were capable of moving, so what? What difference would it have made? Judith Springer, as vacuous and uninteresting as I had always found her, was most certainly dead, despite the fact that she was suddenly and inexplicably mobile again. I decided that it was kinder both to Maddy and her mother to leave them where they were and preserve what remained of their dignity.

I sat out in the garden shed again that afternoon and read a book and occasionally dozed lightly. My sleep was punctuated with desperate dreams and twisted nightmares about my dead daughter and wife. It was almost dark when I woke up properly and went back inside. The low light increased my unease. I regretted having slept. I tossed and turned all night in bed.

As the situation outside continued to change I made a conscious effort to try and find things to do to try and keep myself positive and motivated. I had left the car parked on the drive and had stored the provisions I'd taken at the far end of the garage. In fact I had collected such an impressive volume of supplies that they filled almost the entire length of the cold, rectangular room. On the morning of the fourth day, when there was finally enough light to see clearly, I sat at my desk in the study and made a list of my daily dietary requirements. I used reference books, our family medical dictionary and the encyclopaedia to calculate the minimum I would need to eat each day to survive. I then spent the entire day in the garage, dividing the numerous boxes and bags of food into equal-sized daily rations, making sure there were sufficient levels of the necessary vitamins, proteins and whatever other chemicals I needed for each day. I also allowed myself a daily luxury � a can of beer or a packet of sweets for example. It quickly became apparent that I wouldn't be able to get quite everything I needed from my provisions. I decided I would have to look at fetching vitamin and mineral supplements when I next went out, if they proved necessary. During the day I also became very aware that none of the food I had was fresh. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I could start trying to grow my own vegetables if my situation remained unchanged for any length of time. Janice and I had always maintained a small vegetable plot, but perhaps I would need to expand the operation over the coming year. Sitting there on the garage floor surrounded by packages of food I found the idea of having to fend for myself on such a basic level strangely exciting.

I worked long and hard that day and, by eight o'clock when the light had all but disappeared again, I was finished. On the garage floor lay forty-three separate food parcels for the next forty-three days. I tried not to think of them as rations but that, in effect, was what they were. Talk of rationing made it sound like it was wartime, but it most certainly wasn't. For me to have been at war I needed an enemy, and at that moment in time I was very definitely alone. I locked the side garage door and walked around to the back door and let myself back into the house.

Things changed again on the morning of day five.

I woke up and threw back the curtains to find myself looking down on a street scene very different to the one I had last seen the previous evening. Outside my house was a vast and continually growing crowd of people. Initially elated I quickly got dressed and readied myself to go outside to see what they wanted. These people � although similar in appearance to the empty souls who had been dragging themselves along the streets for the last two days � behaved differently. They were definitely gravitating around my house with a purpose, not just drifting by. I stood out there with them, separated from the crowd by only the metal gate across the end of the drive, and for what felt like an eternity I said nothing. My heart sank as I got closer to them. Their faces were blank and empty and they seemed to look through me as if I wasn't there. The nearest few figures were being continually jostled and pushed against the gate by those immediately behind them and yet they failed to react or stand their ground. I tried to speak to them but they didn't acknowledge my words. Every time I opened my mouth to address them there was a ripple of sudden movement (bordering on muted excitement) throughout the crowd, but none of them seemed capable of responding to me properly. I began to lose my temper. Perhaps it was just the frustration of my increasingly confusing situation getting the better of me. Whatever the reason, I stood there at the end of the drive shouting and screaming at them to answer me. It was an embarrassing show of uncontrolled emotion which I immediately began to regret.

I returned to the house and stood at the bedroom window hoping to make sense of what was happening. Although the behaviour of the bodies outside had changed, it occurred to me that my overall situation remained much the same. What the people on the other side of the gate did or didn't do had no bearing on my fight for survival. Ultimately there had been no substantial change in my situation or my priorities � I had to continue to fight and fend for myself. As the government booklet had said, I needed to sit and wait.

I could see more and more of the bodies approaching from various directions, perhaps drawn to the house as a result of my undignified rant in the street earlier. Whatever the reason, with little else happening in the neighbourhood it seemed that my home was rapidly becoming the centre of attention. It slowly dawned on me that, with everything else dead and silent around me, there was nothing else to distract them. More and more of them would undoubtedly keep coming. I decided that I had few options. I could lock the doors, close the curtains and sit and wait until they disappeared, or I could pack up now and run. After having worked so long and so hard for everything I owned I knew there was no way I could bring myself to leave home, especially not now that my family were buried in the back garden. I knew immediately that I was going to stay there. It was now just a question of how comfortable and safe I could make myself.

Although accountancy was my chosen vocation, I have always had a talent for working with my hands and have prided myself on some of the improvements I have made around the house over the years. I made furniture for Maddy's room, I decorated throughout (several times), I re-glazed a few windows and I laid the patio and built a low brick wall around it. On top of that I devised and constructed storage areas in the attic, the garage, the study, the utility room and the shed. I approached the strengthening of the house with real relish and I planned it carefully. If nothing else, the project would keep me occupied for a few days at least and would help the dragging, lonely hours pass with more speed than they had so far been.

I needed to go out to the hardware store and get materials. Timber, fixings, tools and numerous other bits and pieces were necessary to protect the house as I wanted. I had to leave but I couldn't get the car off the drive. The crowd around the front of the house was, by now, more that fifty bodies deep in places. Even if I had been able to get the car onto the road, in doing so I would inevitably have opened up the drive and the front of my property would have been surrounded. With still more of them arriving by the minute I didn't fancy the prospect of trying to herd the unresponsive throng away from my house and back onto the street.

When we'd first moved into Baker Road West there had been a large expanse of grassland beyond the fence at the bottom of our garden. Five and a half years ago the council sold the land to a housing developer who built more than double the sensible number of houses they should have on it. I certainly would never have considered buying a plot there. They were crammed together and their gardens were virtually non-existent. I had an acquaintance who lived there and I dropped him back home after golf on a number of occasions. The estate was like a rabbit warren, a sprawling maze of cul-de-sacs, groves and avenues. To squeeze more homes in, many of the later phases were built with garages at the bottom of their gardens with access from a track which led along the back of their properties and, by default, across the back of mine also. Although I hadn't yet solved the problem of getting to the hardware store, the track provided me with a convenient means of getting close to the house with the equipment I'd collected when I returned.

I decided to walk. As risky and dangerous as it may have sounded, it strangely seemed the most sensible way to leave. I could climb over the back fence, creep down the track and then quietly and carefully make my way along the main road to the hardware centre at the bottom of the hill. The store catered for trade as well as the general public. There were trucks and vans which could be hired to help transport bulky loads. I'd hired one previously when I'd built the patio. I decided I would use one again to bring back whatever it was I decided to take.

In five minutes under two hours I was back. My trip out progressed with little incident, save for a few uncomfortable moments in the hardware store car park when I found that another crowd of ragged, dishevelled people had gathered around the front of the building after I had disappeared inside. I took my time and moved around quietly, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. I used a trade entrance at the rear of the building to load up a small truck and was able to load everything before any of them had seen me. Once I got home I parked the truck at the back of my house and threw the timber and other items I'd taken over the fence. I left the truck where it was just in case I needed to use it again.

The figures in the streets had become increasingly inquisitive and, for want of a better word, nosy. I couldn't move without huge swathes of shuffling, lethargic bodies tripping towards me. They appeared washed out and empty and, although they were easy to brush to the side, their unwanted attention made me feel uncomfortable. If they continued to come, I thought to myself, the house might end up surrounded by incalculable numbers of them and I might end up using the hardware store truck as a means of escape. I couldn't imagine leaving. I decided that it was more important than ever to make my property as strong and secure as possible. I set about barricading and strengthening every door and window, even every vent, no matter how small, insignificant or unreachable it appeared.

I began with the front of the house. My property is already separated from the road by a knee-high brick wall with a low iron railing on top and a strong iron gate. It seemed sensible to try and increase the height of the barrier, to completely block the house and myself from view as far as was possible. I sank a row of six-foot concrete posts and fence panels into the flower bed directly behind the wall and I used nylon rope and chains to secure a split panel onto the gate (which I also locked with a hefty padlock I had taken from the store). The front of the house was the hardest place to work. The relentless interest of the people on the street was unsettling and disturbing. On more than one occasion I had to push them back to get them out of the way. I asked them to move back but the bloody things were incapable of any positive response. In the end I just shoved them off my drive and back into the crowd.

I did a beautiful job on the ground floor doors. In a moment of inspiration I decided to build a second timber frame around each entrance and fitted new doors on top of the existing ones. Solid wooden fire doors, separately hinged and able to open independently. Perfect. I did something similar with the windows, making wooden shutters that completely blocked out the light. I couldn't help but make a terrific amount of noise as I fitted them. I had no option but to drill into the masonry around the windows and doors. From the top of the ladder working on the front of the house I could see over the newly raised fence and I was able to see the dramatic effect the noise was having on the crowd of people in the street. Some of them began to bang and hammer angrily on my new gate. At times the noise they made threatened to drown out the sound of my drill. I was almost relieved when the battery pack ran out.

It took the best part of two days to make the house as secure as I wanted it. By the time I'd finished I was exhausted. I worked whenever it was light, knowing that I would have plenty of time to stop and rest once the job was complete. At six-thirty on Tuesday evening � more than a week since all of this had started � I sat out on the lawn next to Maddy and her mother and looked back at the house with pride. They would have been impressed with what I'd achieved, I was sure. If nothing else they would have been proud of the fact that I had survived when so many others had fallen. Perhaps Janice wouldn't have been too keen on the aesthetic side of the alterations, but she'd have surely appreciated their functionality. I sat between the graves of my wife and my daughter with a can of beer and the remainder of my daily rations and finally allowed myself to relax. The food and drink tasted better than ever. I had a normal appetite for the first time in days. Rationed food wasn't so bad after all, I decided. I had a fairly wide selection of tastes and flavours in each day's supply. I fully appreciated that my choices might lessen and become substantially more limited as time progressed but, for now, I was doing fine. Tired, but fine.

I slept well last night.

This morning I found that the situation had deteriorated again. Things have suddenly become much less certain and I feel increasingly unsure. Although the house is now secure, today I feel scared and the enormity of what has happened to the world has again become painfully apparent.

I lay lazily in bed for a while, resting after the efforts of the last two days. When I finally got up I went to the front of the house and opened up the new wooden shutters which cover the spare bedroom and bathroom windows. I immediately saw that the crowd outside had more than doubled in size. It now stretched from one end of the street to the other � filling the entire length of Baker Road West � and I couldn't understand why. Surely once I had finished work on the house and was out of sight the people outside should have drifted away, shouldn't they? I cautiously prised the bathroom window open and listened. Although not one of them spoke, there was a constant and very definite noise coming from the unwanted gathering. The sound of shuffling feet, bodies tripping and falling, things being knocked over in the street and smashed, tired hands being slammed against my fence... Individually the sounds were insignificant and indistinct but together they were uncomfortably loud. It was obvious that this was no longer a crowd which would simply drift away again. I could see even more people arriving and joining the edges of the huge gathering.

I ran to the back of the house, thinking that if I did have to leave quickly I could use the hardware store truck which I'd left parked on the track behind the fence at the end of the garden. It was no good, the truck was surrounded. Those bloody things had somehow found the entrance to the track and had filled it for as far as I could see in both directions. There were bloody hundreds of them out there, wedged in so tight that they could hardly move.

The front of the house was cut off, as was the back. Increasingly concerned and unsettled I fetched my binoculars from the study and tried to make a full assessment of the situation. The news wasn't good. My house � number 47 � is two-thirds of the way down Baker Road West which is a fairly straight road. Looking out of the back of my property there are more houses behind and to the right. To the left, two hundred and fifty yards (ten houses) away, is a large pub, The Highway. To my horror this morning I saw from the bedroom window that the pub car park was full of more of the dark, shuffling people. The crowd was immense, and it dwarfed the gathering at the front of my house. And, worst of all, all that separated them from my garden and my house was eleven wooden fences. The fences around my property are all in relatively good repair, but the same couldn't be said for those belonging to some of my neighbours. I would frequently see their fences wobbling in strong winds and I doubted whether they'd be able to withstand much force. I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that the mass of bodies in the car park would be able to exert more than enough collective pressure to bring them down.

At the other end of the road, almost out of sight from where I watched, was another crowd of similar proportions to the one outside the house. What had I done? What an idiot I had been. I knew that I was responsible for bringing the people here. In my haste and enthusiasm to protect the house and make it secure the noise I had made had inadvertently revealed my position to untold thousands of the damn things. Did I sit and wait this out or take my chances and run? My two original choices seemed suddenly to have been slashed to one. There was no obvious way of getting out.

I read through the government booklet again and again, hoping that I would find a page I'd somehow missed previously that might give me some idea of how to deal with my situation. No matter how hard I stared at the pages there was nothing. There was information on dealing with bomb threats, hostage situations, flu epidemics and terrorist attacks, basic first aid advice and a list of emergency telephone numbers (useless as the phone had been dead all week) but nothing to help me with the sudden and very real threat that I was facing. Apart from me the entire population had fallen and died, and now most of them seemed to have returned from the grave and were gravitating around my house. What the hell was I supposed to do?

During the course of the day now ending I have watched the crowds slowly draw closer. Just before one o'clock this afternoon the fence around the pub car park finally gave way under the weight of the countless bodies pushing against it. With the barrier down the people pushed, shoved and surged into the first garden only to stop when they slammed into the fence on the other side. It began to wobble and shake precariously but, for a time, it stayed intact, finally falling about an hour and a half later when it could no longer withstand the pressure being exerted from behind. The size of the crowd was incredible. As each fence collapsed it was as if a dam had burst its banks and the people poured through like an unstoppable wave.

Bill Peters, who lived at number 55, had a good, sturdy fence with concrete posts and a strong base which held up their progress for a while. Even Bill's fence wasn't good enough to stop them. They finally broke through at a quarter past four, leaving them just three gardens away from my home.

Day eight ends and day nine begins.

It's a little before one now and I'm sitting in Maddy's room watching them. I can see them from the end of the bed. I can see hundreds, probably thousands of shifting, bobbing heads moving in the cold moonlight. The recent nights have been overcast and dark but tonight the sky is clear and the moon is full and I can see everything. I wish it would disappear back behind the clouds. I'd rather see nothing.

I can't get out of here now. Even if I could, I'm not sure that I'd want to. This is my home. Everything I've ever worked for is here. The people I did all the work for are here too, buried at the bottom of the garden. This small plot of land is my world. I have nowhere else to go and there is no-one else to go to. I will not give up what is mine. I would rather die here than anywhere else, and as the clock ticks tonight the end of my life seems strangely inevitable.

I'm calm. I feel nervous and unsure and I don't want to face them, but I'm calm and I'm keeping my head. I will maintain my dignity and pride and I will continue to defend what's mine. There will be no kicking and screaming and no shame.

Oh, Christ... The splinter and crack of wood and another fence goes down. I move to the window and I can see that the crowd is closer than ever now, surging awkwardly across Pauline and Geoff Smart's lawn and slamming against the fence on the other side of their garden. They are now just two gardens away from me. It won't be long now.

Three-fifteen. I've sat here uselessly and watched them move closer. The penultimate fence is down now and a few thin wooden panels are all that separates the crowd from my property. I'm standing at the window now, looking directly at them. There doesn't seem to be any point trying to keep out of sight. It won't make any difference. Even if they don't know I'm here, their progress is unstoppable. They're coming here whatever.

I don't feel right. Something's missing. I know what it is � I shouldn't be stood up here watching them and waiting to mount my final defence, I should be down there. More to the point, I should be with Maddy and her mother when it happens. It's not the house I should be defending, it's my family.

If I'm out there then everything will happen as soon as the fence comes down. If I stay up here I'll be watching and waiting for God knows how long until they get into the house, and I'm not entirely sure they'll be able to get inside, no matter how many hundreds of them there are. They don't seem capable of doing anything that requires thought or concentration, they just blunder about continually. I doubt if any of them would even be able to open a bloody door. My provisions are stored out in the garage. I don't think I've got time to bring them all into the house now and even if I did I'd just be sat here with my memories, waiting for them to get in or for the end to finally arrive. Imagine starving to death in your own home. It's not right. That's not how I want to go...

I'll go outside.

Couple of hours and it'll all be over.

Lester Prescott quietly and tearfully left his daughter's room and shuffled across the landing to the bedroom he and Janice had shared for the last twenty-five years. Tired, dejected and with his heart heavy and full of resignation, sorrow and grief, he opened the wardrobe and took out his favourite jumper. Threadbare and tattered, it was the jumper he always used to wear when he was out in the garden at weekends. He pulled it on over his head and then sat down on the edge of the bed to tighten his shoe laces and pull up his socks.

Pausing only to take four cans of beer from his next week's rations, he took one last long look around his home and then went outside. He walked the length of the garden, looking around with pride and even now stopping to pick a weed from between the slabs on the patio and to tidy the edge of a flower-bed where the uncut grass has started to tumble towards Janice's prized plants. He stopped when he reached the garden shed and looked down at the two uneven mounds in the lawn where he'd buried his wife and only child.

Seems a shame that it all has to finish like this, he thought as he disappeared into the shed and fetched a spade and garden fork with which he could defend himself when the fence came down. He then squeezed his backside onto the seat of Maddy's swing and sat and looked back at the house. All that work for nothing. All those years of relentless number-crunching, day after day, week after week. Maybe he should have taken more time off? Perhaps he should have spent more time at home. And when he'd been at home, should he have spent more time sitting doing nothing with his family instead of working on his projects or hiding himself away in the garden shed? Lester opened his first can of beer and drank half of it in a series of quick, gassy gulps. He'd never been much of a drinker and the beer made him feel slightly sick. He belched and wiped his mouth and looked at the fence which was now rocking and shaking with the force of untold numbers of bodies behind it. Hope I can get through enough of these to take the edge off the fear, he thought, shaking his half-full can and stifling another belch. Bloody hell, Lester sighed sadly, this is like waiting to see the dentist. Just wish we could get it over with.

Lester had just started his final can of beer when it finally began. For the briefest of moments he'd actually managed to become distracted with pointless, random thoughts about nothing in particular and he'd almost forgotten what was about to happen. The sudden sharp crack of splintering wood brought him crashing back to reality. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the garden fork, holding it out in front of him like a four-pronged bayonet.

The fence had given way at the other end of the garden, nearer to the house. It was difficult to see much from his present position, but he was vaguely aware of dark, swarming movement around the building close to the garage door. It was frighteningly indistinct and random, but something was definitely happening. The fence � already weakened close to the house � now began to bow and buckle about halfway up the garden. Lester watched as it dipped further and further down, finally dropping so low that he could see the heads and shoulders of the dark, relentlessly advancing bodies on the other side. Their direction, although to a large degree random and uncoordinated, was obvious and inevitable.

As the first few bodies began their stilted, awkward walk towards him, Lester took up position in front of the graves of his family. His heart began to thump angrily in his chest. What would they do to him? Were they capable of an attack or would they just trample him down? He couldn't look away. His gut-wrenching fear made it impossible for him to do anything but stare directly at the dark advancing shapes. He wanted to stop them. He didn't care what they did to him, but he wanted to stop them from trampling the graves of his wife and daughter. I might not have been able to tell you how I felt about you when you were alive, he thought, picturing Maddy and Janice in his head, but I can show you now...

As the closest bodies lifted their weak, emaciated arms out for him, Lester lunged forward with the garden fork. He smashed into the chest cavity of the nearest cadaver, skewering it and sending it crashing to the ground. He wrenched the fork back out and swung it around at other shadowy shapes, catching one of them on the side of the head and practically decapitating it. Fuelled by adrenaline and fear he attacked again, diving deeper into the crowd, desperate to defend his family's honour. The final section of fence that had remained standing suddenly came down with a tremendous groan and an ominous heavy thump. Hundreds more bodies dragged themselves into Lester's garden. He wanted to keep fighting but he didn't have room to move. They surrounded him on every side now, reaching for him and grabbing at him tirelessly. With tears of panic in his eyes he span around, terrified and disorientated. Out of the corner of his eye he spied the dark silhouette of the garden shed and he ran towards it, pushing and kicking bodies out of the way. He reached out for the door handle, knowing that the end of his life was close but too scared to let it happen. He knew that he was doing nothing but prolonging the inevitable (perhaps only by a few minutes) when he flung the door open and crashed inside. The door flapped shut in the wind behind him, the sudden noise leaving the mass of bodies in no doubt as to where he was hiding. Now sobbing uncontrollably, Lester collapsed into his deckchair in the corner and waited.

So many memories. The garden shed, the coldest, weakest and most exposed part of his property, suddenly felt reassuringly strong and warm. In the half-light he looked around and remembered all that he was about to lose. The tools with which he and Janice had lovingly tended their small plot of land. The battered wooden tea-chest on which he used to leave his paper or his book and his drink when he dozed in the shed on long, relaxing Saturday afternoons. The plastic table and chairs which had been dragged out onto the patio each year when they'd entertained family and friends. And finally the box of garden games and the buckets and spades and all those memories of being with Janice and Maddy. All about to be lost forever. Most of it already gone. Lester knew that not long remained now.

More through luck than judgement a single skeletal hand managed to wedge itself between the flapping door and the door frame and threw it open. The first body dragged itself into the shed, followed by an apparently endless queue of others. Do I know you? Lester stared at the rotting shadow which lurched towards him. Were you once a friend or someone I used to work with, he wondered? Have I passed you on the street or did I work on your accounts? The creature's face, repellent in the cold moonlight and shadow, was vacant and unrecognisable.

Lester stood up to try and push the bodies away but their numbers now were too great. Forced onto his back foot, he struggled to stop himself moving back further into the shed. One of the bodies trying to get inside tripped and fell, pushing those in front of it forward with surprising force and speed. Like dominoes they fell, crashing into Lester and knocking him back. He slammed against the back wall of the shed unexpectedly, feeling a sudden stinging pain between his shoulders as the ten steel prongs of his garden rake punctured his skin. It was more a disorientating discomfort than pain as such. Lester lifted his arms and shielded his face from the rotting bodies which continued to advance, pushing him back onto the wall and forcing the spikes deeper and deeper into his back.

Warmth, he thought to himself as blood from the puncture wounds seeped down his back. The heat from the blood was strangely comforting. Unable to move or help himself, Lester's legs gave way underneath him and he crashed to the ground, taking several bodies down with him. The rake dislodged itself in the fall, and Lester was able somehow to roll over onto his back. He closed his eyes and screwed up his face as an unknown number of rotting feet trampled down on him.

Lying in parallel with the bodies of Maddy and her mother outside, Lester looked up at the roof of the garden shed for as long as he could keep his eyes open.

ROBERT WOOLGRAVE

I'm starting to think I might have got this all wrong. I've gone about it all the wrong way. I thought I was so bloody clever to start with, thought I knew what I was doing. I was too quick off the mark. Think I might have fucked it all up for myself.

Fuck the lot of them. That was the attitude I took from the minute all of this started. Didn't seem to be much point doing anything else. I had to be selfish, didn't I? If I'd have spent all my time looking out for the thousands of fuckers lying dead on the ground then I might as well have just given up and laid down with them. I had to try and give myself a fighting chance. It's pretty bloody obvious that it's every man for himself now. How could it not be when I'm the only man left?

Hindsight is a fucking great thing. If I'm honest though, I probably wouldn't have done anything any different if I'd had the chance to do it again. I did what pretty much everyone else would have done in the same situation. After I'd got my head around what had happened I spent some time looking for other survivors and trying to find help. It was pretty bloody obvious pretty bloody quickly that I was the only one left. I took one of the cars from work and drove round the city. I tried stopping in different places and shouting out for a while. I drove right into the middle of the pedestrian area and stopped the car in the shopping centre and yelled my bloody lungs out but no-one came. After that there didn't seem to be any point trying. If I was going to find other people, that was where they'd have been. And even if they were hiding in other places, everywhere was so damn quiet that the sound of the car's engine should have been enough to let anyone who was still alive know where I was. It didn't take long for me to come to the conclusion that, for some bloody ridiculous reason, there wasn't anyone else. When the bodies started to pick themselves up off the ground and walk again I decided that enough was enough. I had to start thinking about my safety and nothing else. Scariest fucking thing I'd ever seen, that was, seeing them dragging themselves up and moving around. Worse than watching the rest of the world dying around me last week. Completely fucking terrifying.

I didn't know where to start. I made the office my base. It was a choice between my flat and the office and as the other flats were filled with corpses it was a pretty simple decision to make. I went back home to fetch clothes and a few of my things, then I collected as much food as I could carry in the back of the car. I dumped it all in the office and set about trying to make the place a little safer and better protected. I work at CarLand, which is a bloody stupid name for what is � what was � one of the biggest and busiest second-hand car lots in the country. Now it's nothing more than a bloody big and bloody quiet car park.

The office was built a couple of years back. It's a two-storey concrete and glass building right in the middle of the car lot. It seemed as good a place as any to hide because CarLand's on a business park just off the motorway, it's not actually in the city. I spent some time clearing out all the desks and computers and other crap from the first floor and started trying to make myself comfortable. And that was where I made my first mistake. It was too bloody easy to concentrate on comfort at the expense of everything else. I should have stopped to think.

I took a van and fetched myself some stuff from the furniture store on the other side of the road. I got a bed and a mattress, a couple of easy chairs, a sofa and a table. Nearly crippled myself getting that bloody lot up the stairs. Then I started to get greedy. By the fourth day it was looking more and more likely that I was going to be on my own here for a long stretch so I made another trip out for food and drink and I stopped at the electrical superstore on the other side of the business park on the way back. I took as many battery powered things as I could find � CD players, portable DVD players, hand-held games consoles and the like � and as many packets of batteries as I could lay my hands on. I had to have something to keep myself occupied, didn't I? I didn't feel bad taking the stuff. There was nothing I could do, was there? It wasn't my fault that the rest of the world had dropped dead around me.

For a couple of days I was comfortable and I felt safe. Thought I was living a life of bloody luxury, I did. Space, quiet, comfort and nothing to do except eat food, drink, listen to music, watch films and play games. After a while I stopped watching films. It just didn't feel right. They left me feeling empty and sad and they reminded me of how everything used to be. I found myself some porn (nothing hardcore or extreme) but I couldn't even bring myself to watch it. I couldn't get turned on watching women who I knew were most probably dead, lying rotting somewhere. And music... I stopped listening to music too. I didn't like wearing headphones. I couldn't stand not being able to hear what was going on around me. Playing video games, on the other hand, seemed to help. I couldn't concentrate on puzzles or adventures, but I got a bigger kick than ever out of action and fighting games. They passed the time and it helped to be able to take out some of my frustrations on the screen.

Things started to go wrong last Saturday morning. I didn't think I'd been making much noise, but the little sound I did make was starting to have an effect on the bodies outside the office. The bloody things wouldn't leave me alone. They hadn't been interested in me before, but they suddenly changed. Christ, they only had to see me moving in the window and they'd turn and start walking towards the building. Bloody things. They were slow moving and weak and it didn't take much effort to get rid of them, but there seemed to be more and more of them. The way they moved scared me, and the way they just kept coming. It didn't matter what I did or didn't do, once they knew where I was they'd just keep dragging themselves towards me and they wouldn't fucking give up. I had to do something about them. I couldn't stand having them so close.

I spent all day Monday trying to make the office even more secure. I went outside with as many sets of keys as I could carry and I started moving cars closer to the building. I took my time and planned it properly. I parked as many cars as I could right around the outside walls of the building and then moved another layer up and parked them close to the first, and then another layer after that. It took me from ten in the morning until late afternoon to get the job done but it was worth it. The place is secure now. I left myself a way to get in and out if I have to and I also left a couple of cars ready just in case I have to get away quickly. Bottom line is, though, none of those fuckers are going to get me while I'm in here.

Something happened when I was moving the cars on Monday that really bothered me. I had to start getting aggressive with some of the bodies. It worked both ways, because those fucking things started getting aggressive with me first. I couldn't believe it � one of the fuckers just went for me completely out of the blue. No provocation or anything. If it had been any stronger then I might have been in real trouble. As it was I just threw it to the side and carried on. When I was inside the cars they were less of a problem. When I was on foot, though, things got a little nastier. By the end of the day I had to get violent with them to keep them out of my way and I didn't enjoy that at all. It wasn't my fault and I didn't have any choice, but I had to do some things that I really wasn't comfortable with. I mean, I had kids and old ladies coming at me for Christ's sake. Fucking hell, at one point I found myself battering a little kid around the head with a jack from the boot of one of the cars. I had to do it. I had no choice. It was get them before they get me � kill them or be killed. After a while I gave up trying to fight and manhandle them and I started wiping them out with the cars. I feel bad about it now, but there was a part of me that actually enjoyed it at the time. Fucking hell, by the end of the day I was chasing the fucking things round the car park, ploughing them down and giving myself points for killing them with style or at speed. Crazy really. It was only when I woke up the next morning and saw what I'd done that I realised how stupid I'd been. I must have killed more than fifty of the damn things. There was blood, guts and bits of bodies everywhere.

I don't feel so good today. I'm scared. It's late on Wednesday night and there are hundreds of those bloody things outside again. There's no way they can get to me in here but the damn things won't give up. They just stand there, watching and waiting for me. I've started trying to black out the windows because I don't want to see them and I don't want them to see me. I've started thinking some bloody crazy thoughts too. I'm starting to wonder whether they're here for revenge. Are they coming to get me because I wiped out so many of them? Am I a threat to them?

Christ I feel sick.

Don't know whether it's something I've eaten or something else that's making me feel like this. I've lived on crap since this started � mostly chocolate, crisps, biscuits and other snacks � because that's been the easiest kind of food to find. I haven't eaten bread or anything fresh for days. My stomach is bad. It might just be nerves. Jesus, I hope that's all it is. I stuck my head out of the door for a second this afternoon and all I could hear was the buzzing of thousands of fucking flies and I started thinking about the millions of fucking germs and diseases that are going to be filling the air soon, if they're not already there. I've probably been breathing them in for days now. For Christ's sake, the whole of the fucking car lot is packed solid with human remains.

This building is starting to smell. It's getting so bad in here that it smells worse than outside. It's getting to the point where I can't stand it any longer. I'm not helping. I've had diarrhoea since yesterday morning and I can't flush any of the toilets. They're all backed-up with shit and there's nothing I can do about it. I don't have any water or bleach to clean them with. I wish I'd been better prepared. Wish I'd thought more about what I'd need and spent more time getting food and water than fucking DVD players and games machines.

It's dark now. There's nothing to do but sit here and wait for morning. I'm frightened. I don't want to listen to music or play bloody games anymore. I don't want to be distracted. I want to know everything that's happening around me so that I'm ready for them, but at the same time I don't want to look. I don't want to see them.

I'm tired but I can't sleep. I slept for a little while this afternoon but it wasn't enough. I can't even bring myself to shut my eyes now, and even if I could the pain in my guts would keep me awake.

Those fucking things still won't leave. They just stand there waiting for me. They try to climb over the cars but they can't do it. They don't have the coordination or the strength. I don't know why they don't just go. They know I'm here, I'm sure of it, but I don't know what they want from me. I don't think they know.

I'll stay here for as long as I can but I'll have to try and find some medicine and proper food soon.

Maybe I'll try and get away in the morning. Maybe I'll wait another couple of days.

I've built myself a fucking prison.

KATE JAMES

They've been gone for days now. I'm not exactly sure how long it's been. I've lost all track of time. I've lost track of everything.

Things seemed to change when Michael, Carl and Emma left here. I should have gone with them. I wish I'd had the strength to go with them. I wanted to at the time but I just couldn't bring myself to leave. My head was telling me that what they were doing was right but when it came down to it nerves got the better of me. When it came to the crunch I couldn't move. Like everyone else here I was too scared. I was born in Northwich and I've lived here all my life, give or take a couple of years. Might as well finish it here. Might as well stay here now and end my days surrounded by the things and places that I know and used to know and...

Come on. Got to stop it. Got to try and stop thinking like this.

The rest of the people here are as frightened as I am. I can sense it coming off them. You can almost taste the fear in the air. No-one looks into anyone else's face anymore. People just stare at the ground. Because if you start trying to communicate with anyone else then you know you're going to end up talking about the mess we're in. When you do that you realise just how bad things are and you start thinking about how hopeless the situation really is. You start to realise that this is never going to get any better, and that this is as good as it's going to get. Talk to other people and you start to remember everything that you've lost.

The building is deathly silent, and has been for days.

This morning four of them went out to get supplies. It wasn't through choice, they did it because there's nothing left here and we were thankful that they agreed to go. We had absolutely nothing. No food, no water, no fresh clothes, no medicine, nothing. They went out in one of the cars that had been left in the car park outside the building. The noise of the engine sounded so loud and we just sat there in fear because it made us feel more vulnerable and exposed than we already were. The sudden noise made me realise just how quiet and dead the world has become. Hardly anyone speaks. People don't even argue or cry anymore. There isn't any point.

I could still hear the car in the distance even after they'd been gone for almost ten minutes. I couldn't tell whether it was getting closer or still moving further away. It sounded directionless. The engine noise eventually faded away to nothing but then returned about an hour later. I stood and looked out into the car park through the little window by the main door. The world seemed still and unmoving save for the bodies and the dead leaves which blew across the ground. After what felt like forever there was a sudden burst of movement and frantic, frightened activity as the car sped around the corner and back into the car park. I opened the door and started to help the others to get the things they'd collected out of the car and into the building.

The four men who had been outside were unnervingly quiet and subdued. They looked more desperate and frightened (if that was possible) than they had been before they'd left. I could tell that something was wrong but I didn't want to know what. At that moment my ignorance was my only protection, and a pretty bloody weak protection it was too. It was as we unloaded the car that I noticed the bodies. Three or four of them at first, but soon their numbers had increased dramatically. They were as slow and clumsy as any that we'd seen before, but they seemed to be dragging themselves down through the car park from the road. They seemed to be moving towards us intentionally. It was almost as if they'd followed the car. But that wasn't possible, was it?

One of the men looked back over his shoulder and saw them coming nearer.

`Come on,' he hissed, his voice full of fear. `Come on, get inside.'

The men barged past me, throwing bags and boxes into the hall and forcing their way back into the community centre. The last man � I think it was Stuart Jeffries � pushed me inside with him and slammed the door shut behind us.

Jag Dhandra, one of the men who'd been out, was sat on the floor next to where I was standing, slumped against the wall. His face was pale and his brown eyes wide with shock and disbelief. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He saw that I was staring at him. `They can see us,' he mumbled.

`What?' I asked, crouching down next to him.

`They can fucking see us!' he spat, his voice trembling with an uneasy combination of anger and fear. `Those bloody things out there can see us and hear us and...' He stopped talking momentarily and tried (unsuccessfully) to compose himself. He cleared his throat and tried to speak again. `We were getting the stuff. We were busy with what we were doing and we didn't notice them at first. When we looked up and tried to get out there were hundreds of them all around the building. They were just stood there, waiting for us.'

`But why? How could they...?'

`They could hear us!' he repeated, his voice suddenly louder. `The bloody things could hear us and see us!'

The rest of the people in the community centre were all silent, listening anxiously to Jag's terrified words. When he stopped talking I became aware of another noise behind me � a dull, constant thumping. I stood up and walked back towards the door. I could feel it moving as the bodies outside collided with it. Although weak and decaying they seemed to be hitting the side of the building with controlled force. I looked out through the window. There was already a crowd � somewhere between ten and twenty of them as far as I could see � gathered around the front of the building.

Christ, we'd been lucky until then. Stuck out there right on the edge of the town we'd somehow managed to stay pretty isolated and safe. Maybe it was because of our location, tucked away to the side of a once busy main road, out of sight. Perhaps it was just because we'd hardly made a sound for days that we managed to escape their attention for so long. Whatever the reason, the trip out for supplies today has blown whatever cover we might have had.

This afternoon the group has disintegrated. Already battered and bruised by days of constant frustration, fear and grief, the people here seem now to have lost the last degree of control that they'd managed to hold onto. And once a few people started showing signs of cracking, most of the others quickly followed.

The food and supplies that had been brought back earlier didn't last long. Like a pack of starving dogs we descended (me included) in search of much needed food and drink. I couldn't help myself. I felt ashamed and degraded as I scrabbled around on the dirty floor on my hands and knees with the rest of them, desperately ripping open bags and boxes in search of anything that might give me a little energy and nourishment. Had it not been for the fear which distracted and tormented me, the hunger pains that have ripped at my gut for days now would surely have killed me.

A couple of minutes ago two men and a woman began to fight. I don't know what caused it. It started in another room and I didn't know it was happening until the woman stumbled out of the room and tripped and fell on top of me. My face got smashed into the floor and I immediately tasted blood in my mouth. The sudden shock and fright prevented me from feeling any pain at first but I can feel my split lip stinging now. The woman got up, pushed herself away from me, and then ran screaming back towards one of the men who had followed her out into the hall. The force of her impact sent them both smashing into the nearest wall which shook with the collision. I was scared. As they disappeared back into the room I grabbed hold of all the bags and boxes I could lay my hands on and crawled away into the shadows. The fight still isn't over. Its spilled out into the hall again. More people are getting involved. The stockpile of supplies has quickly disappeared but people are still desperately hungry. They're joining in the ruckus, desperate to get their hands on anything remaining. I'm sitting in virtual darkness in the quietest, most secluded corner of the building I've been able to find. I'm looking through the scraps I managed to keep hold of, although most of it is rubbish. Even though the others are being distracted by the fight I don't dare make a sound for fear of people turning on me and trying to take my things. I've got a tin of cat food, a small bottle of milk drink (which has probably gone sour), a box of headache tablets and a tube of toothpaste. I've started to eat the toothpaste. I can't bring myself to eat the cat food yet.

The noise in here is frightening and confusing. It's late afternoon and in the low gloom it's difficult to see what's happening around me. It's starting to get dark outside and it's getting harder and harder to see who's who in the shadows which fill the main hall. Every so often the frantic noises and scuffles stop momentarily and, in those few, random moments, I can hear more sounds coming from outside the building.

The man called Ralph (who thought he was in charge to begin with but who's hardly spoken or even moved for the last few days) has suddenly become more vocal and animated. He's scrambled up onto his feet and he's climbed up onto a chair to try and look out of one of the small rectangular windows which run along the length of the main hall. His tired, frightened face is pressed against the glass and he's trying to look down towards the ground. Even from over here I can see that the thin outside wall he's leaning against is being battered from outside.

He's looking round now, trying to get people's attention.

`Christ,' he yells, his voice uncomfortably loud and unsteady, `they're trying to get in! The bloody things are trying to get inside!'

His words have attracted the attention of everyone in the building and, for a second, the entire group has become silent. The arguments and the fights have stopped. People have stopped what they're doing and they're standing still and listening. And now we can all hear it � there's a constant barrage of bangs, thumps and crashes coming from all directions. It sounds like the whole community centre is surrounded. If the man I spoke to earlier was right and the bodies can somehow now respond to the things they can see and hear, then it stands to reason that their individual interest in something is going to attract more and more of them to the same place. The noise they made earlier with the car and the arguments was enough to attract a few of the corpses. The shouts and cries and screams which have come from this place since then must have attracted many, many more.

After the brief moment of stunned silence, panic is again tearing through the building.

Ralph has jumped down from where he's been standing and he's lost his footing and fallen onto another man. The second man (I think his name is Simon Peters) has picked himself up and has grabbed hold of Ralph by the scruff of his neck. Ralph is kicking and screaming. I'm trying to push myself further and further into the shadows because I know that the trouble kicking off in the middle of the hall is about to boil over into something far more serious. The people here are right on the edge. It's not going to take much to push them over...

Ralph's been shoved down to the ground. He's lying there and I can see him panting and struggling to get up, his face pressed hard against the dirty floor. He's half-turned towards me. Even from a distance I can see sheer and absolute terror in his face. Like a man possessed he's somehow managed to push himself up and he's knocked Peters out of the way. Pumped full of adrenaline and fear, he's punching and kicking at Peters (who is half his size) and he's sent him reeling. Now Peters is on the ground and their positions have been reversed. With a desperate, terrified look in his eyes Ralph has now picked up the chair he's spent most of the last day sitting on and he's lifted it above his head. Peters is looking up at him and he's trying to crawl away backwards. I can't bear to watch. I know what's going to happen. Ralph starts to bring the chair down and I look away. I can hear him smashing the chair down on the other man. I can hear him grunting with effort and picking up the chair again and again and smashing it down on the body at his feet. I force myself to look up. I have to know what's happening. Now Peters is lying in the middle of the room in a crumpled heap, twitching and shaking with blood dripping from his head. Ralph is standing over him, still holding the chair up high, looking ready to strike again if Peters moves.

Someone � I couldn't see who it was � just ran at Ralph and tried to grab the chair from him. He's swung it at them, and he's caught them on the side of the head and sent them crashing to the ground. Now someone else � it might have been Jag Dhandra � has just run past me, sprinted down the length of the hall, tripped over Peters' now motionless body and is running down towards the main entrance.

I know what he's doing.

Jesus Christ, he's opening the door.

Oh, God, Dhandra's lost it and he's made a run for it. People are trying to get to him but it's too late to stop him. The door has been opened. I can already hear the wind and feel the cold air blowing into the building from outside. People are screaming. I can see them rushing to grab their belongings and get away from the door and move back towards this end of the community centre and...

And now I can see them.

Bodies.

There's an endless stream of grey, featureless bodies slowly dragging themselves into the room. The people out in the hall can move with much more speed and control but they're instinctively recoiling from the painfully slow cadavers which are lurching towards them.

I have to get out of here. Jesus, I need to find a way out.

There's no way I can get back through the hall � there are far too many bodies in here now � and I don't know of any other exit apart from the windows. Now there are other people around me, all moving in the same direction and trying to get away from the sea of dead flesh that continues to push its way inside. I'm trying to stand up but it's difficult to move. The main hall is almost completely full of corpses now. Ralph is still in the middle of the room, swinging the chair around like a madman, knocking the bodies off their already unsteady feet. Their flesh is decaying and each blow from the chair rips their rotting shells apart. The shadowy-grey of the room is now flowing with dark red and crimson-browns. Ralph has just lost his footing and slipped in the bloody mire. He's gone down. I can see him struggling on the floor. He can't get up again. He's been trampled under the feet of countless corpses.

I'm being carried forward by the stream of panicking survivors. There's nothing I can do but move with them. I can't stop and I can't go backwards. Somehow I've managed to keep hold of the cat food and tablets and I'm grabbing them as tightly as I can as the crowd surges and pushes through the semi-darkness. One of the women to my right has climbed up onto a chair and is forcing herself out through a small skylight in one of the store rooms. Others are following her. I don't have any choice, I have to do the same if I want to get out of here. I'm pushing my way into the room to get to the window. I tripped then. There's a body beneath my feet. I can't see who it is but they're screaming and crying out for help. I wish that I could do something for them but I can't. I have to keep moving.

I've managed to get up onto the chair and I'm trying to push myself through the skylight and get out. The gap is too narrow. I don't think I'm going to be able to get through. Can't go back. There are people pushing me from below, all trying to get out too. I have to try and get through... God it hurts. My head and shoulders are through. I can feel the window frame digging into my skin.

Somehow I'm out, and now I'm standing on a small square area of roof. There are already too many of us up here. A couple of people have either jumped or have fallen down to the ground below. It's not very high and I'm sure I'll survive the drop if I have to. I'm near the edge of the building now and I can see that there's a crowd of dark, shuffling bodies below me. I want to try and get over to the other side but I can't. The constant stream of people fighting to get out of the community centre is pushing me back towards the edge and I know I'm going to fall. I can't do anything to stop myself...

Kate landed in the middle of the crowd of cadavers, their shell-like, empty bodies cushioning her and breaking her fall. Winded and stunned for the briefest of moments, she scrambled to her feet and began to run, disappearing into the municipal park behind the community centre. The autumn evening was cold, dark and wet and a patchy fog covered the scene. Terrified and disorientated she forced herself to keep moving away from the community centre, heading deeper and deeper into the darkness and smashing the numerous bodies she collided with to the ground.

She couldn't keep running indefinitely. Kate was overweight, undernourished, tired and unfit. For a while she slowed down to walking pace before finally giving in to her exhaustion and stopping.

A children's playground appeared through the mist. Kate sat on one of the swings and held her head in her hands as she listened to the helpless screams and yells which rang out from the building she had left behind.

Alone.

Terrified.

Too tired to move.

Kate James spent her final day in Northwich. Still sitting in the playground in the park, cowering under a slide, as daylight broke she became painfully aware that she was hopelessly exposed and vulnerable outside. She also quickly learnt that her every movement attracted the attention of the obnoxious bodies. Every step she took and every sound she made inevitably drew ragged crowds of them closer and closer to her.

At nine o'clock in the evening, sitting in complete darkness in the attic of a nondescript semi-detached house halfway down a similarly indistinct street, she decided to give up. The pain and the effort had proved too much for her. She took the headache tablets she still carried and every packet of pills and bottle of medicine she could find in the cold and silent house, and swallowed enough to make sure she wouldn't wake up again. DAY SEVENTEEN

AMY STEADMAN Part v

Amy Steadman's corpse has continued its remarkable transformation. It is now more than two weeks since death and its physical deterioration has continued unabated. As the shell of the body has continued to fester and decay, however, a modicum of understanding and control has slowly returned. Defying all previous understanding of the changes undergone by the human body after death and during decomposition, as the physical condition of the body has worsened, so its mental strength has returned. Although still only a shadow of what it once was, the corpse now demonstrates remarkable self-awareness. Involuntary movements and reactions have very gradually become voluntary.

Time has taken its toll on each one of the millions of cadavers still walking the streets. Their flesh is disintegrating and countless internal and external chemical reactions are affecting the composition and strength of the remaining skin, muscle and other bodily components. Steadman's corpse is no different. Its flesh has darkened and dried out in places as bodily fluids have steadily drained away. As a result of these changes the body has also become breeding grounds for huge numbers of insects. Amy Steadman's corpse is a melting pot of insect activity. It is riddled with maggots.

The bodies have only one need, and that is a basic and instinctive desire to continue to exist. Self-preservation is each corpse's only concern. Because of their worsening physical state, however, the bodies have only a limited ability to defend and protect themselves. As a result their reactions now are frequently exaggerated and overly aggressive. The bodies will fight to protect themselves at all costs even, perversely, at their own expense. It is not uncommon to see a body attack and tear another corpse apart in self-defence, and sustain substantial damage to itself in the process. This is the norm with those bodies that are particularly badly decayed. Where the process has been slowed � as with Amy Steadman's cadaver which initially spent several days indoors protected from the elements � their actions are slightly more reserved and controlled.

It is now early on Thursday morning and a light, misty rain has been falling since dawn. Amy Steadman's body is shuffling along the side of a large, warehoused-sized furniture store. There are a large number of other corpses nearby, although the reason for their swollen numbers is not immediately apparent. It may be that there has previously been an incident here which initially attracted the attention of many bodies, and that this is the residue of the crowd which is gradually disappearing. The fact that many of these bodies seem to be moving in the same overall direction, however, indicates that this may be the beginning of the incident, not the end.

Steadman's corpse continues to drag itself wearily around the building and the surrounding streets until a single noise in the near distance attracts its attention. It is the sound of a survivor preparing to leave its shelter to make an unavoidable trip out into the open for food and other supplies. The corpse, along with all the others in the immediate vicinity, immediately turns and begins to move towards the source of the sound.

The lone survivor is based in an office building in the centre of a large and sprawling car lot. Over the last few days the survivor, a young male, has attempted to fortify and strengthen his hideout with limited success. As the behaviour of the bodies which plague the countryside has changed, so has the survivor been forced to change his priorities. Failing dismally to appreciate the severity and potential long-term problems caused by the infection, the survivor is now struggling to stay alive. Initially believing naively that he could continue to exist at something close to a `pre-infection' standard of living, he focussed his attention on comfort rather than practical necessities. As a result he has been vastly under-prepared for the length and harshness of his isolation. Unable to easily venture outside for supplies (as a result of the increased number of bodies nearby and also because of the fortifications made to his location) he has been trapped without access to water, sanitation, medicine or food of any real nutritional value. The survivor is in very poor health. He is dehydrated and malnourished. After an aborted attempt to fetch supplies three days ago, his mental state is also questionable. At this point in time the difference between each individual corpse and the survivor is remarkably slight. Because of their numbers and lack of emotion, however, the bodies are now at a clear advantage.

In the middle of the car lot the survivor has now emerged from the office building where he has hidden for the last two weeks. He moves slowly in an attempt to avoid detection. Unfortunately, because of his poor condition, his movements are uncharacteristically clumsy and lethargic. He plans to take a car and drive until he finds a supermarket or other such place where he might be able to locate the supplies he needs. He is confident that once he is in the car he will be relatively safe. His activity, however, has not gone unnoticed. His pained, awkward movements and deep, rasping breathing have already attracted the attention of several of the nearest cadavers. An inevitable chain reaction of movement has now begun throughout the crowd as more bodies gravitate towards him.

Amy Steadman's body is approaching the scene. It has crossed the main road between the furniture store and the car lot and is heading towards the office building. It does not yet recognise this building as the source of the disturbance, rather it instead focuses on the increased levels of movement all around it. From many directions the dead are closing in.

Some bodies � those that have decayed more than Steadman's � are distracted from the survivor by the moment of other corpses around them. Steadman's corpse, however, has learnt to distinguish between the dead and other distractions. Although it will not hesitate to attack any cadaver that threatens it, Steadman's corpse no longer sets out to destroy other bodies. It concentrates on moving towards the source of the disruption, although it is not fully aware why. It is likely that it sees this disturbance � whatever is causing it � as a threat to its continued existence which must be destroyed.

The survivor is weak and, after a long period of frightened inactivity, he finds the sudden effort of moving at speed unexpectedly difficult. Just leaving the building has left him feeling light-headed and breathless. Already nervous and unsure, he has stopped in the shadows at the side of the building and is now trying to summon up the strength to make the hundred or so metre dash to the car he has left ready for such an escape. In amongst several hundred other cars it is indistinct and unnoticeable and he is hoping that this will allow him to escape successfully. He intends to return to this place once he has collected sufficient supplies. Steadman's corpse � along with almost a hundred others � is now less than ten meters away from the front of the office building.

The survivor is now aware of the sudden movement all around him but is unsure what to do. The poor weather has reduced his visibility and he is unaware of the level of danger he is in. His choices are becoming more limited as each second ticks by. He can now either retreat back into his hideout (as he did earlier in the week) or continue with his attempt to get out and fetch supplies. He knows that either option is equally dangerous � if he turns back he will starve and his sickness will worsen, if he leaves then he risks exposing himself to the immediate danger of attack from the hordes of bodies which are dragging themselves ever nearer. He knows, however, that he will have to leave eventually and that going back inside will only delay the inevitable. He decides to make a run for the car.

Indecision has ultimately proved to be this survivor's undoing. His brief but unnecessary delay has given sufficient numbers of bodies enough time to drag themselves into the narrow space between his present position and the car. Confused and bewildered, he begins to make a desperate and painful run towards the car. He attempts to swerve around the first few bodies which reach out for him and is successful. Another couple of meters forward, however, and there are too many for him to avoid. He tries to double-back on himself but once the first creature has caught hold of him he is trapped. He attempts to release the corpse's grip on him and has almost managed to do this when a further group of bodies close in on him and drag him down.

Amy Steadman's corpse is at the front of the crowd which swallows up and kills this survivor. With countless others it lashes out at the survivor's flesh and tears the helpless man apart. The survivor's bloody, steaming remains are dropped on the floor and discarded.

Half an hour later and the scene has begun to change again. With the survivor gone the crowds of bodies have started to drift away again in random directions. Amy Steadman's body limps alone through the mist along a wide and silent road strewn with corpses.

THE HUMAN CONDITION Part ii � GOING DOWN

Ten days.

That's how long we've been sat here now. That's how long we've been sat here doing nothing except shouting, arguing and fighting with each other. This can't go on much longer.

John Proctor slumped dejectedly against the wall and held his head in his hands. He watched the others through the gaps between his fingers. Christ, how he'd grown to despise these people over the last week and a half.

Proctor had always been taught (and had always taught others) to look for the good in other people. Trapped here on the top floor of the hotel, waiting to either starve to death or be flushed out by huge crowds of bodies, he couldn't help but concentrate on the faults and irritating personality traits which made the five other survivors trapped with him the worst cell-mates he could have imagined.

Barry Bushell. Now there was an interesting character. It had taken Proctor some time to work him out, and he still wasn't sure whether or not he understood him. Bushell had been understandably annoyed when the other survivors had arrived and had made such a mess of his precious hotel. Even now he'd maintained a slight distance between himself and the others. He spent a lot of time alone in the master bedroom. No-one else ever went in there. Proctor had initially admired his confidence in wearing women's clothing but he struggled to understand why he did it. There must be some underlying sexual issue or confusion, he'd thought. Whatever the reason, he'd been surprised when, a couple of days ago, Bushell had reverted to wearing more `normal' clothing. He'd plucked up courage to ask him why he'd changed his appearance again after being so defiant for so long. Bushell had explained that he'd done it to shut the others up. He'd said he'd had enough of the constant digs and jibes from Wilcox and Elizabeth , and tireless and pointless questions and sideways glances from that bloody annoying woman Doreen. Why didn't they just leave him alone? What difference did it make to any of them what he was wearing? That said, he personally found it easier to relate to Bushell when he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt rather than full drag. It really shouldn't have made any difference but it did. Bushell now sat on his own in the doorway of his bedroom quietly reading a book that he'd already read at least twice before in the last week.

Elizabeth and Wilcox had a strange relationship. They seemed to detest each other and enjoy each other's company in equal measure. One minute they were fighting, the next laughing. They were of a similar age and background, maybe that was the connection? Proctor sensed that the decision to fight or laugh was predominantly made by Elizabeth . She was fairly attractive (very attractive when compared to Doreen who was almost forty years her senior) and, although he hadn't seen or heard it for himself, he suspected she used her femininity to twist Wilcox around her little finger. Perhaps he was doing her a disservice? Perhaps he was jealous?

Now Doreen he couldn't stand. No ifs, buts or maybes, he simply couldn't abide her. He hated her grating voice and her witch's cackle of a laugh. He hated her smell and the cloud of cigarette smoke which followed her around the room. He hated her wizened, wrinkled skin and her yellow teeth. Most of all he hated the fact that she moaned constantly about everything, anything and everyone. She had more aches, pains and problems each day than the rest of them put together. No matter how low or desperate someone may have been feeling, Doreen had it worse. It had reached the stage where Proctor now tried to avoid all contact with her, which wasn't easy when they were trapped together in such a confined space.

It was interesting just how little the rest of them had to do with Paul Jones. Wilcox in particular hardly ever spoke to him. Perhaps there was an element of competition there? Perhaps they both considered themselves to be the all-important alpha male of the group? Whatever the reason they kept their distance from each other, although in all fairness Paul Jones tended to stay apart from everyone else. He both infuriated and fascinated Proctor. Such an isolated and solitary person who, when he could be persuaded, added so much to the group. He was obviously intelligent, perhaps too bright for his own good? His distance from the others came across as an unpleasant arrogance and superiority. Perhaps he just wasn't very good at relating to other people? On the other hand perhaps he really did consider himself to be better than the rest? Funny, Proctor thought, that these six people should find so many faults with each other. There they were, all living under the same cloud of uncertainty and fear, and yet they couldn't work together. He was as bad as the rest of them and he'd freely admit it. Shame though, that in the face of such uncertainty, they still preferred to splinter and fragment because of trivial differences rather than trying to work together for the common good.

Doreen and Wilcox were sat at the dining table playing cards, their faces long and emotionless. Close by Elizabeth dozed on a sofa. Like Bushell, Paul Jones also had a small area of turf which he'd marked out as his own. His usual position was sitting on a chair looking out of the wide floor-to-ceiling window which overlooked the front of the hotel. From there he could just about see the rear-end of the bus sticking out of the gaping hole in the wall where the building's main entrance had once been. Although much fewer in number, even now more bodies were still stumbling through the rubble to get into the building. Ten days on and the volume of dead flesh which had forced itself into the building was continuing to increase.

An uncomfortably familiar mixture of boredom and curiosity forced Proctor to get up from where he sat and wander over to Jones. Jones noticed him but didn't react, hoping that if he didn't acknowledge the other man he'd go away again. He didn't.

`Any change?' Proctor pointlessly asked.

Why the hell did you ask that question, Jones wondered? Was he really that desperate to start a conversation, or was he just too stupid to look out of the window for himself? In response Jones grunted and shrugged his shoulders.

`Still more of them coming?'

Jones grunted again.

`You'd think they'd have given up by now, wouldn't you?'

`Suppose,' Jones mumbled. Finally, a response! `Fuck all else to distract them round here though, isn't there?'

Now it was Proctor's turn to grunt an unintelligible answer. Talking to Jones made him feel uncomfortable. He never knew what to say for the best. He could never gauge the level of the conversation and Jones always seemed to gain the upper hand, leaving him looking and feeling stupid. He turned around and was about to walk away when he stopped himself. Looking round the vast but strangely empty suite there didn't seem to be any point going anywhere else. Nothing was happening. Might as well stay here and look out of the window.

Proctor knew that it annoyed the other man, but he couldn't help himself incessantly asking unnecessary questions.

`Think they'll ever stop?'

`What, stop moving or stop trying to get in here?'

`Both.'

`Yes.'

`Yes what?' `Both. Yes they'll eventually stop moving and yes, they'll eventually stop trying to get in here.'

`When?'

`Quarter past six tomorrow night. How the fuck should I know?'

`Sorry.'

`They'll stop moving when they've rotted down so much that they just can't do it anymore and they'll stop trying to get in here when there's so fucking many of them crammed into this fucking building that there's no more room for them. And please don't ask me which is going to happen first because I haven't got a fucking clue.'

Proctor took that as his cue to move. A sudden tirade like that from Jones meant that he'd had enough of speaking to you and it was time to disappear before he told you to go. Dejected, Proctor turned and ambled slowly back towards the middle of the huge penthouse apartment. It had been an impressive sight when they'd first arrived there. Now the Presidential Suite looked as ragged and rundown as the rest of the decomposing world. Tired, bored and uneasy, he walked towards the kitchen to look for scraps of food. He knew there wouldn't be much there. They were rapidly running out of supplies. Maybe he'd find something in the rubbish that one of the others had missed...

Proctor waded through the discarded boxes, bags, wrappers and other litter that covered the floor of the suite's small kitchen and thought about Jones' words. He was right, the bodies would keep trying to force their way into the building until there was no more space. That was a terrifying thought, and one which had generated a lot of animated discussion but very little action over the last ten days. If things kept progressing as they had been � and there was no reason to suggest that they wouldn't � then a time would inevitably come very soon when the building in which they now sheltered would be filled to capacity with dead flesh, leaving the group stranded without supplies in their once-luxurious top-floor airlock. But what could they do about it? They'd talked and argued about the problem on and off without reaching any conclusion or workable solution. There had so far been enough food in the kitchen and enough space between the living and the dead for the survivors to enable discussions to be put off until tomorrow, and then the day after that, and the day after that. On the whole the group seemed content not to do anything until they absolutely had to. Proctor sensed that soon, one way or another, they would have no choice but to take action.

Proctor had, for his part, tried to do something constructive. Granted it wasn't much, but (as he frequently reminded them), it was more than the rest of them had done. A once keen photographer, five days ago he'd found a digital camera and batteries lying around the Presidential Suite. Bushell had brought them back with him from an early trip into town but had never used them. In a moment of unexpected initiative he'd crept out onto the landing, attached the camera to the end of a fire-hose, and lowered it down the middle of the staircase. Through trial and error he'd managed to work out what length of hose was necessary to lower the camera to the floor below, then the floor after that and the floor after that. At the same time he set the camera's timer and flash to take a single picture once the required level had been reached. With surprising accuracy he had soon developed a means to take photographs of the main staircase at each level (albeit only as far down as the hose would stretch) and, therefore, he'd found a way of measuring the speed and progress of the dead when they finally appeared. Their incalculably vast numbers meant that the bodies at the front of the crowd were continually being pushed and shoved forwards and up the stairs. With corpses continuing to pour through the bus-shaped hole in the hotel wall, once the ground floor reception had been completely filled with flesh there was nowhere else for them to go but up. The enormous crowd was slowly channelling and funnelling itself further up the stairs and deeper into the hotel. Each time Proctor hauled the camera back up to the top floor the group crowded around the little screen on the back of its casing to monitor the progress of the slowly climbing cadavers. There had been no sign of them initially, but Proctor had continued to take his photographs every morning regardless. And then, yesterday morning, the furthest advanced of them had been photographed on the twenty-second floor. It was a simple enough calculation to make � the dead had covered twenty-two floors in about nine days. They were climbing at the rate of just over two floors a day. The second simple calculation the group made was altogether more disturbing. It was Thursday today. If their rate of climb continued at the same speed (and there was no immediate reason why it should change) the bodies would reach the twenty-eighth floor sometime on Saturday or by Sunday at the very latest.

Proctor found a strange sense of enjoyment in his role of chief cameraman and body-watcher. It made him feel useful. It made him feel indispensable and gave him a purpose. Perhaps even more importantly, it gave him a role which he could hide behind and use as an excuse for not doing anything else. He saw the camera as a potential way out of some of the pretty bloody unpleasant and downright dangerous jobs which would inevitably come their way over the course of the next few days.

Three forty-five. The afternoon sun had begun another rapid descent towards the horizon, filling the Presidential Suite with harsh orange light and long, dragging shadows. Rather than spreading themselves around the edges of the apartment, on this rare occasion the six survivors were sat together around the dining table. There was no meal to be eaten or food to be shared this afternoon. The reason for sitting together was to finally talk about the issues they'd avoided talking about for the last ten days. The agenda for their discussions was dishearteningly short and simple. Firstly, they had hardly any food supplies left. Secondly, according to the photograph Proctor had taken earlier, the bodies were now close to reaching floor twenty-four.

`So exactly how much food have we got?' Doreen asked.

`A days worth,' Bushell replied, `maybe two at the very most. After that there's nothing.'

`We must have something...?'

`No,' he said again, shaking his head, `we won't have anything.'

`But...?'

`But what?' snapped Wilcox. Christ, how did they get through to this bloody woman? `Listen, we've got nothing, okay? We're down to our last few meals. We haven't got an extra little stash of food tucked away for emergencies. After this we'll have absolutely nothing. Fuck all. Zip.'

Doreen slumped back in her seat and stared into space.

`So what are we going to do?' she eventually asked. More sighs from around the table.

`That's what we're trying to decide, you stupid cow!' Wilcox groaned. `Bloody hell, are you on the same planet as the rest of us?'

`Wish I wasn't,' she grunted.

`So we've got two problems,' Proctor summarised, trying his best to control the direction of the conversation. `We need to try and get out and get supplies but...'

`But this building is full of bodies,' continued Bushell, `thanks to the hole you lot made in the front door.' He glanced across at Wilcox as he spoke. Uncomfortable, Wilcox looked down and did his best to avoid eye contact with anyone.

`So what do we do?' Doreen asked again.

`Is there any way of getting out of here and back up again?' Elizabeth wondered.

`Not that I know of,' Bushell answered quickly. `Getting down's no problem, we can use the fire escape.' He nodded towards an inconspicuous looking door in the far corner of the room. `The problem is what to do once you're down there,' he continued. `Open the fire escape door on the ground floor and you'll probably find yourself face to face with a few thousand bodies. And if you manage to get outside, Christ knows how you're going to get back in again afterwards. It'd be impossible if you were carrying supplies...'

`There must be a way?'

`Get a sheet, hold it like a parachute, climb up to the roof and jump off,' Wilcox suggested to Doreen, less than seriously.

`Do you think that will work?' she asked, her response meeting with groans of disbelief from several of the others.

`Only if you try it, Doreen,' he smirked.

`How would I get up again?'

Wilcox didn't bother to answer.

`We should go down there,' he instead suggested. `We should go down there and torch the place on our way out. Set light to the building and watch the whole fucking place go up in flames.'

`What good's that going to do?' wondered Bushell.

`It would distract them. Christ, the heat and light this place burning would generate would be more than enough of a distraction for us to be able to get away. They're not going to be interested in a handful of people sneaking out the back door if that's going on, are they?'

Wilcox's plan was met with a muted silence from the others. They each thought long and hard about it, but none of them were sure. It wasn't the wanton destruction that put them off, rather it was the thought of running again...

`What about the cradle?' Proctor said suddenly. `We've talked about it before, haven't we? Barry said there's a window-cleaner's cradle half way up the side of the building. We could use that to get us down, couldn't we? We could use it to get back up as well...'

`What about power,' Jones grunted from the end of the table. The others turned to face him. `How do you think you winch it up and down? Think the window-cleaners used to pull themselves up thirty floors by hand? No power, no cradle.'

Another idea quashed.

`Seems to me that if we can get out of here in one piece then maybe that's what we should be looking to try and do. Maybe we're going to have to find ourselves somewhere else to hide,' Elizabeth said dejectedly. Bushell shook his head.

`I don't want to leave here,' he sighed, his voice soft and tired. `I can't see any point in running.'

`Of course there's a point,' sneered Doreen.

`Is there?'

`Yes...' she stammered, sounding far from certain, `of course there's a point...'

Bushell shrugged his shoulders.

`I'm not so sure there is.'

`So what are you saying?' snapped Wilcox. `Do we just sit here and starve? Fucking good plan, well done!'

`What are you running for?'

`Because I don't want to die,' Wilcox answered quickly.

`Good answer. Why don't you want to die?'

He struggled to answer. It was a simple enough question, or maybe it was a trick...

`No-one wants to die, do they?' he said quietly.

`But is it the end of your life you're worried about, or is it death itself that scares you?'

`What?'

`Are you worried that you're not going to achieve everything you've always wanted to achieve, or is it the pain of being torn apart by hundreds of bloody bodies that bothers you?'

Again Wilcox couldn't answer. Neither could any of the others.

`What point are you making, Barry?' Proctor wondered.

He shrugged his shoulders and sat back in his seat.

`Sorry, I'm just thinking out loud really. I'm not trying to wind you all up. I guess what I'm saying is that I can't see a way out here. If we run we'll find somewhere else to hide for a while, then something will happen and before you know it we'll be moving on again, and again, and again...'

`Not necessarily,' Elizabeth protested.

`No, but that's probably what will happen. We have to be ready to expect the unexpected. Christ, I thought I was doing okay here until someone drove a bloody bus into the building!'

`But running has got to be better than just giving up and waiting to die, hasn't it?'

Bushell shrugged his shoulders again.

`I'm not so sure. That's what I used to think, but I don't know anymore. Every morning when I wake up, it becomes clearer and clearer to me that my life is just about over. We're massively outnumbered and society is finished. Christ, we're sitting here talking about risking our necks just to get food. What kind of a life are any of us going to have if getting the basics like food and shelter are so difficult?'

Silence.

`Still don't understand you,' Doreen admitted. `What were you saying about death and dying?'

Bushell rubbed his tired eyes and explained.

`I don't want to keep struggling and fighting forever,' he said sadly, `and I don't think any of you do either. If I'm completely honest, I just want to relax and let things happen naturally. I don't think we were supposed to survive. So while I don't relish the idea of letting those things out there tear me limb from limb, I'm not too bothered if I die.'

`But that's...' Proctor was about to protest.

`It's not normal,' Bushell interrupted. `It's not what any of you were expecting me to say. We've been pre-programmed and conditioned by society all of our lives to keep fighting and keep struggling. All I'm saying is that there's no point anymore. Just sit back and relax and let nature take it's course.'

More silence.

`No,' Wilcox said suddenly.

`What?'

`I said no,' he repeated. `No way am I just going to sit here and wait to die. Absolutely no way... There must be more we can do.'

`I'm with you,' Paul Jones said, similarly unimpressed by Bushell's words. Proctor looked up in surprise at Jones' sudden allegiance to the other man. Strange how their apparent dislike and distrust of each other had immediately been put to one side now that their backs were against the wall.

`So what do we do?' asked Elizabeth .

That was the million dollar question that no-one could immediately answer. A heavy and ominous silence descended on the room as the six individuals quietly considered their limited options and the apparent hopelessness of their situation.

`Exactly how full of bodies is this place?' Jones asked.

`They're almost up to the twenty-fourth floor, I told you that a few minutes ago. Weren't you listening to...' Proctor answered before being interrupted.

`No, you told us how far up the staircase they've managed to get, you didn't tell us how full of bodies the building is.'

Proctor struggled to see the difference. He wasn't alone.

`So what are you saying?' Elizabeth wondered.

Jones shook his head. Christ, these people annoyed him. More to the point he was annoyed with himself. Why hadn't he thought of this before?'

`A couple of minutes ago we were talking about getting out of here, weren't we?' `Yes.'

`So how was Bushell talking about getting out?'

`Do you always answer questions with questions?' she snapped.

`Do you?' he replied infuriatingly before re-phrasing and asking his previous question again. `There's another way out of here, isn't there?'

`The fire escape,' Bushell eventually answered.

`Which is still clear, correct?'

`As far as we know,' he stammered. `Why, what's your point?'

`Is the fire escape anywhere near the main staircase?'

`Of course not,' Proctor answered quickly. `What would be the point of that? The fire escape needs to be on the other side of the building so that...'

`Exactly.'

`So what's your point?' Elizabeth sighed, confused and tired and unable to follow the rapidly changing direction of the conversation.

`What I'm saying,' Jones replied, `is that the fire escape gives us a way of moving around the building that's well away from the main staircase where we think the bodies are...'

`And there's a good chance the bodies are still only on the staircase,' Wilcox continued, taking over from the other man. `Which means that if we're careful we could still go onto the floors and into the rooms.'

`What's the layout of a typical floor?' Jones asked.

Bushell thought for a second before answering.

`Just one U-shaped corridor,' he shrugged. `Staircase in the middle, fire escape at either end I think.'

`And when you first set yourself up here, did you clear the place out?'

`I checked all the rooms for bodies and I took what I needed but...'

`Did you take everything?'

`No. Didn't need to.'

`So there's your answer,' Jones said smugly, rocking back on his chair and almost looking down his nose at the others. `We go back down as far as we need to and grab what we can.'

`Think that's going to work?'

`Might do, might not. Should prevent us from starving to death for a few days longer,' he sneered cynically. `Delay the inevitable for a while.'

`That's all you're going to do,' Bushell reminded him, `just delay what you know is going to happen anyway.' `He's right, isn't he?' asked Doreen. `It's not going to change the fact that those bloody things will be up here with us in the next couple of days, is it? It's not going to help us get away.'

`No,' he agreed, `it won't. But it might give us a little time and space.'

Eight thirty-five. Pitch black. Jones, Wilcox and Elizabeth crept cautiously down the fire escape staircase towards the lower floors of the hotel. Hunger, claustrophobia and fear had combined to deadly effect to kick the instinctively cowardly survivors into action. Their hastily considered and half-improvised plan seemed increasingly risky with every step of descent. Jones had suggested they head all the way down and work their way back up. They had only made their way down as far as the seventeenth floor when he stopped and turned round to face the others.

`What's the matter?' Elizabeth asked, immediately concerned.

`I want to have a look,' he replied.

`What for?'

`What do you think?'

`But you said...'

`I said nothing. We know they're on the stairs. We don't know where else they are, do we?'

She shook her head. Jones moved towards the door and gently pushed it open a fraction. He shone his torch out onto the landing.

`Anything?'

`Can't see any movement,' he replied, his voice little more than a whisper. `I'm going to have a look around.'

Without waiting for a response from either of the other two Jones slipped out through the door and onto the landing. He switched off his torch, concerned that the light might attract unwanted attention, and then cautiously moved further down the dark hallway to the first corner. The layout, as far as he could see in the gloom, was pretty much as Bushell had described. A long, wide corridor with a right-angled right turn which ran towards the central part of the building where, he presumed, the staircase and several thousand rotting bodies would be. He moved closer to the corner and peered around, holding his breath for fear of making any sound which might tip the balance and alert the dead to his presence. He couldn't see anything. It was too dark.

Jones felt his way along the wall and paused at the door to one of the hotel's many bedrooms. Did he go inside? It would be worth having a quick look around the room before he returned to the other two waiting on the fire escape staircase. He wanted to see the layout of a typical room so that he could get a feel for what they were dealing with. How quickly would they be able to thoroughly check a room for food? What were they likely to find? Would there be a mini-bar or similar? Christ, he needed a drink. Imagine if each room had its own supply of booze. Surely some of the more expensive rooms on the higher floors would have...

Jones reached down and tried the handle. Damn thing was locked. No surprise really. Bushell had a set of master keys which he'd taken from reception. Elizabeth had them with her. He shoved the door again, hoping it would open. It didn't matter. He'd go back to the... Wait. What was that? He sensed movement nearby. Jones felt something brush against his arm and he froze. He lifted his torch and turned it on. Ahead of him the whole corridor was filled with bodies.

`Fucking hell,' he mumbled as he tripped and staggered back away from the dead. Illuminated now and then by the unsteady light from his shaking torch, he saw that the corridor was packed full of corpses which had obviously spilled out from the staircase. They began to stumble towards him. He turned and ran back to the fire escape and hammered on the door. Elizabeth opened it slowly.

`Move!' he yelled, forcing himself through and slamming the door shut behind him.

`Bodies?' she asked over her shoulder as she instinctively began to climb back up.

`Fucking hundreds of them,' he grunted. He glanced around for Wilcox but he'd already gone and was way ahead of them both. Cowardly bastard. He made a mental note never to put himself in a position where needed to rely on Wilcox for anything.

The survivors pounded breathlessly up the stairs, suddenly not bothered about the volume of noise they made, just desperate to get back to the Presidential Suite. As he climbed Jones thought more about the progress of the bodies he'd just seen.

`Wait a minute,' he shouted, stopping Elizabeth in her tracks. Breathless, he shone his torch at a small sign on the back of the nearest fire door. Floor twenty-six. It was worth taking a chance to see if this floor was the same as the one ten floors below. Elizabeth walked back down five steps to stand next to him.

`What are you doing?'

`According to Proctor they haven't reached this floor yet,' he said. `We might as well see if we can find anything before we go back.'

She agreed. He was right on two counts. Firstly, if the bodies hadn't yet made it this far up the staircase, they wouldn't have made it up to this floor at all. Secondly, it looked likely that this was their last chance to get food before the dead reached the Presidential Suite.

`Come on,' she mumbled.

The two survivors crept through the fire door (leaving it propped open with a fire extinguisher) and moved slowly along the corridor to the first corner. Jones put his head around the corner and shone the torch down its length.

`Clear,' he said, the relief in his voice obvious. `Let's stick to this end of the corridor and stay away from the stairs.'

`Suits me,' Elizabeth replied.

The layout of floor twenty-seven was different to floor seventeen. This floor bore more of a resemblance to the luxurious twenty-eighth floor than any of the lower levels. There were several large suites on this floor and Jones was immediately hopeful they'd find some food and drink at least.

`Got a key for an executive suite?' he asked. Elizabeth worked her way through the huge bunch of keys she carried. The door was quickly opened and the two of them slipped inside.

`So what are we looking for?' Elizabeth asked. `Anything,' Jones replied, `and make sure you split what you find into two piles. Keep one for yourself and we'll share the rest with the others.'

`But that's...'

`...completely fair. How many of those fuckers are down here with us? If they want more they can come and get it themselves.'

He turned round and began to ransack the room.

A little under an hour later Elizabeth and Jones returned to the Presidential Suite. They had with them the entire contents of the drinks cabinets of the Executive Suites on the floor immediately below. They'd found very little in the way of food, but that didn't seem to matter anymore. The survivors gratefully took what they were given as they listened to what the others had seen on the other levels. Regardless of their nerves and uncertainty, what food they were given was eaten quickly.

`Feels like a last supper, doesn't it?' Bushell said quietly. He didn't know who was listening. No-one had lit any lamps this evening.

`So what do we do tomorrow?' Proctor asked, sitting a little way behind him. `Do we just sit here and wait for them, or do we run?'

`We've been through this before,' Elizabeth sighed.

`Wilcox will run,' Jones smirked. `You're good at running, aren't you, Wilcox.'

Wilcox switched on a torch and shone it around the room until he found where Jones was sitting.

`Shut your fucking mouth,' he hissed angrily, shining the light directly into the other man's eyes. Jones laughed at him.

`Thanks for your help back there,' he smirked, referring to Wilcox's sudden disappearance on the fire escape stairs. `Couldn't have managed without you.'

Wilcox switched off his torch. He didn't know how to react. He was angry and he didn't like Jones mocking him, but he didn't feel able to retaliate. What was going to happen tomorrow was much more of a threat than Jones and his snide comments.

`So what do we do tomorrow?' Proctor asked again. `Do we run or...?'

`Let's just think about it logically, shall we,' Bushell suggested. `They're still coming in through the front door, aren't they? And they're climbing the stairs because of the growing pressure from other corpses behind them. So what's going to happen when they reach the top of the stairs? They're not going to turn back round and start heading for the ground floor again, are they?'

`They're going to keep coming,' Jones said ominously. `When they can't go up, they'll start spreading onto the landings like they did on the other floor.'

`And even when there's no more room on the landing up here,' Bushell continued, `they'll keep coming. Before we know it they'll be up against our door and then, when the pressure gets too great, our door will give and this place will be filled with the damn things.'

`Lovely,' mumbled Doreen. `So you don't think there's anything we can do?' asked Elizabeth .

`It's like I said earlier,' Bushell replied, `what's coming is coming. I think we're all going to die. The only choice we each have left is how we do it. Now I don't personally intend being torn apart, but I also don't like the idea of running either.'

`So what are you going to do?'

`Not sure yet. I haven't decided.'

`You haven't got long.'

`I know.'

`I'm running,' Wilcox muttered.

`You would,' laughed Jones. `I'll probably run too.'

`What about you, Doreen?' Elizabeth asked.

`Too tired to run, too scared not to,' she answered dejectedly. `We'll just have to see what tomorrow brings, won't we?'

Next morning. First light. Proctor picked up his camera and nervously walked out of the main doors and across the landing, intending to carry out his self-imposed daily duty and ascertain how far below them the advancing bodies now were. He walked out to the staircase and leant over the banister. He immediately pulled his head back. There was no longer any need for cameras and fire-hoses. He could see them. They still had several flights of stairs to climb, but he could now see the first few dead. He ran back to tell the others.

`How far?' Elizabeth asked as he burst back into the room breathlessly.

`Not far.'

`How long?'

`Not long.'

`More specific?'

Proctor shrugged his shoulders.

`Couple of hours maximum.'

Doreen began to sob with fright.

`Shut up you silly cow,' Wilcox snapped with his characteristic lack of concern and compassion, `all you're going to do is get them up here quicker.'

`So what do we do now?' Proctor asked, his face suddenly ashen grey and emotionless. `Do we just sit and wait?'

`You might as well,' a voice suddenly said from behind him, `but I'm not ready to. Not yet, anyway.' The survivors turned around. For the first time that morning Barry Bushell emerged from his bedroom. He was dressed as a woman again, complete with blond wig, full make-up and high-heeled boots. He stormed into the main part of the suite with a bright confidence, completely at odds with the others who sat around dejectedly, each contemplating the decisions that they would soon have to make and the horrors they were about to face.

`So what are you planning?' Elizabeth asked, looking Bushell up and down and admiring his nerve if nothing else.

`I did a lot of thinking last night,' he explained.

`And...?' Jones pressed.

`I tried to see if I was wrong. I wanted to know whether I've been looking at everything the wrong way.'

`And?' he pressed again.

`And I think I'm right,' he sighed. `And the more I think about it, the more I realise that it's hopeless. We're really up against it and I can't see a way out. I'm not just talking about the hotel here, I'm talking about what's left of our lives in general.'

`What do you mean?'

Bushell thought carefully for a moment.

`Whatever we do, wherever we go, we're fucked.'

`Nice.'

`Seriously, just stop and think about it. I'm not being defeatist here, I'm just being honest. Whatever we decide to do, it's going to be a struggle. We're going to have to fight for absolutely everything, and that's bloody stupid when you think there's probably only a few people left. The world's our oyster, but I don't think we can take any of it. What does that say to you?'

Blank, confused looks. Silence.

`Like you said,' Elizabeth mumbled, `we're fucked.'

`Exactly. The end's coming and there's nothing we can do about it. The only thing we have any control over is what we do with the time we have left.'

`But we don't know how long that is,' Proctor protested.

`We never have done,' Bushell argued. `Seems to me that we can spend out last days and weeks hiding in the shadows out there, starving to death, running from place to place and freaking out every time someone farts...'

`Or...?'

`Or we can just stop trying so hard to survive and just let things happen naturally. Go out with a little dignity.'

`You're talking crap,' Wilcox protested. `Am I? Am I really? Do you really think you're supposed to survive all of this? Don't you think there are some things that are bigger than us...?'

`Please don't start talking about God and divine retribution and all that crap,' Proctor sighed. `I've given all of that up. It's taken me until now to finally see what a load of old shite all that really was.'

Bushell shook his head and smiled and brushed away a stray wisp of long, blond hair.

`That's not what I'm talking about at all. What I'm saying is that whatever happened here was the twenty-first century equivalent of the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs.'

`What?' Jones exclaimed. `Now you've really lost me.'

`This is our ice-age. This is our apocalypse. This is the end. We should just accept it and let nature take its course.' Bushell's comments were met with an ominous silence. Keen to press his point he spoke again. `Our problem is,' he sighed thoughtfully, `we've all fallen foul of the programme. We think we're bloody superior. We think the planet can't go on without us. It's part and parcel of the human condition. Truth is the world's going to thrive without us here to screw it up.'