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  And he was true to his word. As he battled through the outskirts of town, he helped anybody he could. It didn’t matter who they were, where they were headed or what life they’d led; Harry didn’t care, because he recognised a part of himself in those people; their will to survive and fight the good fight. As the days went on, some of those he’d helped decided to stay close to him, and so he unwittingly formed a rag-tag group of survivors; his very own society in miniature. Everybody did their bit to keep each other safe and help out in whatever way they could. They all looked up to Harry and he took satisfaction from doing right by people and keeping a modicum of order alive in an otherwise destitute world.

  After a week or so, they still hadn’t managed to get out of town. Every street, alley or road they tried was swamped by hordes of what had once been people. Trying to forge a path through the maddened crowds had become virtually impossible. Theirs was now a group some twenty strong and so it became difficult for them to slip by unnoticed and avoid the fixated gaze and ravenous hunger of their enemy.

  Harry decided they should find somewhere secure to hide out for a few days, somewhere they could get some rest, some food and a sense of perspective. The place they found was a school; an old 1960s bunker of a place surrounded by high fences. It’s design – deliberately brutal – was conceived with the sole intent of containing the minds and actions of the unruly adolescent spirit. It was perfect. Or so it seemed.

  They were there for less than ten hours before they were besieged. Harry had trusted a couple of his men to check the perimeter, but they’d failed him. The very walls that had seemed so apt to protect the group had quickly become their trap, a dark and unending labyrinth. One by one, they were lost. Outnumbered and overwhelmed.

  As each of his group fell, Harry kept true to the promise he’d made; to never look back. And though it pained him to do so, he soldiered on until he found sanctuary; the design and technology workshop. It was perfect, an easily defensible foxhole with not a single window and only two doors; both of which he swiftly nailed shut.

  The horde inevitably found him and managed to smash through the safety glass in the main door, but the hole was only big enough for one to get through at a time, and with a room full of hammers, drills, blades and heavy objects at his disposal, Harry made short work of anything that managed to struggle its way in there with him. Heads were caved in, limbs torn from their sockets, faces smashed, spines broken. With each body he added to his pile, Harry sacrificed a part of his humanity and he feared that he might be no better than the horde which beat against his door. So he thought of his wife, at her happiest, before things turned bad: Walks in the countryside, the way she laughed, the first time he held her hand. The simple things kept him strong, human.

  For hours he battled, each corpse a trophy, a warning to the others that he was not a man to be trifled with. But something strange started to happen. As the pile of bodies grew in size, Harry noticed something akin to fear in their eyes; a certain hesitancy in coming forward on the attack. And soon, they had stopped coming through altogether. They quietly observed this blood-soaked man as he paced the floor of the workshop. When he approached the busted window and screamed as hard as he could, they shrank away. Rage had been replaced by curiosity, and hunger by an uneasy regard.

  Harry, being a resourceful character, seized upon this lull and went about prying open the fire escape. He knew he’d have to get it open quickly as it wouldn’t be long before a whole new horde fell upon him. They’d surely hear the noise and come running. But Harry prevailed and burst out onto the playground at full sprint. Spotting some tall trees over the way, he made his run. Not once did he look back… not when he heard their screams and frantic footfalls, not when he could feel them pressing close behind, and not even when he felt their hands clawing at his legs as he scrambled up one of the trees and over the fence.

  He knew he had to find somewhere new to lay low for a while, let some other poor soul catch the horde’s attention. The thought of using the misfortune of others to save his own hide sat like a cold jagged stone in his stomach, but it was human nature, an innate need to survive. That’s what he told himself.

  Sanctuary, this time, was a simple garden shed. He spent the night there, snatching whatever sleep he could between the howls and moans of the horde as they moved around in the darkness. Sometimes they sounded close, like they were right there in the garden, like they’d caught his scent and were closing in for the kill. All he could do was close his eyes, grit his teeth and stay quiet. This was no time for heroics.

  It was hard for Harry to leave the next day. It may only have been a shed, but it had protected him well. Regardless of his desire to stay hidden, he’d made a plan, and plans needed to be stuck to. He’d heard the army had been putting up perimeters around some of the villages so that those brave and strong enough to find them could find respite from the madness until the government took back control. Now that he was on his own again, there was a chance he could get out of town undetected. The countryside was calling.

  It took Harry nearly two weeks to find the village and he’d survived by sheer force of will. He’d scavenged for food and water, found shelter in places where others would fail to check, and navigated by the sun and the stars. But most importantly, he’d trusted his gut every step of the way. He quickly learnt that having a plan did less than half the job when it came to off-the-cuff survival. Plans could so easily come undone, but there was no undoing a man’s instinct. Gut instinct had told him the civilised society he’d helped govern was headed for a grisly end, and gut instinct would help him endure the worst of it.

  Harry shouldn’t have survived as long as he did. He shouldn’t have made it as far as the fences around the village. Any vulture that circled Harry Cobden could’ve felt assured of a good meal sooner rather than later. After all, if the horde didn’t get him, the hunger, the dehydration or the cold should certainly have made light work of this fatigued figure, and if not, then certainly the grief and loss he had suffered.

  Harry should’ve died. But somehow he dodged the reaper. He’d always known that his was a significant existence, and having triumphed against unbeatable odds to find asylum, that feeling was magnified. This was an opportunity he wouldn’t squander.

  I must’ve heard the story a hundred times or so by now, and it’s only ever the man himself who tells it. It’s just about his favourite thing to do. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he didn’t wield his story like some witch-mangling hammer of the Gods. And then there’s the matter of the gradual exaggeration. He ratchets up the odds in such a subtle and measured manner, but over the weeks and months the escalation becomes all too clear; the days are longer and more wretched, the foe more deadly and determined, and the downward pull of the tragedies endured becomes a gravitational force in its own right.

  If you want the real story of Harry Cobden, then here it is: he’s a bit of a prick. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that even before society crumbled he was almost certainly a prick, and whilst I’d never tell him to his face (because I’m simply too polite), I’d say there’s a fair chance that his wife willingly succumbed to the appetites of the horde so as to avoid surviving the apocalypse with only dear old Harry Cobden for company. You could even argue that the horde – in an uncharacteristic display of sentience – chose to spare his life to avoid him becoming one of them. And anyway, what manner of creature could bear to feast on such bitter flesh? I can’t plausibly explain Harry’s survival in any other way. He’s certainly no hero, and since when did fortune favour the grim?

  But for better or worse, Harry’s here to stay. Our self-appointed sheriff. Thing is, there’s not really a great deal to police, and nobody takes him all that seriously anyway. Not that he knows that.

  ‘I don’t know why you entertain them, Frida. They take advantage of your gracious nature. Like little vultures.’ Harry glares at each of each of us in turn, like we’re a bunch of rowdy louts caught waving their parts in chu
rch.

  ‘Your concern is noted, but I like them to be here with me,’ Frida tells him, and not for the first time.

  Harry grumbles and continues scrutinising the three of us as we champ down the food Frida’s put on. She makes a damn fine stew, even with the meagre ingredients available. Stan tells her she must be a witch; something she’s neither confirmed nor denied. Everybody loves Frida, because she’s fucking brilliant.

  ‘Still…’ Harry says, shaking his head. ‘They do nothing for you in return and it gets my goat.’

  ‘We do plenty for her!’ Stan says. ‘Just the other day I brought some wood in from the yard.’

  ‘So she could cook some supper for you, no doubt.’

  ‘It’s free will, Harry. Y’know, people doing things just because they want to. Who am I to deny Frida the joy of seeing my face all full of food?’

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Harry?’ Frida says. ‘There’s plenty here for everyone.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ he says, seeming a little flustered, ‘but all the same I’ve got things to do and places to be. I just wanted to come by and make sure you were safe and well, that was all.’

  ‘Well thank you, Harry. I certainly appreciate your concern, but I assure you I’m fine. Same as ever.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Hazza. We’ll take good care of her for ya!’ Stan says motioning towards Eve and myself with his spoon. We both murmur in agreement. I’d just be happy if Harry would take his sour old face as far away from us as the fences allow. Or perhaps beyond.

  ‘Your smart mouth’s going to find you nothing but trouble, Mr. Stanhope,’ Harry tells Stan, for what could be the billionth time.

  ‘Yeah… but didn’t we agree to disagree on that matter? I don’t wanna call you out on breaking your promises, but I’ll do it if you force me....’

  ‘Goodnight, Frida. Take care,’ Harry says, ignoring Stan’s obligatory chiding and making no attempt to acknowledge the rest of us as he trots away.

  ‘Gotta love that guy,’ Stan says, before helping himself to another ladle of stew. ‘Remind me again why we don’t just sacrifice him to the zombies.’

  ‘Because they’re not zombies,’ says Eve.

  ‘I’ve heard you call them zombies before.’ Stan says.

  ‘Just trying to speak your language so you don’t get confused, my little cherub.’

  ‘I’m not confused, sweet-cheeks. Where I come from, a brainless pale-faced fuck-nutter who eats other people is called a zombie.’

  ‘They don’t all eat people,’ I say. ‘Some of them just attack people… and then leave them for the others to eat.’

  ‘Pretty sure that’s still zombies, even if they’re picky eaters.’

  ‘They’re not zombies!’ Eve says through a mouthful of stew. She swallows. ‘You forget I’ve seen those things up close, and they’re most definitely not zombies. They’re too clever.’

  ‘Clever? What the f –’ Stan stops himself. Nobody swears around Frida. She’s never said as much, but you get the impression that Frida doesn’t care much for profanity. She never curses. At least not in ear shot of anyone.

  ‘Zombies or not, they’re more than welcome to take him. Eve reckons they’re clever, so maybe we should get them round the table. Like a peace deal. They leave us alone and in return we hand over our prize pig.’

  ‘Great plan, Stan,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah well, something needs to happen to him. Plus, did you ever notice how he’s clearly in love with Frida?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Frida.

  ‘It’s a cut and dry case of the loved-ups. All the coming by to check on you, all that talk about how you’re a proper lady and how a proper lady like you shouldn’t be bothering with improper people like us three.’

  ‘There’s little to be done about how Harry Cobden feels, but I certainly won’t be losing any sleep over the matter.’

  ‘You can do better, Frida. Loads better.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ she says, with a wry look.

  One time, I asked Frida if she was ever married. She said she’d been wedded to a lot of people in a lot of different ways, and no more was said on the matter. She was equally vague about any aspect of her ‘old life’ before coming to the village. Happy times and sad times, that’s as much as she’d ever give over.

  Stan finishes up his stew and sits back in his chair, a napkin pokes out from the neck of his t-shirt; he looks – as always – charmingly idiotic.

  ‘Dare I ask… is there any booze?’ he says, grinning around the table.

  Everybody shakes their heads.

  Stan pulls a deliberately grumpy face. ‘Y’know, if I had to pick just one thing I miss more than anything, it’d be off-licences. Especially the dingy little ones that sell cheap crisps. Cheap beer and cheap crisps. I’d kill for those two things right about now.’

  ‘Well you could always take a wander through the trees and fields and see if there’s an offy open in town,’ I say. ‘There’s at least a slim chance you won’t be cannibalised.’

  ‘Said it time and time again, Preston; I’m ready for a little adventure. I’ll leave this dump far behind the moment you sprout some testicles and agree to be my wing-man.’

  ‘Not a chance, my handsome but foolish friend. I’m somewhat attached to being alive.’

  ‘Alive? In here?’

  ‘Careful now,’ says Frida, shooting him a pointed look. ‘You’ve done pretty well out of being stuck here. Not least the fine food I put in front of you most nights.’

  ‘Sorry, Frida. Your cooking and company are well worth sticking around for. But would it hurt you to stash some booze about the place?’

  ‘Would it hurt you to bring some around? You’re my guest, after all.’

  ‘Pretty sure guests don’t set up permanent camp in their host’s spare room,’ says Eve.

  ‘Frida doesn’t mind.’

  ‘You’re fine to stay whenever you please, my darling. Just so long as you don’t get funny with any gentleman callers I might have.’

  ‘Like who?’ Stan says. ‘Harry Cobden?’

  Frida chuckles, snorting a little at the end. ‘Didn’t I ever tell you about the ones I keep locked up in my wardrobe? Keep me company on those brisk and lonely winter evenings.’

  Eve smirks into her bowl. ‘Maybe you can send one my way every now and then.’

  Frida glances in my direction as if to gauge my response to this. I sometimes feel like Frida knows more about us three than we know ourselves. She doesn’t respond to Eve, she just continues tidying up like nothing was said.

  ‘Are we still on for tomorrow?’ Stan asks me.

  ‘Of course. How could I possibly avoid perimeter duty?’

  ‘Good man. Got a new piece to show you.’

  Stan loves weaponry. The kind that kids make: a length of broom handle with a shuttle cock melted on one end to aid your grip, or a snooker ball in a football sock. He once even made a knuckle duster that nearly broke two of his fingers when he demonstrated its effectiveness against a tree trunk.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I tell him. And genuinely, it’s often a treat to see what his mind has come up with. I think there’s an insane creative genius locked up inside Stan. Pity the only play time said genius gets is when there’s violence involved.

  Eve starts to shake her head. ‘I can’t believe you two spend all this time complaining about Harry Cobden and all his pretend law-making but then agree to do perimeter patrol every other day.’

  ‘It eases the boredom,’ I tell her.

  ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Harry brought in this idea of perimeter control, but the last thing that actually turned up at the perimeter was him!’

  ‘She’s got us there, Preston. You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘That we could make better use of our time?’

  ‘Fat chance of that. It means we’re long overdue an arrival.’

  ‘We’re not pregnant, Stan.’

 
‘You know what I mean. All this time passing and nothing has happened. But we’re due! I can feel it.’

  Eve rolls her eyes. ‘My lovely couple of chumps. What would a girl do without you?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d survive,’ Stan tells her.

  A Body for the Pot.

  ‘Headshot!’

  ‘Jesus… did I kill it?’

  ‘Yeah, its head exploded! That’s why I yelled headshot.’

  This is the first one I’ve killed. Stan’s done a few in the past, so has Eve. Popping my cherry is not a pleasant feeling.

  ‘Good work,’ Stan says, slapping me hard across the back. ‘You’re a cold-blooded killer, my friend. How does it feel?’

  I try to swallow my guilt but Stan’s got the measure of my discomfort.

  ‘Drop the frowny face, they’re not people.’

  ‘I know, but still…’

  ‘You’ve just done us all a big favour, so don’t sweat it. Come on, let’s go check out the damage.’

  We jump down from the lookout post – and by lookout post, I mean a few old planks of wood which Harry Cobden nailed up in a tree some six feet off the ground – and head across the grass.

  We stand over the body and gawp at it. Stan gives an impressed little whistle. I, on the other hand, find it hard to be impressed by what I see. This is my first kill and hopefully it’ll be my last. For the greater good it may be, but taking a life (human or otherwise) snags like a crooked bone in my throat.

  Stand stoops down to pick it up.

  ‘Wonder if we can get a couple more in the bag today. What do you reckon? We can make a competition of it.’ Stan lifts the corpse up and dangles it in front of my face.

  ‘Get that fucking thing away from me, you big twat,’ I tell him.

  ‘It’s only a pheasant.’