 
THE PEELING: Book 1 (Jeremy's Choice)

By Iain Rob Wright

Smashwords Edition
THE PEELING

Published by Iain Rob Wright at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Iain Rob Wright

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Other titles by Iain Rob Wright

The Final Winter

Animal Kingdom

ASBO

Sea Sick
TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Peeling: Book 1 (Jeremy's Choice)

The Peeling Of Samuel Lloyd Collins

Nigel

Animal Kingdom

Zombies Are Dead

The Hunt

A-Z Of How To Survive A Horror Movie

Preview of The Final Winter
The Peeling: Book 1 (Jeremy's Choice)

The Never Stop News Studio seemed cramped and small with all the bodies that currently occupied it. Its typical skeleton crew of six or seven had swelled to at least four times that amount, and people now crammed together in front of the station's news desk while two young reporters prepared to go live with the evening's stories. The overcrowding had made Jeremy's job difficult.

Jeremy was a security guard for Never Stop News, responsible for keeping out anyone not invited to be there. With the news studio and its roaming reporters providing content twenty-four hours a day, live, there was always a risk that some anarchic member of the public, with a grudge and a message, would try to sneak in front of the cameras to interrupt the feed. With current events, and the public being as frightened as they were, the risk of a security breach had skyrocketed. People wanted answers, and when people wanted answers they came after the Government first and the journalists a close second. With so many people filling up the claustrophobic studio, it was extremely difficult for Jeremy to keep his eyes on everybody. It was even harder to keep his mind on them.

There was just one more hour to go before Jeremy was relieved from his post by the night guard – just one more hour. But he couldn't deny that he dreaded being there even another minute longer. Bad things were happening, started almost a full week ago, and the situation didn't seem to be getting any better. He didn't want to be here anymore; didn't want to hear another thing about the peeling.

The studio was silent and the lights went down as the countdown till live began. The network was currently running a pre-recorded football report on its dedicated satellite channel and on its website; it would turn back to the studio's anchors in less than seven-seconds.

"Okay, guys," one of the production assistants said. "You're on in three...two..."

Sarah Lane, one of the two young news anchors, cleared her throat then said, "Good evening, guys. Things are still pretty bad in the UK right now, but rest assured me and Tom will be bringing you all of the latest news for the next several hours. Get yourself a nice hot cuppa and snuggle up on that sofa. Never Stop News will be looking after you tonight."

Jeremy still struggled to accept such a casual approach to the news. Sarah and Tom were only mid-twenties, and were allowed to dress and talk as such. Never Stop News's whole premise was to provide the day's events with a laid-back and youthful approach. Their slogan was: All the truth. None of the nonsense. Jeremy found it even more surprising that such an approach had been successful. Never Stop's hip approach to the news had gained them a younger audience unattainable to the traditional networks. It had even started to eat into the more mature demographics as well. It seemed that people were tired of the stuffiness of days gone by and were happy to get the news from a bunch of bubbly youngsters. As a consequence, the Never Stop News Corporation was one of the fastest growing media companies in the world. Jeremy imagined that the lovely Sarah Lane had at least a small part in that success. Her shapely legs and curved figure, always on display beneath the glass news desk, were a constant feature of trashy celeb magazines.

The equally attractive and immaculately-groomed, Tom, took the lead from Sarah and got started with the programme. "As we've been reporting all week, the current crisis in the UK and – it now appears – many other parts of the world, has escalated to devastating levels. It has been reported that upwards of four-million people have been affected throughout the nation so far, and that number has been rising, hour-by hour, since the crisis began. With no end in sight, there is great fear that the current number of casualties is just a small percentage of what will be the final number."

Sarah Lane took over. "While both Private and Public sectors are working tirelessly to find both a cause and a solution, it is clear that the world is suffering under what can only be described as – a global plague. Commonly referred to as the peeling, the unknown virus has spread throughout our nation and others, with virulence never before seen. Affecting the young and old alike, there is currently no clear vector for contraction. Government officials admit to knowing nothing about its origin and very little about its pathology. As previously stated, all members of the public are advised to remain inside their homes and avoid all contact with anyone besides their immediate family. The military are permitted to use force, where necessary, in ensuring the spread of the infection is contained."

Jeremy swallowed back a mouthful of stomach acid. His reflux was bad, but his pills were at home (he only usually suffered heartburn in bed). If he'd a job someplace else, he would be home right now, but the news was a national requirement while the crisis lasted, and so too was the safety of its messengers. Jeremy's job, in many ways, was a matter of national security. Pity for England he was just a middle-aged man with bad acid.

At fifty-two, Jeremy's limbs were stiffer than they used to be, and his arthritic bones ached more often than not. He was certainly willing to take a stand against anyone looking for trouble, but he couldn't claim truthfully that he was the best man for the job. Most days he just hung around in the doorway, half asleep, from nine in the morning till six at night, and then he went home to his wife (unless he had somewhere else to be). That was why all of these people in the studio right now were such a thorn in his side; they forced him to concentrate and stay focused despite his weary mind's desire to shut off. Most of the people didn't even need to be there – they were just clerks and office assistants from other floors or departments – but no one wanted to leave while news was still coming in; everyone wanted to know more about the peeling – in case it got them. Their fear and panic was almost palpable, and Jeremy could sense it hanging over the dimly-lit room like a soiled blanket of poisonous air.

"As we have little fresh news to report from official sources," Tom told the audience at home. "We will be turning the air over to you – the public. For the next two hours we want to hear from you, Great Britain. We want you to tell us what you've seen, and what are your thoughts about the peeling? Do you have it? Does someone you love have it? Is there any advice you can give to help others out there? We want to hear from you now."

Jeremy didn't know what they expected to get from the public that they didn't know already. It was well-documented that the peeling started with a tingling sensation in the hands and feet – sometimes the nose and ears – before moving on to a streaming cold, and flu-like symptoms. After a day-or-so of runny nostrils and messy sneezing, the virus really started its magic. Jeremy shuddered to think about what the peeling did to the human body then.

"Okay, we have our first caller," Sarah reported. "We have Keith on line-1. Hello, Keith."

"Hiya, Sarah. Hiya, Tom. I just want to say that you've been a constant comfort during these last few days. I don't have any family, and not being able to leave the house has been really hard on me."

"It's been hard on a lot of people," Tom said. "But, right now, the only way to stay safe is to lock yourself away."

"Do you have the peeling, Keith?" Sarah asked in her typical, caring manner. Although Jeremy couldn't help but notice that the young girl didn't seem as calm as she usually did.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled sound that could only have been sobbing. Eventually, Keith came back on. "Yes...I have it. I've had it three days...since Wednesday."

"I'm really sorry to hear that, mate," Tom said. "It's truly terrible what this virus is doing to people. Absolutely horrifying." The reporter took a deep breath and suddenly seemed very tired, as though he'd dropped a mask that had been hiding his true face all along. Jeremy sympathised from over by the studio's door. Tom wasn't much more than a lad, really, and he had suddenly found himself responsible for consoling an entire nation.

Sarah sat forward on her chair and clasped her hands together on top of the desk. "Keith? If it's not too hard for you, could you tell our viewers what it's been like since you got ill? Could you tell us about your symptoms?"

After another short pause, Keith replied that he would. "I got home from work at about six on the night – I'm a mig-welder. Anyway, Man U were playing Chelsea and I wanted to see them get their arses hammered, so I got some beers in and plonked myself down in front of the telly. I was happy, you know?"

"We know," Sarah confirmed.

"Well, I'd been feeling a bit under the weather all day and my nose had been running like a tap, but I thought it was just a cold. I mean, no one really knew what was going on then – it was all just rumours." Keith seemed to lose his voice then to a croaking onslaught of tears.

"Just go on when you're ready, Keith," Sarah told the man. "We're here for you."

"Right, anyway," Keith gathered himself. "I was sat watching the game, and I couldn't help but scratch at my feet the whole time. Was a bit like pins and needles, but no matter how much I itched or walked around the living room, it just wouldn't go away. Thankfully it got a little better after a couple beers and I managed to ignore it."

"What happened next?" asked Tom, filling a brief moment of dead air.

"Then I fell asleep on the sofa. Do most evenings if I have a drink. I woke up later, in the middle of the night. I knew it was late because the shopping channel had come on, selling their usual junk. So, I sit there for a few minutes, trying to wake up a bit so I can get up and go to bed, but as soon as I lean forward to stand up, I feel this sharp stab of pain."

Jeremy rubbed at his eyes in the doorway. He'd heard enough reports to know what was coming next. He'd even seen what was coming next first hand.

"I look down at my feet," said Keith, fighting back sobs, "and I can hardly...I can hardly believe what I'm seeing."

"Tell us, Keith."

"My feet they were...oh God...they were like raw steak. They had no skin. I could see all the gristle and bone and blood. They looked like those anatomical dummy things they have in school, you know? Anyway, like a fool I grab down at them, like I needed to make sure my eyes weren't still half-asleep and seeing nonsense. When I touched my feet it was bloody agony. I almost passed out it was so bad. Worst pain I'd ever felt...but I would give anything to feel that way now – it was heaven compared to the pain I felt after. The skin from my ankles started peeling away next, blistering up and peppering the floor like dandruff. Then it moved further up my legs. Then it....then it..." Keith finally allowed himself to sob openly after minutes of fighting it back. "My dick is gone! It fell onto the carpet like a goddamn sausage."

Keith began to wail inhumanely and the phone line went dead. Jeremy didn't know if it was the caller or the studio that had cut the conversation short. Probably the studio; they had a duty not to cause the public any more distress then they were already in.

Sarah smiled awkwardly into the main camera. "We seem to have lost Keith, there, but I'm sure we're all united in our prayers that his condition gets better."

"Absolutely," Tom added. "I think we should just move on and take the next call."

"That would be Angela Thomas on line-4."

"We're all going to die. God is punishing us for letting the queers and the-"

The line went dead. This time Jeremy was certain it had been the studio's doing. There was nothing like a crisis to bring out the hate-filled vipers from their pits. England liked to act like all the whackos lived abroad in less civilised countries, but working in a news studio made it quite clear that there were as many nutjobs here as there were anywhere else.

Jeremy checked his watch. There were only forty minutes till he could leave, but it seemed like an eternity. At home, his wife was sick – like so many other people – and it felt like a betrayal not to be with her now, looking after her. He'd betrayed her for most of their twenty-year marriage, with various other women and his hidden gambling habit, but failing her now was enough to make his guilt muscle finally take notice. He was a hypocrite, that much was true, but he knew there were times when a man needed to step up and be selfless for the woman he loved; this was one of them. The entire nation lived in hope that the peeling would soon be dominated by a cure – that man would triumph over nature once again as it had always done. But Jeremy knew better. He knew that the virus wasn't just bird-flu on steroids. This was the end. Even if the virus was destroyed, the amount of death it was due to cause would be monumental. Millions. The world would never be the same again. Perhaps that meant Jeremy would get the chance to be a decent man again, to be a good husband – even if it was only for the handful of days his wife had left. She could get better, but something in his gut told him not to hold onto that hope. He had to get home.

The next call came from line-2. A cantankerous old man, named Bob. "It's them bloody Koreans, I'm tellin' ya. I'd blame the Arabs if I could, but they don't have the smarts for this. North Korea has been closed off to the rest of the word for decades. We don't know what they've been up to, do we? But I tell you one thing for nought; they've obviously been plotting the downfall of the world this whole time. Kim Jong Il arranged for it to happen before he died and, surprise surprise, a virus the likes of which the world has never seen, has come out of a country no one knows anything about. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins knew about it; tried to do something about it, too, before he died."

Sarah butted in while she had chance. "Now, Bob, it's already been confirmed that North Korea has been affected like everyone else. Early reports that they were the instigators of this pandemic turned out to be false. Prime Minister Lloyd-Collins's directive to bomb their country was just the paranoid actions of a dying man. General Harvey Whitehead was right to do what he did by holding emergency cabinet hustings."

"All so he could get in power," Bob asserted.

"Come on," said Sarah. "Do you really believe that? General Whitehead was only made Deputy-Prime Minister temporarily because his military background is exactly the skillset needed to help manage the nation through this crisis. His decision to ignore Lloyd Collins – God rest his soul – probably averted nuclear war."

"And also let the bloody Koreans get away scott-free, to boot. You bloody watch what happens now. This time next year we'll all be slaves to a bunch of slitty-eyed-"

The line went dead. Jeremy had heard enough of this. Holding a public phone-in was just morbid and macabre. There would be no hope gained from talking with them, for they were the most hopeless and lost of all. The men and woman of the United Kingdom were floundering helplessly in the dark, rotting away slowly in both body and mind. Their sad stories would do nothing but spread more suffering, infecting people's thoughts in the same way the peeling infected their flesh.

Jeremy was just about to abandon his post when a ruckus erupted in the corner of the studio. A handful of people had begun to scuffle with one another while others backed away fearfully. Angry voices filled the air and bounced off the narrow walls, interrupting the on-going news report.

"We seem to be having a few problems here in the studio," Sarah told the audience. "I think we should cut to a commercial break briefly, but don't go anywhere, guys. We'll be right back."

Sarah and Tom stood up from their desk and headed away from the violence, whilst Jeremy shot past them and headed for the centre of the squabbling crowd. As he got nearer, he realised that it was not a fight that had broken out, but an attack on a single individual. A pair of men and one woman were kicking hatefully at a downed body.

"Everybody, back away, now!" Jeremy hollered at the group with great force in his voice. While he may not have been a physically imposing man, he had a voice that commanded attention. The group of people immediately stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Their victim remained, huddled and whimpering, on the floor and Jeremy saw that it was a young, blonde girl – perhaps as young as twenty.

"She has it!" said a woman who was wearing a power suit, her face dripping with anger. "The bitch has it and tried to hide it."

Jeremy looked down at the girl shaking on the floor and saw no signs of the peeling on her. He looked up at the power-suit woman who had spoken. "What?"

"It's true," said a tall, Black man stood next to her. "She's been sneezing none-stop for the last hour."

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. "Sneezing? A young girl sneezes and you all think you have the right to attack her? A big strong man like you?"

"She deserves it. We could all be infected because of her. I have a family."

"Then you should be with them, instead of here acting like a thug. Now help her up off the floor."

The man shook his head. "Fuck no. You pick her up. I'm not touching her."

Jeremy took a step forwards and stared the man hard in the face. "You just did touch her, with your fists, as I recall. Help her up. I won't ask you again."

The taller, larger man just laughed at Jeremy, then shoved out with both arms. Jeremy acted quickly, grabbing one of the man's thick, black wrists and pulling him forward, off balance. Then he kicked out and took the man's legs from under him, sending him to the floor with a thump. Jeremy was just about to follow him down to deliver a knockout punch when Sarah called out to him.

"Jeremy, don't! I'll help the girl up and we'll take her somewhere to lie down."

Jeremy looked up at the young news anchor and was confused. "Sarah, you have the news to be getting on with."

"We're on a break, and Tom can handle it for ten minutes." She glared at the nearby crowd and shook her. "You people should be ashamed of yourselves."

Sarah went over to the fallen girl and knelt one side of her. Jeremy knelt the other. Together they gathered the woozy young woman to her feet and walked her away from the baying crowd. There were a whole host of angry mutterings that followed after them, but no one had the guts to act out after what had happened to their ring leader.

Jeremy and Sarah took the girl out into the corridor. "We can take her to my dressing room," Sarah said.

Jeremy nodded. It was a kind offer, and that was why he had always liked Sarah. She was as friendly as anybody else, despite being a national sex symbol. Her ego had every right to be much larger than it was.

They half-carried, half-dragged, the girl into the dressing room and set her down on a plush sofa filling one side of the space. She was weak and upset, but seemed to be coherent.

"Are you okay?" Jeremy asked her.

Her eyes had filled with tears, but she nodded. "I don't think they would have stopped."

"Goddamn animals," Sarah said. "They should be arrested."

The girl waved her hand. "It's okay. I'm just going to go home and forget about it. Can I just rest here for a while first?"

"Of course you can, sweetheart. Take as long as you need."

"Is it true what they said," Jeremy asked the girl. "Do you have the peeling?"

"I...don't know. I have the sniffles, but I've been sneezing for a few days now and nothing else has happened."

"You just have a cold," said Sarah. "If you've been sneezing that long and haven't come down with other symptoms then you're probably fine."

Jeremy nodded and let out sigh. Despite millions of people being sick, it was still a relief to know that this one young girl was going to be okay – for now.

The girl laughed pitifully. "I think people forget that the peeling didn't make all of the other, regular illnesses go away. Not every sneeze means you have the plague."

"Exactly," Sarah said. "Now you just relax here until you feel better. There's water in the fridge and some cookies. Help yourself."

"Thank you, Miss Lane. You're really kind – kinder than I would have expected you to be."

"Yeah," Jeremy agreed. "A big celebrity like you, mixing with the common people like us."

Sarah bopped him on the arm playfully. "Don't be silly. I'm C-List at best. Anyway, I have a feeling that the world will have little need for celebrities soon."

"You shouldn't think the worst. The world will get through this, one way or another. Not everyone is getting sick."

Sarah took Jeremy by the arm and led him back out into the corridor. It seemed like she wanted to tell him something; something that couldn't be anything good.

"Is everything alright?" Jeremy asked her, noticing the tears that were brimming at her eyelids.

"No, it's not alright. Things are definitely not alright, Jeremy. You don't know the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

Sarah leant back against the wall of the corridor and for a moment it looked like she might collapse completely. "I have the producers in my ear, nonstop, telling me facts, figures, things to say – and what not to say. We're not telling the public anything close to the truth."

"They know the truth. It's right in front of their faces."

Sarah shook her head. "They're all locked up inside while police and military patrol the roads. All they see is what's out their windows."

Jeremy wasn't following. "So what is the truth?"

"That there's thirty-million dead, not four. The worldwide estimates are over half a billion. The USA and most of Europe are decimated."

Jeremy's stomach swelled up against his ribcage. Vomit rose in his throat. "You're telling me that half of the UK is infected already, in less than a week?"

"The NHS has estimated that the virus affects one-in-two people. Everyone has a fifty-fifty chance. They've also put the chance of death at 100%. Anyone who catches the peeling will die. No exceptions."

"But you haven't been telling people that. You've been reporting the numbers of infections, but you haven't said people are dying. You've even implied that there's a chance of recovery."

"I don't make the decisions about what to report, Jeremy. The peeling doesn't just kill people instantly. They suffer for days first. The death toll has only just begun, as the first people to catch it have had it for almost a week now. We didn't know the virus would kill in all cases, at first, but with the data coming through today, it's clear that no one is surviving. The Government are trying to make the decision on whether to go public with the information or not."

"The Government? What right do they have to dictate to the news outlets?"

"They can control information in a national crisis. They always have."

Jeremy stood wearily in the corridor, shocked and sickened. He had known the peeling was a plague beyond anything ever seen, but he hadn't thought it powerful enough to wipe out half of the world – 50/50. There would be no containing it, no cure – just unimaginable death and suffering that would linger in the consciousness of man for centuries. He looked at Sarah and could not imagine the burden she was forced to carry – to have such information, but unable to share it.

"What are you going to do?" he asked her.

"I'm going to finish up tonight and then go home. I'm finished after tonight."

"You're quitting?"

"Not exactly."

"What then?"

Sarah took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her slender nose. She stared at Jeremy for a moment, then put her left hand to her right sleeve. She rolled up her cuff and exposed her wrist."

Jeremy shook his head in disgust. "No. You can't have it!"

The wound on her arm was puckered and wet, the skin gone, exposing the flesh of the muscle beneath. A tangy odour filled the room like spoiled bananas.

"I've been hiding a cold the last couple days, but I didn't know I had it for sure until this morning. Noticed it in the shower. It's already spread twice as much since then."

Jeremy rubbed both hands down his face and imagined the skin peeling off beneath his fingernails. He was one of the lucky ones, so far; the right side of the 50/50. "You're sure there're absolutely no survivors? There's nothing the NHS can do?"

Sarah shook her head and actually seemed somewhat resigned to her fate. Maybe she felt luckier to be one of the infected than one of the healthy – least for them the nightmare had an end. "I'm already dead," she said. "I don't know if I'm infectious, but I don't want to take the risk anymore. I'm going home tonight and staying there. It's where I'd rather be, anyway."

"I'm sorry," Jeremy told her, and he truly meant it. "I...wish there was something I could do or say."

Sarah rolled her sleeve back down, covering her wound. "I'm just glad you don't have it as well. As long as some of us get through this then I guess things aren't completely doomed."

"My wife has it. She came down with it three days ago now."

Sarah put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Then I'm sorry too. You should go home and take care of her."

Jeremy glanced at his watch. "My shift isn't-"

"It doesn't matter. I don't think anything really matters anymore. This is just the calm before the storm. Things are about to fall to pieces and the only thing we can do is look after the people we love. Go home, Jeremy. Look after your wife."

Jeremy watched Sarah return to the studio and knew that it would be the last time he ever saw her in person again. He hoped her passing would be peaceful, but that was a luxury the peeling gave to no one. She would feel pain beyond anything she had previously imagined, and then she'd die – adding to the statistics that she'd been reporting for the last week.

It was time to go home. Sarah had been right about nothing mattering anymore. If those people in the studio wanted to start fights then let them. Jeremy wasn't about to waste another minute watching over a bunch of unruly strangers turn on each other. The news studio was on the second floor so he had to take the stairs downwards to reach the building's exit. The reception area was empty, its staff all sick and dying at home. Jeremy knew most of them, but not well enough to grieve them. He headed for the heavy glass doors that led outside to the parking lot.

Outside were several vehicles belonging to the people inside. Sarah's Jeep Cherokee was parked next to Tom's more audacious Jaguar, and beyond them both was Jeremy's Ford Focus. He took out his keys as he headed over, and pressed the fob. The car's lights flashed twice and the doors were unlocked. He opened the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.

Turning the ignition, Jeremy started the engine. The needle on the fuel gauge headed towards empty and stopped a little ways off. He laughed. Some things would never change, no matter what happened to the world; cars would always run out of fuel, and fuel would always cost a bomb (especially now that the military had commandeered it all).

The military were everywhere now, as were the police. It was to be expected, Jeremy supposed, but it was still disconcerting to watch olive green, 3-tonne trucks patrolling every main road. With the UK's history of riots, the Government were taking no chances. There was even a sentry posted at the news station's car park, controlling the bright-red automatic barrier instead of the usual civilians that had done so before. Jeremy pulled the car into gear and drove towards that barrier. The armed soldier, there, stepped up beside the car as it approached. Jeremy lowered the electric window and leant out with his security ID. It wasn't his usual station ID, but a new state-issued ID that allowed him to leave his home and travel to work. They called it a Vital Services Identity Card – pronounced V-SIC. It was a privilege to have one in many ways, but a burden too. Being outside was a constant danger for many reasons (number one being exposure to the peeling). Still, if Jeremy was going to come down with the sickness, he surely would have had it by now.

"Everything okay in there?" the soldier asked him, motioning to the building with his head.

"There was a bit of trouble earlier. People are getting scared. Might be a good idea to post a man inside."

"No can do," said the soldier. "Orders are to remain outside at all times, unless absolutely necessary."

Jeremy understood and nodded. "Can't have people thinking that the military are controlling the press." Even though they are, thought Jeremy.

The soldier gave no reaction, his expression implacable. "Drive safely, sir. Go straight home."

Jeremy nodded and moved the car slowly forward as the metal barrier rose in front of him. Once past it, he pulled into third-gear and increased his speed. It was easy to drive fast, because the roads were empty. Travel was restricted, to prevent the spread of infection, and only certain vehicles were allowed on the road at all. Jeremy's Ford Focus qualified and had a luminous green circle on both the front and back. It told any passing military that he was allowed to use the roads, and for the most part they left him alone. In fact, a convoy of trucks was heading toward him right now and seemed unconcerned by his presence on the highway. The driver of the lead truck nodded to him as they passed, and it was only a few moments before he was the only car on the road again, driving along the withered husk of the nation's once-heaving infrastructure. He lived almost forty-miles away from the news station, but with the roads wide open, he would get there in thirty minutes.

He turned on the radio, but quickly switched to CD mode. The last thing he wanted was more news – or uninformed hypotheses masquerading as news. The sound of Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper came on from a mix-disc he'd filled full of rock songs. It seemed pretty apt for the mood he was in and he let it play to its conclusion.

***

After taking the dual-carriageway most of the way home, Jeremy took a slip road into Stratford. As he crossed over the bridge into the centre of town, he could see that the police were patrolling the River Avon in modified barges. Every single day, the police and military presence seemed to increase, and it now seemed that Britain's waterways were just as restricted as its roads.

Much of the routes through town were cordoned off, and Jeremy was forced to manoeuvre his car along the riverbank, passing in front of the Globe theatre. The historic, thatched-roof building lay abandoned and mournful, its function to entertain no longer required. Jeremy suddenly regretted never having been inside before to experience the lively works of Shakespeare. There would probably be a lot of things he'd never experience now.

Something flew out from behind the theatre and stumbled into the road. Jeremy hit the brakes.

Standing in the centre of the narrow side-street was a peeler – a victim of the plague. Whether it was woman or a man was unclear now, but the long, matted hair suggested the former. Jeremy gawped in horror as the figure approached with the shambling gait of a zombie. But this thing – this human being – was worse than a zombie. This thing was living agony, walking towards Jeremy like a nightmare made flesh. It was the worst case of the infection that Jeremy had yet seen. The woman had not a single inch of skin left intact, her muscle – and even bone – exposed from head to feet. Eyeballs bulged from her glistening skull like gelatinous orbs of pus; they focused on Jeremy.

The woman staggered towards him, her bleeding arms stretched out pleadingly. She made no sound, perhaps incapable of doing so. Behind her was a trail of viscous fluids and spoiled meat. It was a miracle the woman was even still alive, let alone able to walk.

Jeremy put the car into reverse, preparing to flee. He could not help this person, they were already dead. Even if a cure was found, this woman was beyond the point of salvation. "I'm sorry," he said out loud, then lifted up the clutch. The car began rolling back, away from the woman.

She followed after him for a few more steps, seeming to lose more flesh and blood with every movement. So transfixed was Jeremy on the horrible sight that he almost didn't see what was in his rear view mirror. He slammed on the brakes again.

Behind him, a military truck blocked the road where he had come from. A single soldier hopped out from the elevated cabin and landed on the cement with his heavy jackboots. The man had a scruffy beard and his sleeves rolled up past the elbows. The standards of appearance for the British Army had obviously been forgotten in the last week. It was hardly surprising.

The infected woman was still coming closer, still reaching out her arms. The soldier moved in front of Jeremy's car and faced down the woman. He pulled out his sidearm, a mean-looking pistol, and pointed it forward casually. Then he let off a shot. A single bullet did the job, hitting the woman in her cheek and passing through her skull. Gore and grey matter painted the road, adding to the mess that was already there.

Jeremy's breath caught in his throat and he could actually feel his heart beating against his chest. He was not used to the sight of guns, period, and he'd never before seen one used to kill another human being. Numbness washed over him that was probably the beginnings of shock.

The soldier holstered his weapon and marched over to Jeremy's window. Jeremy unwound it and quickly grabbed his ID card from where it lay on the dashboard. His hands were shaking.

"Thank you, sir. Everything seems to be in order. Are you on your way home?"

Jeremy stared out at the dead woman on the road and found himself unable to blink.

"Sir?"

"Huh? Oh, yes. I'm going straight home now."

The soldier seemed to notice Jeremy's concern and knelt down to match his eyelevel. "It was for the best, sir. Like putting down a sick dog."

"A...a dog?"

"It may seem cruel, but when the infection gets that bad, it's kinder to just end it. A lot of them have started to lose their minds now – who can blame them – but they're becoming dangerous. If you see any more of them I advise you keep on going as fast as you can."

Jeremy swallowed. The soldier spoke about the infected like they were things not people, but was that really so surprising? Anyone with the peeling was insane with agony and doomed to die – had any humanity still existed inside the woman now dead in the road?

"You go on now, sir? Get moving."

Jeremy pulled the car back into first and headed forward, steering around the mutilated corpse of the woman. The soldier remained standing in the road and watched until he was out of sight.

***

Stratford had become a military outpost like many other small towns with open areas. Further downriver, the waters teemed with gunboats, and the roads led to checkpoints in all directions. Cars and houses lay abandoned, while large fires fumed in many open areas. Jeremy had a morbid realisation that the soldiers were building pyres and stacking them with the bodies of infected. The movement amongst the flames made it clear that not all the bodies were dead.

What the hell was happening? In only the nine or ten hours since Jeremy had travelled to work, things had deteriorated to frightening levels. A police state was in effect and sick people were being quarantined or burned alive. Even the healthy were being caged inside their homes without compassion. Jeremy turned a corner, heading away from town, and saw a squad of Royal Fusiliers boarding up a house while frightened people tried to escape through the windows. A small boy actually managed to get free of the house and made a run for it down the road. A moment later the boy was dead, a rifle round between his shoulder blades. Jeremy couldn't even tell if he'd been infected.

Jeremy thought about his wife. Would he return home to find that she had been rounded up too? Rotted away and thrown on a fire? The thought made his foot stamp down harder on the accelerator. Once he was home he would stay there, until the very end, until it was over. What he would do then, he did not know. His life would go on whilst his wife's would end. In many ways he envied her. The world going on around him was not one he wanted to be a part of anymore. In less than twenty-four hours things had gotten so bad that he dreaded to think about what just one more day would bring.

***

The military presence reduced as he left the town centre and headed into the residential areas. By the time he reached his house, it had been almost ten minutes without seeing another soul, other than stray dogs and feral cats. His home was dark, the windows shaded by closed curtains. The light had started to hurt his wife's eyes and the lamps had all been left off since the night before. Her condition had been in the early stages then; he worried what she would be like now. The virus worked fast, a destructive force akin to an invading army. The body's skin and muscle cells got obliterated, one by one, helplessly succumbing to infection until they were nothing more than soup.

Jeremy parked the car up on the curb and turned off the engine. He stepped out and pressed the key fob, locking the car. Then he started up his path and headed for his front door. Before he got there, though, it opened from the other side.

"Hey, honey. I've been waiting for you to get home. It's been lonely without you."

Kara hopped off of the doorstep and took Jeremy by surprise, planting a kiss on his mouth, and slipping in her tongue. He pushed her away.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Everything," he said, stepping through into the house while she followed. "Have you looked outside the window lately?"

"No. I don't want to know what's going on out there. It's too frightening. Is it bad?"

Jeremy stared at her. "You have no idea."

Kara approached him and put her arms around his shoulder and planted another kiss on his cheek. "Well, as long as we still have each other."

Jeremy pushed her away again and sighed. "Kara, what are you doing here? Where's your sister?"

"In bed. She wasn't feeling good, so she went to sleep."

Jeremy thought about his wife, alone upstairs, suffering. He felt outraged at Kara. Did she not care? It was her sister, for Christ's sake. He took a deep breath and fought to remain calm. "How is she?" he asked. "Is it bad?"

"What do you think? Hasn't that news station of yours found a cure yet?"

Jeremy huffed. "They're journalists, not doctors. And to answer your question, no. There is no cure. It's killing everyone who has it."

Kara slumped down on the sofa and finally seemed to get a little more serious as concern etched itself across her face. Perhaps she did care about her sister after all. "There's really nothing anyone can do?" she asked.

Jeremy shook his head. "That's why we need to look after your sister – my wife. Carol needs our love and support. We can't fool around behind her back anymore. I'm done behaving like that."

Kara did not reply. She stared at the blank television screen as though the glass were a portal to something more interesting. Jeremy didn't care to console her. He'd had enough of his wife's younger sister. Once Carol passed on, she could leave, go back to her own place, and they should never speak again. If he was honest with himself, his wife was the only woman he had ever truly loved, and once she was gone, he was giving up women for good.

Jeremy didn't want to waste any more time. The value of a second had increased exponentially since the peeling found its first victim – whoever that may have been. He placed his foot on the first step of the staircase and looked up. The second floor seemed like miles away; another world, filled with horrors and regret. He began to climb, dreading what he would find upstairs. What pain would Carol be in? Would she cry out when he entered, or would she remain silent like the woman gunned down in the road? He was about to find out.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Jeremy headed across the landing to the master bedroom. He placed an ear against the door and listened. Silence. Without even realising it, his hand had gone to the handle and begun to turn it. A moment later, his legs carried him through into the bedroom.

Carol was asleep in their double bed, the duvet kicked down to the bottom of the mattress. She was hot, the heat of her fever filling the room with a sweaty aroma. Her body was pale and smooth, but still healthy. Her face however...

Jesus Christ!

...her face was little more than a sinewy skull. Her jaw and teeth were utterly exposed, making it seem like she was grinning constantly. Her cheeks had worn away, leaving her eyeballs sunken beneath the thin, translucent scraps of her eyelids. Beautiful brunette hair lay disembodied on the pillow, no longer attached to her head. She looked like a corpse. Yet she breathed.

"Sweetheart?" Jeremy approached cautiously, not wanting to startle her. If she was in pain, then it was probably cruel of him to bother her at all. But he needed to talk to her. It was time to confess his sins.

Slowly, the tissue-like skin of her eyelids rose. Beneath them, his wife's eyes were as they'd always been: green and sparkly – full of life.

"J-Jerry?"

"Yes, sweetheart. It's me. How are you feeling?"

Despite the mess that was her face, Carol managed a weak laugh. "My face felt like it was on fire earlier, but now I can't feel anything at all. It's...nice."

Jeremy placed himself down on the bed. The sheets were damp and bloody. He noticed that a patch of skin, the size of a hockey puck, had begun to rot away on her side. The smell was sweet, intoxicating.

"I'm going to be here for you now, my love. I'm not going back to work."

"I...I thought you'd been ordered to?"

"Screw their orders. Besides, I don't think they'll be any orders left this time tomorrow."

Carol's eyelids fluttered and it seemed like she was going back to sleep. Jeremy was prepared to let her, but was surprised when her eyes opened wide again and seemed even more awake.

"My...sister was here."

"Kara? She's downstairs. Did you want to speak with her?"

She shook her head gently. "No. No. Just tell her...I forgive the both of you. I don't want to die angry."

Jeremy throat clammed up and for a second he thought he might choke. She knew all along, about him and her sister – and perhaps all the others too. Would she know that he had been planning to tell her everything? Had the absolution of confession been taken away from him? Would it have even counted anyway? To tell somebody something on their death bed was not brave. In fact, it was downright cowardly.

"I'm sorry. How did you know?"

"She's not exactly subtle – always here, sniffing around you. Doesn't matter now, though. You can be together."

"That's not what I want. I don't care about her, or anyone else. The only woman I love is you."

She patted him on the hand. Her skin was soft, mushy. "I know. I know none of those women were anything other than sex to you. You disgusted me for years, but eventually I accepted that it was just your nature to be so...weak. I...I had my own fun in the end."

Jeremy stood up from the bed. "What?"

Carol smiled. "I've probably fucked around...more than you, the last few years."

"You goddamn whore?"

"I'm not ashamed of it, Jerry. It was fun. You should know."

Jeremy backed away, towards the door. He could barely believe the grinning skull on the bed was the woman he'd been married to for twenty years. "W-why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I don't want to die with secrets, and...and despite everything I've always loved you. None of it really matters anymore, other than the fact we loved each other in our own way."

Jeremy lowered his shoulders and took a few breaths while he digested what he'd just heard. His stomach ached and he felt sick – but Carol was right. None of it mattered. He loved this woman and he wanted to be with her. He sat back down on the bed.

"Can I do anything to help?"

Carol took a long, laboured breath, and a sliver of skin fell from her neck, sliding away onto the bed sheets. "I don't want to die..."

"I know that, sweetheart. I know."

"...later. I want to die...now."

Jeremy looked at his wife, deep into her eyes – the only part of her that was still the same as when he'd married her. "What?"

"I don't want to lie here, rotting. I don't want to feel the pain when my body begins to bleed. I've said all I needed to say. I'm ready."

"Honey, now. You can't ask me to-"

"You owe me." She said the words forcefully, suddenly full of vitality – but it only lasted a minute before she seemed to deflate again.

She was right, Jeremy told himself. He owed her many things. Their whole marriage had been marred by him abusing her integrity and violating her trust. What she was asking for now was dignity – a simple thing. The dignity of refusing to let the virus defile her body in the same ways that he had defiled their marriage for so many years. But he couldn't kill her. No way.

"I'm sorry. I won't."

Carol stared at him. Jeremy couldn't tell if she was angry, or not. The facial muscles that would usually form expressions were all gone from her face. "I understand," she whispered. "Leave me alone."

"What do you mean?"

"If I have to go through this, I want to do it alone. I don't want anyone watching while I die. If you won't help me, then give me some privacy."

The last thing Jeremy wanted was to leave her alone. To die with no one around was be a lonely, helpless demise. But it was Carol's choice, not his. He stood up from the bed.

"I'll check on you later."

"No, don't. There's nothing you can do for me."

Jeremy's heart felt like a weight in his chest and it was difficult to drag his body away from his wife's bedside. They may never talk again. This was probably goodbye. He left the room without another word. Anything he'd said wouldn't have been enough.

Downstairs, Kara was still sitting on the living room sofa. She had switched on the television and was watching it intently. She showed no interest in his presence and did not ask about the state of her sister.

"Carol is in a bad way, in case you were wondering."

Kara turned her head away from the television and looked at him. "Should I go see her?"

Jeremy sat down on the sofa beside her, making sure to stay as far away on the cushions as possible. "She wants to be left alone."

"Okay." Kara went back to watching the television.

"Do you even care?"

"Of course I do. She's my sister. But there's nothing I can do. I don't want to watch while she rots away."

"Then why are you even here?"

She stared at him again and this time seemed very sad. "To be with you. I thought you cared about me."

Jeremy sighed. "I...I do. You know I do. But Carol is dying and it's not right anymore. I'm sick of hating myself."

"Exactly. She's dying. We can be together."

"I'm sorry, but I don't want that. The world is a mess. The last thing I can concentrate on right now is a relationship."

Kara stood up from the sofa and shook her head. She'd suddenly become very emotional. "You really want to be alone while the world dies around you? We need to look after each other. You need to look after me."

"What do you mean? You can look after yourself?"

Kara wouldn't look at him then. She averted her eyes and stared at the wall.

"Kara? What is it?"

"What do you care? You've made your feelings clear enough."

Jeremy sighed and lifted himself off the coach. He went over and put his palm against her back. "Tell me what's really wrong. You're not this upset because of me."

She broke down in tears and buried her head against his chest. It was then that he smelt the same sweet odour that had come from Carol's rotting flesh. He eased her away so that he could look at her. "You have it, don't you?"

It looked as though Kara wanted to speak but was unable. Instead she nodded solemnly and reached a hand up to her long, brown hair. She scooped it away from her neck and exposed the skin. Beneath her right ear was a blistering patch of skin.

Jeremy bit at his bottom lip and almost drew blood. "How long?"

"I noticed this morning. I came straight here to wait for you. I was hoping you'd know how to help me, that you would have gotten answers at the news station."

"How did you even get here? The military have the roads blocked up."

"I walked. I kept away from the main roads."

"You walked four miles through that hell out there."

"It was better than being alone. I thought if I came here, you'd look after me."

"I will," Jeremy said. "Of course I will."

"You've changed your tune."

Jeremy huffed. It suddenly felt like he hadn't slept in weeks. "I care about you, Kara. You're Carol's sister."

"Carol's sister. Is that all I am to you now? A fucking obligation?"

Jeremy sat back down on the sofa and rubbed at his face. "Kara, if you want me to look after you, I will, but that's all. I'm not going to argue with you, not now."

"You mean now that I'm dying?"

Jeremy wasn't going to lie. He nodded.

"There's really not going to be a cure?" she asked.

"No. No, I don't think so. The Government haven't even worked out how it spreads, let alone how to beat it."

Kara slumped down on the sofa beside him and seemed defeated, all the energy gone from her voice. "How did I get it? When you came over to warn me that people were getting sick, I stayed away, kept indoors. I never went near anyone infected, but I still got it. How does that make sense?"

"I don't know. It doesn't. Truth is nobody really knows anything about the peeling – where it came from or how it works."

"But it's bad isn't it? I mean, really really bad."

Jeremy nodded. "At the rate it's going, half the world is going to die. Half the people get it while the other half don't."

"Guess you're one of the lucky ones."

Jeremy laughed, but didn't find anything funny. "Doesn't feel that way."

Kara pulled her legs onto the sofa and laid herself across his lap. He let her. Together they watched the television in silence, trying to clear their minds of horror. Ironically, Never Stop News was on. Sarah and Tom were continuing to give the news with as much pluck as they could muster, but Jeremy could tell the toll was becoming too much for them. Sarah's face was pasty and wiry strands of hair clumped against her damp forehead.

"They look as lost as everyone else is," Kara said.

Jeremy stroked her hair and was shocked by the heat coming off her head. "That's because they are. They're as frightened, and as lost, as we are. They're just trying to help by making us think that things are still normal. The news and weather make people feel like there's still someone in charge."

"And is there?"

"I guess so. The military are everywhere, ever since that General took over after Lloyd Collins died.

"Jerry?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

***

Six hours later and the peeling had taken all of the skin from Kara's neck; so much that her windpipe was now exposed. Jeremy wasn't repulsed, though. The sight of rotting flesh had become commonplace now.

On the television, Sarah and Tom were still reporting about the peeling. They would both have usually left the station by now, and Jeremy was confused to see them still on air. By the weary looks on their faces, Jeremy had a grim feeling that, behind the cameras, the military had become the directors. Their promises of staying out of the station had obviously been overridden as things continued to deteriorate.

"While we are yet to receive confirmation, rumours have begun to circulate that researchers at the National Institute for Medical Research in London have made a breakthrough concerning the transmission method of the virus. We are persistent in our attempts to get more information on this matter, so please bear with us."

"What difference doessss it make?" Kara's voice had taken on a serpentine hiss as her throat rotted away. "Unless it's a cure, it's no good to anyone."

Jeremy sucked in a breath and listened to it whistle between his teeth. His stomach felt empty, nauseous. While Kara was correct in her pessimism, it was still welcome news to hear that someone had possibly discovered something about the nature of the peeling. Knowledge made the virus seem more natural, and less like the flesh-consuming monster that it currently was. If people knew how it was passed on then the fight to contain it could finally begin. Not that Jeremy would have anything left in his life to fight for if mankind succeeded in destroying the beast.

"How do you feel?" he asked Kara.

She tried to laugh, but her tattered vocal chords seemed to lack the ability now. "I feel like my head's going to fall off into my lap any minute. My neck feels numb, like it's not even there anymore."

Jeremy was about to tell her he was sorry, but then decided it would be a pointless gesture. Apologies would provide her no solace. Besides, she seemed to be getting more angry than brooding.

"This is probably what I deserve, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I've been fucking my sister's husband – among my many other sins – and this is probably my punishment."

Jeremy shook his head. "She forgives us."

"What? She knows?"

"Yes. She told me earlier. She loves us both and forgives us."

Kara hitched forward and tears were instant in their arrival. As they fell down her face, they gathered flakes of skin and a film of blood from her cheeks; so fragile was her flesh. "I'll go to hell for what I've done. Carol can forgive – she's a better person than us – but I doubt God will be so compassionate."

"Don't talk nonsense, Kara. We all do things we regret. Carol isn't holding it against you, so you shouldn't hold it against yourself, either."

"Fuck you!" The outburst was sudden and vicious. "You're the one that should be melting away, not my sister. You're the one that's spent your whole marriage fucking around. What did you ever do for her? Nothing! Yet she's the one dying while you're perfectly fine."

Jeremy sighed and tried to keep his focus on the television. He had a feeling that she would strike at him if he made eye contact. "If I could take her place, I would."

"You're a liar. They have a cure at that news station. Look at them. They're fine, just like you."

Jeremy looked at Sarah's tired face on the screen and shook his head. "Actually, one of the reporters has the virus. She showed me earlier."

"Bullshit!" Kara sprung up from the couch. You have a cure, but you won't share it. With me and Carol out of the way, you can carry on screwing around. Probably already got a new fancy-woman."

Jeremy stood up and backed away. He could sense violence coming off of Kara and he wasn't interested in stoking that particular fire. Nonetheless, she came at him, withered fingers outstretched like talons.

He stepped aside and shoved out, sending her sprawling back onto the couch. As she fell, her legs shot forward and upended the coffee table. Immediately her ankle began to bleed. She clutched at it and sobbed.

"I'm fucking melting! What did I do to deserve this? I'm not a bad woman, not really. I don't deserve this. I don't. I don't."

Jeremy left while she was distracted. A madness seemed to have overtaken her and his presence seemed to make it worse. He felt endangered; an enemy inside his own home. He wanted to see Carol. He wanted to be with his wife.

At the top of the stairs, the noise of the television faded away and Jeremy was again met with the eerie silence of the landing. There was every chance that Carol was already dead; part of him wanted that peace for her. If she had passed on then he would just sit with her awhile and hope that, somewhere, someplace, she was still with him. But when he opened the door, he saw that the mercy of death had not yet visited his wife.

Carol lay on the bed, looking more like a puddle than a human being. Her skin clung to her now only in patches and in many places her bones were showing clearly. But her eyes...her eyes were still flawless. Beautiful.

He sat down on the bed and went to touch her, but then realised there was nowhere he could do so without causing her pain. "I love you, Carol. I wanted to tell you that one more time."

It was an obvious effort for Carol to form words, but she seemed eager to do so all the same. "I...love...you...too."

"I wish I had more time with you. I wish there was time to make it all okay. I'm going to miss you every minute till the time I join you. I just hope that when I get there, you'll be waiting for me. If not, though...I'd understand."

Carol's eyes flickered as if fighting away sleep – or death. Jeremy wasn't sure if she'd heard the words he'd just spoken, but he hoped so. Eventually she came back to him and managed to speak again. "Please, Jerry...please."

"What, sweetheart? What do you want?" But she didn't need to answer. He knew what she was asking for. He nodded, felt tears well up behind his eyes. "Okay."

Jeremy leant forward and kissed his wife's forehead. His lips came away moist and sticky, but he did not care. Trying to be as gentle as possible, he pulled loose one of the pillows beneath his wife's head. Her eyes stared at him intently, and he knew that if she could, she would have been smiling. By doing what he was about to do, Jeremy could show his wife the kindness in death that he could not give her in life.

Jeremy put the pillow to his wife's face and pressed down. It took only a minute for her to die.

***

Jeremy sat with Carol for almost a full hour before he left her. He knew that once he exited the bedroom, she would truly be gone forever. Part of him had also been curious to see whether her body would continue to rot away after death. It had not. If he'd obeyed her requests earlier then her body would have been more intact as it was lying there now. It was just one more regret to add to his list.

Downstairs, Kara was missing. The television was still switched on, and if he wasn't mistaken the volume had been increased. Sarah and Tom were still reporting and there was an urgency about them now that he'd never seen before. He looked around the living room, but found only shadows.

"It has now been categorically proven," Sarah said on the television, "that the virus is passed on through carriers. While only fifty-percent of those exposed to the infection become symptomatic, it has been discovered that the other fifty-percent are not immune as originally thought. The seemingly unaffected are in fact passing on the virus by becoming highly-infectious carriers. While half of the population is dying, it is the other half that is infecting them. It is for this reason that a nationwide quarantine is now in effect. Healthy or infected – all will be restrained if found outside their homes at any times. Lethal force will be used if necessary. Through isolation, it is hoped that the infection will reach a saturation point and that none-symptomatic sufferers will remain healthy. There is still hope for a great deal of us, Great Britain, but we must stay calm, and we must stay indoors. Never Stop News is now the official channel for the British Government, along with the BBC, so please leave your television on at all times for further updates. We will be interspersing our regular newsfeed with episodes of Friends and The Simpsons, so sit back and enjoy that as it's coming up next."

"You did this."

Jeremy turned his head away from the television and saw Kara moving out from one of the room's shadowy corners. Her face had peeled away from her skull and her snarling mouth made her look like a vengeful demon.

"I did what?" Jeremy asked her.

"You infected Carol, and you infected me. You are the one that should be dead."

"You don't know that I have it. You don't know anything."

"Yes, I do. I haven't been around anyone since the whole thing started – no one, except for you."

Jeremy thought about earlier in the week when he'd popped round to see Kara at her home – popped round for his weekly booty call, and to warn her about the virus. "I'm sorry," he said, worrying that she could be right; that he could be responsible for his wife's death, and others.

"Quiet!" Kara stepped further out of the shadows. She was holding a large carving knife from the kitchen. "I don't want to hear you anymore."

Jeremy nodded. "Okay." He made no move to get away, unsure whether Kara even had it in her to do him harm. In normal circumstances, he thought not, but these were not normal circumstances, and she was most certainly not her usual self.

"You've been fucking us both for a long time, but now it seems like you really got the job done. You're a murderer, Jerry. If Carol and I had never let you near us then we would be okay, we would be healthy."

"Half the world has the peeling, Kara. You would have gotten it anyway, one way or another. Carol is my wife; you really think I would infect her purposefully?"

Kara came closer with the knife. Still he did not move. She growled at him, blood falling from her lips and covering the exposed bone of her lower jaw. "Men like you have been a sickness on women since time began. Women have always suffered because of misogynistic perverts like you."

"You're talking nonsense. The peeling is killing as many men as women. It's just luck of the draw who gets infected."

Kara came at him with the knife. "Lies! You did this. You killed us!"

Jeremy was about to dodge the knife attack, but at the last second he decided to remain in place. He thought about seeing Carol again as the knife entered his chest and forced him back like a punch. He fell backwards onto the sofa, blade jutting out from between his ribs, and ended up facing the television. Joey and Chandler were playing foosball in a world that knew not of such horrors as the peeling. Jeremy thought it was a nice way to go, and by the time he bled out, he almost managed to kid himself that the world was still had a chance.

Almost.

###
**THE PEELING OF SAMUEL LLOYD COLLINS**

****

**Thursday**

My big toenail fell off today. That leaves three on my right foot and two on my left. It stung at first, but now my toe just feels...hot. I'm keeping the nail in an ashtray in the kitchen.

My name is Samuel Lloyd Collins and I suppose, in a way, this is my last will and testament, except I don't have anybody to leave anything to, so I guess this is really just my last testament. Or maybe writing this is merely the closest thing I have to company.

I don't have to be alone. I could go next door and take part in one of their endless political debates that echo through the walls and keep me awake at night. Sometimes I think about yelling at them to 'keep it down', but what would be the use? Politics are high on everybody's agenda right now. One would expect them to be.

Everyone has their own theory on how 'The Peeling' started, but I personally think it was the Arabs. It's always the Arabs, isn't it? Saddam is dead and the Yanks finally got Osama. So what choice did they have left but to go for broke? Everyone assumed their master plan would culminate with a nuclear attack on a major city, but in many ways this virus is worse. We may have snuffed out the leaders, but their passion for killing, it seems, will never die. You cut the head off a chicken and it runs around like a maniac, spraying anyone nearby with blood. That's what 'The Peeling' is: arterial chicken blood spraying us all with its infectious filth. I guess the Arabs won in the end...

I came down with the sickness on Tuesday. Two days ago. I've already lost a bit of hair and some skin off my testicles, and you already know about the toenails. Funnily enough, my fingernails are currently unaffected, probably the only reason I'm able to write this. I thought about typing this on the computer, but somehow it felt like a man's final words should be in ink, don't you think? Maybe when it comes right down to it, paper is more permanent than a collection of cheap circuits.

My future is laid out for me now. I'll be dead within a week, give or take a day. The beauty of the Peeling is that it leaves no room for hypothesising. No room for hope. It kills every time, no exceptions. In a way that certainty has allowed me to come to terms and accept my fate. This time next week I will be a bubbling oil-slick of rancid, dissolving flesh. Somehow I'm fine with that.

But I need to know who is responsible for the pain I'm in. I already told you I think it's the Arabs, but unless I know for sure...Well let's just say that knowing for definite would bring a certain degree of closure to the situation. Of course, the honourable men and women of the Government's various agencies are urgently investigating the origin of this disease and those responsible, but as each second passes, Great Britain withers and dies beneath its second great plague. I just hope to be alive when they determine the guilty party.

Already know it was the Arabs, just need to know for sure...

**Friday**

I woke up this morning stuck to my pillow. Not because I had been drooling in my sleep, but because the skin below my left eye had rotted and fused with the cotton. I had to rip the pillow away and half of my face with it. The resulting meld of infected flesh and sickly white cotton reminded me of a surrealist painting, beautiful in a way. Maybe I'll have it framed before I die.

What an odd thing to muse upon! It would not surprise me if I have gone quite mad. I'm already starting to feel delightfully delirious (or maybe that's just the throbbing and burning where my face used to be).

Such good bone structure I was blessed with, but did not know of, until I was today faced with it in the mirror. The bone of my cheek now shows right through, covered only by several, thin slivers of sinewy gristle. I look like the Phantom of the Opera (albeit a grizzlier version). I wonder what part of me will dissolve tomorrow. That's the fun part of this sickness, I suppose, not knowing which chunk of skin will decompose next. It isn't like typical flesh-eating diseases; they have a point of infection and usually spread systematically. But The Peeling strikes the body at random, necrotising a man's feet before popping up a day later and doing the same to his ears. I've seen hundreds of case photographs and no two victims follow the same path of infection. The only non-variable: it's always fatal. No one understands this disease at all...

...and no one can stop it.

I think it's starting on my chest...

**Saturday**

I can see my ribs. Two of them, glistening at me like curved piano keys. It's amusing, in some morbidly fascinating way, to see one's inner workings. The pain is starting to subside, and thankfully only throbbed for a few hours in the morning, but the cloying odour inside the house is repugnant. Ideally, I would open the curtains and windows, but I don't wish to be disturbed by the outside world. I would only become resentful of those who still have all of their skin. Besides, it was being around other people that infected me in the first place, sealing my fate, and I hate them for that! But retaining my humanity is all I have left to focus on for now and resentment will only make that task harder. I have decisions ahead of me that should not be made in temper...

I have been corresponding all day with a trusted associate that is supplying me with up-to-date information on the current pandemic, along with the progress of the on-going Government investigations into the crisis. So far it seems clear that this was a premeditated and focused attack on the western world. The Peeling has, so far, hit 90% of Europe and is seeping its way into the East. USA and South America are also stricken, worse than we are in fact, but it is unsurprising to me that, as yet, the Arab world is unaffected. I am eager to see just how far into the East the disease spreads before ceasing its journey of human pestilence. I'm guessing that it will be shortly after it runs out of Christian nations to infect.

**Sunday**

I lost a hand today. Thank God it was my left and that I can still continue writing this. I now have a withered stump that drips periodically with a viscous yellow discharge. It looks similar to the contents of a Cadbury Cream Egg but smells worse than anything I could ever hope to describe to you now. I suppose it's the aroma of lingering death.

Next door are still at it. Talking incessantly at all hours. I need peace and quiet right now. Time to think. I already informed my colleagues that I would be working from home for the next week and am not to be disturbed under any circumstances. They were not happy, but I'm the Boss, so they'll have to cope. They don't know that I have the sickness, of course, probably too wrapped up in their own fear of it to even consider the possibility. People only worry about themselves nowadays.

My associate emailed today and told me that the infection was definitely engineered – _Wow. What a revelation! –_ and that it was unleashed upon the world at strategic locations: Major cities, along coastal areas so that the disease would work inwards from all directions, eating around the edges of England as though it were a Jaffa Cake with a chewy orange centre...

God what I would do for a box of Jaffa Cakes right now! The stump of my wrist is itching just thinking about it. Perhaps it's excitement?

Anyway, I have sent a reply email asking what is currently known about WHO engineered the disease. That is what I have to know.

Then maybe I can do something about it.

**Monday**

I have lost an eye today. It is indeed unfortunate, but in a way I am blessed to have persevered this long anyway. Many do not, and at least I have the other eye. My left one just dribbled out of its socket today like an under-boiled egg with its top sliced off: all foamy white and custardy-yellow. I almost laughed when I looked in the mirror. I look like a zombie-pirate.

At least it doesn't hurt. Not physically.  __

I suspect I have little time left now and I am anxiously awaiting news from my associate. I can feel the illness seizing my internal organs in its corrosive grip and it's only a matter of time before they start to decay completely. I have already taken to soiling myself involuntarily, so I assume that my intestines are already rotten. I would take a shower to get clean, but the pressure would only shred what remaining skin I have left. For now I will sit and wait for my associate to provide me the information I so desire...

Who is responsible? Who turned me, and most of the free world, into a quivering mass of mutilated flesh?

I wonder if there's any Jaffa Cakes in the pantry.

**Tuesday**

It has now been one week since I first noticed the skin under my armpit was peeling away in pus-filled chunks. One week since I realised I was a dead man walking.

Dead man peeling! Ha!

But I am still alive, devoid of nearly all my skin, granted, but alive nonetheless. Moist splatters of pungent flesh litter my home now, whilst foul scabs fall from my body constantly. The only merciful thing about this disease is that I feel nothing.

Nothing except for the soft scraping of insanity inside my fleshless skull.

**Wednesday**

Today will be my last. I can feel it. My lower legs snapped today when I got out of bed, too rotten and malformed to bear what little weight my frail body has left. It is of no importance however, as I awakened to something wonderful:  _You have mail._

__ I am about to drag my withered limbs over to the computer right now, to see what my trusted associate has for me. I will record the email, and my response, for you right here, as I feel it will be important.

_Dear Prime Minister._

__

_I sincerely hope that you are keeping well in this time of dire need. Great Britain is within the talons of great turmoil and despair, but I trust that your inspired leadership will see us through as ever. This shall not be the end of our endless empire and the good people of this nation will go on stronger than before. That is our way and always will be. May Angels sit on our shoulders as God guides our souls through the times ahead. Long live Great Britain._

__

_But without further ado, Prime Minister, I will provide you with the Intel you require. It was discovered at_ _0300 GMT today that the disease is not contained to western nations as first assumed. In fact we now have reliable information that the infection, commonly referred to as 'The Peeling', was contracted in Turkey and has quickly spread as far east as Japan. I'm sure you can appreciate, that with the USA also affected, it effectively means the disease has travelled the entire circumference of the world... Yet there is one country that has shown no effects of the illness, despite being surrounded by it on all borders. We have tried to contact that nation's Government but they have declined all opportunities to reply. It now seems a reasonable assumption that the country in question is responsible for this worldwide plague._

__

_That country is North Korea._

__

_As always, I await you orders on how to proceed, but I implore you to act wisely._

_Yours,_

__

_General Harvey Whitehead_

_———————————_

__

_Dear Harvey_

__

_I was certain it was the Arabs! Guess we can all be wrong sometimes..._

__

_Regardless, since my dear Martha and the children were taken from me by this wretched sickness, I have had no time to mourn them, so I regret to inform you that this will be my final act as leader of this nation. I hope that you and your family are well, and remain so. I wish the same for Great Britain._

__

_Without continued procrastination, my orders, in regards to the Godless entity of North Korea, are as follows:_

__

_Send the Nukes._

__

_Send them all..._

__

_They will not take this world as their own._

__

_Yours regretfully,_

__

_Prime Minister Samuel Lloyd Collins_
**NIGEL**

Nigel saw the girl at the side of the road and slowed down, turning off his lights so as not to blind her. The girl was young, early twenties, and had hair so blonde that it seemed to light up the darkness around her.

Nigel pressed the switch for the passenger window and leant over. "You need a lift?"

The girl looked at him and smiled. To Nigel the expression seemed to have a hint mischief about it. She sauntered over to his car and placed a hand on the roof. "Hey honey! I surely do."

_American?_ Nigel frowned. What was a young American girl doing walking along an English country-road at close to midnight?  _Guess, it doesn't matter,_ Nigel thought.  _If the gal needs a lift. I'm happy to oblige._ He unlocked the passenger door and pushed it open. "Get in."

"That's mighty fine of ya darlin." The girl hopped into the seat beside him and offered her hand. "My name's Marline."

Nigel accepted the handshake and introduced himself back. "My name is Mark," he lied.

"Well, Mark," Marline pulled shut the door on her side. "Where ya heading?"

Nigel pressed down on the accelerator and pulled the car away, putting his lights back on a moment later. "I'm just on my way to work. I'm a lorry driver and I gotta take a delivery to Amsterdam, so I'm off to pick up my truck."

"Amsterdam? Betcha going there for more than jus' business."

Nigel examined the girl. The cheeky grin was still on her face and for a moment he didn't know how he should respond. He wanted to say whatever he thought she would like the most. "I...er, may find the time to fit in a little bit of pleasure."

"I know exactly what ya mean. Life's too short to miss any chances to party."

Nigel nodded, keeping his eyes on the road, but catching brief glimpses of the young body sat beside him. In the darkness of the car's interior, the only thing he could see clearly was the pale flesh of Marline's thighs. He cleared his throat as he took a shallow bend in the road. "So, you like to party then?"

"Uh huh, every day of ma life."

Nigel snuck another quick glance at the girl's thigh and felt himself getting hard, the fabric of his jeans fighting back against his growing erection. "How do you like to party?"

"I like ta fuck! How bout you?"

Nigel's grip on the steering wheel tightened momentarily and the car swerved back and forth. After taking a deep breath, Nigel forced out a reply. "I like to fuck too. In fact I'd like to fuck you."

_Did I really just say that? Shit, she started it._

Marline was silent and Nigel felt as though his beating heart would burst right through his chest. He felt sick.

After another agonising moment, Marline finally replied to his comment. "Well pull on over and let's find ourselves somewhere nice and quiet then."

Nigel swallowed and a lump stuck in his throat. Without speaking, he pulled the car onto the verge, beneath some trees. He was a bag of nerves, which was surprising as he had fucked hundreds of women in his lifetime (and not all of it was against their will). Sometimes women liked to have sex with him voluntarily, but they weren't usually so young and feisty.

_Gonna enjoy having my way with this one. Might even let her live._

"You okay there, honey? Looks like I've lost you to the fairies."

Nigel turned off the engine and looked at Marline's beautiful face, full of soft features and gentle contours. He composed himself; didn't want to scare the girl by allowing her to glimpse at the beast beneath his mask. "Come on let's find us a place to party," he said.

"Hell yeah!" Marline squealed in delight and pushed herself out of the car, slamming shut the door behind her.

Nigel shut his own door and pressed the central locking button his key fob. The car squeaked and lit up before going dark and silent. Nigel rubbed at the stubble on his chin and grinned.  _Time to get to work._

When he looked up Marline was not there.

"Marline, sweetheart. Where'd you get to?"

"I'm over here!" Her voice seemed to float out of the nearby trees. "Ya gonna come find me, sugar?"

_Great, she expects me to play childish games just to get a bit of pussy. Obviously she doesn't realise that I'm having it whether she likes it or not._

__ With a sigh, Nigel entered the treeline of the woods, watching his step carefully as he navigated his way over tangled roots and fallen branches. "Come here, sweetheart. This isn't the way to party."

"Sure it is, honey. Gotta have you work up a sweat before we get down to the main event. You want the prize, gonna have to work for it."

_You're testing my patience, bitch._

__ As calmly as he could, Nigel laughed and said, "Okay, sweetheart, but don't make me wait too long or else I may lose interest."

"Oh you won't lose interest in what I got. It's ta die for."

_Yeah, and that's exactly what's gonna happen to you, sweet Marline, just as soon as I hump the shit out of every one of your holes. Even your ears will be bleeding once I'm done with ya._

__ Up ahead, Nigel caught sight of something, a flash of something lighter than the surrounding browns and greens of the shadowy trees. Nigel made towards it. "I see you, Marline!"

"Oh no, what ever will I do if ya find me. Please be gentle, now."

_That's the last thing I'll be._

__ Nigel couldn't help but laugh as he picked up speed, more and more certain that he could see the young girl up ahead.

"Jeepers, the big strong man found me. Now what are ya gonna do with me?"

Nigel's jaw dropped. Marline was backed up against a tree, with her arms behind her, and was completely-

_Naked!_

__ "Hell girl," Nigel quipped. You don't waste no time!"

Marline smiled, the same mischievous smile that she'd shown him at the side of the road when he'd picked her up. "Like I said, life's too short to miss out on partying. Come get me, big boy."

Nigel's grin was so wide that it stretched the skin at the corners of his mouth.  _Can't wait to kill you sweetheart. Only question is if I gut you with my knife or strangle you to death. Think I'll go for strangling; let you look into my eyes while I murder you._

__ Nigel reached Marline and instantly reached out for her breasts. The girl put her knee up to block his advance. "Not so quick, sugar."

Nigel sighed. "No more games."

Marline shook her head. "No, no more games I promise. Just close your eyes because I have a present for you."

Nigel shook his head. "No."

Marline pouted, her plush lips bunching up into a moist circle. "Pwitty pwease! I just wanna give you something to remember me by."

"Fine!" Nigel shook his head, impatient, but did as she asked of him; eager to get started. He closed his eyes.

The pain was blinding. The sharp stab at his ribs seemed to radiate through his entire body until even his fingertips were aching. He dropped to the floor, trying to catch his breath. But couldn't.

"How's that feel mate?"

_Mate?_ Nigel looked up at the girl – who had suddenly lost her American accent – and saw that her mischievous grin had become a malevolent smirk. The girl had planned this all along; the blood-soaked blade in her hand made him sure of that fact. "W...Why?"

"Why what, you fat fuck?"

Nigel gripped the gushing wound in his side and felt hot blood run through his fingers. "Why...this?"

Marline ( _if that's even her real name_ ) began to laugh so loud that the sound added to Nigel's already-substantial pain, rattling around inside his skull. The young girl – now a mask-less monster, the same as Nigel – stared down at him with disgust etched across her face. "What? You mean it's okay for you to go around murdering young girls, but it's not okay for me to go and stab you back. You fucking hypocrite!"

Nigel tried to rise up to his knees but failed and fell back down onto his side. "H-How did you...know?"

"Cus you killed my girlfriend!" Marline spat at him, but there was too much pain seizing Nigel's body that he didn't have the capacity to feel it his face. "Name was Dannielle and all she wanted was a lift, but you gave her a lot more than that didn't you? Good thing she managed to make a secret phone call before you raped her."

Nigel put a hand up in front of him. "You have...me mistaken."

To Nigel's horror, the young girl ran her tongue along the blood-drenched blade, savouring his blood, and then she pounced again. The blade entered Nigel just below his collarbone. It didn't hurt as much as the first stabbing, but was enough to knock the wind out of him again.

Marline crouched beside him and got right in his face. Absurdly, Nigel was aware of the smell of peppermint on the girl's breath. "I don't make mistakes," she said to him in a whisper. "I've been watching you for a long time, Nigel; seen the girl's you've raped and murdered. I even know that you almost got caught last winter when the Police got an anonymous call to search your truck. Guess you must have had a good little hiding place for all those pinkie fingers you cut of your victims for them not to have found anything. You've totted up quite the little kill spree since then, but it ends now."

But that was a lie, Nigel found out, because an hour later Marline was still hacking away at him with her blade and squealing with delight.

_The girl really does like to party,_ thought Nigel, as he screamed for help that would never come.

###
A **NIMAL KINGDOM**

****

My goldfish tried to kill me today. On a typical day, that would be concerning, but today there are worse things to worry about. Still, the sight of little 'Ora' launching herself out of her bowl like a throat-seeking missile was an unusual way to start my morning. Luckily, goldfish lack teeth, and as such my former pet bounced harmlessly off my jugular and flopped on the floor like a...well like a wet fish. I swear she gave me death-stares the whole time she lay there gasping for breath. But like I said, there are worse things to worry about today.

Take the view from my bedroom window for example. Right now I can see Mr Patterson from number 32 being ripped limb from limb by number 12's two cocker spaniels, Charlie and Lucy. His screams have become so high-pitched that they have started to sound like an old-fashioned kettle on the boil (I think my Nan used to have one).

I can also see some poor soul trapped in a black Range Rover, unable to get out because of a relentless bombardment of nearby birds. Like Kamikaze pilots, they splat themselves against the windscreen, trying to get at the man inside as if he were an oyster inside of a clam.

Everything happened so quickly and I'm just glad that my only pet was a goldfish, because it seems that every animal, big or small, has turned its teeth and claws on humanity. It's insane, but perhaps just, in its own twisted way. Maybe the animal kingdom took a vote and decided they don't wish to be pets or dinner anymore. Perhaps they have decided it's time to fight for their lives.

I may have survived a killer goldfish attack this morning, but I don't hold much hope for the future. The lion walking down the middle of my road would be reason enough to assume that we won't make it.

Perhaps if I'm lucky, the animals will spare me. After all, I am a vegetarian.

###
**Zombies are Dead**

****

Zombies are dead. They are beyond redundant, even lamer than the angst-ridden vampires that suck away at the tortured souls of teenage outcasts. Take a breath though, before you start getting crazy at me. Chill out before you start spouting out Dawn of the Dead, 28 Days Later, and Dead Alive. Yes, those were kickass movies, but for each of them there were a dozen or more lame-ass, low budget, zombie-by-numbers pieces of garbage – and don't even get me started on the number of reprehensibly-bad undead novels that get written each year.

So, as I have tried to tell you, zombies are dead. Their time has come and gone, shambling away in a rot of tired cliché's and corn-syrup gore. If you ask me, _Werewolves_ are the future...but therein lays the problem.

There is no future.

The world is on its final chapter.

And to top it all off, it's all happening because of the same, unoriginal, walking corpses that I had already grown so undeniably sick of. There are zombies outside my door and they just ate my neighbours. That's actually pretty cool because Alan Morgan from number 12 was always a total douche. He looks much better now, walking around with his intestines trailing behind him.

So there you have it, my very own zombie-apocalypse. It's all so...underwhelming. Don't get me wrong, when I saw on UK-Midlands news that the dead were rising from the grave and devouring the living – the report delivered by the same dour, grey newscaster that could have been from countless horror movies – I was freaked! I watched scenes from the entire world, from Australia to Peru, England to Austria. Death. Destruction. Blood, gore, and guts. In most major cities, the army patrolled the streets with their mean-looking guns, but here, in a small town suburb, we were left to fend for ourselves. My parental units never came back from work. They never called either. In fact the phones don't even work anymore. Same goes for the power, the Internet, and the gas heating. At least the water still works (not that I can have a shower with all the noise the pipes would make).

I tried writing this at first on my laptop, but realised that after a few hours the battery would go flat, unable to be recharged. So I am writing it in an old notebook, taking as many notes as possible, so that I can use it for my next line of comic books. I'm bored of writing the Amazing Lucas anyway, and it's not like any of the comic-book companies were showing any interest in it. But when things finally get back under control, Zombies are Dead: annual one is going to be a worldwide best seller. Even bigger than Superman – or Super-douche they'll be calling him then.

It's been pretty mundane so far. I'm looking out my window right now and watching Tracy Miller, from down the road, gnawing on what looks to be a severed dog's leg. It's all tattered and matted in her mouth, but she seems to be enjoying it. Her clothes are hanging off by blood-stained threads and I can see...well, I can see everything. When she had been alive, I would have given anything to see Tracy naked, but now that she's dead I wish she would cover up. There's nothing sexy about grey, mottled breasts. Especially ones that seem to be leaking some sort of foul discharge from the nipples. Kinda looks like hummus.

What I wouldn't give for some chips and dip right now. I haven't eaten all day. Mom never came home, so there has been no shopping. I ate through the scraps in the fridge, but everything in the tepid freezer has spoiled. I already lost a pound or two from starvation, which is no bad thing. I'm starting to look kinda hot in fact!

There are perhaps ten zombies outside now and I am trying to make notes about them all – despite the fact they act like boring hunks of meat. The corpse of a tall, Black man was the most recent to appear. I dunno where the dude came from, but he seems to like it here in my neighbourhood, mingling and jockeying with the other undead in a relentless battle over whatever they could find to put between their yellowing teeth. Currently, he's rooting through an overturned wheelie bin. God knows what he hopes to find. All of the other bodies are just what you'd expect – stumbling clichés of limping legs, outstretched arms, and hungry faces. Not even their wounds are much to speak of. With the exception of Mr Morgan, dragging his intestines around, most of the corpses are just sporting dried up bite-marks on their necks.

Christ! It's just so unimaginative.

The boredom is driving me crazy.

I even considered getting my action figures out of their boxes – original packaging – but haven't quite lost my mind just yet. The sight of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Batman, and various Resident Evil characters (now _those_ were zombies!) staring down at me from the shelves that line my room is one of the only solaces I have left. As long as I can keep them pristine, the world still makes sense. When all this is over, they will probably be the only ones left in any sort of condition.

I'm sure it will be over soon.

Before the television went off, there were reports of the army cleansing large areas of the undead in ever-widening circles from their various base camps. It must only be a matter of time before one of these circles reaches my street. Coming in with all guns blazing. I've seen it a hundred times before. It's been about three days since I last saw a living soul. A couple were trying to flee in a cramped minibus, but careened into one of the houses along the side of the street as they sought to avoid the bodies in the road. The dead were on them in seconds, dragging them out and tearing them apart like gift-wrapping. It's incredible how quickly a human body can turn red. Totally and utterly red. An hour after the couple's death, I heard a baby start to cry from one of the rear passenger seats of the minibus. It was getting dark by then and I didn't want to watch, so I lay in my bed and put on some headphones. When I took them off, the baby wasn't crying anymore.

Help will come soon.

My Edward Scissorhands figurine isn't that valuable. Maybe I could get him out for a play. Not quite sure quite what fun I could have with him, but I need to do something. My head is aching from so much thinking and I should really try to do something else with my time, other than writing in this journal. I wonder if people will read it a hundred years from now, like a real-life World War Z (God, that book ruled).

I think the epitome of being a survivor in a zombie-apocalypse is boredom. If a vampire or werewolf plague were upon us then there would be brief respites, during daylight or in the absence of a full moon – Survivors could regroup and replan – but in a zombie holocaust you really are stuck. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to talk to. There is no safe route to a well-supplied supermarket, and there are no roving gangs of zombie-killing bikers either. There's just you and the four walls that surround you (or entomb you).

The sun is going down once more, falling like a slow moving comet. Funny how I never paid much attention to the sunset before all this happened. I guess I can appreciate the simple things now that my Xbox is junk. Things like clean bed sheets and the taste of an apple. Simple stuff is what I miss the most.

I should go to bed soon. My hand is aching from all this writing and my eyes are beginning to strain. I'm peeking out between the gaps in my bedroom curtains one last time to see what I can see. The horde outside is growing. Perhaps they sense life nearby, could even be hearing my heartbeat. If help doesn't come soon, they may spot me. And if they don't, then I may just be crazy enough with boredom to go out and join them. I'm probably losing my mind by now. Especially with what I've just seen.

My parents are home.

Mom and Dad are slithering down the middle of the road, clawing themselves along on their bellies by splintered fingernails. Their legs are missing and all that remains of their lower halves is a slick bunch of entrails hanging out behind them like noodles from a pancake roll. The desperate grimace on each of their faces make them seem like inhuman strangers, but something rational in my mind can identify their features enough to be sure. My parental units are now undead monstrosities, edging down the street towards my house.

Towards their house.

Do they still remember? Are they simply trying to make their way home?

Are they coming for me?

I'm going to go to bed now. Help will come soon. I just have to be patient. I'm safe inside my bedroom – safely wrapped away like so many of my wonderful figurines. They will watch over me while I sleep. Angel, Buffy, Spiderman, and Hulk – all of them heroes, and tonight they will protect me.

Zombies are Dead.
THE HUNT

When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying. They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first.

Ernest Hemingway said that, and he was right. Hunting is a human endeavour as old as history itself – something every man has buried deep within his breast. To kill a lesser animal is the most natural thing in the world.

But all that ended in 2004, when Blair's liberal propaganda finally made its way into Parliament. They banned fox hunting outright and turned us all into pariahs. A law passed by peasants for no other reason than the resentment of refinery and class.

My name is Clive Middlesex, and I a Master Huntsmen, descended from a dozen Master Huntsmen before me, and I am now also a criminal. They made me one, for I continue to hunt despite their wretched ultimatums. Hunting is in my family's blood. It is my right.

The hunt is on, our quarry ahead. Red foxes flee our hounds with the desperate intensity that only the fear of death can provide. This, my friends, is life. This is living.

"That was great, Clive. Will be good in the sound edit when we overlay it on top of videos from the hunt."

Clive smiled proudly at the journalist, rather pleased with the speech as well. "Good, it's about time someone took a stand. I will not lie down for the unschooled peasants any longer, and if that makes me a martyr, then so be it."

"They'll definitely be those that support you as well," said the journalist. "It's still a hot debate. Anyway, thank you for allowing me to be the one to record your story."

"My pleasure. Now, let us retire to the stables. They'll be getting our horses ready. I take it you can ride?"

The journalist blushed from behind his notepad. "Not well, I'm afraid."

Clive shook his head and almost spat at the ground. "Then how the bloody hell do you expect to keep up with the hunt?"

The journalist cleared his throat, seemed to steel himself slightly. "We have set up several cameras across the glen that will capture the hunt as it passes by. We will be able to get a grand, sweeping view that way."

Clive liked the sound of that. Grand sweeping view. He adjusted the lapels of his bright red huntsman jacket and raised his chin. "Very good. Shall we commence?"

The journalist nodded. "Of course, after you."

Clive led on, the seedy little wordsmith following closely behind. The family's stables were just a few lengths up ahead. Marcus, his stable hand, was busy getting Petronella ready for him, fastening the bridle securely on the prize mare, ready for the master's mount.

"Good man, Marcus," he said, reaching the stables and taking the reins. "We'll be ready for tea at noon."

"Very good, Sir." The stable hand walked away, heading for the Manor.

Clive turned to the journalist who was continuing to take down notes. "You sure you're not willing to ride? It's the ultimate thrill, man."

"No thanks," the journalist waved a hand, "but I'll be here when you get back."

Clive hoisted himself up onto Petronella and secured his feet into the stirrups. He immediately felt comfortable, as though he had returned to a place he belonged – the saddle of a noble beast, surveying the lay of his vast lands. A king of his estate.

Petronella trotted slowly towards the end of the paddock, heading for the open gate. Once through, entering the fields of the Middlesex Estate, Clive coerced the beast into a canter. The other huntsmen, along with the pack dogs, would be waiting for him atop the nearby hill, as well as the first of many cameras that would be rolling to catch the majesty of the pursuit.

Patronella slowed down as her hooves met the incline and Clive gently manoeuvred her up the hill. Near the top, he began to hear the jovial banter of his peers and looked forward to joining them.

But Petronella stopped suddenly, unwilling to move another step. Clive whipped his riding crop against her rump and kicked his heels. "Onwards!"

As if never stopping in the first place, the horse started moving again. Clive decided to ignore the animal's momentary insolence. She had most likely been temporarily spooked by some sound that his human ears could not detect. Still, Petronella knew better than to disobey her master.

The many fine gentlemen of the hunting club, along with a dozen yapping beagles, were gathered loosely together at the knoll's peak. Clive quickly joined them, excitement growing in his heart with each passing second. They greeted him merrily as he came and Clive raised a hand to get their attention.

"A fine morning we're having today, gentlemen; as brisk as it is sober. A perfect day for a hunt."

The group cheered as he said the word for which they had all gathered. The dogs began wagging their tails joyously in response to the commotion. They too were anxious for the games to begin.

"We are an endangered species," Clive continued. "Men with the very essence of the countryside running through our blood yet forced to deny it. They have tried to extinguish our right to manage our own lands in our own ways, but that is something we will never allow willingly. These ancient lands have belonged to my family for centuries and as their current custodian, I permit you the right to spill blood in the honour of sport."

More cheers erupted and the men began to bring their mounts together, ready to set off in formation. Clive made his own way to the front of the pack, looking down the hill and over the fields. A gentle haze of airborne moisture seemed to hang several inches above the ground.

Clive held his crop above his head and thrust it forward. "Let the hunt commence."

Instead of galloping forward, he instead found himself flying backwards. The horse reared up and bucked Clive from the saddle. He hit the unforgiving mud behind him and let out a pained yell.

The bodies of his fellow huntsmen began to hit the ground all around him as their own respective horses reared up in the same way that Clive's had.

"What the hell is going on," he demanded, but to no one in particular.

Clive watched in shock as one of his fellow huntsmen was kicked and trodden by his horse, a deep, bloody dent misshaping his skull as hooves connected with delicate skullbone over and over again. The gentlemen screamed all around him as each of the horses attacked them.

Clive managed to roll out of the way, just in time, as Petronella kicked out at him. He got to his feet as quickly as he could, panicked beyond anything he had ever felt before. Heading downhill, he managed to pick up a great deal of speed, but he knew that it would be nowhere near enough if the horses gave chase. But such a thing was unconceivable anyway. The horses would not attack with premeditation, only out of fear. That is what must have happened, Clive considered as he hurtled down the hill. The horses were just startled into some sort of mania. A tragic turn of events, for sure, but explainable in a logical way.

Clive reached the bottom of the hill and looked back behind him. Thankfully, the horses had not pursued him, still trampling over the bodies at the top of the hill. The beagles were fleeing the scene though, same as he was, heading down the hill as a closely-knit pack.

Clive waited for them to catch up, regaining the breath that his body needed in the meantime. The dogs quickly barrelled into him, knocking him onto his back.

"Whoa there, fellas. I'm scared too."

Clive began to stroke the dogs, hoping to calm them down, but as he did so, they continued to pile onto him, in danger of smothering him.

"Hey, get off me!"

Clive felt a pair of slick jaws close around his hand. One of the dogs wished to play.

The jaws clamped shut and Clive screamed. The force increased quickly, until he felt the fragile bones begin to snap. Before Clive had any chance to scream louder, another pair of jaws seized his throat, cutting off any sounds he was yet to make.

He was forced to lay there, in choked silence, while a dozen of the finest hunting dogs in all of England ripped him apart piece by piece. For the first time in his life, Clive Middlesex knew how the fox felt.
A-Z of Surviving a Horror Movie

A

Attractive - In the real world, being attractive is good, but in a horror film it is a no go. Masked killers and sick psychopaths love nothing more than to hack away at a well-proportioned pair of titties or a perfectly-sculpted booty. So if you find yourself and your friends being stalked by a guy in a hockey mask holding a machete, you need to ensure that you are as plain and unattractive as can be. Plaid shirts and wellington boots could be your only hope of survival.

Arson - When all other attempts to kill the bad guy or monster have failed, resort to fire. It is a well-known fact that 99% of supernatural slashers are vulnerable to flames, and one acceptable plan for survival would be to trap the bad guy inside a building and set light to it. This will ensure that you reach the end of the film alive whilst ambiguously leaving open the possibility that the killer survived to make the sequel. Fire can also work against nightmare-invading child-killers - especially if you find and burn their remains in the real world.

America - Nearly all horror movies take place in the USA, so if you live there, MOVE!

Acid - Acid is affective against all types of killers (even toon-killing maniacs. See Roger Rabbit). It is hard to procure, but there is a moment in every horror movie where one will find themselves in the empty corridors of a high school. It is this time when you should quickly seek out the building's science lab and look for any beakers of smoking, clear liquid marked with a skull and crossbones. Said liquid should then be applied to killer's face ad nauseum...

Side note: the narcotic 'Acid' is not a survival tool and will in fact lead to an imminent death (see later entry DRUGS).

Attic - The attic is useful for several reasons during a horror film. It is a place to hide while the killer stalks the floors below (you should usually be able to find a small hole in the floor to watch at your leisure). When eventually discovered, the attic will allow you to partake in an exciting rooftop chase that starts from an awkwardly shaped window and ends with someone falling to their death (hopefully the killer).

The attic is also useful because you will inevitably find an old dusty chest that contains back story on the killer and potentially objects to destroy them. This chest will also allow you to discover that your Gran knew all about 'everything' from the start but didn't tell you about it because they were blocking it out in an alcohol-fuelled, decades-long bout of denial.

Accidents - Never step backwards into a road whilst arguing with your friends. A bus WILL hit you!

Adults - Adults are absolutely unwilling to believe anything you say concerning masked killers or your impending death, despite the fact that they know all about it really. In fact in many cases the killer is stalking you because of something your parents did, which makes it even more annoying that they won't listen. Do not worry though, because there is a good chance that they will drink themselves stupid in the second half of the film then later meet their deaths in some mad attempt at redemption.

Alleyways - AVOID!

Alaska - Any place that always snows will be plagued by some sort of Vampire. Move immediately if you live in one of these places.

Ally-Oop - This is a manoeuvre in basketball where one player throws the ball in the air whilst their team mate catches it and 'dunks' it in one motion. It will not help you in a horror movie.

Alligators - When flushed down the toilet as unwanted pets, they will roam the sewers reaching unbelievable sizes. If you find yourself underground, encountering an alligator is almost as bad as all the poo.

Animals - You will find most animals in horror films are rabid and dangerous. Except dogs - dogs are heroes. If you want to survive, you may need a dog. You should name him 'Chips'.

Apes - Apes and Monkeys carry zombie diseases. AVOID!

Asimov - If confronted by killer robots, consult the rules of Asimov.

Assistant - If you are an Assistant and you sleep with your boss, YOU WILL DIE. Usually in a way involving office stationary or some sort of Xerox machine.

Asshole - If you are an asshole, it is your obligation to start out by giving everyone else shit, but slowly throughout the course of the film you will become a badass anti-hero that others rely on. You come to realise that your poor childhood is not your fault and that the only way you can change things is by changing yourself. If you are an asshole, you may just live.

Astronaut - Never trust an astronaut. They are not the same as before they went to the moon, becoming somehow different and strange. The patches of scaly skin on their neck is also very unsettling. If you are female they will want to breed with you as soon as possible...

Australians - Australians attract sicko 'outback killers' and giant crocodiles. They are also always 'attractive' (see Attractive). They also carry backpacks which are constantly snagging on things, causing you to stop, turn back, and free them. They are also dangerous at sea as they are the natural diet of sharks. Do not make friends with Australians, they will get you killed.

Axe - An effective weapon against slasher-killers and bug-like alien infestations. The axe is easy to find and makes you look really cool. It can also be used for opening doors and cutting off infected limbs.

-B-

Boats - Boats will not save you. In the event of a zombie attack for instance, escaping by boat will only lead you to a seemingly deserted island that will in fact turn out to be teeming with the undead. Boats are also prone to attacks from both sharks and giant squid (and in rarer instances, the dark lord Cthulhu). Row boats are the most dangerous of all and will often result in you being pulled under the water by the spirits of drowned children.

Bandits - Bandits exist in all horror apocolypses and are dirty, stupid people that enjoy raping above all else. They seem to have no comprehension that the human race is dwindling and go about killing innocent people instead of working together to improve things for all.

Bats - Bats are either Vampires in disguise or carriers of disease. Get a baseball bat and clobber them out of the air!

Babies - In a horror film, there is a chance that a baby will be evil and care should be taken not to climb ladders around them or stray near third-floor windows. In other scenarios, an unborn baby may be the future saviour of humanity and care should be taken to keep these types of foetuses safe.

Billy Crystal - Unknown to him, Billy Crystal is a descendant of a line of ancient shamen. In the event of severe supernatural threats, you should seek out this talented actor and convince him to unleash the powerful white magic that has always existed inside of him. Billy Crystal could save us all!

Bomb - A bomb can be used to wipe out aliens, monsters, and assorted critters. For instance, sticks of dynamite can be tied to remote controlled cars and used to attract and destroy giant underground worms.

Biscuits - Biscuits can't help you. They do, however, go great with a cup of tea. Yum!

Bandana - A bandana will instantly make you an expert in all firearms and survival techniques. This piece of clothing is a must if you hope to survive.

Bed - Hiding under a bed whilst being stalked by a killer is a bad idea; although the mattress can be stripped and thrown from an upstairs window, allowing you to jump out and use it as a crash mat.

Birds - These winged rodents have a tendency to swarm in a flurry of bad special effects. They like to peck at their victim's eyes, so sunglasses are a wise investment. A group of circling birds however can indicate the presence of a corpse, so in a zombie apocalypse they can be very useful to look out for.

Black Guy - Typically the first to die, so get away from him, or alternatively keep him near to act as a kill-buffer.

Bars - Before entering a bar, please ensure that it is Vampire-free. This can be achieved by cutting your hand and seeing if any of the other patrons begin to drool over your blood. Alternatively, you could just visit the bar during daylight hours.

Boxing - Any attempt to 'box' a serial killer will end badly. After taking several blows and staggering backwards, the killer will enevitably shake off the attack and kill you. See Nightmare on Elm Street 3 or Friday the 13th 8 for examples.

Be right back - Never say this!

Beer - Beer make man strong.

Brogues - A sensible pair of shoes is vital in all horror scenarios. Invest in your feet today and they will pay you back later.

Budgets - Budgets are used by Governments and are usually the reason that huge threats get ignored. The bottom line is more important than properly investigating a little virus outbreak in Chicago.

-C-

Cannon - A cannon would be an ideal weapon in a horror movie situation if your target was to remain still and in front of you. If you come up against a somewhat less co-operative killer then a cannon is perhaps not your best option.

Cars - Cars are great for going on the run or occasionally for mowing down masked psychopaths and other two legged monsters. There is a chance however that the car itself is the monster, possessed by an evil entity intent on killing you...so check the vehicle's history before getting behind the wheel.

Chains - If your boyfriend has a cellar with lots of chains on the wall, RUN! If your girlfriend has a cellar with lots of chains on the wall, she's a keeper!

Cellar - See above.

Crystals - Multi-coloured crystals are very pretty, but pretty much useless unless you have a new-age witch on hand; so if you find crystals just ignore them, or find yourself a new-age witch!

Carrier - A carrier is someone that is infected with a disease (usually zombie flu) and they can be identified by sweating, coughing, and a pasty complexion. They usually spend half the film trying to hide a nasty, infected wound from the rest of the group, before finally going batshit crazy and trying to eat people. To prevent this, everyone in your group of survivors should be naked at all times. Sexy Parties are optional.

Cabin - If you go to a cabin there is a good chance you will die! On the other hand they make great venues for a relaxing weekend vacation, so the risk may be worth it. Just check the nearby area for ancient burial plots first. And take enough bed linen, you don't want to get a chill.

Canada - Canadians have banned all violence, and even rudeness of any kind, so a horror movie situation is unlikely to occur there. If possible we should all relocate to Canada and spend our retirement watching back-to-back episodes of 'Due South'.

Castle - If you get invited to stay the night at an old, rundown castle then you should respectfully decline. Likewise, if a distant relative dies and leaves you a property in their will then you should sell it on immediately. If however you have the means to build your own castle then this would be a wonderful asset during a zombie apocalypse. A well-dug moat could keep you safe for years.

Colt - Whether a horse or a gun, a Colt is useful to have. Just make sure you know which one you have. A horse will not appreciate you trying to loads bullets into it and a gun will not be happy being kept in a stable.

Chocolate - A little known fact is that the accomplished spree killer, Michael Myers, is a fanatic for chocolate. In fact he will happily spare you for a Cadbury Cream Egg or a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. Bear that in mind when Halloween 36 hits the cinemas later this year.

Cats - A 'black' cat = Evil! Other types of cats = Evil. All cats are Evil!

Cricket Bat - The modern and fashionable way to cave zombie's heads in. If you go to war with anything else then you are just not cool, sir.

Christmas Carols - If you turn up at my door singing 'Old King Wenceslas' then I will kill you!

Corporations - Corporations create monsters, mutants, deadly viruses, and Coke Cola. All of these things are evil. If you work nine to five for a large multi-faceted business then you may be contributing to our eventual extinction. How could you!

Christianity - Christians are great when coming up against the devil. They will give you time to run away while they attempt to teach Lucifer the error of his ways. The bible can also be used effectively as a bludgeoning weapon, or you can use it to stand on and reach high places.

Coven - A coven is a social club for broody lesbians. If you are stuck in a horror movie and need help, you can ask a coven to provide a backing soundtrack for you. They will happily chant incantations while you take it to the bad guy. This won't really provide you with much assistance, but will at least set the right atmosphere.

City - A city is a breeding ground for serial killers, zombie attacks, and alien assaults. Move to the countryside now!

Countryside - The countryside is a breeding ground for serial killers, zombie attacks, and alien assaults. Move to the city now!

-D-

Dogs - When not rabid, dogs are heroic creatures that will die trying to save you towads the end of the film.

Drugs - If you do drugs then you will die. Not because of the damage they do to your internal organs but because of the fact that a homicidal maniac can smell a junkie a mile off. (See Taryn White in Nightmare on Elm Street 3). The smell of marijuana is like catnip to a killer.

Dragons - Dragons are huge beasts that all talk like Shawn Connery. They exist in deep underground caves in Wales and, if you unleash them upon the earth, you will have to get a young Christian Bale to save you.

Dagon - An evil demi-god that smells of fish. If you live near the sea then there is always a chance that you will encounter Dagon, or one of his minions. In such situations, you should reduce him to tears by explaing the current over-fishing crisis that affect many regions of the world. Together you can then join Greenpeace and fight for a better world (Or have golf balls hit at you by an angry Bruce Willis on an oil rig).

Denmark - A great place for bacon.

Darth Vader - Should you find Darth Vader wandering around in a horror movie, please direct him to the Science Fiction department. With his large mask and helmet, he has a tendency to get lost. Please ensure that he also takes his asthma medication.

Danny DeVito - This diminutive actor is not all that he seems. In fact he is a secret ambassador from the planet Zog. His regular reports on humanity and its exploits will later determine our fates in the wider universe.

Demons - Ugly creatures that like to insert themselves inside little girls...Gary Glitter is a demon and can be identified by his pointed beard and propensity for glittery pants. Demons are also big fans of obscenity and green vomit. It was once thought that George W. Bush jr was a demon, hell-bent on destroying the earth, but it was later determined that he lacked appropriate intelligence.

Derp - See George W. Bush jr.

Derpette - See Sarah Palin

Danger Signs - In horror movies, it is a requirement that all danger signs be erected amongst large, overgrown foliage where they cannot be easily seen. Alternatively they can be written in a foreign language.

Dinosaur - If an island is deserted for long enough, it will attract Mad Scientists that wish to populate it with prehistoric creatures. These creatures will eat you, even if you manage to hide in a poorly-built toilet cubicle. You can spot the presence of Dinosaurs by huge mounds of poo or by anyone that claims to be a palaeontologist.

Dracula - Like all foreigners, Dracula likes to take our women. Whether he will later move on to take our jobs is unknown. If you encounter a man with a slick-backed hairdo from the 20s, then you may be in danger of a vampire attack. If said man lives in a large Romanian Castle then you can be sure of it. One has to wonder if the undead have to pay property taxes.

Dinner - Never agree to eat dinner at the home of strangers, especially if they live in the middle of nowhere. There is every chance that you will be eating the remains of your friend that mysteriously went missing earlier on.

Dead Body - Never lean close to a dead body. If it is a zombie, it will bite you. If it's not then it will just smell really bad.

Diamond Mines - If Tim Curry approaches you to help him find the lost city of Zinj then you should walk away slowly before turning to run whilst shouting 'Congo sucked, you were better in IT.

Deserts - Deserts are not happy places. They are home to inbred psychopaths, Nuclear testing sites, and many episodes of The X Files. Plus getting sand in your underwear sucks more than anything. After an hour alone in the desert you will be praying for something to come and stab you to death.

Daniel Larusso \- There are many situations in which the Karate Kid would be useful, but in a horror film scenario, a flimsy Crane Kick just isn't gonna cut it! Mr Miyagi on the other hand...

Devil - The Devil is in the details, so avoid instruction manuals at all costs.

Deadites - Freaky-ass zombie/demon hybrids that live in the woods. You can either hire out Bruce Campbell for the day to deal with them, or alternatively attach a chainsaw to your left hand whilst holding a book of witty one-liners in your other.

-E-

Earth - Our planet is the most desirable place to live in the entire multiverse, which is why waves of various alien species are always trying to take it from us. It is the space version of a vacation house in Florida.

Eggs - Eggs are very very bad - especially if they are about to hatch. To prevent the inherent danger of 'eggs' apply flamethrower as soon as possible. If a flamethrower is not available you best get stamping!

Evil - The opposite of 'not-evil' and is the reason that all killers exist - either that or their poor upbringing. At most local chemists you can find 'evil litmus paper' kits in order to detect the presence of a killer. You should hold one of the detection strips up to the person in question and ask them to breath onto its surface. If that person then chooses instead to stab you in the eye socket, they are indeed evil and you should be very proud of yourself for identifying them. Even if you are dead.

Engleburt Humperdink - The epitome of horror...

Ernest - Ernest may have saved Christmas but he can't save you!

Echo - If you hear an echo then you are inside a cave. Caves have bats. Bats are Vampires. You should leave.

Elevator - Elevators are designed to get stuck, preferably between floors so that passengers have to crawl out of a small gap that could possibly slice them in half. Other passengers in an elevator are also not what they seem: they could even turn out to be the devil, or someone that likes to cut disgusting farts in confined spaces. Take the stairs.

Emo - Emo kids speak about death constantly so please let's just give it to them. Let's give it to them all.

Email - Yes you really can increase the size of your penis, and that young Russian girl really could use your help. The Internet is full of monsters trying to destroy you and email is their biggest weapon.

-F-

Fat - Fat people are very slow. If you surround yourself with fat people you will have a far better chance of outrunning a killer or some zombies. You'll just have to put up with the body odours and the fact that they will keep complaining about the emergency rationing that you have had to put into place.

Fantasy - In a horror movie, if you fantasize about something that is too good to be true - IT IS! You will eventually snap out of your daydreams of love and happiness to find that you are indeed still stuck in that hole underground and nobody is coming to help you. See The Descent for example.

Fangs - Avril Lavigne has fangs. Does this mean that she is a vampire? Probably, but there is also a chance that she is a werewolf. Regardless, people with fangs want to bite you, so stay away from them; Avril Lavigne included.

Final Fantasy 7 \- Look out for that crazy giant snake in the desert part of the map! You will need a chocobo to get passed, or a Celine Dion CD. Crazy giant snakes hate Celine Dion!

Feast - A feast will consist of your sister for starters, your best friend for main course, and YOU for dessert. Never agree to a feast with anyone in a horror movie!

Fan - If you are lucky enough to be famous during a horror movie situation then you should avoid anyone that purports to be your 'greatest fan' like the plague. While these people will at first seem normal, and even likeable, they will slowly degenerate into twisted, bi-polar maniacs that will stalk you relentlessly until you are forced to strangle them to death with a pair of your own underwear that they stole.

Finland - Finland has Trolls and snow. Both of these things are bad.

Freddie Krueger \- Despite some problems in his past, Freddie Krueger is now doing very well. He is happily married to his high school sweetheart and holds a junior executive position at Microsoft. He does not have children.

French - French people do not make good allies in a horror movie. They will either give you up to the killer or run away never to be seen again. Another likely scenario is that they will get themselves captured, leaving you having to save them. They will not thank you afterwards.

Firearms - Firearms are very good against zombies, but very bad against everything else. A bullet won't kill Dracula. It will just piss him off!

Frodo - Frodo Baggins is a reformed drug dealer from the Shire that went on to save the world. His constant drug pushing prior to this led to a epidemic of severely stunted growth in his home town of Bag End.

Fender - Playing guitar in a horror movie makes you cool, so you just might live. Conversely, playing the flute or xylophone will result in a swift and painful death for you. The harpsichord is a grey area so feel free to try it.

Fast - Fast running is good! Fast driving is irresponsible and in a horror movie will get you killed. The car will crash and then, after a suitably dramatic length of time has passed, it will explode with you in it.

Flash - If you see a flash you most likely just witnessed a nulear explosion nearby. You have three seconds to get underground before your toast! It may also be an MIB agent wiping your mind, which is good. Ask them to also remove that memory of when you accidentally saw your sister naked in the shower. Also ask them to erase the knowledge that is wasn't really an accident.

Flask - Anti-heroes have silver flasks full of whiskey that they can swig from at key times - usually when they are standing against the backdrop of a ruined city or dying sunset. Anti-heroes live though, so get a hip-flask today!

Feisty - Feisty women make it through to the end of horror movies alive, so start learning how to be a bitch as soon as you can.

Flap Jacks - An ideal addition to your zombie survival rations, and delicious too! Get baking, damn it, but remember to keep them away from the 'fat' members of your group!

Friends - Friends are useful to have, but please be aware that your very bestest buddy in the whole world, that you have known all of your life, will suddenly turn out to be the killer because of some long-held irrational resentment that they have of you - like the fact you stole their favourite no. 2 pencil in kindergarten. Your lesser-liked friends will die before you, so keep a good supply to use as kill-fodder.

The popular TV series, Friends, is absolutely full of subtle tips about how to survive a horror film or zombie apocalypse. Watch more carefully and you will see them. Marcel the monkey knows far more then it would first appear...

Fish - There are two types of fish. Piranhas, that will strip the flesh from your bones if you ever dare enter water, and then there is Cod, which is delicious. There are no other kinds of fish.

Frisky - If you get frisky, you will die. Keep those dirty mitts to yourself!

Finish - Always finish the bad guy. They are not really dead yet - just stunned.

-G-

Ghosts - Ghosts are dead people with a poor sense of direction. Upon their deaths, instead of walking towards the blindingly obvious 'bright light' they wandered in the opposite direction and now wander the earth aimlessly. Eventually becoming frustrated by their own stupidity, these disembodied spirits take out their anger on the living - especially families that have just brought houses at unbelievable bargain prices. If you see a five-bedroom Georgian mansion for sale at an ultra-low price, hire an Exorcist first!

Gadafi - Colonel Gadafi of Libya is one of the 'Crab People'. An ancient race of crustacean interlopers from the planet Soth Par. He can be eliminated by boiling him alive and garnishing his remains with garlic butter.

Gatsby - Gatsby is a character from an old book that everyone tells you is a 'classic', but upon reading it you discover that it is a horrifying example of snooty, high-brow, stodgy writing that nobody ever 'really' enjoys. Avoid this book at all costs as it will make your eyes bleed. Try reading The Shining; now that's a classic.

Ghoul - A ghoul is a bit like a zombie, except less dumb. You can tell a ghoul by the pale, rotting skin, and an obsession with cheese Doritos. If you are unsure whether or not a person is a ghoul, offer them a tube of Pringles. If they decline and moan the word 'Doooriiiitooooes!' they are most definitely a member of the undead.

Germany - Home to Nazi-zombies, Nazi-vampires, Nazi-werewolves, and Nazi-demons. Also: Pork Snitzel and Pumpernickel.

Garfield - All cats are evil! Even lazy, talking ones...ESPECIALLY lazy, talking ones.

Grand Canyon - A big hole in the ground. Avoid falling in!

Great Lakes - Several big puddles in the ground. Avoid falling in.

Great Pyramids \- Giant skateboard ramp. Get gnarly!

Great Britain - Not so great! But did give us Giles from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Win!

Great Gatsby - See above.

Great Kahli - Seriously!

Guest - If you are a guest at a dinner party, you may die. Especially if the host is mysterious and not someone you know.

Germs - Germs were created by God to turn us all into zombies, but as long as they keep giving us alcohol rub at the airport we will all be okay. Germs can also make you poo lots, which can be fun or painful depending on how much you enjoy pooing.

Greg Pitt - Lesser-known brother of Brad and a member of the New World Order, the clandestine organisation that secretly runs the world. How else did you think Brad got so famous? His acting? Pah!

Gun - Good at killing zombies and makes you look cool, but you risk attracting both NRA members and anti-gun lobbyists; both groups are annoying. Thankfully though you can shoot them both dead because you have a gun.

Gangsters - Sometimes gangsters find their way into a horror film. They take this opportunity to stop being reprehensible criminals and instead become anti-heroes. See George Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn.

Gas - If you smell gas, three things are possible. 1. There is a leak and the building is about to blow up. 2. You are being poisoned. 3. Someone just cut a disgusting fart. All three things mean certain death (except for the third one).

God - I'm not even going there!

-H-

Hillary Clinton \- Hillary Clinton is a 'body-snatcher' and had once intended to use her husband/man-puppet to enslave the world. Unfortunately he could not keep it in his pants and we were left with George Bush instead \- although he was almost just as much a threat to the free-world as any body-snatcher could be.

HAL - Hal was an AI-governed machine that got insanely drunk one night and tried to take out his rotten hangover the following morning on the inhabitants of a spaceship. The lesson that HAL gave to us all was that machines should not drink - not even light-ale.

Hockey - A hockey stick makes a good weapon against a killer but eventually it will snap into pieces and leave you defenceless. A hockey skate can be used to slit throats but is more likely to be employed by the bad guy against you. Hockey masks have been trademarked by Jason Vorhees so you can't use them in any fashion in a horror film or else his mother will sue you (and you really don't wanna mess with that bitch!).

Hasslehoff - The 'hoff' has more magical power in just his chest hair alone that he could easily take on any supernatural threat to humanity with ease. Unfortunately he is deluded and self-centred and would refuse to offer any kind of assistance unless you pay him obscene amounts of money.

Hangman - If you encounter a hangman then its already too late for you. It's even worse than bumping into 'electric-chair guy' or 'lethal-injection dude'.

Hatchet - A hatchet is typically a weapon of the bad guy, but you could potentially meet a friendly Indian (Native American), and if they offer you the use of their hatchet then you should feel free to use it. Sharpen it first though; there's nothing worse than a pefectly-aimed hatchet toss that results in the blade bouncing off someone's head and leaving nothing but a nasty bruise.

Harmonica - If you hear a harmonica then you are in the 'deep south'. The Deep South is full of redneck rapists and cannibals, as well as awful banjo music. If you are in the Deep South you should head north immediately, ignoring any police officers with mirrored-sunglasses that tell you to 'getch yer ass in ma car!' You may also bump into Britney Spears and if you do you should kill her. Why? Just cus...

Hate - You may find this tattooed across the knuckles of your roommate in prison. If that is the case then I am glad I am not you!

Herpes - This disease gives you blisters on your winky! If that isn't horror I don't know what is.

Heads - Heads are good when they are attached to a neck; if they are not attached to a neck then that is very bad. If you see a head on a spike then this is even worse. Remove the head and use the spike to arm yourself immediately.

Hot Sauce - Can be used to kill mafia goons with stomach ulcers (see Dumb and Dumber). Is delicious with chicken.

-I-

Investigate - Investigating will get you killed. That noise that sounded like someone crying out for help was your postman being stabbed to death in the back of his van. It's a shame, but there's nothing you can do for him, so sit back, switch on the TV and never ever investigate!

Indonesia - Indonesia is full of scary market stalls that sell snake's blood and lizard feet. They are great places to visit when trying to fulfil a voodoo recipe, but other than that there is no reason to go. Also, if their police catch you with the tiniest bit of marijuana, they will sentence you to a thousand years in a sub-human prison cell.

Ivan - Anyone with this name is usually a bad guy. The same goes for anyone named Vlad.

Internet - The Internet is for porn. Also it is for researching stories about 'that girl that drowned ten years ago and now seems to have come back to kill the local teenagers'. Be sure to avoid chat rooms as these are 100% populated by twisted paedophiles wearing their dead mother's dresses and going by the name Jeanie-May.

Identity - Everyone has an identity. If you have two then you are a schizophrenic serial killer; sorry!

Ink - All contracts should be signed with ink. If anyone ever tells you to sign one in blood then politely decline as you are about to make a deal with the Devil.

Incans - If you find anything left behind by Incans - coins, pots, bones etc. - it will be cursed. If you value your health then you will avoid anything to do with the Incans. Aztecs and Mayans too. They were all bad.

Ill - If one of your group becomes ill then lock them in a closet. They are going to become a zombie or are possessed by an alien parasite. They could also have been bitten by that cute little monkey from 'Outbreak'.

Irritating - If you irritate people in a horror movie then I'm afraid you will die. The killer will stab you to death and, even worse, no one will care.

Iceland - Iceland has snow zombies and Bjork. I can't say which is more dangerous, but both will attack you upon sight.

Ignorance - Ignorance will get you killed. No one likes a dumb-fuck in a horror movie. If someone asks you the capitol of France and you don't know, you will die!

iTunes - iTunes is a parasite from mars, causing your muscles to wate away. Every song you purchase takes money from your wallet and will eventually escalate to a point where you can no longer afford to feed yourself. Your death will be slow and drawn-out as the application tears at your very soul with rare hits from the 80s.

Incoming - If someone shouts this then you better bloody duck. If someone shouts it whilst you are on a boat then I hope you can swim! If you are a woman and a man shouts this during sex, you should dump him.

-J-

Juice - Juice on its own is fine in a horror film, but Gin and Juice will attract Snoop Doggy Dog who will pop a cap in your mo' fuckin ass! If you've seen the film bones you will see that he ain't a pimp you wanna mess with.

Jail - If you are being hunted by a supernatural killer and the police try to keep you safe inside one of their cells, then yo ass is doomed. The killer will enter the precinct and decapitate every officer on the force before finding you trapped in a cage as if you were a birthday present.

Jack Black - The rotund comedian is useless in a horror film other than providing a rocking backing track. He couldn't help Matthew Broderick against the Cable Guy, and he can't help you.

Jeff Jarrett - A disciple of the Devil, sent to corrupt our souls by televising really bad wrestling events that feature nonsensical storylines and geriatric performers.

Jupiter - If you can get to Jupiter during a horror film than you should be safe. Everyone knows that all the aliens are on Mars. Avoid Pluto however as it is full of Disney characters.

Jump - Jumping out of a window to escape bad guy = Good. Jumping across the gap between the rooftop of two buildings = Bad.

-K-

Kylie Minogue - The princess of the ancient pixie clan of downunderoth. Feeds on the souls of teenage girls and middle-aged men. She must be stopped by improving our tastes in popular music.

Kangaroo - A kangaroo cannot help you in a horror movie. An army of genetically engineered Kangaroos however...

Key - Mysterious keys left behind by dead relatives always lead to a dusty old chest in their attics. Best you just leave that old thing closed...seriously, you don't need to know what's in there.

Kaboom - Kabooming the bad guy is the only way to be sure they are dead. Stabbing and shooting will not stop a masked serial killer permanently. Only strapping a bomb and kaboombing them will do this.

Kilimanjaro - Mountains have yetis and other mysterious monsters. If you are planning to climb a mountain soon then you should ensure you pack both a shotgun and copious amounts of energy bars.

Kirsty Allie - Kirsty Allie hungry. Kirsty Allie will eat you! Cheers ruled...

Knife - This common, everyday kitchen implement accounts for 94% of horror movie deaths. That is why we should all sign an international treaty that replaces all knives with plastic 'sporks'. It's the only way we will survive people.

Kong - Big monkey. Bad!

Klingons - Wrong genre. You should be in the A to Z of how to survive a Sci-Fi movie

-L-

Lake - A lake is home to drowned children and vengeful spirits. Do not think about taking a small wooden rowboat across a lake and falling asleep, because when you awake a demon child will drag you beneath the surface and eat you. Alternatively, you should not stay the night at a cabin by the lake as you will be stalked by a knife-wielding maniac.

Lycanthrope - What would usually be called a werewolf is now called a lycanthrope, due to fans of Twilight and other assorted monstrosities. A lycanthrope is a wolf that has the ability to change into a long-haired nancy-boy that has a fetish for high school girls. To kill a lycanthrope, give Jack Nicholson a call and tell him to watch Twilight: New Moon. The prolific actor will fly into a inconsolable rage and proceed to extinguish all emo-related wolf-boys on the planet.

Lemmings - Lemmings can be set to explode after a 10 second timer. Do not be near them when this happens. They can also fly with umbrellas.

Luther Vandross \- Motown legend and arch-enemy of Superman.

Lincoln - US President famous for freeing the slaves. Little did people know that Lincoln was actually a robot being controlled by Gary Coleman's great great great Grandfather who was hiding under his hat. What you talkin bout Lincoln!

London - The capital city of Victorian killers. Whether having a haircut or just trying to eke out a modest living by having sex with men for money, a Victorian killer will find you and cut your throat with a razor blade. Then a group of roguish children with flat caps and bad teeth will rob your corpse.

Leprosy - If one of your friends starts to fall apart piece by rotting piece, then they may have leprosy. You should ostracise them immediately, perhaps finding some sort of 'colony' where they can be among their own kind, lest they infect you with their dirty devil-plague.

Lead - If you need to hide from an evil Super Hero, such as Super Man in that one film where he flicks peanuts in the bar, then you should find a shed made of lead. A super hero cannot detect you in a lead box and thus will not kill you. The lead poisoning will do that...

Leroy Clinton - Bill Clinton's secret lovechild with Bill Cosby, who happens to secretly be an elderly black woman pretending to be a lovable male comedian. Leroy Clinton is a republican and an avid supporter of equal rights in America.

Lunatic - There are two types of a lunatic. The first is a crazy homeless person that warns you about some impending doom; these lunatics should be listened to because ten years before they were the world's leading scientist in Applied Astrophysics hunted down by a shadowy corporation and forced into hiding. The second kind of lunatic will hide his face and carry a knife. You should ignore any advice given by these types of lunatics and instead run away.

Lust - Lust will get you killed in a horror movie - especially if Kevin Spacey is going around killing sinners. You should refrain from lust and instead devote yourself to the pursuit of scientology. Tom cruise never dies in movies and this is because of his belief that we all descended from space robots...or something.

Lump - Lumps on your body are not good and you should get them checked out. Chances are is that they are filled with evil alien parasites, waiting to burst forth and infect the earth. You should use a reliable topical cream and wash regularly with an anti-allergenic loafer.

-M-

Monster - A monster can take many forms, from vampires, werewolves, and zombies, to scientologists and French Canadians. Each different kind of monster requires a different tactic to defeat. In the case of a scientologist, you should just confront them with common sense \- they will run away screaming!

Montana - Montana has mountains. Mountains contain threats such as Yetis, Leopards, and Cannibals. Basically everything in the mountains wants to eat you. In conclusion, don't bloody climb mountains.

Mordor - Mordor is a constitional monarchy off the coast of Venezuela. It is a well-known exporter of jewellery and fanciful rings. Their headquarters is currently based at the top of an active volcano, which seems like a bad idea to me.

Marzipan - "Shudder".

Monkeys - Monkeys carry diseases and like to throw their own faeces - both very good reasons to avoid them.

Monk - When fighting evil, monks will always know a ten-thousand year old secret to killing the bad guy. But rather than give this information to you directly, they will instead offer some cryptic advice that will allow you to find the answer on your own (after all of your friends have died). Monk also refers to Tony Shaloub - "shudder".

Madonna - An ancient demon from the dawn of time - she keeps herself alive by consuming the hair of young starlets. Britney Spears was her latest victim.

McDonalds - McDonalds have information concerning an ensuing ice age that could end humanity. To combat this, they wish to overfeed the nation to the point that we can all hibernate through the approaching winter by sustaining ourselves with the high-levels of stored body fat - much like a North American bear.

Monty O'Bama - The president's "special" cousin that lives in the attic of The Whitehouse. He likes to eat salmon on Tuesdays, but prefers to eat crayons on all other days.

Mission - Any mission in a horror film will begin with a team of cocksure marines that are going into a 'hot zone' to control a relatively mundane threat. Due to some unfortunate set of circumstances, the situation will escalate to involve sand demons and devil worshippers, or some sort of ancient creatures released from that cave made out of skulls that they probably should have left alone.

Missile Launcher - If you find yourself in a fight with a Tyrant - a biological weaponised mutant-thingy - then you will at some point need to find a missile launcher to defeat it. You will not find one at first, but rest assured that one will conveniently present itself to you towards the end of the film.

-N-

Nails - If a guy has nails sticking out of his head then you should probably excuse yourself quietly. Certainly DO NOT ask him for DIY advice.

Never - If you say 'never' in a horror film then that impossibility will most certainly occur. A serial killer has been chopping people up? That would 'never' happen here! CHOP!

Nickel - The most evil of all American coins. Do touch them. Don't even look at them...

Nile - In real life, sometime people get eaten by crocodiles in the river Nile. In a horror film, people WILL get eaten by crocodiles. Then they will get reanimated by an Egyptian pharaoh and made to go on tour as one of Lady GaGa's backing dancers.

NBA - Nigel's Big Afro.

Nibbles - In a horror film, whenever someone offers you nibbles, such as cheesy poofs, you will at some point notice a severed finger in the bowl or bag. Hopefully you will realise this before eating it and not after. Brings a whole new meaning to the term: 'finger-food'.

Necks - Necks get broken or bitten by Vampires in horror films, so if you have one you're probably better just leaving it at home.

Nipples - My nipples are very sensitive. How bout yours?

Nelly - Nelly has a zombie infection that he has somehow managed to contain for several years in secret. Why else does he always wear that plaster on his cheek? He is either a zombie or has a severe immunity weakness that prevents his body from healing even the smallest cuts.

Nub - Left arm plus killer's machete = Nub.

-O-

Oscar the Grouch - Toxic Avenger's grumpy cousin. Works as a Private Investigator currently trying to bring down a Paedophile ring on Sesame Street. He hopes to find incriminating evidence in the resident's bins. Despite being on the side of good, he has a taste for human flesh.

Ottoman Empire \- Mid-history nation that struck fear into the hearts of their enemies with their highly weaponised footstools and other assorted furniture. If you see an Ottoman man (?) then you should fight back with Georgian dinner chair.

Otters - If an otter attaches itself to your face during a horror film, just go with it!

Operation - In a horror film all operations will result in you awaken without any kidneys or as a soul detached from your body, wandering around the hospital and trying to avoid Patrick Swayze.

Organ - Organ music means the Phantom of the Opera is about to descend upon you. Either that or you are about to be deafened by German synth-pop. If a stranger offers you his organ in a dark alleyway then never ever say yes.

Outnumbered - If you are outnumbered then don't expect Gandalf to come running down the hill on a horse to save you. That would be how to survive a fantasy movie. This is horror. Don't worry if you are outnumbered in a Tarantino movie - you won't ever run out of bullets.

Oil - If a strange black oil slick moves across a lake towards you then you should probably be moving on. You're either in a Stephen King movie r the Gulf of Mexico (too soon?)

-P-

Pinhead - After a particularly bad injury at work, Pinhead sued his employer and used the proceeds to set up a bachelor pad in Hell. His Thursday night parties are becoming increasingly popular and Johnny Depp is known to be a frequent attendee.

Pumpkin Head - Again, after a particularly nasty accident at work, Pumpkin Head sued the farm that he worked on and used the proceeds to set up an entertainment company. He is available for weddings.

Pox - If someone in a horror movie comes down with the good ol' 'pox' then it would probably be best to call a Doctor or House MD. Despite Hugh Laurie's utter rudeness, he will find time in the last five minutes to have a wonderful breakthrough and cure your condition.

Prostitute - Prostitute's typically get murdered in horror films so if you ae a hooker, I suggest that you stop. Giving massages with 'happy endings' may be okay but make sure that the only reason you are doing it is to pay your college tuition - this is the only acceptable reason in a horror movie if you wish to live.

Pistol - If you are based in the 1940s up against demon-possessed Nazis in an ancient castle then a pistol may be a common means of defence. In a modern-day horror film however they are a little bit girly. You should replace the pistol with a 'hand cannon'.

Pasta - Pasta is a healthy, easily preserved staple food that is ideal during a zombie-siege situation. Macaroni's is best but fusilli will suffice in a pinch. Zombie survivors cannot afford to be picky.

Police - In a horror film where you are being held captive, a police officer will always come to question your tormentors but will then leave, satisfied with the answers. Just as the officer is about to get in his car, you will manage to knock something over in the basement and alert him. By this time, however, it is too late and the officer will then turn around only to be stabbed or shot. Makes you wonder why they always decide to investigate kidnapping cases solo.

Parasite - Someone that collects welfare could be considered this, but in a horror movie they are typically little slug like creatures that enjoy entering people's noses or eyes. The best bet is to burn them, or get really drunk to dehydrate them if they are inside your body. Lady Gaga is infected with several Martian parasites and this at least explains her fashion choices.

Paris Hilton - Paris Hilton is a biological weapon constructed by a terrorist organisation to infect all human males with syphilis. Her mission is simple: sleep with the entire male population and destroy us all.

Pigs - Pigs are cute, but pig-masks are not. Someone wearing a pig-mask will undoubtedly wish to kill you so run away. Rosie O'Donnell is not wearing a pig-mask - that's just her face.

Puppies - Puppies are the cutest thing known to man, but in a horror movie they will always end up dead, hanging in your closet. As a result, all puppies are henceforth banned from horror movies.

-Q-

Quill - If you see someone writing with a quill then you are in the old times. The old times are subject to bubonic plague, werewolves, and dragons. Also a weird old woman with a messed-up white eye.

Quick - In a horror movie, being quick is good. It is also very good to shout 'come on, quick' at your fellow survivors wherever possible. In a horror movie, any sexual encounters will also be 'quick' due to editing constraints.

Quest - A quest is more the realm of fantasy than horror, but if you do find yourself questing in a horror film then you should don your level 8 machete of wounding and get your kill on.

Queensland - Queensland is in Australia. In Australia, everything wants to kill you!

Quip - The more heroic quips you can make in the face of danger, the more likely you are to make it to the end. You will still likely die however, but rest assured you will have a suitably witty one-liner prepared for just that occasion.

-R-

Robert the Bruce - Trusting Robert the Bruce will result in your being hung, drawn, and quartered. If you bump into this historic Scot, then please slap the git in the face and say 'that's for Braveheart, you bitch.'

Randy Savage - Randy Savage was our only hope in defeating the abominable Hulk Hogan and his evil deeds of self-promotion and backstabbing. The world is a less tolerable place now that he is gone. Randy Poffo RIP.

Rickshaw - If you find yourself on the back of a Rickshaw then you may be in China. In China you will be abducted so that your organs can be sold on the black market. Good luck to you. You may also get Bird Flu.

Razor - A man with a razor will most likely try to slash your throat, but a man 'called' Razor will probably be a badass anti-hero that will save your sorry ass. If you plan on kicking some zombie butt, then perhaps you should consider changing your name to Razor?

Reel - If you find an old-fashioned film reel then it will certainly contain footage of a snuff film. You will then begin a life-consuming obsession to discover the identity of the girl in the film and bring her killers to justice. You WILL enter a murky underworld of pornography and you WILL get a little bit aroused by it.

Reality Show - In a horror movie, all reality shows are evil. They are either TV death matches set in the future, enjoyed by millions, or seedy little torture games watched by a select group of millionaires. Either way, don't apply to be on one.

Russians - Russians are bad guys - that's what they are there for. So in any horror movie that contains a Russian, always keep one eye on him and be sure to blame him for stuff whenever you get the chance. The Russian is quickly becoming replaced by the' Arab'.

Republicans - Republicans are all secret drug-smoking, abortion supporting, prostitute-killing, atheists that spend most of their time arguing to the contrary. They do not like foreigners, and play a lot of golf.

Ready or not - Do not play hide and seek in a horror movie. You will not like what you find.

Rich - Anyone rich in a horror movie is evil. They will pay to watch you killed or pay to create an immortality serum that actually creates zombies instead. Anyone with the name, Rich, will probably be okay though - unless their surname is 'Simmons'.

-S-

Sex - Oh yes! Sex is good, but in a horror movie it is bad. If you starting humping a pretty girl, then she will probably grow big teeth and eat you, or if she is innocent a big machete-wielding maniac will come up behind you and show you the true meaning of the word 'penetration'.

Sugar - If someone in your group is consuming a lot of sugar then they are being controlled by some sort of insectoid parasite. Ask them to switch to sweeteners and if they try to tear your face off with their toes, you can be pretty sure that they are beyond saving.

Slippery - If you are walking along in the dark and suddenly step in something slippery, you have just steeped in the bloody remains of your best friend. Best bet is to just keep on walkin', pardner.

Slug/Snake/Scorpion - Anything in a horror film that spends its time crawling around on the floor needs to be stepped on immediately. To avoid these things, you should probably stay out of the jungle, unless you are looking for a rare flower that is the only hope of curing your dying wife.

Satan - The Big Bad. Currently the head of Wal-Mart, Satan is a big believer in high-volume, low prices. He is also a grade 7 pianist and a fond lover of Opera. In a horror film he will try and rip your face of and paint the walls with your blood.

Sand - Beaches are great, but if you ever find sand coming from 'above you' then you have been buried alive. Or you are in a sandstorm. Both are pretty bad so I'd suggest a nice lay down while you think about your life and how to save it.

Stupid - In a horror movie, stupid = dead. Don't be stupid; take that college course. The more you know, the better you will do, but don't learn too much. The geek always dies in a horror movie.

Skin - In a horror movie, people may be hiding things beneath their skin. To counter this, everyone in your group should slice their arms with a blade to show that they bleed real blood and that they are human.

Slime - Stay away from Slime!

Slimer - Stay away from Slimer! The little green bastard will get gunk all over you.

Stream - A gentle stream can be relaxing and a good form of refreshment. However, if you discover that you have passed the same stream SIX FREAKIN TIMES, then you are in the Blair Witch Project and no one can help you.

Stink - If something in that old abandoned house stinks then it is either a dead body or a crazy cat-lady. Just get out of there and go to Taco Bell instead.

-T-

Thailand - Don't get caught with drugs in Thailand - dear god, please don't! No one has heard from Joachim Phoenix ever since he went there with Vince Vaughn.

Tether - A supernatural tether is a good thing as it keeps ancient spirits and demons dormant and harmless. This is why you shouldn't mess with anything in an ancient crypt or spooky castle. You break the tether you gonna pay for it.

Treat Williams \- Whatever happened to that guy?

Tripwires - In a horror film, tripwires are handy for setting of bombs in the jungle to kill Predators, or for setting of lasers in evil gorillas start attacking your encampment in the Congo. They can also be used on doorways to trip up your friends. It's hilarious.

Tranny - In a horror film, as in real life, a Tranny has the power to scare - and somewhat arouse - men to within an inch of their lives. If there's a tranny about, best that they are working with you than against you.

Transylvania - Used to be a cool place for evil to hang out. Now Vegas is the place to be.

Tits - Don't stare at tits for too long because they will distract you to the fact that the woman they belong to has just turned into a demon-bitch or vampire and will be planning on eating your head.

Tarantula - There had never ever been a Tarantula in any horror film that has been good. If it's furry and has eight legs, then you should get in your car and drive over it, urinate on the remains before setting fire to them, then bury the ashes in a church yard. If you fail to do any of this then you invite folly upon your lives.

Taxidermy - If someone invites you in and their house is full of stuffed animals, arm yourself with the nearest dead squirrel and prepare to defend yourself. Anyone that makes a table out of a Labrador is evil. If you find furniture made out of people parts then you are in the home of Ed Gein.

-U-

Unicycle - Anyone that drives to make an escape on a unicycle is asking for certain death. Roller-skates are a much better option.

Uninvited - Anyone that turns up at your door uninvited is either a demon, a ghost of a previous owner, or a salesman. You should take a shotgun to any of them.

Unearth - Don't unearth things in a horror movie. It's very bad.

Undead - There are two types of undead: Vampires and zombie. There are many debates to which are cooler, but after the Twilight movies and True Blood, it was decided that zombies are the best.

Unknown - We should not fear the unknown. We should fear things that we KNOW want to kill us.

Ultra-absorbent Tampons - A great way to staunch blood flow, or avoid embarrassing incidents with the female apocalypse survivors in your group. They can also be used to make ear rings if this is absolutely necessary.

-V-

Virus - A virus in a horror movie will cause more than a common cold. It will cause throbbing ulcers and puss-filled boils that will result in your flesh peeling from your very bones. It may also cause zombie-itis or rage-asemia.

Vixen - A female fox or a woman that will get you killed by leading you into a trap. The only way to resist their wiles is to be to not be a fox and to be gay.

Venezuela - Does this country actually do anything?

Vendetta - A killer-s vendetta will span generations and you might end up dead because of something your sweet old Grandma did. In a way a vendetta-killer is noble, which makes it a little bit sad when you are forced to lop his head off.

Villain - The bad guy in a horror film. Your aim is to kill him in the last ten minutes. The more friends you have left alive at the end, the more horror movie survival points you get.

Venom - Venom in a horror movie will melt your flesh from the inside out. If something bites you, pray that it was one of the female survivors being a bit randy. Anything else and you're a goner.

Volume - If the volume on your TV is too loud, then you will miss the nasty monster creeping up behind you to steal your cheese poofs.

-W-

Wild West - As of late, the Wild West is a magnet for aliens and the word 'Vs'. It is also has its share of vampires and demons, but a high number of Injun Shaman keep them in check.

Whisper - In a film you can whisper to your heart's content, only a few feet from the killer, and no one will hear you. You can plot elaborate plans with your friends, safe in the knowledge that you won't be detected.

Wind - A howling wind on a mist-covered night will attract cliché-demons. These are the worst kind for they will torture you to death with their unoriginality.

Witches - Ancient witches = evil. Modern witches = lesbians. Teenage witches = sexy.

Wanker - If you are an Englishman in a horror film then you are expected to say this at least once. Bollocks is an acceptable substitute.

Warlock - A male witch. Unless the warlock is Julian Sands, then there is little need to worry as a male witch is about as dangerous as a male nurse.

Winter - Winter has 46% more horror movie situations than Summer. One would advise an extended foreign vacation during the cold months.

Willy - A funny word for a penis. Ha!

Wrinkles - Wrinkled old ladies will curse you. Wrinkled old men will give you advice. Wrinkly babies are cute.

-X-

X-Ray - In a horror movie, X-Rays will also discover that you have something nasty growing inside of you, or a metal device implanted by aliens. They can also be used to find things stuck up your bum.

XXX - Porn in a horror movie will corrupt you into a seedy world of isolation and depravity. Masturbating on TV is banned anyway so what's the point?

X-Factor - God this shower fits into the horror genre, don't you think?

Xtreme - Anyone that spells the word like this is not.

Xenomorph - This little beauty will eat your eyeballs with its 'little mouth'. Tasty!

-Y-

Yellow - Yellow stuff is bad. Yellow blood is either alien of full of pus. Eggs are also yellow and in a horror movie, eggs are bad. Yellow is also an expression for cowardice. Being a coward is not going to get you through a horror film.

Yeti - The only known surviving yeti is currently living at Animal Kingdom in Orlando. He enjoys terrorising guests all day, but doesn't mean any harm really. His name is Eric.

YouTube - The only things that will survive a nuclear war are cockroaches and YouTube, which will have recorded the entire thing.

Yale Lock - In a horror film, locks do not work. The killer will get in no matter what, but at least you'll feel safer until then.

-Z-

Zoo - The zoo is full of dangerous animals. In a horror film what do you think is gonna happen? Stay away from the zoo, people.

Zeus - If you see Zeus then don't ask him to recharge your iPod unless you want a lightning bolt up your ass.

Zeal - All religious people that attain the rank of zealot will cause you all kinds of shit in a horror movie. Burn them on a cross, they will appreciate the irony.

Zack - The original Black Ranger is freakin awesome and may just save your sorry ass in a horror movie, but only if it's rated PG. Anything more adult than that and he has to go to bed.

Zoologists - Scientist in a horror movie are very helpful at giving you information about the blood-thirsty monster you just unearthed. Don't expect them to help you fight though; they're useless.

Published author, Iain Rob Wright, was born in 1984 and lives in Redditch, a small town in the West Midlands, UK, with his loopy cocker spaniels, Daisy and Oscar, his fat old cat, Jess, his many tropical fish, and the love of his life, Sally. Writing is the passion that fills his life during the small periods of time when he isn't cleaning up after his pets.

Horror is his beloved genre, and his many inspirations range from Stephen King and Richard Laymon to J A Konrath and Brian Keene, as well as a whole host of other twisted minds.

Connect with Iain Online:

Check out his official website for freebies, news, and updates at: http://www.iainrobwright.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/iainrobwright

Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002410041186

Iain's Blog: http://iainrobwright.blogspot.co.uk/
PREVIEW OF THE FINAL WINTER

Chapter One

Harry sipped his latest beer while yet another news update flashed across the pub's dusty television. A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow. "Good evening," she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice. "I'm Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News. As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation's transportation network in disarray." The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway. A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.

The reporter let out a breath that steamed the air, and then continued. "Major roads have now been closed off and the nation's rail links have been terminated until further notice. Schools are closed, along with nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open. The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise. Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist anyone in serious need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures. That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now."

Harry shook his head. How long are they going keep this up? We get it, the weather's bad!

"Even more concerning," the television reporter continued, much to Harry's displeasure, "is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world." A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top right of the screen, then slowly turned white to represent the recent snowfall. "From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries. Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur. Certain religious leaders are calling this-"

"Rubbish!" Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge, threw his hands up in disgust and shouted in Harry's direction. "Bloody fear-mongers, that's what they are. A little snow and the country trembles at the knees."

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man. He was pointing to the television mounted to the back wall by a pair of rusted brackets. Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, what?"

Old Graham huffed. "More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill. Your generation can't cope with anything unless there's a video on that yourtube or myface to tell you about it!"

Harry glanced at the television again. The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered and hissed constantly. The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

Harry returned his gaze back to Old Graham. "I agree it's a bit much, but the fact that it's snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don't you think?"

The old man huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy. "You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather? This is a heat wave to an Eskimo! All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they're harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad."

Harry thought about it for a moment. According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather. Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence. But whatever the cause, Harry wasn't about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation. The freakish weather didn't concern him – nothing much did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he'd be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger's piss-n-vinegar all night. It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn his lesson about lonely pensioners and their penchant for long-windedness.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen, but when he looked over again, Old Graham was still gawping at him. Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to him. "Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?"

"You bet your balls it will." The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step. "I've lived through worse times than this, lad!"

Harry rolled his tired eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "I used to be married." With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar. "Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad," were Old Graham's parting words before tottering off toward the pub's toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar. Steph, the pub's only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT 'N' SALT crisps against her chest. She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans. She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed. "He bothering you again, Harry?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness. He sighed. "He's okay. Just had too much to drink."

Steph snorted. "You're one to talk. What time did you get here today?"

"Noon."

"Exactly, and it's now..." She glanced at her watch. "Nine in the evening."

Harry smirked. "Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I'm drunk, instead of talking people's heads off like Old Graham."

"I'll give you that. Although, I'd like to remind you that you puked on my knee-highs last Sunday. I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!"

Harry stared down at the foamy liquid hissing away in his glass and, for a split-second, felt enough shame that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead. He quickly let the guilt go and downed the last of the beer, dregs and all. He had enough regret in his life without adding to it. "I must have been a pathetic sight," he admitted.

Steph frowned. "You're not pathetic, Harry. Just unlucky. Things will look up for you one day. You only turned thirty a couple months ago, right? Plenty of time to get back on your feet." She stopped and looked over at the plate-glass window of the pub. "As long as this dreadful snow doesn't freeze us all to death first, you'll be fine. Time heals all wounds."

Harry sighed. Steph knew about his past and sometimes it made him uncomfortable. "You really think so?" he asked her.

"You better hope so, matey, because I'm not putting up with you puking on me every week. Doesn't matter how handsome you are!"

They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little. It wasn't often that he heard such things from a young woman nowadays. Not when he looked about ten years older than his actual age (he hadn't been able to face a mirror in months so maybe now he looked even worse).

He pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently. The overflow from the glass slid down over the black heart tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin wet and glistening. Suddenly, an unprompted desire to lick the beer from her young flesh found its way, unwelcomed, into Harry's head. He chased the urge away with thoughts of his wife.

Julie had been gone a long time now, but Harry never stopped considering himself married. Never once did he forget his vow to love her forever.

Until Death Do Us Part...

He took his fresh beer, slid off his seat, and moved away from the bar – away from Steph. The worn, tattered padding of the bar stool he'd occupied for the last three hours had sent his backside numb and he now craved the relief of a cushion. He headed towards a bench below the pub's large front window and, at the same time, saw Old Graham returning from the toilets. There was a small urine stain on the crotch of the old man's grimy, cotton trousers and Harry was relieved to see the pensioner returning to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

Thank God for small mercies.

Harry eased down onto the faded bench cushion and sighed as the blood rushed back to his ass cheeks. He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat. There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: CROWN ALES, FIT FOR A KING. Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard. It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for, but for some reason it seemed to halt his thoughts temporarily, keeping back the demons that haunted him. The brief respite allowed Harry to breathe freely again, if only for a while.

Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room. The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end while a stone fireplace crisped the air at the other. In the middle of the pub was a dilapidated oak-wood bar that was older than he was, along with several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs. In a backroom was a small, seldom-used dance floor that Harry had only seen once at New Year's. It was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time. Much like the people that drank there.

Tonight the pub was low on drinkers. It usually was on Tuesdays and Harry preferred it that way. He wasn't a big fan of company. Of course it helped that the snowfall had stranded most people to within a hundred yards of their homes and blocked up the main roads with deserted, snowbound vehicles. With the weather as bad as it was, getting to the pub, for most people at least, was not worth the risk. For Harry it was, because the alternative was being alone. And that was something he hadn't been able to face for a long time. He wondered if it was something he ever would be able to face again. So he had braved the snow and made it to the pub in one piece, surrounding himself with people he barely knew.

But at least I'm not alone.

Somehow Steph had made it in tonight as well, holding down the fort as she did most evenings. Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime. She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could've just been the barmaid's code: to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people. Maybe, deep down, she counted each second until she could kick everybody's drunken-asses out and go home. Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept good control of the place.

Even Damien Banks behaved under her watch. Weekdays were usually free of his slimy presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception. The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, a flashy phone fastened to his ear.

No doubt controlling his illicit little empire, Harry thought. Probably refers to himself as 'the Don'.

From what Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – the degenerate scumbag pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord. No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends (or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret). There were rumours that the shaven-headed bully had once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, then taunted the family afterwards, revelling in the grief he'd caused.

Harry shook his head. He's the one who deserves to be in a coma, instead of lounging around like he owns the place.

There was one other person in the bar tonight. A greasy-haired, oily-skinned hulk named Nigel. Harry had not spoken to the over-sized man much, but spotted him in the pub at least a couple of nights each month. A lorry driver, from what Harry gathered, and spent a lot of time on the road. Poor guy will probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.

After Nigel, there was just Old Graham and Harry. Just the five of them, the full set. Tuesday was a lonely night.

Harry swivelled round on the bench, pulled his right knee sideways onto the cushion, and peered out the pub's main window. The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a decrepit mini-supermarket that had steel shutters instead of windows. Steph once told him that the pub was barely surviving on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories and, if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban came in and ruined pubs across the land.

Usually Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the window, but tonight his vision faltered after only a few feet, swallowed up by the swirling snow and impeded by a thick condensation that hugged at the window's glass. For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on for eternity, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub a floating limbo of light in an endless abyss. The image was unsettling.

Like something out of the Twilight Zone.

Snow continued to fall as it had nonstop for the past day and night. Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement. Harry shivered; the pub's archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill. Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze.

God only knows how I'll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running. Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning? I hope so.

Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench. He traced a finger over his grubby wedding ring and thought about the day he had first put it on. He smiled and felt the warmness of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of the same hand and the warmness went away. The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than his wedding day. It was something he dared not think about. He drank his beer.

God bless booze and the oblivion it brings.

Harry chuckled about how once he had not cared for the taste of lager – white wine had been his tonic of choice – but The Trumpet wasn't really the type of place where a thirty-year old man could order a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being called a poofter.

Funny how a person changes, Harry considered. Just wish I'd changed for the better.

He took another sip of beer and almost spat it out again. In only two minutes since he'd last tasted it, the beer had gone completely and utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it. But before Harry could consider what would cause such a thing, a stranger entered the pub.

A second later, the lights went out.
Chapter Two

"Bugger it!" Kath cursed aloud and slapped her palms down on the supermarket's checkout desk. She'd been two minutes away from finishing the 9pm cash-up and the building's power had blinked out like someone had flipped a switch.

Bah! Working at this dump ten hours a day is miserable enough without having to do it in the dark. I must have the words, SHIT HAPPENS, stamped across my forehead.

"Peter!" She hollered into the darkness. "Check the fuse box, will you!"

A muffled voice from the nearby stockroom led Kath to believe her order had been received. She sighed and waited as her sight adjusted to the dark, wondering where she could find a torch or some candles (Doesn't Aisle 6 have some?). The Fire Exit sign above the supermarket's entrance gave off a small degree of illumination, but not enough to see her acrylic fingernails in front of her face. Kath had other senses, however, and her ears picked up the sound of footsteps echoing down the Bread & Pastries aisle.

"Who's there?" she called out.

The person was standing close enough that the unexpected volume of their voice made Kath flinch. "It's me," said the voice. "Jess."

"Jessica? You stupid girl! You gave me a fright."

"Sorry, Kathleen. Didn't mean to, I promise. You know why the lights are out?"

"No, but I've told Peter to check the fuse box."

"Good idea. You reckon it's just us, or the whole area?"

Kath shrugged in the dark. "How should I know? Walk out the front and see for yourself."

"Okay," said Jess cheerily, before wandering off in one of the gleeful dazes that Kath hated so much. Sometimes Kath was sure the girl was just out to annoy her.

Like the way she always calls me Kathleen. If it wasn't so ridiculously hard to fire people these days, that girl would have gotten her marching orders long ago.

Jess reached the store's main entrance with a skipping hop and her complexion became ghostly as she entered the pulsing green hue of the glowing Fire Exit sign.

Kath cleared her throat. "Well? What are you waiting for, girl?"

Jess pushed open the door and exposed the stark white night outside. Immediately a chill entered the building, rushing quickly to all corners like a horde of fleeing rats. Kath waited impatiently as Jess popped her head out of the door and looked left and right, then left and right again, before finally stepping back and pulling closed door. When the girl turned back around to face Kath, her company-supplied fleece was peppered with snow.

"The weather out there is craaaaaazeee!" said Jess. "With a capitol zee"

Kath sighed at the girl's childish tone. "What about the lights? Are anybody else's on? What about The Trumpet across the road?"

"No," Jess replied. "I can't even see the pub it's so dark. I can't make out Blue Rays Video Rentals or any of the other shops either."

"Wonderful!" Kath shook her head and felt a migraine coming on. If the whole area was out then she would be forced to sit and wait for the electricity company to get off their overpaid be-hinds and do something about it.

...and God only knows how long that will take. Two minutes? Two hours?

Either way, until she could cash up Kath couldn't set the alarms and go home. Not that she had plans, besides catching up on the episodes of Eastenders she'd recorded, but staying at a dingy council-estate mini-mart on the coldest night of the year wasn't her idea of fun.

How did my life turn out so wrong? To think I spent four years at university... I make one little mistake and I'm condemned to a life of pointless mediocrity. Kath breathed in deeply then let the cold air out through her nostrils. What a wretched waste of intellect!

"It'll be back on in a jiffy," said Jess, still standing by the fire exit. "It never takes long, Kathleen. Tell you what, I'll take a little walk over to the pub and see if anyone knows anything, okay?"

Without pausing for an answer, Jess slid out through the exit and was immediately swallowed by the shifting snow and darkness. A second later it was as if the girl had never even been there.

Kath sighed, leaned back into the torn-padding of the cashier-desk stool, and rubbed at her aching forehead. Shivers ran up and down her spine and made her think about the store's heating. With the power off, so too would be the store's electric fan heaters. It was Britain's worst winter in history and she was stuck in a building with no warmth.

Just gets better! Probably why the power went off in the first place. All those lazy slobs, cosy at home in front of their fan-heater, over-taxing the grid while people like me, who have shown some commitment to work, suffer.

Well screw this, Kath decided. She'd give her manager, Mr Campbell, a call and see if there was any chance he'd allow her to cash up in the morning. She slid her fingertips along the icy surface of the shop's counter and searched for the phone, but at first found only a stapler and some biros. Eventually the side of her hand found what it was looking for; knocking the receiver from its cradle and off of the desk. It swung on its coiled cord, jerking up and down like a bungee. After a couple of swipes at knee-level, Kath caught the handset and pulled it up to her ear. She tapped at the buttons on the phone's cradle, waited a beat, and then tapped them some more. No dial tone. Perturbed, she placed the handset back down onto its cradle, before picking it up and trying to ring out once more.

Nothing.

"Please, for the love of God!" Kath patted down the pockets of her work shirt and located her mobile phone. She plucked it out and slid up the illuminated screen to expose the keypad. Then, from memory, she entered Mr Campbell's number and pressed the green CALL button. She put the phone to her ear and waited.

Ten seconds passed and Kath pulled the phone away from her head to look at the display. She could barely contain her frustration when she saw NO NETWORK COVERAGE scrolled across the top of the screen.

For crying out loud. What the hell is going on tonight?

Before she could put her next thoughts in order, Kath was interrupted by a voice in the darkness. It was male. "Ms Hollister?"

The voice had a Polish twang and there was only one person at the supermarket that ever called her by surname. "Peter," she said, more calmly than she felt. "Have you checked the fuses?"

"Yes, Ms Hollister. I need show something to you. Come."

Speak properly, for God's sake. If you're going to come here then at least learn the language. And show me what exactly? Bah, I'm never going to get home at this rate!

Reluctant, Kath followed the boy down to the back of the store, ducking through the strips of clear plastic that separated the cramped warehouse from the shop floor.

"So, what is it that's so important, Peter?"

"One moment, Ms Hollister. I will show to you."

Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse and Kath stayed close behind him, lighting the way with her mobile phone. It didn't work particularly well, but at least it illuminated the piles of over-stacked boxes she would've otherwise bumped into.

Kath was getting impatient. "Come on now, I've got to find a way to call Mr Campbell so we can all go home tonight. Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?"

Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder. Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy's outstretched finger. She didn't understand and felt her patience thin even more. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?"

Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of his phone display and then moved the light source toward the area he was trying to highlight.

Kath sighed. "The fuse box? Yes, very impressive."

Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for it when she spotted what he wanted her to see. It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life – but now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic. The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but the area within looked as though it had been subjected to a hellish blaze. The acrid stench of singed rubber lingered in the cold, crisp air, but it wasn't as strong as one would expect after an electrical fire.

"I don't understand," said Kath. "What could cause this?"

Peter shrugged at her. "I no sure. Fire maybe?"

"Obviously not, Peter. There hasn't been a fire because the alarms would have gone off. Not to mention it would have spread. This place is full of cardboard and paper."

"Blowtorch?"

Kath considered Peter's wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind. Could someone have really taken a welder's torch to the fuses? Was someone lurking in the shadows intending to have their way with her in the dark? Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something like this? It was certainly an opportune time with all the snowfall. The police would never make it in time, even if she managed to call them. It seemed ridiculous but, for a moment, so plausible in her anxious state of mind that she actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her. It was like something straight out of a Richard Laymon novel she'd once read by mistake, thinking it was something else. Horrible, disgusting book. Monsters in the cellar.

It wasn't until Kath's next thought that she considered herself ridiculous for letting her overactive imagination run away from her. "Ridiculous," she said finally, "if it was someone with a blowtorch then how on earth did they manage to do it to the pub's fuse box at the exact same time? They have no power across the street either. Same with Blue Rays on the corner."

Pete shrugged and walked off.

Nothing ever seems to concern that boy; just another lazy foreigner. Someone ought to use a blowtorch on his backside! Maybe then he'd show some enthusiasm.

Suddenly alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation. Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone's electricity? Or was her biggest threat merely freezing to death on the coldest night of the year? Neither outcome was appealing. All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box didn't destroy itself and that the real cause had yet to make itself known.

She shivered; the chill in the air thickening suddenly, like a crushing, physical thing that squeezed at the gristle on her bones. There was no way she could stay there any longer. Not without power. Not in the dark. She made a decision. "Right, Peter, where are you?"

A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse. "I'm here, by the beer crates."

"Well, make sure you're careful. You break anything and you'll have a record of discussion before the week is out."

Peter didn't respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh. She enjoyed getting under people's skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her. Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like her usual self. "Peter," she shouted. "Place some pallets against the back shutter. We're going to call it a night, but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave."

"Okay, I will do this, but where is Jess? She can help."

"She's wandered off somewhere." Kath snorted. "Least of my worries right now, so go do as I've said – and make sure you're careful."

Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish. At least Kath imagined it was Polish. Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is they all seemed to speak – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to. How had Britain gotten so weak? There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now the once-great empire seemed more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm. It made her stomach turn to think her Government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her.

Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, happily listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling to shift the pallets in the warehouse. The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her chuckle as she walked towards the supermarket's exit. She leaned against the glass fire door and looked outside. There was little she could do to secure the building – not without being able to bring the electric shutter down from the awning – but she could at least lock up with her keys. She didn't expect anyone would be desperate enough to brave the cold to steal some groceries anyway; no one walking around in snow this deep, unscrupulous or otherwise. At least she hoped so...

Yet, deep down in Kath's gut, a dull throbbing, that was not her stomach ulcer, told her that tonight could well turn out to be a very long night.
Chapter Three

"B'jaysus, it's nice to be in the warm again. Cold as a nun's pussy out there so it is."

Harry looked in the direction of the stranger's voice, over by the pub's entrance, and found himself at a loss. The cheery Irish accent was not what he expected. In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of the stranger, he had felt something...ominous. But that seemed silly now.

"Hey, who is that?" asked Steph from behind the bar. "Anyone we know?"

A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway as the stranger spoke once more. "No Lass, I do not believe we've had the pleasure. The name's Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck."

Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too. It wasn't often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.

"Well," said Steph, "I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment. As you can see the power is off, and that means the pumps are dry. Cash only, too, if that's alright?"

"Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind so there be no worries there, and I don't care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap either. It all ends up in the same place."

"No arguments here," said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham's.

Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred at the presence of the stranger. Harry had learned from past occasions that Damien didn't like people he didn't know. People he didn't know were usually unaware of his reputation; he did not like that at all. Once, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad's forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected. The young man had screamed the entire time. The police never came; no one called them.

And Harry knew that the police wouldn't come tonight either. No matter what happened.

Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet all night; but Harry couldn't help but worry that meant something bad. When a venomous snake stopped acting like a snake, what did it mean?

Does it mean they're more dangerous?

"Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?" Lucas asked them all, flicking open a glinting zippo lighter and illuminating his face in flame. He looked about Harry's age – early-thirties – boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match. The man's head was tangled with wild tussles of mousy brown hair that crept below his ears. Harry thought he looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to collect.

"In weather like this I'm surprised you're not all around that lovely fireplace." Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room. "Or does that wee bald fella on the sofa not play well with others?"

"The less said about that the better," warned Steph in a hushed voice.

Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer's comment could possibly elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing. It really wasn't like Damien to be so reserved.

He's preoccupied with something. But what?

Confident that no trouble was going to occur – at least for the time-being – Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar. Sitting alone in the dark wasn't awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway. His current beer smelt like bad eggs.

"So Lucas," Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface. "Where have you come in from?"

Lucas turned to Harry, the zippo still lighting his face. His striking blue eyes flickered in the shimmering glow of the flame. "I've come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I came from down south."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "South?"

"That's what I said now, isn't it? Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North. Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father. Suits me just fine; warmer climate, you know?"

Harry nodded; the gesture pointless in the dark. "I take it you're talking about Northern and Southern Ireland, or do you mean since you've been in England?"

"Now, where is that drink I heard a rumour about," said Lucas, single-mindedly. "This is a pub, is it not?"

Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar. "Hold your horses! For a complete stranger you're pretty demanding."

"I'm a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away. Or, worse than that, I may sober up."

Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles. The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them. Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air. The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel. In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

"That's better," said Steph. "Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?"

"I'm ready for one," said Harry. "This one has gone bad."

"Mine too," said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward. "I'm going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it."

Steph scrunched up her face. "Strange...Maybe there's a problem with the taps. Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn't take the strain."

Lucas chuckled. "Looks like I've come to the right place. You're men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar."

"Hey, less of the wench!" Steph objected. They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night. Perhaps for Lucas it was.

The Irishman pointed a finger. "So who's the beefy fella down the end of the bar that doesn't talk?"

"My name is Nigel and I can hear you."

"Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us."

"Maybe later."

"What's wrong with you, man? There a gal down there with ya?"

"Huh, I wish," said Nigel.

"Get your moody arse down here! A fella shouldn't be lonesome on a night like this. The cold out there could kill a man stone dead."

"Okay, okay!" Nigel conceded, disturbing the shadows as he raised his hands in front of his face. He slid down the bar to join them all, dumping his heavy mass down onto a creaking stool beside Lucas. Harry nodded hello at the man and he nodded back.

Lucas certainly had a knack for bringing people together. Magnetic personality was the phrase that came to Harry's mind.

Lucas spoke again. "You know something, fellas? I don't think that snow is gonna let up tonight. No word of a lie but it's like the feckin end of the world out there."

"Oh, very nice," said Steph. "You walk into my pub and start worrying everyone. We've all got to try and get home tonight."

"What? Are ye drunk, lass? Ain't no man getting anywhere in that winter blanket."

Steph's face dropped slightly, the dull candle-light making her expression seem grim. "How did you get here then?"

Lucas smiled knowingly. "I was nearby and realised things were bad, so I thought to meself, 'where's the best place to be stuck on a night like this?' Well of course there was only one answer, wasn't there?"

"The boozer!" Old Graham shouted gleefully, clearly delighted by the Irishman's philosophy. "Anyway," the pensioner added, "don't you worry, young Stephanie. There's always room upstairs at my place to keep warm."

Cheeky sod, thought Harry. Wonder if the old guy even has enough lead in his pencil to get it up these days? If he does, then fair play to the old bugger.

Steph laughed defiantly, the air from her nostrils slanting the flames of the nearby candles. "The only way you'll get me up there, old man, is if you're sleeping on the roof."

Everyone cackled and swigged their beers. Everyone except Damien, Harry observed. The thug was scowling at them from the shadows of the fireplace, watching their every move. No one else seemed to notice though, and the giggling chatter amongst the group at the bar continued.

Yet, despite the light-heartedness, Harry couldn't help but notice that the snow outside continued to fall...

And it seemed to be getting worse.

As did Damien's scowling.

