speed they are moving at is really fast. I am moving quickly backwards as I slam the axe into the first. I aim for his head but miss and strike his neck, splitting it open and sending him away from me; blood pouring out of the new wound.
No time to get in position, The next one is here, and I swing the axe backwards and use the blunt end to crush his skull. He goes down from the blow, and I hit down at him, pulverising his head. The other one is still down. A gaping slash in his neck, and he is twitching, but not getting up.
There are more coming, following the path that I just took. The noise and action must be drawing them. I get back into the car and drive on, squinting through the fractured and filthy windscreen.
Ahead of me is the narrow, older part of the High Street. A large metal drop barrier is used during the evenings to stop vehicles going in, making it pedestrian only. There are numerous cafes with outside seating, and shiny metallic seats complete with small round black tables, desperately trying to bring a European feel to the area. At night the cafes shut, and the bars put their outside seating in place. Some of the nicer venues have those external heaters – tall, stainless steel gas burners – a constant reminder that we live in a cold part of the world.
The barrier is down, and I have to turn right. As I go round the corner, I see a horde of undead ahead of me, gathering in the gloomy dark. There is less street lighting down there and not as many illuminated shop fronts.
The road is blocked, and there is no way I can get through them. Their mass is just too great. The Micra would get a few, but then I would be engulfed and trapped.
They are a few hundred metres away.
I twist round in the street and can see I am still being chased by a few of them: at least five or six. I can’t go back. I must go forward.
The only way now is through the precinct, but the barrier is down.
Out of the car, axe in hand - and I start running into the precinct, keeping to the middle of the road. The shops and cafes are all closed, and doors and windows are barred and bolted; secured against a weekly invasion of drunken youths.
I keep running.
To my right is one of the bars. The seating area looks like a riot has taken place with chairs and tables thrown all over the place. The shiny chairs show darker stains from the events of last night.
The bar has a large, open frontage and the doors are pushed back. No way of quickly securing them.
Glancing back, I see that the small group of undead chasing me have reached the barrier. One of them runs into it and bends over double - his upper body folding over the metal bar - and his legs spin over as he sprawls out.
Then the massive horde are pouring round the corner. More of them run into the barrier, pushed forward by the relentless surge.
‘Oh, shit! Oh, shit!’
I’m off running, flat out, with the axe in my right hand.
I can run faster than them, but they can keep going for longer… and they won’t stop. They are undead, and they don’t have to worry about beats per minute, pulling muscles or the cardio vascular system getting enough oxygen.
‘Fuck it!’ I shout loudly.
More of them ahead of me.
They are some distance away, but they have seen me and are already running.
I slow down and glance back. My sprinting has stretched the gap from the horde, but they keep coming. Desperately looking around, I see a double wooden door off to my right - tall and narrow with one half slightly open.
I scurry over and push through, slamming the door behind me. There are bolts at the top and bottom, and I ram these home.
Within seconds, the doors thump as the horde reaches my point of entry. The doors are thick and strong, but old.
There are two strong metal hooks on the inside of either door, and on the floor is a metal bar. I lift this and place it into the hooks - the bar fits perfectly.
Thumps, bangs and scrapes
No time to get in position, The next one is here, and I swing the axe backwards and use the blunt end to crush his skull. He goes down from the blow, and I hit down at him, pulverising his head. The other one is still down. A gaping slash in his neck, and he is twitching, but not getting up.
There are more coming, following the path that I just took. The noise and action must be drawing them. I get back into the car and drive on, squinting through the fractured and filthy windscreen.
Ahead of me is the narrow, older part of the High Street. A large metal drop barrier is used during the evenings to stop vehicles going in, making it pedestrian only. There are numerous cafes with outside seating, and shiny metallic seats complete with small round black tables, desperately trying to bring a European feel to the area. At night the cafes shut, and the bars put their outside seating in place. Some of the nicer venues have those external heaters – tall, stainless steel gas burners – a constant reminder that we live in a cold part of the world.
The barrier is down, and I have to turn right. As I go round the corner, I see a horde of undead ahead of me, gathering in the gloomy dark. There is less street lighting down there and not as many illuminated shop fronts.
The road is blocked, and there is no way I can get through them. Their mass is just too great. The Micra would get a few, but then I would be engulfed and trapped.
They are a few hundred metres away.
I twist round in the street and can see I am still being chased by a few of them: at least five or six. I can’t go back. I must go forward.
The only way now is through the precinct, but the barrier is down.
Out of the car, axe in hand - and I start running into the precinct, keeping to the middle of the road. The shops and cafes are all closed, and doors and windows are barred and bolted; secured against a weekly invasion of drunken youths.
I keep running.
To my right is one of the bars. The seating area looks like a riot has taken place with chairs and tables thrown all over the place. The shiny chairs show darker stains from the events of last night.
The bar has a large, open frontage and the doors are pushed back. No way of quickly securing them.
Glancing back, I see that the small group of undead chasing me have reached the barrier. One of them runs into it and bends over double - his upper body folding over the metal bar - and his legs spin over as he sprawls out.
Then the massive horde are pouring round the corner. More of them run into the barrier, pushed forward by the relentless surge.
‘Oh, shit! Oh, shit!’
I’m off running, flat out, with the axe in my right hand.
I can run faster than them, but they can keep going for longer… and they won’t stop. They are undead, and they don’t have to worry about beats per minute, pulling muscles or the cardio vascular system getting enough oxygen.
‘Fuck it!’ I shout loudly.
More of them ahead of me.
They are some distance away, but they have seen me and are already running.
I slow down and glance back. My sprinting has stretched the gap from the horde, but they keep coming. Desperately looking around, I see a double wooden door off to my right - tall and narrow with one half slightly open.
I scurry over and push through, slamming the door behind me. There are bolts at the top and bottom, and I ram these home.
Within seconds, the doors thump as the horde reaches my point of entry. The doors are thick and strong, but old.
There are two strong metal hooks on the inside of either door, and on the floor is a metal bar. I lift this and place it into the hooks - the bar fits perfectly.
Thumps, bangs and scrapes
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