Jermaine was dead. The man with all the plans, all the ideas-the man who would have seen them through this disaster to the other side of it-was dead. All his schemes and clever thoughts had done little to hasten his lame legs to safety. He lay face up in the darkening street, his limbs rigid, his cranium caved in like a juicy red apple crushed underfoot. There was surprise in his sightless eyes, a surprise borne of ego and arrogance; he hadn't expected to die.

“We must go to him.” said Gabriel for the second time. His words were as wet and snivelly as his eyes. Big brown eyes like a teddy-bear's. Seamus did not meet them, looking instead past his companion at the entrance hall beyond. A flight of stairs hugged the left wall, leading up to the second floor, beyond them there looked to be a small kitchen with a view of the back garden. To his right was an arch in the wall leading, presumably, into the living room. It was quiet save for Gabriel's ragged breaths, and still, so still that he might instead have been looking at a photograph.

“Did you hear me? We must go to him!”

There had never been much meat on Gabriel's frame; he was as slim as he was tall, but his anger gave him strength. He managed to get himself halfway out of the front door before Seamus grabbed a fistful of his brown suit and hauled him back inside. The door shrieked as it swung shut behind them, and the things feasting outside on Jermaine's bloodied grey matter paused, glancing up.

“He's gone!” said Seamus, finally meeting Gabriel's red-rimmed gaze, “He's gone and we're not. We stick to the plan.”

Gabriel was outraged. “To Hell with the bloody plan!” he yelled, “Our friend is out there being feasted on by those creatures. We can't just leave him there, there'll be nothing left.”

He was only ever your friend, thought Seamus. Instead, he said, “Good. The longer he lasts, the more chance we have that they'll forget we're in here. A night in an actual bed will do us both good before we head out again in the morning.”

For a moment Gabriel just stared, a great confusion writ across his sharp features, then he swung. The punch was well-placed, but it came from a man now so weakened by hunger, by fear, by grief, that it was little more than a close-fisted tap against Seamus' chin.

“It should have been you.” said Gabriel. Fresh tears spilled down his ruddy cheeks. He half walked, half staggered his way to the bottom of the stairwell, collapsing against the first step with a miserable sob, “It should have been you.”

Seamus rubbed at his chin, it felt hot where he'd been struck. Gabriel was wrong, not just his hateful words, but everything about him; he was a man out of place and out of time, a man who clung to his well-tailored suits, who still ate with cutlery and crockery whenever he could, who found the time each morning to run the blade of a razor across his well-defined jaw. Here was a man who should have expired with the bright lights of the old world. He was a relic, misplaced in the new one, a fragile curiosity that would-sooner or later-end up in the belly of some beast. It shouldn't have been Seamus, and it shouldn't have been Jermaine.

It should have been Gabriel.

“If I go and check the cupboards in the kitchen for something to eat, can I trust that you won't do anything reckless?” asked Seamus.

Gabriel didn't look up, he had his face in his hands, his thick-rimmed black spectacles bunched up in his soft, coconut scented hair. His shoulders were trembling, his sobs as silent as the house they found themselves forced to occupy for the night. Just when it seemed he would not answer, he said, waspishly, “Just leave me alone.”

That was answer enough for Seamus. He proceeded down the hallway towards the kitchen. Faces smiled out at him from framed pictures lining the walls. A family of four, two mothers and a son and daughter. They stood on beaches, holding ice creams in red, sun-kissed hands, they sat on green lawns with friends and pets, drinking beers and eating hot dogs, they posed in a professional studio, their teeth gleaming and their eyes sparkling, oblivious, ignorant eyes. Seamus turned from them, his own eyes felt hot at the corners, stinging. The family was dead. Or worse. He hoped for the former, for the sake of the children.

The kitchen bore all the horror that the hallway hadn't. Cupboard doors were thrown open, their insides barren and bare of most everything; furniture was toppled, something dark and red splashed the white linoleum underfoot; a single coat lay torn and ripped in front of the back door, which hung slightly ajar. More of the red stuff spotted the garden path beyond. Very quietly, Seamus locked and bolted that door.

A newspaper was opened atop the centre island, one of the mothers had been looking for a job, or a career change; she'd circled an admin vacancy in purple ink. In the sink, pots had accumulated foul smelling growths and mould, and the ugly buzzing of flies could be heard in and around the overflowing pedal bin. Seamus looked past the dirty dishes, peering out onto the long, narrow stretch of garden. He could see the neighbouring houses over the fences, all the windows were as dark and empty as the rest of the street, but in the moonlight he spied grey flesh moving, dead eyes hungry and searching. He pulled at the blinds, closing them to the horrors wandering the night beyond.

Closer inspection of the cupboards revealed a couple of tins of soup remained. No doubt the family had been reluctant to eat it cold. He plucked them out, stuffing them into the back pockets of his jeans. The weight in them brought the waistband of the jeans past the swell of his bottom and he was struck again by how thin he was becoming. A naturally stocky and soft-bellied man, he was wasting away day by day. He approached the fridge, but the stench coming from inside gave him pause. Instead, he searched the drawers for a tin-opener, but that too had been taken away with the family. He settled for a sharp knife and returned to the entrance hall.

Gabriel was as Seamus had left him, half hunched over at the bottom of the stairs. He'd taken his face from out of his hands and replaced his glasses atop his sharp, long nose. His eyes were as red as the blood staining the linoleum in the kitchen, they stared ahead at the door, blank and unfocused, a thousand thoughts swimming behind them. He barely moved as Seamus came to stand at his side.

“I found us something to eat.” said Seamus, soft and gentle, a belated consideration of his companion's mourning. “It isn't much, but it's something. Come on, we'll eat in the living room.”

Nothing. Just that same blank stare. Seamus frowned. He reached down, barely grazing his fingers across the narrow breadth of Gabriel's shoulders, but the man jolted from the touch as though burned. He leveled those dark, blank eyes up at Seamus, but now they swam with hate and betrayal. “Do not touch me.” he warned. “I will eat. But not with you.”

Any modicum of pity Seamus had started to feel was extinguished in an instant. He pulled out one of the two tins from his back pockets-oxtail soup-and stabbed the edge of the blade through its silver top. He did it again, his gaze locked with Gabriel's faltering one, and then a third time until at last the contents of the tin were reachable. Then he slammed it down on the bottom step and walked away, disappearing into the living room.

He repeated the action for his own tin of soup-this one vegetable-imagining his knife was piercing something else instead, something softer and much more pliant with little meat on its bones. The anger disappeared almost as quickly as his pity had, and Seamus allowed himself the small mercy of a comfortable seat as he slumped down into one of the armchairs. The soup slopped noisily within its container, cold and unappetizing. Seamus drank from it in much the same way he'd drink a shot of whisky, straight down the hatch before his gag reflex could react. His tongue protested the taste, but he drank again, downing it this time until his belly sloshed and whined.

It wasn't enough.

From the entrance hall, Seamus heard Gabriel sipping at his own soup, taking little gentlemanly gulps, savouring it. He wondered if he should have done the same, it might be some time before they happened upon food again.

*********************************************************************

Seamus awoke with a start. His first lucid thought was: why hasn't Jermaine woken me up? Then, like a montage playing out in a movie, he remembered. The car spluttering and rolling until it crawled to a stop and died, the roadside signs directing them to the quaint little town of West River, fishing tubing and jerrycans from the boot, and then searching, street by street, finding nothing, no vehicles, no stations, only curious, dead things that waited and watched, biding their time before striking, cleaving poor Jermaine's scalp from the rest of his head.

Weak, grey light shone through the closed slats of the blinds, casting shadows like prison bars across the carpet. Seamus rubbed at his face, digging the heel of his hands into his eyes, urging his thoughts to organize. He had no memory of falling asleep, but sleep he had, through an entire evening it seemed. He looked about the room, found more family photos on the walls, on furniture, dead faces greeting him with the only smiles he'd see this morning. A clock hung above the mantelpiece, ticking the seconds and the minutes with obnoxious persistence. It was barely five.

He stretched, his limbs popping and creaking at the joints. He felt every bit his forty eight years; parts of him ached that he'd never considered before this disaster struck. The empty tin of soup rolled from his soft, rounded belly and hit the floor with a dull thud. Seamus roused himself to his feet and went out into the entrance hall to check on Gabriel.

His companion was nowhere to be seen. Seamus checked the side of the door where they'd dumped their gear upon fleeing to this house. It was still there. He glanced down into the kitchen, but it too was as empty as the entrance. A wooden creak came from up the stairs. Seamus reached for the metal bat he'd been carrying with him since this all began, and proceeded up the stairs, quiet as a rodent.

He found Gabriel in the second bedroom he checked. The man was curled up in the fetal position, wrapped in a thin, crocheted throw. This room lacked the personal touch of the first room he'd found, there were no family photos on the walls here, no night-time literature bookmarked on bedside cabinets, nothing. Seamus wondered how many people this guest room had accommodated over the years, how many friends and family the two mothers had invited to stay in the very same bed Gabriel now clung to like a child. They would have been welcomed, invited to stay longer. He didn't think the mothers would ever extend such a welcome to him. He didn't belong here in this room, in this house. Neither of them did.

As quietly as he'd arrived, Seamus headed back down the stairs. The metal bat in his hands grew warm, his palms perspiring. He was an invader here. He reached the front door, hesitated a moment, then went outside.

Dark, heavy clouds covered the sun as they idled by. The worst of the shadows were as black as a moonless night, shielding some of those creatures who still lurked and prowled, forever in search of something to rip and devour. But the drive and most of the street was bright enough that nothing dared venture through. Except for one.

It was still eating, gorging itself on flesh and gristle even as its own caked and blistered under the sun. Even from the drive, Seamus could hear its throat working around some part of what remained of Jermaine's corpse. The creature choked and gagged, then threw its head back, its long neck swollen, working loudly against the lump of matter lodged in its airways. It was hard to tell what it had been in life-male? Female? Neither? The clouds parted, the street brightened, and though the creature shrieked and tried to hide itself, it continued to eat. Something silver was hanging from a torn corner of its mouth. Seamus felt his own throat constrict.

Jermaine had been happily married for twenty five years, but over the course of those twenty five years he'd gotten fat and comfortable and taken to wearing his wedding band on a chain around his neck. A silver chain.

Seamus was on the creature in an instant.

The noise it made as metal crushed and pummeled its head, its arms, its ribs, was entirely human in its agony. And entirely familiar. Seamus had heard that scream before, more than once, but more recently he'd heard it just yesterday, spilling from Jermaine's mouth even as his brains had spilled from his skull. The creature cried out again and there could be no doubt, it was using Jermaine's voice. Seamus swung harder, his grip lax with sweat, but determined. He aimed for its wide, gaping maw, crushing teeth and splitting gums over and over until it fell onto its side, still, silent, dead. For a second, and final time.

The chain still hung from its swollen lips, dangling now like a string of saliva. Seamus grasped for it, tugging. It slipped through his fingers, sodden with mucus and blood. He grabbed for it again, his grip firmer, more determined, and pulled. It came free, but not easily, each inch worked ponderously from the clutch of the creature's throat. At length, he held the chain up, examining it in the grey sunlight. The ring was lost.

“Damn it.” said Seamus. “Damn it.”

His eyes wandered down, finding the creature once more. His gaze lingered on the thing's distended belly, his thoughts dark with macabre considerations. Instead, he pocketed the chain and returned quickly to the house. There were some levels he could not, would not sink to. Not now, not yet.