The Zombie Lands

Thursday, November 10th

Frederick was a thin framed yet solidly built farmer living in rural England. His face rough, sharp around the edges whilst his hair thick and soft. He had brown eyes that resembled coconut husk. He hadn't the energy to do a lot most of the time, having survived cancer a few years earlier leaving him with awful anxiety about leaving his farm.

His farm was his dream, his life. Without his sheep and his pigs he'd be lost. He owned - what he called - a modest amount of land amounting to roughly ten acres. Although no longer crop farming, he leased the land to fellow neighbours. Saturdays were for tabletop car boot sales and Sundays he allowed general free play with a series of ice cream vans, bouncy castles and food stalls to set up. Without the income he'd likely have gone broke. So woe was the days he'd entered into.

Of course he didn't sit against the sofa, back aching and all to whine about the past. He had a decent view of his garden through the windows which he observed intently during rainstorms. He'd spent several hours planting various precious flowers and a series of roses that his wife used to love. Not quite red but certainly not violet either. His wife had passed around the time he was diagnosed. Heartbreak had quenched his soul for considerable time. Perhaps, he thought as he watched daytime news on his old style television, that was the reason he'd found it so hard to reintegrate back into society. 

His eighteen year old daughter had gone up north to study vetinarian medicine at the university of Manchester. Without her he had little contact with anyone. His mobile was not glued in his pocket like most young people, and he barely spoke to his brother. Abraham was a year older than he and living the life of a millionaire. His brother hadn't laboured over pigs and sheep, instead, he'd invested in various stocks and built a virtual empire that sold fashion products. Frederick felt envious occasionally but didn't wish anything of it, it was the paths they were destined for. 

Oh and the news is talking about the dead rising from the grave. Just after two pm they began to broadcast frightening news of living dead. People attacking and eating the living. To Frederick it was a load of rubbish, that was until yesterday when the shamblers - what he called them, the news called them infected and walking corpses - invaded his farm. They'd be roaming around since, attempted to devour his fast sheep. Some of them had taken down a pig. But they hadn't managed to get into the cottage yet, oh no. He'd made sure to reinforce the doors with large rectangle wood beams from his construction project; a small outhouse to keep logs in. The windows were solid. Although he only saw the people stumble some distance away from his home and only one or two had actually tried to break in. 

Frederick had another well kept secret in his storage cupboard in the hallway too; a farmers shotgun. Two shots. One was enough to kill a man up to fifty feet. His dog, Rover had sadly been too weak to assist him, yet he sat company with his owner as the news woman spoke of emergency protocols. He couldn't be bothered to go outside because they'd surely attack him too and with his weak knees he didn't want to risk becoming a victim. A plan was needed to get him out of the house and north to his daughter. He might call at his brothers too. With the end of the world seemingly upon them, time was precious commodity as was life. 

The dead had risen. Frederick was truly unprepared...