The Zombie Lands

The Village

Frederick - and Rover - had turned right down the main country road and had already trekked at least half a mile. His shotgun hadn't been used, yet he kept it loaded. The last shells he had, he'd put in the barrel. Shamblers were far and few, being scattered in fields, isolated as they looked around for people to kill. The fresh green grass and soft cool breeze invigorated him, although it stung his lungs. Ten meters ahead was a rusted old sign that informed him the nearest village was ahead - Bannerly Village was half a mile away.

The joints in his knees began to ache, and so did his back. He'd not done so much walking for a considerable time. After he'd spoken to his daughter yesterday afternoon and heard her frightened voice he didn't think the thing to halt his progress toward her would be old age. The four-door was out of petrol though, and there was no petrol station for miles. His tractor wouldn't have made it either, that was low on fuel and simply too slow to get north.

By the time he passed the sign, he glanced back down the narrow lane which trees towered over the road, darkening the path he had taken. 'Come on Rover,' he said to his also-aged companion. Rover barked back at him. The village started to take shape as he passed the next right bend where the road snaked around to the openings of civilisation. He could already see people wandering in the street. His instincts told him to avoid any contact with them, even if he had a shotgun. His heart said he should try to find someone not affected by this plague so they could work together. Maybe he could borrow someone's car.

Nothing was normal. The village houses were seemingly all detached cottages, as he walked passed a few he looked inside to see the people devouring each other in their living rooms. He walked some more; the post office, the pub, and a red telephone box. He paused, astounded he'd managed to go untouched, and stepped into the booth whilst Rover waited outside. He dialed the police. The phone line rang, and a man answered. 'Hello, who's this?'

'Frederick, farmer. Who's this?'

'The police.'

'Any chance of some help?'

'Oh, right. Sorry but we're a little backed up at the moment with all that's going on.'

'What are people supposed to do?'

'Stay at home, make some tea and wait for further announcements on the news. That's all I can say. Goodbye.'

Frederick put the phone down and wiped his hand on his jumper. He moved out of the booth, stroked Rover on the head, and continued down the lane through the desolate village. That was until a woman shouted at him. He looked at her standing directly in front of him about a hundred yards ahead, and she was sticking her head out of an upstairs window of a tilted cottage with a white picket fence. 'Quick, get inside.'

'Come on Rover.' The pair walked toward the woman's cottage, he held his shotgun low to not appear to be a thug out for easy pickings. 'I'm a coming.'

She disappeared but soon reappeared at the front door; decorated with a Christmas reef in mid-autumn. The redwood cracked and warped, aged from the cold countryside weather. The brick and stone of the cottage were laced with fine delicate vine structures that paved their way through tiny cracks unseen to the human eye. He admired the garden, the flowers that had bloomed yet wilted at the same time. It reminded him of his rose garden, except this cottage seemed to have considerably more planted around the base of the brick, where the soil met the cottage. The stranger opened the door to him. 'Quick, get inside.'

After he'd stepped in with Rover by his side she shut the door. The smell of baking hit his nose, alongside the faintest scent of burning beeswax. He hadn't smelled that for a long time. It tended to be too strong for candles.

'Names Frederick,' he said, and extended his right hand. The woman smiled, bowed, and shook his hand; her skin was wrinkled but soft. She also had soft eyes and was fairly young to be living in the countryside, most people who lived here were middle-aged or retired. She also had red auburn hair that drooped elegantly to her shoulders and the oddest asphalt eye colour he'd ever seen.

'Mildred, Penntyne.'

'Well, Mildred. This is Rover.' He gestured to his beagle; he barked. 'Now Rover, don't bark at Mrs. Penntyn, she's our host. A pleasure to meet you.'

'I can't believe you're out in this,' she exclaimed before leading them both through the small hallway into a cozy living room with two long white sofas, an open fire, and an oak round table on a white fur rug. He thought about taking his dirty boots off but since she hadn't asked he didn't bother. They trailed footprints along the carpet, her lack of notice did bother him a little. 'I'm going to my daughter up north.'

'Oh really? You'd better hurry then. Here, sit down.' She pointed to the sofa nearest the open fire and window, he sat down and Rover sat by his side on the rug. Outside he could see undead figures shamble around, some walked into trees whilst another fell over out of sight. 'Why's that?'

'Didn't you hear?' Mildred walked around and sat on the other sofa, wrapping her white cardigan tightly over her shoulders. 'They're planning to kill everyone south of Birmingham this time tomorrow.'

Frederick spluttered. 'Why, that's insane!'

'Yes, it is. It's for our safety.'

'Are you not bothered? Why are you still here?'

'I figured I'd give the army a good run for their money. I can't imagine they'd get me anyway. I have a fortified basement. They won't get in.'

He doubted her self-belief. The army was coming. He had less time that he realised and still well over one hundred miles to go. There was no chance he'd make it. Being sat in Mildred's cottage was nice, it was warm and the sofa cushioned his aching bum. But interacting was difficult. He focused on his words too much as if they came out wrong. 'What about those out there?' He pointed to the window as a shambler came up to it, the vicious man pressed his undead face on the glass, and gnawed at the pair.

Mildred flipped him the bird. 'I say let them try and get me.' Moments later the glass smashed and Mildred began to scream, she ran from the living room out of sight. Rover barked at the attacker. Frederick stood, once again aiming with his shotgun. This time, it was too late before he noticed the man halfway through the window had an explosive on his belt. Bang, the buckshot exploded into the man's waist and seconds later the window and living room blew to high heaven; Frederick and Rover were launched backward over the sofa against the brick wall at the back of the room. Smoke, haze, and confusion overtook him. As he adjusted his eyes a chunk of the wall from the cottage living room was missing.

He wriggled around, pushed against the stone, and clambered to his feet. Dirt covered him and Rover. He couldn't see Mildred. Nor did he want to. He'd just blown her cottage living room to pieces. He grimaced and walked to the front door which fell off the hinges as it opened. 'Come on Rover, let's go.'