It normally takes me about 45 minutes to walk the almost three-mile distance home, but seeing what I had seen and doing what I had just done tends to put a spring in your step.
After I was a few hundred meters from the hospital and out onto the main road, everything seemed so normal — a stark contrast to the fear I had just witnessed. People drove by like the world hadn't suddenly gone mad. The only odd thing anyone else might have noticed were the extra emergency vehicles speeding to the hospital with sirens blaring — but of course, no one paid much attention. It was a hospital, after all.
I considered going back, trying to figure out what had happened. I decided against it and realized what an odd sight I must've been — standing on the side of the road with a metal mop pole in my hand and a coat that I had just noticed was stained with dark patches. I smelled it. The whiff of rotten meat hit the back of my throat, and I gagged. I took my coat off, leaving me with just my purple work T-shirt. Very stylish.
I walked up the road and smoked a cigarette, turning left toward the local Tesco. Everything felt like a daze — ordinary things happening all around me, people carrying on with their lives. Anger rose inside me. I wanted to shake them, to ask why they didn't care about what had just happened to me. Of course, they couldn't know. My reaction was the same as anyone under stress: "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me."
I walked through the double doors, grabbed a plastic carrier bag, and shoved my coat inside. Why was I even here? I should've been calling the police, screaming, panicking — doing anything other than this. But no — I was here deciding what kind of bread to buy and which toilet paper Jon didn't think felt like sandpaper. For just five minutes, I craved normality. Peace.
I got some crisps and headed to the counter. The girl behind the till asked me, "Sir, are you OK?"
God, I remember when people didn't call me that. I'm only twenty-four, for heaven's sake. I muttered that I was fine, asked for a pack of cigarettes, paid, and wandered back out into the parking area.
The entire scene had changed. I looked down the road to the junction that led to the hospital. There were half a dozen police cars stopping traffic in all directions. People were climbing out of their cars, angrily shouting at the dozen or so officers, all of whom were too busy talking on their radios or putting up what looked like crowd-control barriers.
I walked closer until I was only about twenty feet from the barrier and looked down the road. The hospital was just out of view, but I could see a swarm of police cars outside it — and were those military trucks? No, that's stupid. That kind of thing only happens in movies.
An officer in his fifties approached me."Sorry, son. Road's closed. I need you to take a few steps back. Looks like you've got the day off."
"Pardon?" I replied, surprised that he knew I worked at the hospital. He nodded toward my shirt, indicating where it said NHS Trust.
"Of course. Sorry, officer. Do you know what's going on?"
He shook his head and muttered something about a mild public disturbance — nothing to worry about, just a precaution.
I apologized again and walked away, not wishing to draw any more attention to myself. Precaution? Mild? Not if you'd seen what I had.
I walked on toward home. After about half an hour of jogging, I turned onto Camden Road, which runs through a small town in the South East. I passed all the shops starting to wind down for the day and waved at the guys in the kebab shop — me, Jon, and Ty were regulars there.
Jon and Ty — short for Tynam (I know, weird name, but I didn't pick it) — were my best friend and my brother, respectively. Jon had come to stay with us for a couple of weeks about a year ago. We'd been best friends since we first met five years ago. I was slightly older than him.
Ty was my younger brother, the youngest of three boys. He'd lived with me for two years since our mother died. The middle child, Toby (yes, I'm well aware all our names start with "T," but I didn't pick them), lived just around the corner in a one-bedroom flat with one of my ex-girlfriends. No, they're not together — Toby has a girlfriend. I hadn't spoken to him since before Christmas, but that thought disappeared when I suddenly realized I was at my front door.
I lived in a small two-bedroom terraced house. Ty and I had our own rooms, and Jon used the front room as his. The only thing I didn't like about the house was that you had to walk through Ty's bedroom to get to the bathroom.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The bailiffs had been by again while I was out — "requesting immediate payment," blah blah. I ripped it up and threw it in the bin. Jon was still in bed asleep, but he didn't have work until five, so it was fine — but what if there wasn't a five?
I decided not to wake Jon and headed upstairs to the bathroom. Ty hadn't gone to college today — teacher training or something — and was also asleep, probably exhausted after staying up until eight this morning playing video games.
So many things raced through my head. I splashed my face under the cold tap — that helped a bit. What would a rational person do in this situation? Put on the news. If it was that serious, it would be on there.
I walked into my bedroom, dropped onto the bed, and switched on the TV and my laptop. That's when I saw it — the hospital, staring back at me from an aerial view shot by a circling helicopter.
Underneath, on the scrolling headline, I saw small figures wandering outside the hospital — covered in blood, some chasing the few remaining living people. My eyes rose to the headline:
"THE DEAD WALK?"