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I can think of only one other thing that takes precedence over my cold instincts for survival; the need for stability and familiarity. My own need for those same things centred then on one thing. I was cold, I was tired, and I had just seen my beloved (whose name I never knew) die in my arms. I wanted to go home.

This was no easy task. I was 20 miles away from home, and there were assuredly no trains running. Even if I could drive all roads out of the city were choked with car wrecks. I was not exactly perfectly equipped for such a dangerous hike, dressed as I was in a gore flecked 3-piece suit and armed with a trusty half brick and a briefcase. I could not simply march out of the place; I needed to walk softly and carry a big stick.

I had confidence in my ability to stay hidden from those things. A lifetime of keeping my head down, avoiding both physical and verbal abuse from bullies (those at home as well as in the real world) meant that I was adept at not being noticed. As to the big stick, well it was at this point that the full implications of what I had just done started to crowbar their way into my conscience. I flung the half brick across the station; the idea of defending myself with the weapon that had been used (that I had used) to give her a peaceful rest seemed obscene to me. A briefcase is a less than fearsome implement, so that was also discarded; under the circumstances, I suspect that Mr Wylie would not be too concerned with my abandoning his company's balance sheet calculations.

After about 10 minutes of searching I discovered a loose scaffolding bar about 2 feet in length. I now felt adequately prepared for my journey home and so I set off for home. I still consider it a matter of some good fortune that I did not encounter any of the walking dead in that first hour's journey, heading as I was in the complete opposite direction to home. The trouble is that one gets used to having everything one needs at ones disposal. As Spence would no doubt say, "Soft living leads to a soft head". Had there been an attack of some dreadful menace that could only be defeated by one mans ability to calculate a companies profit ratio within 45 minutes then I was your man! As it is, what I really needed was an ability to know which way north was. So it was that I found myself trudging back to that infernal station (flushing with embarrassment now that I come to think of it. It must be part of being British I suppose. It's been 6 years now since that first day of the dead and Priest still cast his eyes downward whenever he hears someone utter a particularly heartfelt obscenity)

and restarting my journey using the rail track as my path.

The city was still teeming; I could see that clearly after just over an hour. I looked back once to say goodbye to the life that I had known and I could see the mass of people, the panicked rush to escape. The main road out to the west was blighted by what looked like a large car pile-up. There were no emergency vehicles that I could make out. As I watched however, I saw 4 army lorries arrive and a group of soldiers disembark. The sharp crack of gunfire startled me (after all, this was England for Gods sake; we don't know what a gun is, let alone what one sounds like) and I quickened my pace as I turned and went on my way.

I came across many others who had taken this path from the city. Well, I say that I came across them; I saw or heard them before they saw me and I always found a convenient piece of cover. Although there were no zombie encounters in that first hour there were plenty of unsavoury gentlemen who seemed to be taking full advantage of the frighteningly quick breakdown in law and order. Coupled with the fear of the working classes that my Mother had worked hard to instil in me (I wonder what she would make of me now, mixing with ex-soldiers, a welder, a former dole cheat, and a sewage worker amongst others), I ensured that I stayed hidden until they had passed or worked out a shortcut to put me ahead of the others.

It was on one of these many diversions that I encountered my second zombie (I couldn't bear to think of her in those terms, though if anyone reading does not share my tender emotions then by all means add one to the total). I really should have thought a little more about taking a diversion past the Co-Op Funeral Parlour but I suppose you live and learn. Or not as the case may be…

I was in the last of the outer suburban areas of the city. My plan was to head off the track and spend 20 minutes travelling pretty much parallel to the rails in order to get ahead of the 2 coarse voices that I had heard. So it was that I found myself travelling through a semi-derelict estate that I normally (if you'll pardon the expression) would not have been seen dead in. The closely packed streets were completely deserted, though I caught a few snatches of conversation within a few of the grubby council built houses. It seemed prudent to stay close to sounds of civilisation, and I found myself off my intended route and in the heart of what used to be called a "Regeneration Area" and what has always been called a shitty place to live. In fairness to myself, I didn't even notice that it was a funeral parlour at first. It was stuck at the end of a row of shops and I was walking along the alley to the rear. There was a back door (I would later be grateful that it was covered with a corrugated iron security door) and a single window at shoulder height.

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