Chapter Text
It is morning.
The room is shrouded in darkness. All that disturbs it is a thin stream of sunlight between two heavy blackout curtains.
If the room were fully illuminated, one would barely be able to see the yellowish carpet underneath the clutter. Books, clothes (some clean, some evidently dirty), shoes and boots, tools and other miscellaneous objects sit in untidy piles all over the room. They surround a double bed upon which lies a plain light blue duvet.
Underneath that duvet, currently drooling onto a matching light blue pillow, is Nick. He is slightly over six feet tall, has straight auburn hair and a muscular physique. His round face is dotted with freckles, and he currently sports a short but messy, unkempt beard that matches his hair colour. He is wearing a plain white T-shirt and checkered green pyjama bottoms. He lies on his stomach, with his left arm dangling over the side of the bed. He quietly snores and shows no sign of waking up any time soon.
Before too long, the room door opens slowly, casting more daylight into the room. The opener of the door, a brown and white Border Collie, trots into the room, over the litter between the door and the bed, before coming to a rest at Nick’s side. She begins to lick Nick’s hand, causing him to stir.
“Mm-mm,” he groans weakly, pulling his hand under the duvet and rolling across to the other side of the bed. “Not yet.”
The dog, it appears, needs to be addressed. She lifts herself and plops her two front paws onto the bed, letting out a small boof. When this fails to disturb her owner, she tries a new approach. She leaps gracefully onto the bed and stands on all fours beside Nick.
“Oh, Nellie, don’t,” Nick grumbles. “I’m really not in the mood.”
Nellie, however, is unyielding to his complaints. Her response is to march right up to Nick’s head and slather his face with her tongue.
“Nellie, Nellie! Stop it!” Nick begins to whine. But before long, her tickling tongue, her little whines and her utter adorableness break Nick’s grumpy resolve, and he giggles. “All right, all right, you win!”
He rolls over and faces her. He reaches out with both hands and offers Nellie several scratches behind her ears and a kiss on her head, which she accepts with a wagging tail and closed eyes.
After a few minutes, Nick sits up fully in his bed and places both feet on the floor. He rubs his hands across his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes. His hair sticks up wildly in a dishevelled manner, and he makes no effort to flatten it. He yawns and then stands up. He walks over to the window, staggering slightly as he steps on his own clothes, and pulls the curtains open.
The room is instantly bathed in bright sunlight. Nick winces and allows his eyes to adjust. From his bedroom window, he can see a gorgeous view of the countryside, complete with vast fields, trees, a distant road and a small stream that runs a few metres from the back of his house.
Once upon a time, this stunning landscape inspired and motivated him at the start of his day.
Today, Nick looks at it and feels nothing.
He inhales deeply and lets out a long, drawn-out, fed-up sigh.
Another whine sounds behind him, and Nick turns to see Nellie still staring at him from her spot on the bed.
“Okay,” Nick sighs again.
And so he begins his morning routine. It has changed little over the past two and a half years, and today is no different. After swapping his pyjama bottoms for red Adidas shorts and his white T-shirt for, well, a beige T-shirt, he makes his way downstairs with Nellie by his side. Nellie is always the first to eat, and this morning, she is treated to a rare tin of Pedigree Chum—Nick having discovered a crate of the stuff in a nearby village on a recent foraging trip.
Nick leaves Nellie to feast as he conducts a morning perimeter check. He steps out of the front door of his cottage. It is a small two-storey home in the middle of a large, primarily empty patch of countryside, the nearest village being a twenty-minute cycle away. Upstairs are two bedrooms directly across the halls from each other, with a bathroom at the end. Downstairs, the house is open plan—the living area is complete with a couch, a coffee table, a bookcase, a fireplace and a TV. A kitchen and a small dining table with four chairs are at the back of the house.
The cottage has a small patch of grass at the front and a much larger garden in the rear, which is now an allotment filled with a greenhouse, patches of vegetables and several devices set up to capture rainwater.
“We’re like Tom and Barbara in The Good Life,” his mum used to joke, referencing an old sitcom they watched when Nick was young, “except we’re not married. That would be weird!”
The cottage is perfectly picturesque. It is white with rustic and stylish wooden beams, making it look almost Tudor. Flowerbeds surround the front and sides—though there are few flowers in those beds nowadays, and weeds have begun to take over.
Overall, the only thing stopping this cottage from looking like any typical countryside home throughout England is a large metal fence surrounding the entire property. Nick and his mum had built it from scratch a couple of summers ago, using materials they’d taken from a secondary school about 20 miles away, back when they had a working car. It has anti-climb spikes and is decorated with barbed wire at the top. Besides a front gate and a back gate, the fence is impenetrable to people and any other creature that might try to gain access.
Nick used to meditate every day before noon. It was an important part of his routine and allowed him to focus his mind and settle any dark or unpleasant thoughts he may have been having. However, in recent months, he did it less and less until, a few weeks ago, he stopped doing it entirely. He found it no longer helped, and the dark thoughts persisted no matter what he did. So, he does other things. He tends to the crops in the garden, walks with Nellie and exercises. Despite the way he feels, he still wants to keep himself fit.
The day carries on uneventfully. All he can be bothered with today for breakfast is a cereal bar. After he’s finished, he lets Nellie run around the fields behind their house to release her energy. The morning has been beautiful, sunny and unusually warm, even for early May. It had been a particularly harsh, cold winter, which had done nothing to help Nick’s already deteriorating mood. But before long, spring had sprung, the days were getting longer and snow and frost were rapidly replaced with sunshine and fresh air. As the morning becomes afternoon, the bright blue sky begins to show some clouding off in the distance. Nick feels as though a storm may be brewing later.
It is around 3 p.m., and Nick decides to take advantage of the good weather while it’s still here. He leaves Nellie napping on her little doggie bed in the kitchen, something she seems to do much more of in her old age, and steps out the back door armed with a towel and a soap bar. When he reaches the back gate, he uses the combination padlock to unlock its bolt and steps out into the field beyond. At the bottom of the field, he arrives at the stream. Standing on its bank, he drops the towel and the soap onto the ground. He removes his trainers and socks before removing the rest of his clothes and setting them in a pile next to the towel.
He steps into the cold water, gasping at the shock of its temperature. He stands in the stream’s centre, where the water only comes up to his knees, and begins to splash the water all over his face, his arms and the rest of his naked body. In an instant, Nick feels wholly revitalised. The running water not only cools his body down on this sweltering day but also cleanses him. Makes him feel better. Lighter.
And, for a brief moment, happier.
Nick finishes bathing himself and then returns to the stream’s bank. He dries, dresses himself and returns to the back gate.
But before he gets there, he stops. He casts his gaze across the field towards a tree in the near distance. It is a beautiful cherry blossom tree, and Nick can see from here that it is well and truly blossoming right now.
So he abandons his towel and soap near the house’s back gate, stopping to ensure it is still secure, and walks in the opposite direction.
Within a few minutes, he reaches the tree. Its bright pink bloom emerges from its branches like candy floss, littering the ground around it, creating a lush carpet of velvety petals.
A few metres away from the tree, underneath its bright branches, is a large patch of grass newer than the rest of the greenery around it. Protruding from it is a small wooden cross. Nick gets down on bended knee, taking another look at the inscription he carved on it six months ago:
SARAH NELSON
1974–2024
“Hi, Mum,” Nick says, a sad smile on his face.
He takes a seat under the tree, his back against the trunk. He gazes at the view, observing the miles of beautiful countryside before him. He’s so glad he picked this spot for her.
“Sorry I haven’t come down to see you much recently,” Nick says to the grave. To his mum. “I just haven’t had the energy to do much of anything.”
Nick hasn’t visited the grave in a few weeks. There was a time when he couldn’t keep away from it. Sometimes, he’d bring flowers. Sometimes, he’d speak to her and engage in whole conversation with her as if she were sitting beside him. On other days, he would sit in silence.
Today, he can’t find any words. He’s feeling so much, his mind racing with so many thoughts, but he can’t find any way to put them into words, even though he knows no one is really around to hear them.
The longer he sits there, the more and more emotions flood his mind and body. His eyes sting with tears. He opens his mouth several times before closing it again. Afraid to break the silence. Afraid to acknowledge what he’s feeling, even to himself.
It finally comes to a peak, and he can utter only one more sentence:
“I’m so lonely, Mum.”
And with that, Nick breaks. He sits alone next to the grave of his mother, doubled over in grief, and cries uncontrollably. The tears stream out of his eyes, and he struggles to catch his breath. Waves and waves of sobs pour out of him as though he is purging a sickness from his body.
After what feels like hours of this, though it was likely only minutes, no more tears are left to shed, and he slumps back against the tree. Exhausted, empty and totally numb.
He is broken from his daze by the sound of thunder. Focusing his bleary eyes in the distance, he sees that some ominous-looking dark clouds have begun to creep closer and decides it’s time to go home.
He stands up shakily, gripping onto the tree for support. When he gains the strength to stand on his own two feet, he begins to walk away. He turns his head once more to the cross sticking out from the ground and whispers:
“Love you.”
When he reaches home, he enters the back garden, grabs the towel and soap from earlier, and locks the gate behind him. As large spots of rain begin to splatter onto him, he narrowly misses the downpour as he staggers through the back door and collapses onto the couch, utterly spent.
He is asleep within moments.
Nellie’s bark awakens him—the only noise louder than the patter of rain at the windows.
“Shush, Nell,” he commands her. She pays no attention. She barks some more, followed by a deep growl. She’s staring at the back door of the house.
Nick’s sure she’s complaining about the weather outside, but he’s not used to her growling. He decides to double-check. He walks over to the back window and peers through.
Not far outside the fence, he can see at least four human figures staggering towards the house.
Nick sighs. He’s sure they don’t threaten the property, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.
He opens a cabinet near the back window and pulls out a brown leather clip-on belt with a holster attached. The next item he takes out is a long, curved and incredibly sharp machete. He then pulls an oversized black raincoat out of the cupboard under the stairs, puts it on and opens the back door.
He walks over and peers through the gaps of the fence, where he sees the figures more clearly. But he notices something. Three of the figures, who are much further back, are shambling towards the fence. However, the closer one is carrying something…
Nick realises that the foremost figure is limping towards him, using a plank of wood as a cane.
“They don’t do that, do they?” he thinks aloud.
Nick unlocks the back gate and readies his machete. He approaches the closest figure very carefully.
Emaciated, face sunken, dark circles around the eyes, the staggering walk…
The figure raises its arm towards Nick, and instinctively, he raises his machete and prepares to strike.
“Help me,” the figure croaks.
Nick’s blood runs cold, and he stops dead in his tracks, machete still above his head.
“Oh my God,” he says. He lowers the machete, but he does not holster it just yet. He approaches the stranger carefully. “Wh-who are you?”
“My name… my name’s… Charlie,” the man rasps through a strained voice. “Please help me!”
Charlie’s knees buckle, and he collapses, his hands out in front of him, barely stopping him from face-planting the grass.
Nick holsters his weapon and rushes to Charlie, turning him over and lifting him into a seated position.
“Hey, stay with me!” he says, gently tapping Charlie’s cheek. His eyes flutter open for a moment.
“I’m sorry… Ben…” he whispers.
Before Nick can say anything else, Charlie’s eyes close and his body goes limp.
Nick panics. He doesn’t know what to do. He then looks up from the unconscious man and observes the other figures. Barely covered in threadbare clothes, their rotten flesh hangs off them, exposing grim-coloured insides and bones. Their milky-white eyes are sunken into their skulls, and they approach Nick with hungry growls.
They are most definitely walkers.
Nick leaps into action. Nick slides one of his arms under Charlie’s torso and another under his legs, then effortlessly lifts him, carrying him through the property gate. Then he carefully lays him down on the wet ground. He adjusts his limp body into the recovery position and then races through the gate, closing and locking it behind him.
Withdrawing the machete again from the holster, he approaches the walkers. He swings his machete down onto the first one’s head. It embeds itself into the walker’s skull with an explosion of red. Nick kicks it, freeing his machete and sending the lifeless walker onto the ground. Nick deals with the second one by swinging his machete from the side. It slices through its head effortlessly, decapitating the creature from the nose up. The final walker approaches Nick, who swiftly drives his machete upwards into its chin. Nick watches his weapon impale the walker, penetrating its growling, wide-open mouth before finally emerging from the top of its head, pieces of skull and brain matter shooting upwards like a macabre party popper. Nick withdraws the weapon and allows the final creature to fall.
After catching his breath, he turns back to Charlie, the stranger, who lies in the exact position Nick left him. Nick returns through the gate and kneels next to him. He checks vital signs and determines that he has a heartbeat and is breathing—two functions that walkers lack. His face is now covered in mud, and he is soaked to the bone.
Nick hesitates for a moment.
This guy is a total stranger. Where did he come from? How did he end up here? Is he with other people? Is he dangerous?
Objectively, Nick realises that, in his current state, this guy couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. And Nick can’t leave him hurt and alone in the open.
And so, he lifts Charlie once again, carries him into the house and closes the door behind him.