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brick and white, parched plaster mixing with chimney tops and roof slates. The greenery of gardens and sporadic colour of flower beds.
        Hundreds of dead people. Walking.
        A door opened behind her, causing her to jump. It was only Pat. Behind him trailed a wheeled suitcase, large and heavy, by the looks of the sweat breaking on his constantly furrowed brow.
        "God, you scared me…" Karen said, pressing a single hand against her beating heart, as if to calm it.
        "Didn't you hear the car?" Pat said without looking at her. He was a man of few words - she knew that already from the weeks she had spent under his care. Today, of course, he was a man with a mission, and it seemed like he'd accomplished it. He wheeled the formidable looking case into the middle of the room.
        "Yeah, ages ago… What took you getting up here?"
        "Lift's broke," Pat said, shortly. "I had to carry this thing up the stairs." He looked at her, briefly, adding, "It's heavy."
        The lift had been the last thing that she'd known to work. Neither she nor Pat knew why, but it outlasted the television, electric, gas and telephone. As everything else ceased to function, the lift soldiered on, responding to every call like a loyal dog. Kicking into gear, metal rubbing against metal, cogs and coils grinding against each other like reluctant lovers. It was noisy, and, in a world where noise was as scarce as life itself, Karen had found comfort in that.
        "Get everything you needed?" Karen said, keen to see what was inside the case. She suddenly noticed how she tailored her conversation for Pat, trying to sound more adult and serious. It wasn't the way she would have talked to her friends. It wasn't the way she would have talked to anyone, but then again, she wouldn't really have said much of anything to a man like Pat, before. She'd have considered him boring, truth be told, and maybe a bit uncouth.
        "Pretty much," Pat replied, answering her question as economically as she expected him to. He stretched his back, pursing his lips as if strained. Sighing, he bent down again to the latch on the case and unzipped it. The sound of commotion, from outside, caused his ears to suddenly prick up. He looked to Karen, narrowing his eyes. "There's more of them, today. Don't you hear them? Made it harder getting around."
        Karen listened more acutely. She could hear the slow, gruff rumblings from the dead. A gentle, bass- toned moan carried along to their perched view via the summer breeze. It came from the streets and gardens and houses below, as well as other flats in their block. Some of the dead were locked inside their homes, the result of desperate measures by crumbling authorities to quarantine the sick towards the end. It hadn't made any difference. Those quarantined died then got back up again, just like all the others. The only difference was that they were trapped in their own deathbeds, unable to get out.
        "God…" she whispered, shuddering at the thought of more of them. She'd seen quite enough of the poor souls since it all kicked off.
        Karen had holed up at her local church. It was where a lot of people had retreated to. After the authorities had crumbled, they sought the protection of divine Authorities. People were converting by the dozen. Overworked clergy hurriedly read scripture and recited prayers, rubber-stamping salvation as if they were on some kind of commission. The men folk (Karen often wondered why people didn't talk normally to each other at church) stood guard at the access points, brutally turning others away, when the building was overrun. Retreating when the dead came, locking up the doors and heavily grilled, security conscious windows. The women folk tended to the wounded, the dying. Mopping brows between simple meals and cups of tea. Tending to the needs of the men folk. But Karen didn't help out. Karen didn't do anything. Away from the chaos of the main