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Erik?
    “Let us in, let us in,” shouted another.
    “God damn it, let us in!” The second voice sounded like Pippa’s.
    Jonas could hear sobbing too, and put his hand on the door. The vibrations as it shook in its frame were reassuring, a reminder of gravity, of reality; it was something simple and yet his mind was close to breaking. The shaking door was pulling him back to Earth.
    “Hold up. We’re okay. Just hold on and stop shouting, or you’ll draw more of them.”
    The banging stopped. Jonas heard faint sobs from the other side. The adrenalin still coursing through his veins wanted to tell him to run, to get away from here, and keep running; just keep running and running and not look back. He put a hand over his mouth as if it would stop the nausea, but the slickness of the blood on his fingers only made him feel worse. A woman’s voice whispered to him through the closed door, becoming muffled as it tried to work its way through the oak.
    “Jonas? Are you okay? Jonas?”
    There was a lone gunshot from behind him in the room, and the hairs on his neck stood up. The woman’s voice was familiar, yet strange. His senses were highly attuned, yet his memory momentarily left him. What was going on? Who were these people? Why was he standing in a room full of dead people?
    “Jonas, please, I need to know you’re okay.” The woman’s voice was faint and broke up into sobs. “Who’s shooting? Please?”
    “Hold up,” Jonas said as he tried to recall whose voice it was. Dakota. The woman was Dakota. Random thoughts came to his mind as he pushed the images of the zombie attack to the back of his fizzing brain. She had long brown hair, laughed at bad sit-coms, hated ironing, played tennis on Thursday evenings, liked pizza, hated politicians, and yet, and yet... Something important forced its way to the front. She loved him. She loved him . Dakota loved him. God he loved his wife.
    “Dakota? Honey, I’m fine. We’ll be out in a minute.”
    His stomach churned, and he fought down the still rising urge to vomit. He turned to face Cliff. The man was holstering his gun and scanning the room casually, sizing it up as if deciding on what wallpaper to pick out.
    Jonas couldn’t wait any longer. The others wanted answers, and so did he. They had come here on the basis it was safe. Jonas had even said they should all get inside off the street immediately. It was only Erik who had suggested some of them wait, just in case. He always made the right decision. It was something Jonas was trying to do, but he wasn’t convinced he was achieving it yet. Today was a classic example, and now people were dead.
    Jonas approached Cliff, looking him up and down. The mechanic’s greasy overalls were covered in bloodstains, the dark grey cotton now a muddy brown.
    “You hurt?” Jonas asked him.
    Cliff wiped the sweat from his eyes, grinning. “They never laid a finger on me. Easy as pie, brother. Reckon I took at least a dozen down. How about you? I saw you take a few down. You are one mean motherfucker when you’re cornered, Hamsikker.” Cliff removed his cap and slapped it on his thigh. “Hoo-hah!”
    Jonas punched Cliff square in the jaw. The mechanic reeled backward, too shocked to react, and he rubbed his jaw. As he slid to a halt, Cliff’s feet found traction on the slain body of a zombie, and he braced himself. He raised his fists, and snarled at Jonas.
    “What the hell is your problem?” Cliff’s dark eyes were set on Jonas, and he was all too eager for a fight.
    “My problem?” Jonas was astounded that Cliff even had to ask. “Do you think this is a game? That was a fucking massacre. Look around you, Cliff. How many of us are left?”
    Jonas could see confusion in Cliff’s eyes. They shifted around the room lazily, taking in those who were left standing, and those who had fallen.
    “So what?” he shrugged. “It’s not my fault they haven’t learnt how to defend themselves by now.” Cliff softened his