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with its nervous and easily spooked nature, the Dead would not find the rabbit an easy target.
    The English country side had changed just like everywhere else since the Dead rose. You never saw unprotected cows or sheep grazing in fields anymore. These beasts, which were used to dealing with man in one way or another, had soon fallen prey to the Dead. Liz was thankful that whatever brought the Dead back was limited to the human race. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to deal with a herd of Dead cows charging after them. Dogs, once domesticated, had mainly regressed into wild mongrel packs. Often starving, they would roam the countryside attacking the living or any livestock they came across. Able to dodge the slow moving Dead, they avoided attack easily. In fact if they were really desperate they would even dart in snatching decaying flesh from the limbs of the walking Dead. The bond between Humans and dogs was no more. In the dog’s mind the human had gone from friend and pack leader to food.
    ‘ I wonder if Charlie knows how to make live traps,’ Alice asked, breaking Liz from her thoughts, ‘We’ve seen one rabbit so there’s bound to be more of them out in the wood. If we can catch a couple of them alive perhaps we could breed them?’
    ‘ Good idea, I’ll ask him later… and the fur will come in handy when winter comes too. If this year is anything like last, we’ll need all the help we can get.’ Liz replied.
    Last winter had been particularly bad. The refugees had been s nowed into a derelict warehouse and it had been three weeks before enough of the snow had melted so they could get on the move again. They had even lost one of their number to hyperthermia. An old man had woken the group screaming, when his wife became one of the Dead in her sleep. She had attacked him but he was still alive, for a while at least. Charlie and one of the other men dealt with the wife and then all eyes went to the bitten old man. In the end he had gone for a walk outside with Charlie. An hour later, only Charlie came back. Liz always thought it would be better if you died then and there from an attack, rather than waiting the painful hour or so to turn. She had seen many people succumb to the bites over the years. People took the realisation they had been bitten it in various ways. Some fought with those they had loved, desperate to believe they would be the one that would be immune. But they never were and always came back just like everybody else. Some saw being bitten as an inevitability of life in this strange world, the acceptance of their fate, bringing an almost calm release for them. They could finally stop this constant fight to survive. Of course most of those bitten would want it ended before they turned. The thought of coming back as one of the abominations that had torn apart and consumed their loved ones, was beyond contemplation.
    Killing yourself permanently was a difficult task unless the group had a gun, which most didn’t. They had seen many botched suicides while they had been on the road, people who had hung themselves only to rise shortly afterwards. Blue faced corpses hanging from trees like monstrous Christmas ornaments. In the end, most of the bitten would have to ask a friend to make their passing quick. Thankfully Liz had never been asked to perform this final act for someone and prayed she never would.
    Looking at her watch , Liz realised their duty was nearly over. As if thinking of them made them appear, she saw Cam and Michael walking out into the garden.
    Cam had been quite a respected journalist and had found himself reporting the horrors as they swept across England. Sending front line reports for the BBC world service from the airbase at Newquay, he watched the world fall apart, body by body. He had spent time with the soldiers, keeping record of their battles for a world that would no longer exist and he soon realised this was a war Man could not win. With the dead rising on all