Sam finished chopping the wood and stacked it on the woodpile in the garage. The garage could be reached by a covered walkway he had erected about five years ago shortly after moving into the area, and realising that a wood-burning stove and an external wood pile weren’t great in the dark of winter when Shriekers and Shamblers wandered in the woods. Of course, he could have lived in the town, but he was a country boy at heart, and no amount of shambling corpses could make him give up his wide open spaces. Wood stacked, he turned to his latest project – a coffee table for one of his townie customers. The piece was fully crafted, wooden legs carved to look like branches, and the surface edge following the undulations of the legs. He was now polishing it to a high finish and would deliver it tomorrow. It meant a trip to the posh side of town – where a handful of people lived in gated mansions with their own security patrolling 24/7. Hopefully it’ll mean a big tip. In whiskey.

When the top was so shiny he could almost see his reflection in the wood, he felt it was a job well done, and headed inside for a shower. Jack, stretched out full length in a shaft of sunlight, lifted his head on his entrance and wagged his tail, thumping it against the rag rug he had taken as his own. Jack, a black and white collie, had arrived on Sam’s doorstep two years ago, emaciated and on three paws. Sam had taken him in, nursed him back to health, and let him stay. The dog returned his kindness by eating him out of house and home and acting as an early warning system for shriekers. Sam was pretty sure that shriekers had gnawed on poor Jack’s front leg. But it had been proved that animals weren’t affected by the outbreak, so Sam wasn’t worried about being savaged to death in his sleep. Jack was down one paw, but he didn’t seem to notice, running fleet of foot on three legs on Sam’s hunting trips in the woods.  

Sam cut down one of the brace of pheasants hanging in the window and proceeded to create a culinary masterpiece for the two of them.

The next morning Sam dressed carefully, in a checked shirt, his favourite jeans and a blue blazer. He gave himself a close shave, and carefully smoothed down his dark blonde hair. His hair tended to curl, and stuck up in tufts when it needed a cut, as it did now. He needed to give it a good buzz cut, once he’d managed to get a new battery for his shaver. He’d see if he could get one today. He was owed a few favours at the hardware shop. He used the last of his hair gel (he’d need to find a replacement for that too, although he’d managed to eke this pot out for two years) and checked his reflection in the small shaving mirror. Light grey eyes, almost silver, stared back at him. Strong jaw, no bloody bits of toilet paper still hanging from the two tiny cuts he had inflicted on himself with the cut throat razor. Ready to go. 

He whistled to Jack and they left the cabin, jumping into his old truck, with the table securely fastened into the truck bed, and headed down the dirt track to the main road into Portsmouth. 

The truck rattled its way down the hill, juddering over every small stone, as any vestiges of suspension were wiped out years ago on that first terrifying race from Manchester down to safer locales. He and this van had been together through thick and thin, and nothing short of annihilation by explosion was going to part them. He steered round the bigger holes and ruts in the road as best he could, aware of the precious cargo in the truck bed, but the roads hadn’t seen repairs since the world went to shit. Any journey nowadays took three times as long as it used to.

Jack didn’t care about the bone-shuddering ride, though. He divided his trip between hanging his head out of the window (that no longer wound up), curled up on the seat with his head in Sam’s lap, and standing front foot on the dashboard, directing the way. 

Sam arrived outside the wrought iron gates of the house at about lunchtime. Fingers crossed he’d be offered some lunch. The armed sentries stood at attention as he was required to show his ID, (although he was pretty sure a shrieker had never actually driven up to its victims in a car before), before he was allowed through the gates. They swung open slowly and creakily. Apparently they hadn’t managed to find some WD40 in recent years. Maybe he could help them with that for a price. He drove up the long driveway and round to the back entrance, where he unloaded the table under the watchful eyes of the butler (butler!) and carried it inside to the drawing room. The table sat there in the elegant room, shiny and proud, a real talking point amongst the austere minimalism of the decor. There were two white leather sofas, wrought iron standing lamps, and a number of ‘found’ wooden statues. Yes, his table would fit in well. The man and woman walked around it slowly, checking the legs, running hands over the polished top. At last, the man stood up and held out his hand for Sam to shake. “Well done, Mr Elison, the table is all we wanted and more. My wife and I are very pleased.” Sam took his hand, noticing the man’s smooth skin, manicured nails and pristine white shirt cuffs. Sam’s hands were rough from working with wood every day, the nails jagged and split in places from misplaced hammer blows. “My pleasure, Sir Williams, I hope you get many years of joy from it.”

“I’m sure we will, young man. If you see cook in the kitchen, she will give you lunch before you go, and the butler has your money.” As he spoke turned back to the table, making minute adjustments to its position. Sam guessed he was dismissed, and headed back to the kitchen, his hobnailed boots ringing on the flagstone corridors and leaving dried mud on the rugs that broke up the long stone walkway. He stomped harder on the rugs, feeling a petty pleasure at the marks he was leaving. He knew he was being childish, but two people living in this rarefied atmosphere, when there were multiple families sharing tiny row houses in the poorer parts of town made him cross. Not that he was going to do anything about it. He was no hero. He preferred to keep to himself and enjoy the quality of life he had created for himself. Plus people like them were his bread and butter. Those poor saps living in the slums in the west district certainly weren’t going to be buying his furniture.

Back in the kitchen he took his cash, and munched his way through a doorstep sandwich (clearly only suitable for the hired help, but beautifully prepared, with high quality meat and tomatoes), took a doggy bag of leftovers for Jack and headed back down the drive. The gate squealed its way open again, and he made a mental note to pick up that WD40 and charge them double for it.

Since he had a wad of cash in his pocket, he decided to swing by the shops and pick up a few essentials, and some treats, for him and Jack. He parked outside the shopping complex. It contained a small supermarket, a pharmacy, a hardware shop, a hairdresser and even a small restaurant. It was heartening to see that life persevered, not just surviving, but thriving. There were people sitting in the restaurant, and on the tables set out in the street, laughing, drinking and generally getting on with life. The only reminder of the recent past was the weaponry carried by each person, from the young teenagers skateboarding down the street to the octogenarians enjoying a cup of tea in the window. Everyone carried a gun of some description, and plenty of spare ammo.

His first stop was the market, picking up a steak of his own after enjoying that gourmet sandwich (and one for Jack, of course) and some veg – bypassing the shrivelled cheap stuff for once, and going for the high-end, plump and shiny carrots, potatoes and leeks. A rare bottle of whiskey was also on his list in celebration of a job well done. Next, the pharmacy for some more hair gel and deodorant (something you’d think was still very scarce, by some of the smells around town, and one reason he lived as far away as was practical) and then the hardware shop, his own personal paradise. Here he browsed the shelves, content in his own happy place, picking up and examining the tools before replacing them and moving on to the next treasure that caught his eye. He eventually approached the counter with a selection of nails, screws and drill bits, and one dream item – a circular saw. Matt was serving today. He nodded at Sam, a man of few words, but lots of hair, with his long ponytail and beard. He was large, muscle-y and liked checked shirts. If he’d been American he would have been a stereotypical lumberjack. At 6’7” he nearly touched the ceiling, towering over Sam’s respectable 5”11’.  His red beard almost looked like it was ablaze  in the setting sun shining orange through the shop window. Sam laid his goodies on the counter and nodded back. “How’s it going mate?” He asked the giant. “How’s the new bed holding up?” Sam had made Matt a custom bed designed to fit his long frame and excessively broad shoulders, providing him with a good night’s sleep for the first time since he’d had to flee his home, and a crick-free back and neck. Mtt owed him big-time, and Sam liked to remind him from time to time. Particularly when he was after some black market lubricant. “What are you after, mate? A friendly warning – your credit’s running low.” Ok, so not as big-time as he’d hoped. But, it had been 18 months, and he was aware he was pushing his luck. “One last thing, mate. I’m looking for a can of WD40. Got any left in that magic cellar of yours?”

“You’re lucky – I’ve got maybe three crates left – I can give you say, three cans? Then we’re even.”

“You got it. That would be great.” Sam gave a winning smile, and passed over the cash for his purchases. 

“By the way, a head’s up. There’s someone new in town, asking about a mate of yours – old Henry. Staying at Mrs Lily-whiter-than-white’s if you want to check them out.”

“Hmm, interesting. Anyone heard what he wants with Henry?”

“Nope, and it’s a she, not a he,” replied Matt with a half smirk.  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Sam replied, his brain suddenly on high alert. Sam said goodbye with a toss of his head as he lugged his purchases to his truck. He was greeted with great joy by Jack, probably due to the steak peeking out of his jacket. His plans for the afternoon suddenly derailed, he swung himself into the truck and headed to the South district and the mystery woman asking about his Dad.