An attempt at writing a generic zombie story goes horribly awry.
The change was quite slow, now that I think about it. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when I lost the family home in the fire – with the family inside. It was tragic, yes, and it took more than a while to pick myself from the ground, but I think the anticipation helped me cope.
It started with the black helicopters. Abe Loveless, who was the PM before mob rule broke out, had ordered a complete shut-down of all borders, but it was no use. Canada, Scotland, Nepal and China all did the same thing and failed. Even North Korea had fallen to the infection before us. We hoped that Australia would have an advantage, being an island country, but over the course of three years, we couldn’t hold the infection off. However, it wasn’t really the disease that destroyed us; it was the riots, mobs and mass hysteria. If someone came down with something as trivial as hay fever, the mob would have grabbed them and thrown them in the river anyway.
After a while, Tasmania lost contact with the outside world. News stations burned, planes crashed and ships sank. At that point came an age which was comparable to The Lord of the Flies. Civil rule took over. Three good people stood above the crowd, trying to bring peace and order to save the lives of their friends and family. Their throats were promptly slit. Then, they inevitably woke from their three-hour slumber, out for blood. Zombies.