As life in England does, days seemed to just blur into one. I spent my days working in this tiny office doing some arsehole’s accounts, my nights in my room with that beautiful man that calls himself my boyfriend for some reason, either sneaking looks at the shrine, or in bed.
Aside from this new disease, life was… well, it was life. Neither good, nor bad. Nothing exciting happened, patrols were started to keep infected people away from populated areas. Sure, people felt bad – some, anyway – but it was either keeping them out or letting everyone get infected with it, and since no one wants to be alive to see themselves decomposing, what other choice did we really have anyway?
It was when the infected started to die that attitudes changed.
See, these patrols were pretty good, they swept up the sick and took them away to a hospital, or one of the facilities popping up like uncontrollable acne all over the face of the country. I suppose they were studied, or treated. It’s what they said was happening there. I had this queasy feeling about these places after a few weeks. There were so many people catching this disease – it started not showing symptoms for the first few days, see, so it was starting to find its way in.
And then bodies started turning up across the country.
I found a few myself, and I was far from being the only one to stumble across them on the way to work, dripping rotten red across the pavements.
But the bit that really got people? That was when these dead bodies started to get up and walk around again, reeking of blood lust and death.