The house stood silent as a mausoleum. Nothing inside moved. It was as though the passage of time had suffocated all life with. A grandfather clock stood mute in the hallway and grey lines of dust lined the picture rails and tops of framed photographs that still hung on walls -- reminders of a time when the house echoed with life and captured memories and moments of the family who had known it as home. The front door was ajar, testimony to the careless hurry of the last person to leave it. A shaft of sunlight shone through the gap, creating a band of light that crept lazily across the dust layered linoleum floor as the sun rose higher in the late morning sky.
The tranquillity of the house languid and seemingly eternal suddenly ended as the front door crashed fully open. Long shadows were thrown along the hallway as two figures filled the entrance. They half stumbled half threw themselves inside, breathing hard, their movements urgent and heedless of the quiet they had disturbed. The taller figure, a man, pushed the door shut behind them, closing it quietly with practised care. The other, a girl, leant against wall, taking deep breathes of musty air.
Both took several seconds to compose themselves, panting like runners who have just crossed the finish line. The girl spoke first, wiping strands of blonde hair from a forehead sticky with sweat.
'Do you think they're behind us?'
'Don't know, probably. We can't stay here, Aimee. Five minutes and we go, right?' he breathed out slowly then shook his head as though to clear it.
'I can't run anymore. I can't. Do you think this house is empty?' she asked, her voice low.
He shrugged.
'We need to rest before we go,' she said, anxious that he might insist they move on immediately.
He looked at her as though gauging how exhausted she was. 'Okay babe, let's check it out -- but the longer we stay the riskier it is.'
'I know,' she said, relieved at the chance to rest.
He raised the claw hammer that was gripped in his right hand, its head stained with dark matter, and moved towards the nearest doorway. Aimee followed her boyfriend Tommy as he moved stealthily from room to room downstairs. They'd made a noisy entrance and logically anything threatening should have appeared by now. But you never knew.
A cursory look into each room was all that was required. A more detailed inspection could follow if the house was clear. The front living room was empty and the next room, some sort of study area was also clear. There were school text books scattered on the floor, and Aimee could not help but wonder what had happened to the books' owners, knowing that in all likelihood they were dead or worse. Either way she hoped they were not still here. The kitchen provided clues to the dark secrets of the house. There were signs of a struggle. Knives were scattered on the floor and there were dark smears of blood across the fridge and white cupboard units. A black congealed pool was under the table, chairs overturned. Tommy guessed whoever the victim of the struggle was they had sought shelter from their attacker under the table. The attacker was most likely one of their family. Tommy shuddered at the contemplation of the horrific scene that must have happened here, scenes that doubtless had been played out across the whole country.
'What do you think happened?' Aimee asked reading the expression in her lover's face.
Tommy shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. Let's check upstairs.'
They went from room to room upstairs, growing more confident of safety as each place they looked was empty. They finished their search in the largest of the bedrooms. A large opulent four poster bed filled the centre of the room, its covers made as though it were a hotel room awaiting guests. Aimee lay down on it, sighing with pleasure at the comfortable mattress.
Tommy was by the widow peering outside from behind half drawn heavy curtains. The window looked out onto the back garden, was which empty. A six foot fence framed the perimeter, though a gate at the far end hung open. Safe for the moment, Tommy thought. But the place was far from secure. He turned, startled at two thumps sounded behind him. Aimee grinned apologetically from the bed, her trainers lying on the foot of the bed. 'Sorry, my feet are killing me.'
Tired and bedraggled, frightened and vulnerable, but Christ, she looked good on that bed, Tommy thought. He was surprised he could still think such a thought given the torrent of despair flowing though his stressed body and mind. He kept his gaze on her trying to imprint the image forever on his mind. Sadness and self pity tugged at him for the future he would never have.
'What?' Aimee asked, reading concern in his eyes.
'Nothing, c'mon. Give me a hand moving the wardrobe.'
Groaning with reluctance she heaved herself off the bed and helped Tommy push the wardrobe across the door. Tommy stood back appraising the makeshift barricade with a grunt. The wardrobe was heavy. It might hold them for a while.
Aimee sat down on the bed. 'The others?'
'I don't know -- everything was so chaotic. I saw Everett go down, Candice too -- the rest?' he shrugged, then sat beside her. The flight from the flat in Wimbledon had been a desperate affair. Walkers had caught them with their guard down, attacking in the dead of night. It was a miracle Tommy and Aimee had got out. There were dozens of the things. Rotten, decayed and deadly.
Tommy took Aimee's hand in his.
'Do you think we're the only ones who made it?' Aimee asked, her voice small.
'I love you Aimee,' Tommy said looking deep in her eyes.
She frowned sensing something was terribly wrong.
'I'm so sorry, Aimee. I didn't make it either.'
'No,' she said, snatching her hand from his, recoiling at his words - at what they implied. 'No!'
'On my ankle,' he continued gently. 'One of them bit me as we left the flat.'
'No, no, no,' Aimee said in disbelief, tears beginning to cloud her eyes.
'Aimee . . .'
She threw herself at him, fists flailing, raging at truth of his words. He held her tightly barely registering the blows on his back and shoulders. The anger gave way and Aimee sobbed into his shoulder, he felt his own tears come and they both cried as they clutched each other, forlorn and despairing.
The tears ran their course, and Tommy took Aimee by the shoulders, looked into red bleary eyes.
'I can't do it Tommy,' she said. 'I can't make it without you.'
'You have to Aimee. You have to. And not just for us,' he pressed the palm of his hand to the slight bump on her tummy.
Aimee placed her hand on his, protectively over the life that grew inside her.'What will I do?'
'You'll be okay, Aimee, you're strong, stronger than you think.'
'Don't talk anymore, don't. I can't bear it,' she said, leaning forward kissing his cheek, his lips. He tried to pull away, needing to talk to her. There might not be much time. The infection spread fast.
'Aimee, please stop,' he said, turning his head away. Aimee persisted, her hands on his chest her ardour desperate and urgent.
Tommy sensing her hysteria, fearing it would consume him too, slapped her in the face. The sound was violent, loud. It echoed it the room. Aimee pulled back, shock written on her face.
'Aimee, we must talk.' Tommy urged.
'No, no we must not. I won't,' she said adamantly.
Tommy looked at her, fiery, determined and right then he was more proud of her then ever. He pulled her to him, his lips meeting hers their tongues entwining in urgent need, the wave of emotions breaking around them. Aimee's fingers pulled at his t-shirt. He broke the kiss to pull the t-shirt off. Aimee was already unfastening the buttons on her top. They kissed again as though fearful the moment of spontaneous desire might fade, that reality would snuff out the moment, drive them from the refuge of passion. They slowed a little once they were stripped down to their underwear. Aimee, pulled him onto the bed her eyes fixed on his, the smell of their fresh tears a bitter shroud. Aimee bent her hear kissing his face, his neck, his chest, moving downward. She tried to push away the unwelcome realisation this would be the last time they would make love. She remembered the first time, three summers and a thousand years ago, he was seventeen and still a virgin, Aimee a year older in age and several years older in experience. She recalled his nervousness, guiding him through the careful motions of his first time, building his confidence, taking his body and mind to new horizons, peeling away his innocence one layer at a time, her tongue, her fingers, her breasts, her silken wetness opening doors to him that she led him through - never letting go. He'd looked into her eyes seeing only the knowledge and confidence of an experiencing lover, not seeing beyond the veil of emotions to her regret that he was not her first.
