survivor - beretta

Where to start really, I'm not sure. The last few days have been such a blur I couldn't even say what time of the week it is. I suppose if I had taken more notice of the morning news a few days ago I might not be in the position I am now, then again I could be dead... or worse. I only caught the last few seconds of the news bulletin on the morning in question, I immediately assumed that the pictures of the wounded people meandering aimlessly around was happening in some far flung corner of the globe, undoubtedly the product of some terrorist action. If I had known that I was looking at zombies, or the first outbreak of Antisocial Undead Behaviour Syndrome, 'AUBS' as the media like to call it, I might have been better prepared for the knock on the door.

The trouble with most people, myself included, is we always try and see the best in a situation . May be if we went on the offensive straight away we could all avoid a lot of trouble, but we don't. So when the knock , well more of a thump actually, occurred on the front door. I unsuspectingly opened it. The man who was stood on the other side had three arms. The main problem was one of them wasn't his. It was clutched club - like in his right fist, and judging by the gory mess on my front door it was the severed end of this arm that had done the knocking. Countless thoughts rush through your head when confronted with a sight such as this, the immediate ones being 'has he been in an accident', 'where's the owner of the arm?' etc. A low moan and a sudden lunge forward by the arm wielder snapped me back to reality, and I only just managed to side step his attempt to grapple me. Tripping on the front step the unwanted visitor crashed head long into the hallway. Even then my first thought was for his welfare. I said something stupid like 'are you okay?' To which he responded by grabbing my leg with his now empty right hand. Fear now over took me and I kicked out, slamming his head back into the wall, but somehow the man maintained his grip. In panic I stamped down on the intruders face, the result was like stepping in a puddle covered in thin ice, a crunch and the skull gave way, mess spilled out on to the carpet and the grip was released. 'My God, I've killed him', whether thought or spoke out loud I'm not sure now, but either way I'd got a serious problem on my hands. Looking out of the front door in a vain hope of help I saw another of the 'accident victims', only this one was busy eating my neighbour over the road! I closed the door gently and quietly, hooking the intruders shoe less foot in with my own as I did. We British are very good at stating the obvious, but it was genuinely only at this moment that I realised that something was terribly wrong.

I carefully locked the front door, turned and entered the living room, stepping over the deceased visitor on my way. Switching on the news, it rapidly became clear that my experience was not unique. Stay indoors and secure your property was the advice being given, So I did just that, even going as far as to lock the windows latches, something I only ever did when going on holiday. My thoughts then drifted onto how best to arm myself for this new found situation. All my working life I've been employed in one of Britain's most repressed industries, the gun trade. I've put up with burnings, law changes, confiscations of legally owned property and being put out of business on at least one occasion, but I am still a registered firearms dealer with a strong room full of guns upstairs! I ran up the stairs two at a time, keys in hand. In a flash the gunroom was open and it was only a matter of choosing what weapons and ammunition were going to suit my purposes. I selected a 12 bore Beretta Xtrema semi automatic shotgun. With a nine shot capacity and the ability to any digest any 12 bore load, coupled with an unbreakable A.B.S stock and forend, it was the obvious choice. A fifty round bandolier of treble 'A' cartridges and a bone handled Churka Kukri knife completed the weapon selection.

Halfway back down the stairs, clutching weapons and ammunition like some half crazed South American mercenary, I stopped dead in my tracks. My wife had gone to work that morning and had probably heard nothing of the situation. Or maybe she had, maybe she was fighting depraved zombies at that very moment, either way. I'd got to get to her, and soon. The phone proved fruitless, just a monotonous beeping was all I could obtain, the mobile just flashed 'network busy'. It was no good, I was going to have to drive the seven odd miles to her work to find her.

Carefully unlocking the front door, I eased it open and took a peek through the gap. The neighbour over the road was still playing at being the main course, other than that the coast seemed clear. I popped the locks on my Jeep with the alarm button on my key ring. The diner over the road didn't look up so I gently slid the key into the front lock on the house door, stepped outside, shut the door quietly and locked it. After all I didn't want any undead squatters when I returned. Fortunately the Jeep was facing forward in the drive, quickly I opened the now unlocked drivers door and jumped in. On starting the Jeep, the zombie over the road looked up, got up, and started shuffling towards me. "You're history mate." I thought as I gunned the throttle, sending the Jeep spinning off my gravel driveway and into the road, connecting solidly with my would be assailant as it did. The Zombie spun off the front of the car, sending a splash of blood up the bonnet as he went, but I was away up the road before he'd hit the floor.

This was a chance find, the survivor in question had left part of his journal hidden in a metal box in a small store, which I chanced upon.

I left them a note to explain, and as I promised in that note here is his tale. No name was given on the pages so I have named him after his weapon choice 'Beretta'.

I will keep checking as often as I can and keep the their tale up to date.