Part One is here

Part Two is here

He placed the shotgun on the side, getting together the weapons for the day from his racks. Within the gun, the shot he had fired had set off a reaction, and in the hollow stock, another disc began to spin. The signal coming from this was entirely different, and it spoke to the gates that ringed the city. At precisely nine fifteen that morning, every gate slid slowly open. Staring down from the block, the leaders of the resistance smiled to themselves, whispering quietly the names of the fallen, the three volunteers who had given their lives for this moment. Behind them stretched rooms of food and below them their families huddled in rooms, eyes closed against the horror that was about to befall the city.

Stait’s head jerked up as he set the last piece into his bike rack, the sudden silence in the garage in marked contrast to the screaming. What had caught his ear though was a change. The eerie ululation was still there, but beneath lay a far more human sound, the sound of panic and fear. He gunned the bike, grabbed the shotgun, and raced from the garage.

As he neared the square, the sound of screaming got louder and for the first time, he felt nervous, a sliver of uncertainty crawling into his mind. He slowed the bike, letting it sink down to the road surface and waited. Moments later, a figure came running around the corner, dressed in hunting gear, but carrying no weapon. He was shouting, waving his hands above his head, and was followed by others, all panicking just a much. With a sigh, Stait lofted the shotgun, pointing it up into the air, and fired. The bang this time was accompanied by pain, the most intense agony he had ever felt, and looking down, he realised that the gun was gone, and pieces of it were sticking into his armour and the bike saddle. He also realised, quite abstractly, that his hands were gone, leaving behind stumps that leaked blood like oil from a torn fuel line.

The screaming man had reached him, oblivious to the shot, and rushed past.  He was babbling now, an endless stream of invective punctuated by moments of horrible clarity.

“They’re in, the gates are open, they’re in, they’re in.”

The words barely registered as he stared at the wreckage of his hands, waiting for the pain to kick in. When it did, he almost keeled over, biting down so hard he felt his teeth crack and his gums ache. He glanced down the hill to see the first zombie, shambling toward him, arms out-stretched. He scrambled off the bike, falling onto his knees as his balance went. He grabbed for a gun, his stump banging the handle hard enough for him to shriek and vomit.

The pain came in waves and he scrambled to his feet, turning to run back up the hill. Every few yards it would kick in again and he’d stop, moaning and gasping until it passed enough for him to move. He turned around when he heard the slap of bare feet, and the creature grabbed at his heel. He lashed out, but succeeded only in overbalancing and hitting the floor hard. One hand went out to stop him and he blacked out as the pain seared up his arm. He came to only moments later as he felt teeth sink into his foot.

He opened his eyes and saw them, surrounding him, their teeth green and sharp. Then they moved in and the feast began.