Chapter One

I banged the nail into the barricade as hard as I could without shattering my precious brush. Pickings were painfully slim. It wasn't exactly like you could go outside to the nearby store and buy a new hammer.

Why? The only answer available right now was zombies.

You see everyone over the age of 14 gradually turned into flesh hungry, drooling morons over the past week. Mum and dad were some of the first to go – and last thing we heard, a team of journalists were coming to investigate the mysterious epidemic. That was Friday, and it is now the Thursday of the following week.

I'm Astrid Rosen. Not really enough time for a life story. Currently, I am in a B&B in the middle of nowhere. (In essence, the Scottish Countryside) My brother William and my best friend Celia are with me, along with another 10 or so abandoned kiddies. Whoop whoop.

A greasy hand smears pus down the coloured glass in the side panels. I quickly make my escape. The firewood nailed to the door should keep them out.

The reason, we are not in possession of a hammer is that when the disease became worse, Mrs King (the cheerful house-keeper) took it out of the shed, for a weapon. Then she took it outside to fight the zombies and turned into a not so cheerful Mrs King with our precious hammer.

That is probably why we can hear a tap-tap-tapping at the front door. Mrs King wants her beloved Green Leaf B&B back, we think grimly.

"Hey Astrid, they've found a weak spot!" called William. I run into the downstairs bathroom where several zombified mothers are clambering up the firewood pile and reaching into the cramped bathroom. The first thing that hits me is the cold. The second is the firewood that Will has chucked at me. "Get wedging!" he yelled and ran out of the room to stop the smallest group of kids from letting the zombies in.

I think the little ones think that this is all a big game, and if we let the zombies in, then the adults will laugh and sweep us up in their arms. They'll just laugh, "Oh Astrid, you didn't fall for that surely?"

I think not as I batter swiping, bloody arms out of the miniscule window. Little Tim thought that and as a result, turned up at our doorstep. Two small sneakers, stubs of bone poking out and a tattered, stained pair of jeans. Oh yes, and some teeth.

That was when we realised it was much more serious.