That was 3 days ago.

Now, the city's overrun with people ripping each other apart. Noone knows how the virus was made, or even why, but it's bad. Really, really bad.

It started after the night where it was on the news. I crashing of glass woke me up from my nightmares, and downstairs I heard the screams of my mum. I quickly ran downstairs, still in my pyjamas, to see her being ripped apart, her screams splitting my ears like a banshee.

I'll always hear those screams, in my dreams, in the back of my head, knowing the last thing she felt was pain. Pure and utter pain.

I screamed, which was a bad choice on my part. The mans neck twisted unnaturally fast and he roared so loud it would have made lions proud. He jumped off of my now obviously decapitated mother and ran straight for me.

I gasped and slid the door shut (it's one of those ones you pull sideways. He crashed headfirst into it, making it crack, but not enough to get through. I took this minor diversion to run upstairs.

Yet another bad choice.

When I got to the top of the stairs I heard the door crack in and another roar rip through the air like a chainsaw through butter. I ran into my room and locked it, putting the key in my pocket on my shirt.

No matter how much of a pessimist I am, I do happen to always have a plan.

I picked up my coat and picked up the things I'd think would be useful: my mobile; my silver iPod Shuffle (what good is escaping without some good music); my wallet; and my swiss-army knife (in case of attackers, desperate situations or wanting to uncork a wine bottle - of course).

I placed them all in my coat pockets, put on the coat and opened the window wide, heart-beating like a nightclub in fast-forward.

I stood carefully on the window sill, holding onto the window frame with one hand and feeling for the drain pipe with the other. I held onto it once I'd found it and pulled myself up. The drainpipe on my house was made of very sturdy material (possibly hard plastic or metal), and I was relatively light, making it an easy task.

Once I had pulled my feet up, I heard my door get knocked down and the man searching the room thoroughly. And by "searching the room", I mean tearing everything apart like a christmas present given to a 5 year old.

I sat down on the tiles, positioning myself carefully so as not to slide off. I felt tears come to my eyes, but I quickly wiped them away. This was no time for crying.

I looked around the street, seeing other houses already broken into and bodies littering the streets.

I passed out.