Free Dead Eyes: A Tale From The Zombie Plague by James Dwyer

in my mother’s car, seeing the fields and fields of yellow flowers surrounding as far as the eye could see. Oilseed rape blossoming gloriously in the sun.
    Now the fields were fallow. Destined to return to the wild. Thinking of the disused farmland made me yearn for a loaf of fresh bread. Something that wasn’t tinned and stale. Something fresh. I wondered where exactly the safe zone the radio announcement had advertised was located. It had to be overseas, somewhere the infection couldn’t spread to. Was life there carrying on? Could I return to some semblance of normality?
    Perhaps in this new world I would find a place for me that had eluded me in the old world, before the zombies came. I was a skilled survivor now. Maybe I could teach others so they could find more survivors and bring them to safety.
    This idea was followed by a crushing sadness as I realised that the blindness would take me long before then.
    I pressed on, not wanting the mood to have any affect on me.
    Hand painted wooden signs started appearing sporadically beside the road, pointing the way towards Camp Churchill. Some of the paint on the signs was still fresh. It was as though they anticipated my coming. The road here had been cleared recently. Old abandoned cars were pushed to one side. Whoever was behind the camp had been active in the area. I quickened my pace, keen to reach camp.
    Ten minutes late, Camp Churchill appeared before me. It was a large square construction in the centre of a field, built like an old fort with high metal walls, guard towers at each corner. In the centre of the wall stood a tall metal gate placed behind a large ditch. Two more guard towers sat either side of the gate, spotlights resting idle on the edges of the platforms.
    Getting closer, I could see dead bodies, impaled on wooden stakes that lined the floor of the ditch. Each body was covered in white hair, just like the dead Daisy back in Aylescombe. It looked to me like mould growing on rotting fruit. Maybe when a zombie died, whatever stopped the decomposition process stopped working and nature ran its course.
    I walked up towards the gate, raising my arms up above me to show that I came in peace. It felt like the correct action. The pain in my heel sharpened suddenly, making me limp pathetically. Almost as if to guilt the gatekeeper into letting me in.
    When I was a few metres away from the ditch, two masked figures appeared on the watchtowers, armed with rifles.
    “That’s far enough,” shouted one guard, “What business brings you here?”
    “I heard a radio message. This is Camp Churchill right?”
    I moved to reach to my backpack, hoping I could show them the radio. “Don’t move!” said the guard, “You do as I tell you, alright?”
    “Chill out Al,” said the other guard, a calm female voice, “We invited him here. Wait for the bridge to lower then come on in stranger.”
    The guards disappeared from view. I waited impatiently, suddenly feeling exposed and alone outside. I had to get into camp. No matter what.
    The gates opened. Two men pushed a narrow strip of metal out from inside and placed it across the ditch. It was just about wide enough for one person to walk across. “Come over,” said one of the men, offering out his hand.
    I wasn’t too proud to accept, allowing him to help me cross. Feeling his grip on my arm had a strong effect on me, filling me with a mixture of emotions that threatened to spill out. I resolved to stay calm, not show any weakness to my new campmates. Prove that I could be of use somehow. Worthy of a place in camp.
    The interior of the camp was a maze of tents and large metal containers. I was aware of many eyes upon me, greeting me with a mixture of mistrust and caution.
    “Have you been bitten?” said the guard named Al, looking me up and down, sizing me up.
    “No,” I said.
    “Scratched? How did you hurt your hand?”
    “I cut it on a window pane,” I said, looking at the dried blood that stained my palm.