Emma got up at half-past eight and Carl rose three-quarters of an hour later. They found Michael sat at the kitchen table, carefully cleaning the rifle. He’d been working on it for over two hours and the job was almost complete.

Michael glanced up at Emma and noticed that she looked tired. He wondered whether she’d had as little sleep as he had. Although they’d only slept (or not slept) a few feet apart he hadn’t dared disturb her in the darkness of the night.

‘What are you doing?’ she eventually asked him once she’d made and drunk a very necessary mug of coffee.

‘I found this earlier,’ he replied, stifling a yawn. ‘Thought I’d have a go at cleaning it up.’

‘What’s it for?’ Carl asked. Those were the first words he’d uttered since coming downstairs.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. Deadpan, and with a complete absence of any sarcasm or humour in his voice he replied.

‘Shooting things,’ he said. ‘What else you going to use it for?’

‘I know that,’ he snapped, annoyed, ‘but what are we going to use it for?’

He put the rifle down and looked up at Carl.

‘Don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Bloody hell, I hope we never need it.’

The rifle was clearly of interest to Carl. He sat down next to the other man and picked it up. Having spent all morning working on it, Michael seemed annoyed that someone else had dared to interfere.

‘Put it down,’ he said. ‘I haven’t finished with it yet.’

‘You ever used one of these?’ Carl asked, suddenly much more animated.

‘No, but…’

‘I have,’ he continued to enthuse. ‘Used to do some work for a bloke that used to shoot.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Emma said from across the room. She was standing next to the sink. She couldn’t have been any further away from the table. ‘We don’t need it. We should get rid of it.’

‘I don’t know. We don’t even know if it’s going to work yet…’

‘Can’t see any reason why it shouldn’t,’ Carl interrupted. ‘Mind if I try it out?’

‘Yes I do,’ Michael protested. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve spent bloody hours trying to get it…’

Carl wasn’t listening. He jumped up from his seat, grabbed a handful of ammunition and headed for the front door. Michael looked over towards Emma. Surprised by his sudden disappearance they both stood still for a second before following him out.

By the time they reached the front door Michael could already hear the rifle being repeatedly cocked and fired. Fortunately Carl had been sensible enough to try and fire it before loading.

‘Is he safe with that thing?’ Emma asked quietly as they stepped out into a cold grey morning.

‘Don’t know,’ Michael replied under his breath, still fuming that the other man had dared to take the rifle from him. He stared with piercing eyes as Carl loaded it.

‘This is okay you know,’ he babbled excitedly. ‘This is just what we needed. You never know what’s round the corner these days…’

‘Don’t know what frightens me more,’ Emma mumbled, ‘the fact that there are dead bodies walking round the countryside or him with that fucking gun.’

Michael managed half a smile which quickly disappeared when Carl lifted the rifle up and held it ready to fire. He pressed the butt hard into his shoulder, closed one eye and aimed into the distance.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Michael demanded. ‘Are you fucking stupid? All we need is for that bloody thing to blow back in your face and you’re history…’

‘It’s okay,’ he answered without moving or lowering the rifle. ‘I know about these things. It won’t blow back.’

‘Just put it down will you?’ begged Emma.

‘Watch this. I’m going to get him…’

Puzzled, Michael stood behind him and looked along the barrel of the rifle. Carl was aiming through a gap in the trees, out towards a ploughed field a few hundred metres away. He squinted towards the horizon and saw that a lone figure was tripping clumsily through the uneven mud.

‘Leave it, will you?’

‘I’m going to get him,’ he said again, shuffling his feet and getting the figure square in his sights. ‘What’s he going to do about it? Christ, he probably won’t even know he’s been shot.’

‘You’ve got to hit him first,’ Emma hissed cynically.

‘Oh, I’ll hit the bastard,’ he said and, with that, he squeezed the trigger and fired.

For a long second the deafening sound of the shot rang out and echoed through the otherwise silent countryside.

‘Missed him,’ Carl spat, annoyed.

The figure in the field stopped moving.

‘He’s stopped,’ Michael gasped. ‘Fucking hell, he heard the shot. It’s got to be a survivor.’

Stunned, Carl let go of the butt of the rifle and it swung down heavily to the ground. Still holding the barrel he took a few cautious steps forward.

‘I didn’t get him did I?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Shit, I was only trying to…’

‘Shut up,’ Michael snapped. ‘You didn’t get him.’

As they stared into the near distance the figure in the field began to move again. Instead of struggling on through the muddy fields, however, it had now changed direction. The bedraggled man was walking towards the house.

‘He’s coming this way, isn’t he?’ asked Emma, doubting what her eyes were telling her.

‘Looks like it,’ Carl mumbled in surprise.

Michael didn’t say anything. He watched for a second longer until he was completely sure that the man was heading towards them before sprinting out to meet him. Apart from the survivors back in Northwich this was the first person they’d seen in a week who seemed actually able to react and respond to the outside world. He couldn’t afford to let him out of his sight. And to think, moments earlier Carl had aimed a rifle at him.

Emma chased after Michael and Carl followed close behind.

The view from the farmhouse had been misleading. There was a hidden dip between Michael and the man which added an extra couple of hundred metres distance between them. Ignorant to the uneven, clammy mud beneath his feet and to the pain of the sprint and now to the climb back out of the dip, he continued at speed, taking care to keep the lone stranger locked in his sights every step of the way. He pushed himself to keep moving faster and faster. He wanted to call out to him but he couldn’t. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding was nervous excitement.

‘Hold on,’ Carl moaned. He was a short distance behind Emma. Not as fit as he would have liked to have been, he was finding the running too much. Emma stopped and waited for him to catch up, constantly keeping a close eye on Michael as she did. She watched as he clambered over a metal five bar gate. He was now in the same field as the man who continued to walk closer and closer to him.

‘You all right?’ she breathlessly asked Carl.

He slowed down, shook his head and stopped next to her. Doubled-over with exhaustion, he rested his hands on his knees and sucked in as much cool, refreshing air as he could. He looked up and watched as Michael stopped running and approached the unknown man.

Michael wiped dribbles of sweat from his face and spat to clear phlegm from his throat.

‘Fucking hell,’ he said between deep, forced breaths. ‘Are you okay? Christ the chances of us finding you like that must have been…’

He suddenly lost his footing in the slimy mud and fell to down his knees, landing at the feet of the other man. He looked up into his face and, in a fraction of a second, all the hope and elation he had felt suddenly disappeared. It was just another corpse. The man’s face was blank and cold and drained of all emotion. His pockmarked skin was tight across his skull and had a familiar grey-green hue and translucence. His dirty, ragged clothes were loose and ill-fitting. He was as sick and diseased as every other one of the lamentable bastards they had seen.

Dejected, Michael climbed to his feet and turned back to shout the news to the others.

‘It’s no good,’ he yelled, fighting to make his voice heard over a vicious, blustery wind. ‘It’s no fucking good. This bastard’s just like the rest of them.’