Dale is twenty five, has short dark hair, a stubble, think body and peaks at five ten. He’s a former Royal Navy recruit come drop out, who determined the best bet for a career lay in the civil service. After background clearances, he made it into the crème da la crème – working as a civil servant in Buckingham Palace.

That was two years ago. Now though the story is very different. He lies in wait for a break in the screaming people outside the palace as they are torn to shred by the undead. A break to run, a break from the barrage of tormented cries. His ears, brain and eyes now beaten by apocalypse. A bloody unwinding, undead that stormed streets, ate people and had revolutionary strength.

He’s in the storage cupboard downstairs in the central hall of the palace; deserted of staff, military or royalty. The royalty replaced with gnawing at the gates, of distant peasants who whimper as they meet their gruesome demise. Dale holds his tongue, his breath and his position, with prayers focused on safe passage for the outsiders. Luckily for him the gates of the Palace are impenetrable, and so are the thick walls and doors of the Palace itself.

He’s burdened with one small grey backpack he carried to work, some days ago before the outbreak began. At first staff seemed unmoved, determined to stand ground with the assurance that the British military could overthrow a new, even more deadly type of threat then before. Behold they left en-mass, shaken and laden with betrayal. Dale thought it akin to treason to abandon London, to leave the pinnacle of British society – the Palace of the King. But they had, and he remained. His heart determined not only to survive, but to attempt to establish some sort of base. Given enough time he was sure he could open the gates to survivors.

Time was short, he had little food; his backpack carried a selection of some crisps, a ham sandwich, a chocolate bar and refillable water bottle, stuff he’d brought to work before being forced to ration it. So far he’d had half a bite of the sandwich but soon it would go stale, molded even. The Palace was well equipped though, and his ability to navigate the place were peak condition. He knew where the pantry was, the storage and the emergency storage – somewhere in the basement. The problem was Dale had spent so long in the room, peddled with thoughts of being eaten that he’d not managed to leave it yet. Tonight, or today, that would change. His silver watch on his left wrist showed around five pm, Tuesday, September. British weather being as it was would leave him cold, without heating he’d need some blankets.

The stuffiness of the dim room congested his nose, snot coalesced within his already irritated sinus passage. The smell that of dust and paper. The metal chair uncomfortable, digging into his lower back. He’d try to get out to look around soon, or so he hoped…

Stay tuned for more episodes. This is a story intended to be short, so it won’t be going all adventurous over London. I’ll write about London another time.

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