The smell, that's what tells you something is wrong. The smell of evacuated bowels and rotting flesh is always what you notice before you see one of them, its a perfect early warning system for anyone with a working nose or dog. Once your smell them your body takes on a life of its own, you prepare you shovel, cricket bat or other blunt instrument. I personally chose to use my father's old shovel made of sturdy wood with decent iron head that makes a gratifying cracking against the skull when used as mace but with a sharp end that can be used to decapitate if brought down in the walkers jaw. I guess I should have mentioned walkers earlier but seeing as your reading this you know full well what a walker is by now.
My first walker was a terrifying experience. news for weeks had been filled with some new flu that the papers did their best to make it sound like it was the new black plague, I ignored it, having grown sick of the papers crying wolf as often as they did. It was a wet may day and I was home alone, both parents at work with my sister away in Iceland on a field trip. The door bell rang, I was expecting it. the alarm man had made an appointment yesterday to come and check our houses alarms system. He was a short man with grey hair and leathery skin. I let him and offered him a cup of tea, he accepted, then burst in to a coughing fit, he told me not to worry, some bloke at his office scratched him and since then he couldn't stop coughing. He wouldn't be too long doing the alarms. I left him to his job while I made him a cup of tea and prepared some bread for a slice of toast. I could hear him mumbling, moaning and coughing, then nothing. I called out if he needed a hand (not that I knew a thing about the alarms) and from around the corner I saw what he became. The short man's face had blood running along from orifice, one of his eyes was totally obscured by blood and puss. I was in shock just looking at him, I managed to mutter if he'd like me to a call an ambulance, as I did so I moved closer (fool as I) he barked at me and stumbled forward, dragging his feet as he went, his arms rose, his hands snapping like a crabs. I picked the bread knife on the counter beside me and told him to wait in the living room while I got bandages, Of course he didn't stop, just kept marching towards me.
"He came at me, it was self-defence" That's what I thought I was going to have to say to the police when they came. Here's how it went, as best as I can remember. He lunged. He landed on the knife I was holding like some knight in a bad movie. Still holding the knife I moved to my left, tearing his torso. He fell to the floor but clearly wasn't dead. I pulled the knife out and ran to the living room. I tried to dial the police but my body was in shock and couldn't get the simple 3 digit number right. I heard the walker moan from kitchen, He was still alive! I pulled away from the phone holding the knife in my hands shuddering. He stumbled into the living room and this was when it hit me he wasn't a man any more, as he walked he dragged along his guts and intestines. he stumbled towards and it rose my arms up (like it was some god dam Aztec sacrifice or something) and brought the knife down on to his head, the blade went through surprisingly easy and I saw it destroy he left eyeball. He fell to the floor and gargled in his own blood before it died. I can't tell you much of what happened next.
I came back to consciousness about a hour later, the body was in bits and in black bin liners in the garage ( I must have gone psycho on the corpse), the floors had been cleaned but the smell of entrails would haunt the house for a week or so after. I had stripped off my clothes and thrown them away. I called my mother but no reply, then my father who picked up; he'd been told there was some sort of siege going on in his lab and was told to go home by the police after being stripped and searched. I told him what had happened and he told me everything was going to be all right and that the police would understand. When he got home I've never been happier to see him, but he looked terrified, I told him that mum hadn't replied and he broke down in tears (the second time I've ever seen him cry and the first was when my younger sister was born). when he regained his composure he asked if it'd been scratched, cut or bitten during the attack, thankfully I hadn't. We turned on the TV to see if anything was in the news about what was happening, this was what 24 hour news was made for, shocking picture from all over the world of what looked like riots, live from Paris a horde of protesters were slowly marching on riot police, my dad made a sarcastic about the French work ethic, I laughed. The laughter stopped when the two lines meet and the slaughter began. It was on for only five seconds before the channel quickly went to news room where some presenter tried to explain what was happening. Both me and dad knew. It was the birth of a new world.