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The last plane to leave Schiphol fell from the sky. The whole world seemed to shake. Tremors which could be felt in the streets of Leidseplein. The hostel was busy when the man left. Bodies weaving past one another far closer than the reinstated social distancing protocols should have accepted. He stepped out, taking a long, deep breath of fresh air as he stepped into Vondelpark. He could smell the joint which was burning away in the tourist’s mouth which hung open, aghast. He looked up, the same direction as the tourist, just in time to see the first engine burst into flames. 

Had he not been watching as the plane disappeared behind the skyline he would probably have seen the row of teeth before they clamped down deep into the muscle in between his neck and shoulder. Fingers pierced his skin, holding him in place. A wet, tearing sound was the last thing he heard before pain overwhelmed him.

His slate-grey suit was bisected by blackened blood and viscera, still oozing from the quickly necrotising muscle left within his face. Blinded, his feet carried him. A slow unsteady gait. His body moved without intention, driven by a new impulse. To consume. Without comprehension he barrelled into a doorway, which swallowed him whole as he fell down the steep set of stairs which lay behind. Neck broken, a vertebrae punctured the skin causing his head to tilt to the side as he rose to his feet. A marionette limping on a shattered ankle which crunched so loudly it could be heard on the other side of the glass. 

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Thomas took another long toke from a well-packed joint. His jaw clenched tight. As he exhaled smoke billowed from his nostrils. He watched the slow descent of the foetid fluid flowing from the flayed face as it pressed against the glass. Where the blood had smeared it slid like sap, still a murky mahogany. It began to dry, growing darker as it crusted like magma. If it wasn’t for the threat of an imminent and violent death it would have almost been beautiful to watch.

‘I thought you said you locked the door?’

‘I said I closed it. I didn’t say it was locked. I didn’t think… well when have you ever seen zombies use door handles?’

‘Sam, please. Don’t call them that. That man out there is clearly sick…he just needs help. Right?’

‘He’s not sick, Tom. He’s dead. He can only be dead. Look at his neck. Look at his face.’

‘It’s his eyes, they look so… broken.’

‘Broken. Like the rest of him. Come on, let’s go sit in the booth so that he can’t see us. He might wander off?’

‘Do you think that’s how it works? If he can’t see us he’ll just walk away?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe, I just don’t want to look at him.’

Thomas threw the half-smoked joint onto the ground, crushing it under the well worn toe of his oldest pair of high-tops. Taking one last look at the man on the other side of the glass and caught himself in those terrible eyes. The pupil had broken an unseen boundary, spilling over to fill the rest of the socket. The surface shattered like ice reflecting the moonlight on the darkest night. In each fracture running along the caustic curve there was nothing. A nothingness, so tangible and terrible Thomas felt as though he had fallen within an eternal descent. Sam grabbed his shoulder. Thomas finally looked away.

‘Did you just waste the last of the Northern Lights I got in Utrecht?’

‘Trust me. I did you a favour. It’s way too uppy with him out there.’

Thomas turned away from the window. He walked straight to their regular booth which they had only vacated less than thirty minutes before and sat facing away from the windows which looked out onto the bar.

‘Is that really what you think it is? A zombie?’

Sam sat down beside his friend taking a moment to consider the question.

‘That’s all anyone is saying online. Not that I can get online. Fucking wifi has been down all morning. But some of the shit I saw last night… it gives doom scrolling a whole new meaning.’

‘Did you watch the address from the PM this morning?’

‘Why would I waste my time listening to that prick? Nah, I went down to the breakfast bar to stock up for the day. Rule one mate, always.’

‘Yeah, yeah… if you can make a piece, make a piece. Is it just the usual ham and cheese then?’

‘Aye, but I just had a feeling like, so I grabbed some extra supplies.’

‘Really?’ Thomas’s eyes light up, as he considers what Sam might have managed to get a hold of. He watched as Sam took two sandwiches out of his bag, a single apple and four boiled eggs. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

‘What do you mean the rest of it? You’re lucky I even managed to get that much. The staff were an hour late getting everything out and that group that got in last night slept in the cafeteria so they got first dibs on everything.’

‘But you said you got extra supplies… I just thought, well it’s not exactly going to keep us going is it?’

‘Beggars cannae be choosers. If you don’t want the extra egg I’ll eat it.’

‘Is that really all we have?’

Sam smirks and Thomas narrows his eyes, he knows that look all too well.

‘I mean, other than the stuff I grabbed from behind the bar.’ To the small pile of supplies before them Sam adds five space cakes and two litre cartons of Chocomel. With a flourish he produces a tupperware container with what looks like an ounce of weed inside on top of which he places six double packs of blunt wraps. The look of proud satisfaction on Sam’s face fills Thomas with frustration.

‘So let me get this straight. We’re trapped in a basement. There is a zombie on the other side of a glass wall and we have just enough food to make it to lunch time?’

‘You make it sound so bleak. But, yeah, that’s about right, apart from the fact there are two zombies out there.

‘Two?’ It is only as Thomas looks back out at the bar that he realises why it feels so strangely empty. ‘Wait, where is counter guy?’

‘He was having some lunch when we came back in.’

‘Wait, did you see him?’

Sam raises an eyebrow and waits.

‘Oh, you mean he’s a… I did think he was looking a bit peaky earlier.’

Sam’s head bobs up and down like a nodding doll in the back of a car. Thomas lets out a long and shuddering breath. Panic begins to fill him. The taste of bile catches in the back of his throat. His hands shake until he gives them something to do and cracks open the tupperware box. The dank smell of the White Widow stored within instantly brings him down.

He places some of the weed into the cheap plastic grinder they bought when they arrived last week. His hands shake so much he can’t bring the two halves of the cheap plastic together. The plastic chatters as it ineffectually clicks together. As Sam takes it from him, several tears escape Thomas’s eyes as his breathing becomes faster and sharper. 

Putting the grinder down, Sam takes both of Thomas’s hands into his own. Looking directly into his friend’s eyes, he breathes deeply. Over and over again he fills his lungs and lets the air out in slow steady breaths until he and Thomas are breathing in an easy synchronicity. Sam waits until the corner of Thomas’s mouth flickers into the facsimile of his familiar smile.

‘It’s going to be okay.’

‘Do you really think we’ll get out of here?’

‘No. I just meant your hands have stopped shaking. You’ll be able to roll that blunt now.’

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