You shrug. To hell with him: he smells even worse than you do. Turning on your heel, you begin to lurch off toward the wider end of the alley.

It's harder than it looks in the movies: rigor mortis makes it feel like all your limbs are tied into a straightjacket, and although being dead puts quite a damper on your nerves, the wounds in your head are still aching annoyingly.

Finally, you make it out into North Street. Behind you is a McDonald's, empty and eerie with its windows smashed and its jolly cardboard clown leaning through the broken glass, missing an arm. The other shops have fared little better: in typical post-Apocalyptic fashion, the general populace has been on a looting-spree. Some piles of bricks are still on fire, against all the laws of physics.

The whole scene is deserted.

Suddenly, there is a click behind you, unnervingly loud in the silence.