My heart started pounding as Rat approached the front door. Amongst his deep, almost guttural growls, I started to hear it too. Shuffling, coupled with the occasional grunt.

  Please, god, say it’s a drunk, I thought, knowing full well what was on the other side of the door. I quickly threw on my jacket and fished out the baseball bat from my open bag.

  “Good boy, now shhhh,” I whispered to Rat as I crept into the front bedroom, peeking through a small crack in the curtains towards the front door.

  Lurching towards the door were a pair of zombies: one male and one female. Oh shit.

  I hotfooted it out of the bedroom, into the living area and towards the back door.

  “Rat, please come with me. Quietly now,” I said sternly.

  Rat came and stood by my side. Clinging to my baseball bat, I unlocked the back door and we headed out to the backyard. Rat ran ahead, across to the right side of the yard, where there was a small gate. I followed and unlatched it, allowing us both into the front yard. Rat ran swiftly, confidently heading behind the pair of zombies as he dropped to a stalking position and started to bark.

  “Woof woof woof woof woof!” Rat shouted as the zombies turned to face him. They started to shamble towards him, the woman zombie in front with the male behind.

  I snuck up, close to the house, hoping to get in a blow to the male zombie.

  Thwack! The bat clapped against the head of the zombie, certainly breaking its neck but apparently not with enough force to decapitate it.

  Shit!!! I panicked as I furiously swung the bat around, striking the zombie several more times in the torso and head.

  Thwomp! Splat! Thud! Several juicy swings later and the head flew off and into the street.

  “Yes!” I exclaimed, clouded by my small victory.

  Obviously roused by the visceral sounds of both the organ-smashing blows and my celebration, the female zombie turned to face me.

  Rat started barking almost frantically, but the zombie could not be deterred, since it had seen a human.

  The zombie woman started coming towards me, much quicker than the male zombie, at a normal walking pace. I swung the bat at her, clocking her in the chest. Unphased, she continued towards me while I backed up steadily. I swung the bat again, but this time the zombie managed to grab it. Her sticky decomposing fingers, coupled with my sweat-slicked palms, meant the bat was out of my hands before I could say ‘Jack Robinson’.

  “Holy shit!!” I screamed out. I backed away further and further but accidentally backed myself into the front of the house. Panicked like a trapped animal, I lunged forward at the zombie, pushing her with all my might.

  She staggered backwards and fell to the ground, smacking her head on a pebbly stepping stone in the front yard. Blood ran out over the grass, but she continued to stir.

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  As I hyperventilated, Rat ran over to the zombie, grabbing the handle of the bat in his mouth and tugging it fiercely. He ran over to me, nudging the bat in my direction. I grimaced, but took the bat, which still had the hand and forearm of the zombie stuck to it.

  Stepping on the limp arm, I broke the bat free, and Rat and I approached the downed zombie.

  “Back up, back up!” I yelled to Rat. He ran a few metres back, with his posture still as if he was herding sheep.

  I stood above the zombie woman, on the side without the hand, set myself up to aim, and then closed my eyes and mouth, holding my breath as I brought the bat down on her head.

  I opened my eyes. Blood and brain were sprayed everywhere from knee-height down.

  Smashing the zombie’s head in was much like hitting a mustard packet with a hammer: off-putting, disgustingly squelchy and oddly piquantly scented.

  With the couple taken care of, and before any more attention was garnered, Rat and I ran back in through the backyard, slamming the gate behind us. We entered the house through the back door and locked it, looking at each other with a sense of relief.

  I glanced down at my jeans and cringed; blood and bits of skull were littered over the front shins.

  “I’m just going to leave this here,” I said as I slinked out of the jeans, kicking them to the far side of the kitchen and setting the bat down by the back door.

  “I’ll deal with that later,” I said to Rat. I then went over to the sink and washed my hands and arms thoroughly before opening the dryer and taking out my clothes. I layered up everything I previously had on, bar the blouse; I was keen on keeping the flannelette shirt that matched Rat’s bandana.

  I walked over to the recliner and put on my boots; doing them up took forever, and I wouldn’t be caught out again. I took the bandana from the chair and tied it around Rat’s neck. He looked up at me, jostling his little front paws in what looked like a happy dance, before he picked up his toy bear.

  We sat down for a moment in silence when I heard a gurgle. Oh no! Not more! I sprung out of the chair.

  “What’s that?” I exclaimed.

  Rat tilted his head, confused at my alarm.

  “Gurgle, gurgle,” the noise came again.

  “Is that your tummy, Rat?” I asked. Rat licked his chops in response.

  “Ah yes, we were making lunch before, weren’t we.”

  I headed back into the kitchen and raided the cupboards. Inside were several tins of dog food, baked beans, one onion and one large tomato. The kitchen was a small melamine monstrosity with off-white cabinet doors and brown benchtops. It was equipped only with a small electric oven, fridge and jaffle maker.

  “Well, you’re set,” I said to Rat, “but it looks like I’m a few bits short of a full English breakfast.”

  I pulled open a drawer and found only a can opener, small plastic bowl, chopping board and plastic-handled kitchen knife.

  After opening a tin of dog food for Rat and pouring it into the bowl, I decided to check the fridge, hoping to find something with a little more substance. Inside was some alarmingly orange cheese, a few cans of beer and half a loaf of bread.

  “Toastie it is!” I said to Rat as I plugged in the jaffle maker on the counter. I sliced up some onion and tomato and layered them inside two slices of cheese, which I then sandwiched between two slices of bread.

  Staring over at the fairly empty cupboards as the toastie toasted, I realised that the food in this cottage could only sustain us for a couple of days. Soon we would have to move on, or run the risk of starving.

  The jaffle maker sizzled as the orange cheese melted down the side, a common sight for anyone who has ever overloaded their toastie. I took it out and turned off the machine at the powerpoint. For now, at least, it was time to recuperate.

  I took the toastie and bowl of dog food into the living room and plonked onto the recliner, setting down the bowl on the floor for Rat. Mentally and physically tired from our earlier altercation, I let out a little sigh and bit into the toastie.

  “Aaah!” I exclaimed as I spit out the corner of the sandwich, lava-like cheese burning the roof of my mouth.

  It turns out that even when you’re dead, you still bite into toasties with unwarranted gusto.