He arrived, chased in by a storm. Drenched and chill with wild eyes staring from beneath the brim of his hat. My uncle, though I had never met him. A traveller. The black sheep. The mention of his name bringing chilled silence, bitter tightness to my Grandfather’s jaw and bright tears to my mother’s eyes.

Yet here he was, the man I had known only from letters with their return addresses scattered across the globe. I had found each and wondered at the distances between he and I, listened, rapt, as my mother read descriptions of strange people and animals that I never expected to see. Scribbled endless questions, and received patient answers.

‘You’re Amelia?’ he asked, stepping aside as our manservant carried in a trunk with the help of the coachman. ‘Upstairs,’ barked my Uncle, his watchful gaze on the men as they struggled to ascend, ‘and careful with that.’

‘I’m Amelia,’ I agreed. ‘Mother and Grandfather are…not here.’

‘No? Where are they then?’ Even his speech was full of action, not a second wasted to politeness.

‘Church.’

Snorting, my uncle threw off his hat and hung his coat, still dripping, from the stand.

‘They were expecting me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why they’re praying?’

I swallowed, then shook my head. ‘They’re discussing the harvest fes-’

‘I’m teasing, child,’ he said, pushing past me and into the drawing room.

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Brandy.’

I hesitated, catching the eye of the maid who had joined us. I could see her lips pressing hard against the telling of this tale, fuel for her gossips fire. The village would know by sundown.

‘Of course. You are chilled from your journey.’

My Uncle turned from his perusal of the room, his smile amused at the interaction, at my need to explain his appetites.

‘Do I frighten you, Amelia?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied.

‘I do. I should. I’ve come home to change your life.’

‘You have?’

He stalked to the globe, using one thick finger to locate England and turn it towards me. He waited, assuring himself he had my attention before he set the thing spinning, stopping it only when Australia was visible. The other side of the world.

‘Amelia, your letters reveal you to be a marvel, in this family. You have a mind of your own and you are willing to use it. If you stay here, you will rot. All your potential will come to naught. Have they begun to plot your marriage?’

Wide eyed, it was all I could manage to nod in earnest response.

‘Don’t do it. Don’t settle,’ this last word was execrable to him.

I stared. The prospect was terrifying, blood drummed in my ears.

‘Please?’

‘Yes,’ the word surprised even me, my Uncle stepped back with growing delight.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes!’

‘There will be a terrible row.’

‘Yes.’

‘You will be the black sheep.’

And suddenly we were both laughing, filled with the joy of an unknown future.

‘Yes. Yes I will.’

Perhaps

In the frantic, hot expansion of

the beginning

A star exploded

And two pieces flew

Asunder

Lost in the turmoil

Of the big bang

Drifting

Combining

Becoming

Dying

Endlessly cycling and always

Lost

Lonely

Unfinished

Until one miraculous

Coincidental

Fateful day

When on a street

The pieces met

In human souls

And said

You are my other

The thing I craved

Sensing

The one thing

They had always sought.

Completion.

I feel like, somehow, it’s my fault.

I mean, I know, logically, that it isn’t. I know that I didn’t start this, however it started. Voodoo, or aliens, or a virus mutating, or a chemical weapon gone wrong. Whatever happened, I know it wasn’t me who did it

It’s just…I’ve always loved zombie stories. I’ve watched all the movies, Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, Evil Dead; even Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Walking Dead? I invited my friends round ever week to watch the new episode. We dressed up, we had themed snacks. And video games? I’ve spent hours with a gun-shaped controller in my hand blowing the brains out of computer generated zombies. Days. Weeks. God, I don’t know.

And I know that it’s normal for teenagers to get angry at their parents. To say things in the heat of the moment that they regret. I said I wished she was dead. I didn’t mean it. I was trying to stop myself saying it, even while the words were coming out of my mouth. I couldn’t. I didn’t mean it. I know she knows I didn’t mean it too. She’s my Mum. She just looked across at me with that mixture of hurt, anger and disappointment that twisted my guts and made me want to cry like I haven’t since I was 8. I wanted her to make it all better.

But now there are zombies all around the house. The rotting, reanimated corpses of our friends, our neighbours. Even the god-damned preacher. Ha. I guess God really did damn him. I’ve told her I’ve got this. I have the gun. She made a joke, she said, ‘I guess I was wrong about those games being a waste of time!’ and we shared a sick smile.

She thinks I’m going to use the gun on them. But I know that’s no use. There are so many of them, I know how this goes. I’ve seen the movies. No, there aren’t enough bullets in the world to kill all of them…