Blog of the Dead (Book 3): Lost by Lisa Richardson Page B

zombies in our path audible over the screeching engine, and out onto a main road. The van swerved left, then right, straight then left as Kay drove us away from Ashford town centre. There were no more thuds of dried flesh against metal so I guessed the way was clear of zombies. I turned back to the side window and saw buildings, crashed cars, gridlocked streets, houses whoosh by in a blur until the urban landscape was replaced by more and more green.
    Charlotte had moved upfront to sit with Kay, while Clay sat on the sofa opposite me and Misfit. We were on our way. In an hour, maybe more to account for gridlocked roads, we would be in Guildford.
    I was finally going home. 
    January 3, 8pm
    ‘This is the one,’ I said yesterday as I pointed to the white fronted Victorian semi.
    Kay stopped the camper, pulling in at an angle behind the row of cars outside, and leaving the rear of the large van sticking out into the road behind us.
    ‘We here, sweetie?’ I glanced into the back of the van where Charlotte and Clay sat, me having switched seats with Charlotte in order to give Kay directions as we neared Guildford. Misfit sat in the front with me, gripping my hand for support.
    ‘Yep.’
    ‘You OK, Soph?’
    ‘No.’
    Misfit squeezed my hand tighter.
    We all climbed out of the vehicle and the others, apart from Misfit who clung onto my hand, gave me space to inch my way up the front steps to the white uPVC door. I slipped my fingers from Misfit’s and pulled my knife from my belt. With my free hand I tried the door handle. Locked. I wasn’t surprised but I didn’t have my keys with me. They were still at the house in Folkestone – the student digs I’d shared with Sam, Polly and Richard before the outbreak.
    It was almost a relief. I could give up now and still be in ignorant bliss – so to speak – about what fate befell my parents. I could walk away. I should have walked away. I placed my hand against the white plastic door and imagined my mum on the other side, reaching out a zombiefied hand to touch the back of the place where mine rested. Would she be able to sense me, even if she was a zombie? Is it possible for all that love from the person who carried me inside them for nine months and gave birth to me and raised me and cared for me even when I was being a right cow, is it possible for it to be so completely lost?
    If my parents were inside, would they tear me apart? Of course they would. The zombie virus rarely leaves anything behind.
    But sometimes it does.
    I should have walked walk away, saved myself from knowing. I should have… but I edged past the recycling bins to the right and peered through the living room window. I couldn’t see anything through the curtains. They were drawn, covering every inch of window. Mum always used to moan that Dad never drew them properly. He always left a little gap in the middle and she would go over and straighten them out, ever so slightly OCD. We used to joke about it, wind her up. They’d been drawn very carefully, with no chinks, probably early on in the outbreak to avoid attracting the attention of the zombies outside.
    With my view blocked, I rejoined the others on the street. Without a word, I crept to the left of the house and down an alleyway. I tried the wooden gate in the fence, but that too was locked. A little further down the alley, I came to a fence panel that had given way. With the others behind me, I paused. None of them knew why I stood and stared at the seemingly innocuous piece of wood. I hadn’t told any of them the details of what had happened to my little brother – how Jake had been playing outside and how no one had noticed the loose section of fence. How a zombie had got through and how Jake had been bitten before either Mum or Dad could stop it. All they knew was that I didn’t know what had happened to my family after all contact ceased abruptly soon after the outbreak.
    I slid through the fence panel, just as the zombie had done just