28 HOURS LATER

Responding to Aaron with little more than an affirmative grunt, signalling acknowledgement, his hands found themselves under the opposing end of the furniture. He was by no means strong, but with the help of the fellow survivor, the task was manageable. However, they would have to hurry - a door and one man did not a defence make. He briefly pondered whether it was possible to actually get the thing out, but such a notion was swiftly dispelled. The sofa had to have been taken into the room somehow, and he presumed that it had been taken in all in one piece - he was no expert, but self-assembled furniture was often a shoddy affair, with parts missing.

Though he did not voice such an opinion, the girls seemed arbitrary - their sentimentality and lack of proper action being taken spoke volumes about how useful they would be. That, and one of them was carrying a sword - how, in England, no less, did she manage to keep such a thing, let alone procure it? Her parent(s) could have bought it, but he swore even ornamental swords were made illegal a while back. Now was not the time to be thinking about arbitrary laws and how a human's humanity was now their greatest weakness, but about how to survive the onslaught. Escape hardly seemed an option, given the circumstances, but fighting them seemed an even worse idea.
 
[size=+1]The first of the infected slams into the door with the force of a freight train.

The wood vibrates violently and I'm briefly knocked clear from it, before I throw my weight back in a desperate attempt to keep the door held shut. Fuck, and this is just one of these psychos; fuck knows how many more are on the way.

I can hear him on the other side of this door, and suddenly I'm all too aware of the fact that it's naught but a piece of wood between me and that slavering monstrosity. He sounds like an enraged howler monkey, like some furious beast that's out to beat me to death with my own severed arm.

Fucking hell; he used to be human. Now he's this… thing.

"Jesus, hurry the fuck up!" I yell over the din; somewhere in one of the apartments I can hear the others lifting something.

Hopefully it's heavy enough to hold the door.

Hopefully they get it here in time.

A second form slams itself against the door, and my shoulder mercifully turns numb. The man with the blood-stained face and Mister Cricket-Bat emerge from the flat with the teenage girl in tow, hauling a sofa of some kind towards the front door. Looks solid enough; I inch to one side so they can press it up against the door, wedge it in securely.

A good start.

But we're going to need more.

On the other side of the doorway more infected begin to cluster; I don't want to think how many of them there could be out there. Maybe just three or four. Maybe all of Whitechapel. Best not to overthink it… or think about it at all. "See what else you guys can find," I say with a motion of my head towards the other flats, "I'll hold the fort here."

Fort? What a fucking joke.

I glance over to the American girl with the sword. "Here, love, if you're not gonna look for stuff to barricade the door with then bloody well make yourself useful. Give me a hand with this door."

I push my weight back against the door, and try not to think about how much my shoulder aches. About how many of them there could be out there.

About just how fucked we all are right now.

The door has been secured with the couch, but more materials for a barricade are needed if the infected are to be kept out for long.
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I glance around the apartment, thinking of the best items to use. I'd always loved puzzles. I was a terrible athlete, but great at logical thinking problems. Time to see if I could use those skills with the pressure of real life. "Why don't we trying moving a bed over?" I suggested meekly. I didn't want to aggravate the adults in the small group of survivors, so I decided I wouldn't speak too much. I strolled over to the bed and attempted (badly) to lift a corner up. I didn't really see the point in a massive barricade though. The infected would probably get in some how, plus we didn't have that many supplies. In my opinion we should be trying to escape. We only needed the couch there while we made our escape to the security check points. How ever, there's no point in complaining in this sort of a situation. Plus nobody else was as small and nimble as me, so their escapes would be harder.
Summary:
I have suggested the bed be used in the barricade, and tried to lift it a bit. I think we should be escaping instead, but think it will be better for the groups survival if I just help out.
 

"We can't move a fucking bed!" Aaron shouted through to the pill-popper in the bedroom.

He had returned to the apartment with the cricket-bat wielder and was looking around frantically. The noise of their pursuers was neither hunger nor rage. It was the sound of lungs and vocal chords being shredded. Those people out there, whatever compelled them - it was enough to make them scream themselves hoarse. Shadows rushed past the window.

His blood was pounding in his ears.

Aaron turned sharply to the other man. "FRIDGE!" Then he dashed to the narrow kitchenette and threw open the fridge door. Milk bottles and ready meals went flying, shattering on the faux-tiles. Then the racks and crisper tray. Gripping the top of the unit, Aaron pulled with all his weight and began tipping it. It was crashing down by the time the other man arrived, clunking against the opposite wall then falling between the washer and sink.

"We shove this on top of the sofa, right?"
 
I shuddered from being shouted at by Mr. Shouty man. I knew I should have stayed quiet. Though how people moved beds in to houses, I still had no clue. I frantically looked around as the moaning of the infected became more fractured and hoarse. I might have been scared if didn't remind me of people I knew who were already like that when uninfected. I tried to think of what I could do to help, coming up with nothing. I'd be no good at helping move things or holding back the door. I was too weak, and the pill was making me think funny (I hate to admit it, but it was stupid trying to move that bed. In fact, little of what i'd been thinking made sense). There wasn't much else to do, except sit around unhelpfully. So that's exactly what I did. Teaches those stupid, panicky grown ups a lesson. I can't believe i'd tried helping them. I didn't really mind if I died, or worse, was infected. It might even be fun watching it happen to adults. No. I can't think like that. I knew I should have stayed away from the drugs. I got up, and staggered over to the door. When I got there, I helped Mr. Sweary man hold back the door. I soon realized why he'd got his nick name, as the door shook violently.
 
Down the hall, flat 2B, cracked open with an irritating creak. It was the sort of creak one might complain about to a landlord, one that made it the business of everyone on the second floor when a certain someone came and went from their respite. Over the noise of panic, it was barely audible, but a thin eye of light glimmered between door and wall for a moment before a greater shadow overtook it, overwhelmed it. That silent something held vigil a moment enough to hear the crash of the refrigerator from Mooring's place and the rabid snarls from the front. Quietly, or as quietly as that creak was able to abide, that slit of light vanished and the click of a lock echoed almost innocuously against the primal rasping of the outside assailants.

Robert stood away from his door, unaware he'd been holding his breath until pain tore his concentration back to his vital functions. He breathed, a short gasp for air as he retreated father into his flat. For a moment, he considered barricading the door. His Doctor had told him not to try any heavy lifting during the first few weeks of the transplant. "Let the organ get used to its new home." he'd said with a shit-eater smile. Talking to him like he was some common patient.

He'd see the same Dr. Stanz running mad down Westlane, shrieking at the sky with little shreds of Nurse Montey, his sweetheart, trailing in his teeth.

Now they had come here, systematically smashing their way through every defense in their maniacal urge to destroy. Robert pressed a wrinkled hand against his chest, feeling his heart race. No pacemaker, no erratic pulse. A man named Donald was part of him now, a fellow weeks buried by now. Well, whatever part of him that was Robert strained against the panic reason sought to overcome. He tried, at first, to blame an outbreak of weaponized rabies, Mad Cow Disease, Bird flu, anything the news had squawked about or he'd read about in the papers. In truth, without a subject to study and a lab to use, he had no idea what was causing it. Fast acting poison? Chemicals in the water? Certainly infected tissue was a transmission form. Before Nurse Montey had breathed her last, carteroid artery releasing on the waiting room floor, she had reached toward him with nothing but hate in her eyes.

Even dying, she did not press against the torrent of blood gushing from her neck as any rational or instinctul human might. With both hands she had reached for him, clawed at him, before shuddering and going still.

It was only by coincidence he had made it home to his flat.

On the chance it was in the water, Robert had rationed the milk and six bottles of water in his fridge. He'd drink a little at a time till he received more information about the outbreak. So far, he'd been safe here. His windows were covered by black sheets, taped or held in the wall by carefully positioned forks. Once he had adored the street view of London. Now it only promised terror, unending terror and incomprehensible danger. Running a hand through his thinning white hair, Robert had reached his kitchen, still eyeing the door he'd closed with measured apprehension. If they had heard, would they not be knocking it down by now?

Perhaps it was best if he did move a chair.

Robert realized he was likely suffering shock. His temperature was low, his skin felt clammy, and the whole events of the last twenty four hours ran through his head on loop, and yet he felt nothing. Not yet. The terror had almost certainly crippled him. Now his mind shut down. No. Couldn't think about that now. Diagnosis later, patient safety first. Patient. Patient. Was it considered poor form to be your own patient?

No. Hard for Chief of Medicine Lyle Kelsco to criticize him when he was busy beating his new intern to death.

Gripping the back of a heavy oak piece he'd brought from Montana during a vacation, Robert began dragging it across the room toward his door. It screeched against the linoleum, and muttered dryly on the carpet. Wincing each time the chair echoed with noise, his new heart leaping up and nearly away from its new host, Robert began to push the furniture against his own door.

He thought he heard voices.

But it could only be an illusion, some trick of perception, stress, and lack of sleep.


The Infected did not speak.
 
"Of course we bloody well can!"
Now having had his somewhat calm mindset shattered by the fact he might actually die, he grabbed the alternate end of the fridge, and hauled with all due force. Granted, the fridge was far heavier than the sofa, and the awkward positioning and length may have it slip off at any given time. However, better ideas were something he was severely lacking in, such a principle also applying to patience. Without even waiting, he was already pulling up his end, his pained grunts audible as the refrigeration unit was tipped slightly. He didn't really care about the food - it would be uneatable within the space of two weeks, tinned and long-life foodstuffs were the order of the day. Batteries and bottled water were also high on the list of essential supplies, but the fact that there were far larger - and far more violent - problems at hand nullified any concern he had over such matters.
 
[size=+1]All I can hear is the sound of the infected battering against the door, and the struggle of the others as they haul another part of someone's home out into the corridor.

The door is made of thick wood, heavy-set and designed for security like a lot of the front entrances to dwellings in Whitechapel. I guess we have the high burglary rate in this district to thank for something, then. That and house-prices, which I suspect are going to be taking a plummet after tonight.

Look at me; here I am holding a door against things out a goddamn horror movie, and I'm making fucking jokes.

Out of the flat comes the bloodstained man and Mister Cricket Bat once again, this time hauling the fridge. That ought to work a treat; I leap from the door and move to help them haul it into place quickly, positioning the vast appliance against the door and atop the sofa. It occurs to me I haven't introduced myself, nor have I even asked my new companions' names.

"Should almost cover it," I pant, clutching my aching shoulder and leaning slightly against the stairwell, "There anything else we can stack against this stuff?" Behind me the battering against the door continues, but the weight of the sofa and fridge combined seems to be holding it shut. "Name's Peter, by the way. Thanks for the assistance."

Though the din of the infected at the door continues to ring through the stairwell, it's far quieter in comparison now that we're no longer lugging heavy appliances against the door. Probably why I can now hear a… scraping sound, coming from one of the other flats nearby.

"Anyone else hearing that?"

The fridge is stacked against the door as well, which seems to be holding off the infected for now, and Peter finally gets round to introducing himself. He also notices a scraping sound coming from one of the other flats, inquiring if anyone else has noticed it.
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After moving out of the way for the fridge, Mr. Now-not-so-sweary-man told us his name and asked about a scratching noise. I held my breath a second, trying to also hear the scratching sound. After a few seconds I heard it too. It sounded like steel nails scraping against a soft surface to me. "Yeah, I can Mr. N...I mean Peter. My name's Trisha, by the way," I informed Mr. Now-not-so-sweary-man. I turned to look at Mr. Shouty man, Mr. Bat man and Mr. Mrs woman, interested in their replies. I'd have to get to know these... *ahem* people better, if I was to survive with them.
 
I despised the complete and utter helplessness I felt. I merely watched as the man shoved his body against the door demanding my help. I was frozen, the banshee-like shrieks of the however many creatures outside chilled my blood. My heart pounded violently in my chest and my vision became fuzzy. My heart pounded violently like a fluttering bird. I shook my head, this wasn't a time to be freaking out.

After several moments, like sand slipping from an hourglass one by one, I finally jumped into action. My hand gripped the antique weapon so hard it had made the skin go white with the pressure of it. I looked down and realized how useless the antique was now and let the shiny metal clatter to the floor as I rushed to this mans aid, slamming my body against the door. Immediately, I could tell that our combined weights just barely made the creatures stay back. The two other guys brought a couch. I scrunched my eyes tightly and gritted my teeth as a battle of strengths took place. "How many are there? What the hell!" I have to say there weren't that many, I haven't actually witnessed the power of one myself, so for all I know, it could be merely one creature. If that was the case, then we were screwed if more should come.

When they arrived with the fridge, they placed it and the man introduced himself as Peter. I nodded and looked at everyone who had entered. There was a scraping sound coming from somewhere and I whirled my head around to find the source. "Anyone else here that?" questioned Peter. I nodded "Yeah, I hear it. What do you think it is?" I sincerely hoped it wasn't an infected monster who had found another way in, but by the sound of it, it seemed a lot less erratic and sinister, which is what I would expect them to sound like.

If there was a possibility they could find another way in..."Maybe we should find another way out, I mean, once we find out what that is we need to find an exit out of this place and somewhere safer, unless you think we can manage ourselves in here". She doubted it, how long would that door hold the viral beasts off? No, that wasn't an option to her, it seems.
 

"One thing at a time!" Aaron interrupted, snatching up the chair-leg again.

It was the flat at the end of the hallway from which the noise was coming. He could just make out a slither of light beneath the door of 2B, being slowly blotted out. He took the lead and moved towards it, each step accompanied by shivering and the beading of sweat. There were three other apartment doors between the lobby and 2B, and each was ominously silent. Aaron felt his skin crawling.

He pictured them bursting open - the three doors imploded under charging, bloodshot flesh. He held the chair-leg high, like a warding crucifix between himself and the damned.

By the time he passed the other doors and came within reach of 2B his blood was cold. He listened to the scraping sound, the slight grunt of breath. He gripped the wood tighter.

Then his arm lashed out, drumming the chair leg against the door once, twice, a third time. His voice trembled.

"Anyone in there? Hello?"
 
By now, he was practically gripping his sporting equipment enough to turn the skin on his knuckles pale. Though he knew the infected were far more inclined to attempt to break down doors and barricades, as opposed to scraping morosely against them, the notion that someone was still out there made him wary. If they were, he hoped to whichever deity existed (if any) that his fellow survivors had the common sense to check for bites. Or, at the very least, open wounds. They did not know if there were more ways for the virus to spread, and if it was airborne - or able to survive in non-humans or non-living matter - then open wounds would have warrant a swift death. hat, or extreme caution. He didn't fancy becoming one of the many thousands practically dragging themselves through the once-bustling hub of business and tourism, not at that point in time. Hearing someone attempt to make contact, he rushed up as fast as he could take himself, bat pointed cautiously forward, as if it were a foil that would repel whomsoever ventured forth. If they did at all.

"If there's anyone in there," he spoke in an inoffensive, neutral tone, "You can choose to come out, or not at all. Choose the former, and I ask you to come out with any open wounds visible, within the parameters of decency. Any ones you do not wish to show us, you must inform us about."
He didn't want to waste time with the formalities. Formalities mattered when people still had names. Now, they were all just survivors, but for how long? He hadn't introduced himself, for one simple reason - attachment. If a person had no name, he would not grow attached to them. He hoped the same held true to other people. Emotion, he had found, was largely useless in a situation such as this, where decimating what had once been people - even former family and friends - was the order of the day. There was no avoiding the fact that he tried to remain somewhat polite, but this was purely in an attempt to coerce cooperation.
 
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