Sigh I uploaded a story and my profile says I haven't written anything yet. Um, a bit annoyed if I've lost it as I was quite happy with it and it was kinda a lot of words...yeah...

Alone (Be prepared, this is pretty long) 'Mary had a little lamb, little lamb...' God, he was such a sap. Reciting a kiddy's nursery rhyme in his head? Grow up! 'Mary had a little lamb, it's fleece as white as snow...' But it was helping, ever so slightly. Helping him ignore the silence that had fallen over his normally noisy house. Always, there was shouting or screaming or the TV blaring at three am. The power had gone out weeks ago, so no more of the TV, at the very least. Only sounds now were some grunts and growls and maybe a few crashes once in a while now. As if on cue, there was a loud bang from the next room. He shuddered gently, humming louder, then paused. Should ask... "M-Mam? Brian? You okay?" he called shakily. No reply. Perhaps he should go check at least. Carefully, he pushed himself from his bed and started moving the chairs and boxes he had pushed up against the door. He lingered for a few moments. A small voice in the back of his head was telling him to be careful, to take something with him. What could be so bad? He'd only been in his room for...what was it, three days now? What's the worse that could've happened? Famous last words. Sighing gently, he picked up the smooth, fake wood effect case, pressing a small release button on it's side. A small, sharp blade flicked up. It gave him a small feeling of confidence at least. Slowly, he made his way to his mother's bedroom. A small shiver ran down his spine as he touched to doorknob, but that could've been to the lack of heating as much as it could have been nerves. "You okay?" he mumbled, poking his head around the door. It was dark, only a pale stream of light glowing from the gap of the curtains. A lamp was sprawled across the floor, bulb smashed and shade trampled. Bedsheets torn and crumpled. These really weren't giving him much confidence. "'Ello?" There was a few snorts and slurps from behind the bed, a soft tearing and a few loud snaps. His stomach flipped, throat clenching tight. "Mam? Brian? You ol'ight in 'ere?" A figure rose from behind the bed. From the lanky, spindly shape, he knew it was Brian, his Mam's boyfriend, but there was something...different about him. His shoulders were hunched over, his shirt incredibly creased, a painful looking, pus-filled sore covering his neck. "Bri? Ya'ight?" Brian stumbled around, grunting like some sort of animal. His eyes were dark and bloodshot, lips covered in dark red. A strange almost-smile flashed onto his face and he started to stagger over, like he was drunk. "B-Bri? Wha's wrong?" Brian replied with a loud yell and rushed him, pushing him against the wall, snapping his jaws. "Woah! Bri, i's me, Dylan, wha's wrong?" He was thankful for his wide, strong build, as it was enough to keep Brian, still snapping and drooling, at arms length. Groaning, he pushed the edge of the knife into his shoulder, sending him back with a yelp. "St-stay back," he whimpered, keeping his blade pointing at him, "Wha's go'en intuh you?" Brian replied with a screech, leaping forward, fingers outstretched into dirty, yellow claws. Without thinking, Dylan put out the knife and jammed it into Brian's throat, tackling him back onto the bed. He gurgled, blood dribbling down his chin, legs kicking. Dylan took one deep breath, twisting the knife out in one fluid motion. Brian stopped kicking. Stopped his shuddering breathing. Dylan's stomach flipped again, this rime making him double over. "Oh God..." He managed to swallow back the sick and straighten up, breathing through his teeth. He glanced over to the side of the bed, a small sense of curiosity burning the back of his mind. He was almost sick again. It looked like a body. Remains of a body anyway. Most of the skin and flesh had been torn away from the back and arms, but the face was as clear as day. Oliver, his five year old half-brother, small and pale, eyes wide open. He fell to his knees, shuddering. He was crying. He never cried. He'd seen mates get stabbed and be on the verge of dying, been hit by several of Mam's boyfriends, even put up with Mam and Dad arguing when he was very young. Why was it now, that he finally broke into sobs? He pushed himself shakily to his feet. If this had happened to Brian, what about Mam? He walked down the stairs, slowly and carefully. He knew there was twenty-one steps. Counting would distract him. 'One, two, three.' The carpet was wet and sticky. He didn't dare look down. 'Eight, nine, ten, eleven.' It was completely silent so far. No yells or growls or grunts. 'Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two...huh, one extra.' "Mam? Mam, you ol'igh'?" No reply, human or not. A smell hit his nostrils, a strong one. Rotting and sour. There was a faint buzz coming from the living room. He soon found out why. Obviously, Mam hadn't gone the same way as Brian. He hadn't really believed that the virus sweeping the nation was killing off the people who caught it but, there was evidence. His mother's slowly rotting corpse, flies droning around the open wound on her thigh. This time, with a loud heave, he threw up over the floor. That had really done it. He dragged himself to the kitchen, slumping over the table, trying to think straight. Which was hard, considering the morning he'd had so far. If there was anymore of those, those things around, he'd need to be prepared. And he had an idea of how. He could round up the whole gang, starting with his best mate Dylan Jones, who lived just down the road. They were unstoppable, five great, strong boys...unless he was the only one left. That was a thought, a horrible one. What if? 'Pull yerself tuhgether mun! They'll be alive!' He twirled the knife case slowly in his hands, then flicked up the blade, raising it in front of his face. He'd make it through this. A small, warm sensation started trickling down his nose and eye. "O-oh..." He hadn't realised how close he'd been holding it to his face. Well, not much anyway. The three scores across his forehead and nose - one small, one medium, one long and thin - were deep enough to scar in a few months. For him to remember. A stupid way, but it was his way. (AN - won't take credit for the plot point of adults being zombies. This is based on a rather awesome series called The Enemy by Charlie. So, yeah, this is semi-fanfiction but with characters and setting all of my own)