Jon Hollander lit the oil lamp and stood with his back to the window. The electricity supply had become erratic a month or so ago, and failed completely three, no make that four days ago.
It had all happened so swiftly. There was the “incident,” then came the “keep calm” announcements, followed by the run on the banks. People began to empty grocery shelves, and the mass exodus of the cities began, leading to overcrowded camps in the countryside, and shortages for those who couldn’t flee.
Now Hollander found himself holed up in a tenement block on the north side of the city. Twenty-three years being an enforcer for the “family” gave him a certain skill set which had helped him so far, but finding fresh water and sufficient food was not among his talents. He had always seen himself as “honorable” in that he never harmed anyone who had not been contracted, but things were bleaker now. He might, just might, have to use his talents to prey on the weak. Well, if the the “situation” didn’t get him first.
Bloody hell, he thought to himself. Who woulda ever thought that Zombies were an actual thing?
Hollander shoved the heavy couch in front of the door and cocked his Glock and laid it across his chest. Then leveling a shotgun across his lap towards the door, he opened a tin of baked beans and began to eat.