"Helllllo everybody! You're listening to Henley FM, the last surviving public broadcasting station south of the river Thames! I'm you're host Alan, and boy have I got news for you today! We've got word that Prime Minister Dickie has finally got out of his little government hidey-hole. Yeah, that's right! Our lovely PM has decided that he'll finally grace the unwashed masses with his presence! Listeners near London might like to take a look around the capital for any armed convoys, awaiting his arrival, In Other news, we-"

In place of Alan's cheery commentary; static sounded across the halls of Our Lady In Hastings Church.

At the altar sat a scrawny man, clad in faded grey overalls and a navy button up shirt, currently eat fiddling with the shortwave radio's little crank. A small laminated badge said, in big bold capitals:

HI, MY NAME IS CLARK. Stuck to his chest.

Clark didn't seen very happy with things at the moment. As a matter of fact, he was considering smashing the damned thing with a wrench. Anything to relieve him of the mindbending tedium of the day. But Father Nicholas wouldn't be quite happy about their only connection to the outside world being cut, even if it was only Alan and his broadcast.

Clark thought it was about as informative as listening to a tabloid. Or reading the Guardian to get an idea of who he should vote for. But then again, tabloid or not, it was better than nothing. The weather forecasts were sort of accurate- even if they were a spur of the moment affair- spontaneous claims of "rain tomorrow morning, you can trust me on that" becoming the norm. Clark only really listened to it because he had to, Father Nicholas had it on practically day and night- it was mandatory listening at this point. But he supposed there were worse things to listen to by far- case and point, the poor sod getting attacked outside, just beyond the church fences. It was like the average human only had three things they could say when they were attacked- be it by a Blighter, or just another human. The guy outside was currently cycling through all three. First came the shrill screaming, that Clark had gotten so used to these past 2 years. Then came

"Ahhhhh! Help, help!"

A family favourite, by no stretch of the imagination. Last, but certainly not least was the even shriller

"Oh my god, ahhhhhh!"

Clark could only shake his head, fighting back a smile. He knew fall well that Father Nicholas could hear it as well, and how that last one would set him e off. As if on cue, a booming, yet wizened voice, croaky with age, cried out: "Can you believe these people, Clark? Taking the name of the good lord in vain with their dying breaths, after neglecting his grace for their whole lives? It's ridiculous, I tell you. Ridiculous!"

"Isn't that the truth.. at least we know better than those sinners, eh?" Clark replied, barely biting back a laugh.

"Yes, but if only they knew as well as we do."

"Fair enough... but that's what the church is for, isn't it?"

"That's what the Word of God is for. This Church is simply his house, from where we can learn his Word."

"Meh,.y'know what I mean."

With a satisfying click of the radio's crank, garbled static gave way to Alan's too-cheery drivel. Clark set it down om the altar floor, rising from where he was sat. It was nearing noon, his favourite time of day. He grabbed is toolbox with a clank, and set about his daily climb up to the bell of the church without a word to Father Nicholas. It was a lengthy climb, but one hat was so worthwhile, one of the only things Clark did that was consistently so. Simply put, the view was stunning. Like nothing else he had ever quite seen, even from before the Blighters, with their bloodlust and pallid grey skin bought about what Nicholas called "the devil's work!"

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

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Stationed at the peak of the hilly terrain surrounding Hastings's seaside, the Church already had a high vantage point over the whole town. Combined with the readily accessible bell tower, and it only got better. It was where Clark was sat now, using a pair of binoculars he had nicked off some poor sod at the beginning of the "devils work", prying it out of the guy's still-warm dead hands. Outbreak

He wasn't sorry in the slightest for taking them, despite saying as much to Father Nicholas. They must have been military grade or something, because he could zoom in on even the smallest thing and get a decent look at it, whether that be some random survivor stumbling across the shore, or the Blighter pursuing them. He could see the large swathes of green growing on the seaside arcades, and the flotsam washing up ashore. Occasionally he might catch a glimpse of some boat drifting past it was always the same one, a little trawler that looked indigenous to the 50's, the captain of which had never shown their face. He could see the odd well-lit building, and the ones set aflame by marauding nomads.

Sometimes those buildings could be well-lit one day, the next be ablaze. It was a fun little pattern, that he quite enjoyed observing. What he didn't enjoy observing was the billboards of the Prime Minister all over the place. He was a stocky, well-built man who bore a striking resemblance to Clark himself which Father Nicholas had picked up on immediately upon first meeting him. There was a reason Clark Maxwell hadn't told Nicholas his last name, or anyone for that matter. After all, telling someone you're related to Prime Minister Richard Maxwell after the fall of civilisation sounds like a terribly easy way to get kidnapped, held for ransom, or just flat out murdered, likely in that order.

Hence why he had so desperately wished that someone would throw a Molotov cocktail at those billboards. It was one thing to hear about his brother one the radio, but to see his big grin plastered across every street in Hastings was entirely unbearable.

Just being related to Richard was unbearable. Questions like "How come you're only an electrician "were slung at him all the time, to the point where he was relived when the Blighters finally crawled out of the woodwork. They were what the films would have you call a zombie- but smarter. Slightly. Some of them were still just moaning idiots, but others were stronger, or smarter. They were rare, thank God, but Clark was admittedly shaken when he heard that some Blighters were capable of speaking, even opening doors. But at least those ones returned their human shape.

Some looked more like pale imitations of humans- exaggerated features bordering on that uncanny valley, yet still animalistic enough to look naturally frightening. Clark had been lucky enough to not have seen one himself, but Father Nicholas had. In the little room he had converted into a study, the priest had drawn and compiled anatomical texts of the different sort of Blighters, with-an composed entirely by himself, with detailed sketches to boot. On occasion Clark had consulted them, just so he could get an idea ar to what lurked beyond the cast-iron church fences.

He remembered reading a book by a Chinese fellow- he could only remember or quote from it, but it was useful advice nonetheless- "Know thine enemy" Practical, and good sounding. He hoped he wouldn't have to act upon it.