The fog was thicker than I was planning on. The gravestones were softened into a blanket of white after just a few meters. The white/grey was suppressing the noise around me. I could only see about four meters before everything went hazy and then disappeared.

The weight of my gear is lighter than it once was. The combination of training and experience was paying dividends. But the dampness in the air added to the weight, in all not unexpected.

The weird collection of gear is always amusing to me and others who see me. The new lightweight riot gear mixed with combat armour has new composites improving it. The helmet is a standard Police riot helmet with an anti-fogging and moisture coating on the faceplate. It is covering my ears but not reducing my hearing further. The helmet has been designed to compensate for this.

A 41-inch Viking-style battle axe is gripped in my left hand and a 90cm steel banded oak round shield is strapped to my right arm. A gladius is strapped to my right hip and a flare gun is holstered to my left linked to a utility belt, all in standard Government matt black.

I move slowly, crouching regularly through the graveyard. My head is constantly swivelling around, scanning for threats. They are easy to miss in this environment until they are on top of you.

The air was cold and damp in the fog. Much colder than it should be on a June day. The sun was not making a dent in this fog. Moisture was clinging to everything. Easy to slip into this environment.

Before I continue my journey further into the graveyard, I see possible movement to my right. I stop crouched down, studying the area where I thought the movement was. Waiting.

There! After a few seconds, my patience was rewarded. A figure was just visible in the fog, maybe five meters away. I wait to study the figure for the tell-tale signs of a target.

The figure is not walking but is staggering, no lurching slowly forward parallel to my position. Yes, definitely a target. I wait for it to move further forwards so I can swing around behind it. The gravestones will help hide my movement.

I get up and move. Still partly crouching and my head swivelling to keep it in my eye line. I get into position. I don’t want to be ambushed while approaching the target. So, I take a good look around. I don’t think about what it is and think of them as targets. It passes me.

As I move upon it, the figure becomes more apparent as the fog recedes and I begin to smell it. The zombie is well into decomposition but is a man, about 5’7, in his funeral suit. Hard to tell the correct details. The smell of dampness and decay is never pleasant.

I stand up fully and begin to speed my advance on the target after scanning the area one last time. The fog and my attempts at stealth allow me to approach. As I get into striking range, the target stops, aware of something. This allows me to hammer the axe into its head. The blow cleaves right into the skull knocking the target forward. A freezing cold feeling sweeps through my body, trying to slow my movements and reactions.

Grave Chill.

Thankfully my adrenalin is pumping, negating the worst effects for the moment. The anger in my chest burns to life in response. Hate is a living thing there. I rip the axe back and quickly strike again. The back of the target’s head begins to collapse, but I still keep going. Gore splatters against my face shields but doesn’t block my vision. I keep going as the body collapses.

I stop when the head has been destroyed. Breathing heavily, I scan around, checking for threats. I begin to bring my breath under control and look at the target. The head was smashed entirely and was not moving. Destroyed. The Grave Chill, however, is still present. I feel a cold weight inside me, making me shiver even as I sweat from the exertion of the attack. It moves to counteract the rage that was once there and fading.

The world around me is greyer even with the fog, and the black cloud of depression hovers at the back of my mind. All of this was expected, but it is still unpleasant to endure the effects of the Chill.

My left side is spattered with more gore, but there is nothing to do about this at the moment. I hunch down and begin moving again. Hunting.

## ## ## ##

Sometime later, I don’t know how long I am standing over the sixth corpse I have smashed in the head. The adrenalin and rage of the violence I have unleashed are fading and the Grave Chill is reasserting itself. I have been steadily sweeping through this graveyard, avoiding the central crypt area for now.

All six targets were zombies, no skeleton undead, thankfully. Oh, and I am totally rocking the gore-spattered look.

I breathe, looking around, trying to push the Grave Chill effects back.

“Let’s do this.”

The first time I speak since entering the graveyard, I turn my attention to the path leading to the central area. As I advance with great caution, the fog grows even thicker. These conditions increase the danger of ambush.

Lesser undead is easy to eliminate when ambushed. But ambushing with numbers becomes extremely dangerous. The more undead in the “pack” attacking, the faster and more hostile they become. Individually they are like the walker zombies from the TV shows, but in groups of three or more, they are more like the infected from the film 28 Days later. Fast and aggressive. We lost many people just learning that. Oh, and Grave Chill comes as standard when fighting them. Lucky me!

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

So, I am paranoid about scanning for any threats, as moving to the crypts is my main objective. The reason I am here.

The wealthy families and former people of note buried here would never expect the area to become a haunt for the undead. It is easy to assume it was low on their list of possible events.

I move around the central area hunched, checking for any more undead. Today I am in luck as I find my objective with no more defenders.

Void Breach

Before me, the fog has formed a circle around a two-dimensional hairline crack in space. The crack is shimmering like a heat mirage. All of my instincts are telling me something is wrong and to run. But I do not. My anger rises, but I have learnt to keep it focused. Swapping my axe to my right hand, I reach down to my holster and pull out the flare gun. I am shaking slightly from the adrenaline leaving my system and the effects of the crack. Aiming up, I fire. The flare fires off with no issue. Soon a green glow is filtering through the fog.

Now to the waiting. I was ordered to guard the breach until the support team arrived to try to close it.

With me clearing the area, the undead will not rise/respawn/form for a few hours giving a window of opportunity. This breach zone has been cleared out a few times over the last year, meaning the undead amount was much lower than it could have been.

I stand around now waiting but still aware of threats that could appear at a moment's notice.

Boredom and stress warring within me as time wears on. The Chill makes everything more uncomfortable. Standing around near the breach is not good for one’s mental health.

I have no means of timekeeping as all technology unless heavily shielded, is useless in a breach zone. Again, I lament to myself the fact that firearms are also pretty much useless against the horrors that are found in the zones. After the American Military attempted mass zone clearances two years ago, no one was going to try that again. Massacre does not give what happened justice.

China and Russia are believed to have tried but are not talking to anyone much now.

God, the Chill is pushing the depression hard today. Focus, John, keep your head in the game. Eye on the prize. Eye on the prize. I repeat the mantra. I lift my faceplate and take a deep breath. Then gag. God, I stink bad.

The fog is a constant blanket of white, blocking my vision and suppressing sound.

Movement, I quickly prepare for threats. From the fog, I see figures approaching.

Then I see a red light on one of the lead figures looks like the support team’s advance members, but I do not drop my guard.

“Fire.” I call out.

“Homestead.” Came the muffled reply.

I move forward to meet the team. As I approach, we become clear to each other. The forward group of soldiers are similarly dressed and armed to me, but with red chemical glow sticks on their armour to help with identification and navigation.

As I come close enough to see their faces, I know the stress and fear they are trying to control. The zones affect the vast majority of people in three ways. First, they are broken by the feeling of wrongness each zone has when you approach or enter it. This means they run from it in animalistic fear or have a mental breakdown. The second reaction is that they can control the mental effects but are still not 100% functional. The soldiers and scientists approaching are of the second type. They will get the job done and will take time to recover from the zone. I make up the third type of reaction. A tiny percentage of the human population can resist the zone and the effects of the horrors within. It has been best described that this group is a container with a small hole in the bottom. The results are like water filling a container that drains very slowly. Once drained, we can go back into a zone. My hole is more considerable.

Overexposure to the zones or horrors influence has terrible side effects on everyone and must be avoided. A lesson learned at a high cost. Mental breakdowns that did not lead to murderous rampages were for the lucky ones.

The team arriving at the breach comprises six soldiers and two researchers pushing a large flatbed with the breach closer to it. The machine is an ugly sizeable rectangular box with a forward-facing tube attached to it. A ruggedised laptop is sitting on top, connected by cables and the thick main power cable is snaking away behind it all the way back to the forward operating base.

“We clear?” Questioned the team leader Sergeant Rickson. His nose wrinkled at my odour.

“Six Zombies down, no further hostiles found.” I reply.

Rickson nodes at this and turns to the team.

“All right, we are clear. Let’s get this done.”

The researchers need no more prompting and quickly get to work. The soldiers form a rough circle around the machine, facing out. All of us are ready for trouble.

I stand with them closest to the breach in case of the unforeseen.

The machine is warmed up and readied.

“All functional stand by…. triggering!” One of the researchers announced.

The machine began to make a whining sound at this and the breach began to react. The mirage optical effect increased, but after a minute, it was clear that the crack was slowly shrinking.

If I had missed any threats in this zone, now would be the time they would attack, protecting the breach. We were all tense waiting.

For nearly ten minutes, we waited until there was a popping sound in all our inner ears marking the breach closing and disappearing from view. At that moment, the zone effect on us vanished like a tap turned off. Leaving us all with the residue of the exposure. For me, the zone effect was fading quickly, leaving me with the Grave Chill, which would take time to get over.

Sergeant Rickson was the first to react.

“All right, people, let’s wrap this up and get out of here!” The fog was already beginning to be burned off by the sun.

We vacated the graveyard, slowly pushing the machine back along the pathway as the power cable had been disconnected and was being pulled back.

We made it to the entrance/exit of the graveyard without issue and, to the relief of all nine of us, got to see the sun again. By this time, the fog was gone and we could see all around us. Everything was wet and light steam rose from the surfaces as the sun began its work.

The forward operating base was a hive of activity of people celebrating our success. When we were spotted, we were welcomed. Our debriefs and first-stage medicals would happen, as well as the procedure demanded. This, however, lasted only a short time as the section leaders took control and began to move the operating base made of ten specially refitted eleven- and eighteen-ton lorries.

Captain McDonald led off sergeant Rickson and his soldiers, the researchers by the lead scientist Dr Gupta. I got Home Office civil servant Alexander Harley-Grenville the third. Yes, the third.

We do not like each other.