Friday – 10:05

George Macdonald shuffled slowly towards the window, his walking stick taking much of his weight. When his arthritis played up, moving was difficult. He certainly wouldn't be going out to the shops until this flare-up was over. When his bones were behaving themselves, the two flights of stairs between his floor and ground level didn't cause any problems. On a day like this he could probably still manage the trek down, but getting back up would currently be beyond him, even without carrying bags of shopping. That was OK, he didn't need to go anywhere soon. He knew his limitations and always made sure to have his cupboards well stocked with essentials. Especially tins of food, partly for him but mainly for his companions.

Reaching the window, he eased himself down into his favourite chair and placed the stick alongside. He adjusted his large, round glasses and looked down at the street down below.

Friends – when he still had any – had often asked why a man in his seventies chose to live in a flat several floors up from the main street. He was high enough up to make life difficult for himself, yet not high enough to avoid the noise of the people and the traffic. It seemed like he'd chosen the worst of both worlds.

There was a simple reason he stayed in this flat: he liked the view.

George had never been what would be called a 'people person'. Since his wife had died nine years ago, he'd seen even less reason for mixing with others. His only son lived overseas, and many of the few friends he once had were already dead. The rest he simply let go.

No, George didn't like getting involved with people. But watching them, that was a different matter. He found it endlessly fascinating to look down on the street and observe the random examples of humanity below. The fact that they didn't realise anyone was watching made it even more enjoyable. He couldn't understand why so many of the young ones felt the need to watch reality television when there was so much genuine reality available. He had a television, but only used it for movies. For everything else, the window was his preferred screen.

There was a gentle mewling from the floor by his side and George turned to see a cat staring up at him. Its shaggy white fur resembled his own hair, although his was far thinner.

"Ah, Mrs Jones!" he said. "There you are. Come on up."

People he could live without. But cats, they were different. Cats were his true friends.

Once, Mrs Jones would have leapt up without even needing permission, but now she was – in cat years – almost as old as him. So George reached down and lifted her gently onto his lap. She settled down and purred contentedly as he stroked her. He returned his view to the street below.

Over the years, George had learned a lot about people from his window seat. He had become something of an expert at interpreting their appearance and behaviour. At least, he thought he had. He rarely knew for sure if he was right. Not that it really mattered, the fun was in the observation and deduction. He'd read plenty of detective stories in his time, had admired and envied their heroes. Observing and analysing the world from his unseen vantage point made him feel as if he was one of them.

"Look at her," he said to an oblivious Mrs Jones. "That woman down there. Those clothes really aren't right for her. Too bright, too new for someone that age. They don't go with that hair or those glasses. She's trying to impress. Probably a younger guy. I reckon she's had a long and unhappy marriage and recently got up the courage to start seeing a lover on the side." Mrs Jones purred again as he tickled her behind the ears. "Yes," said George, "I thought you'd agree with me."

"Oh! Him again!" George's attention had moved to a young man walking with apparent casualness "Where's his mate? Ah yes..." He spotted the other man he was looking for, walking towards the first from the opposite direction. "Watch this, Mrs Jones. These two are good." As he spoke, he saw a quick hand signal pass between the two men. The first – apparently not watching where he was going – bumped into a woman. George knew what was happening and had a good angle of view, but even so he was only just able to spot the man's hand dart into the woman's shoulder bag and pull something out. As the man apologised, his associate came up behind them. Feigning a steadying gesture, the first man passed his prize to the second, who walked off leaving the thief clean. The victim smiled and continued on her way with no idea that she'd just been robbed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Nice," said George. "Very nice. I wish Mrs Smith had been here, she'd have enjoyed that. I wonder where she is?" He glanced up at the clock. "She's normally hungry again by now. Oh... look at that!"

He pointed to the end of the street, a gesture ignored by Mrs Jones. A man and a woman were staggering along the pavement, arms flapping limply. They seemed to pick one pedestrian and both moved towards him, but he simply stepped out of their way and walked on. Their heads snapped round and fixed on someone else, but again the target evaded them easily.

"What do you think about them, Mrs Jones?" George asked the cat. "Drunk? No, I don't think so either. We've seen a lot of drunks and they don't move like that. Are they ill? Both of them with the same sickness? That seems a little unlikely, doesn't it? They'd be in bed, either alone or together. Junkies? Maybe. This could be interesting let's look more closely."

He picked up a pair of small but powerful binoculars that he kept permanently on the windowsill. He brought them up to his eyes and scanned around to get a better view of the two uncoordinated walkers. With the help of the binoculars, he could now see that they both had grey, unhealthy looking skin. The man also had blood on his chin.

"Oh dear. Bleeding from the mouth. He really is very sick, isn't he, Mrs Jones?"

As George watched, the woman fixed her attention on a man who was standing looking into a shop window. She shuffled slowly towards his back. Perhaps the man heard a sound, or perhaps at the last second he saw a reflection in the glass, but for some reason he turned round as she reached him. He opened his eyes and said something whilst raising his arms as if telling the staggering woman to go away.

At which point her head darted forwards.

Her jaws clamped around the man's throat. George could tell from the victim's face that he let out a scream of surprise and pain. Blood began spurting out from the wound. The man reached up and tried to pull the attacker off, but the bite had been deep and the woman's teeth were firmly lodged in his flesh. She raised her hands and started clawing at his cheeks.

"Well I'll be blowed," said George. "That's no junkie, it's something else. Don't look, Mrs Jones."

Ignoring his advice to the cat, George kept his binoculars firmly fixed on the scene below. Other people in the street had been alerted to what was going on by the man's cry. A few quickly strode away, not wanting to be involved. Most stood and watched from a psychologically safe distance. Many had phones out; some were making calls, possibly to the police or ambulance service, but most were simply filming the attack.

As the man's struggles became more intense and the blood flowed more freely, two of the braver bystanders moved to his assistance. They grabbed the attacker, attempting to pull her off. However the second shambler had approached and it bit heavily into the arm of one of the would-be rescuers. He turned to try to defend himself, at which point his fellow have-a-go hero decided to run.

"This is bad," said George. "Very bad. We've never seen this sort of thing, have we, Mrs Jones?" He put down the binoculars and stroked the cat. "I wonder what's going on? Do you know what I think? I think it's zombies, just like in the films. Zombies! In Marrenforth! What fun."

He put the cat down on the floor gently. "I'd better check the door's locked properly. I do hope Mrs Smith's OK."

Supporting himself with his stick, he shuffled over to the main door of his apartment. Then he took his keys from his pocket and made sure that both the locks were in place. He also put on the security chain. Whilst he was doing this, he could hear some sort of commotion in the corridor outside. "No," he said to himself. "We're not getting involved."

Satisfied that the door was as secure as it could be, he returned to his window seat where Mrs Jones was still sitting on the floor. "It sounds like something's happening out there," he said. "So let's stay very quiet." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm really worried about Mrs Smith."

He sat still, listening carefully and wishing that his hearing was as good as it had once been. There was definitely something going on in the corridor outside. He heard what sounded like a struggle, cursing and banging. Then there was a scream.

The sounds outside the door came closer, then paused. There was a large thump which sounded to George as if someone had fallen to the floor. This was followed by a variety of moans and groans. And scratching.

Scratching at the door.

"Go away," George hissed. "Leave us alone."

The clawing sound grew louder, accompanied by light banging. George picked up his stick, the only weapon he had, and sat watching the door intently.

There was a movement. Not the whole door, just the panel at the bottom. The cat flap was gradually pushed open.

Through it came... a cat. A small, black cat that seemed to be having trouble finding its way through the amply sized opening. It scraped along the edge of the flap then almost fell into the room.

"Mrs Smith!" cried George. "It's you! Oh we're so glad you're ok, aren't we Mrs Jones? But you gave us quite a fright. You don't look well. And where's your collar? Come over here and let me take a look at you."

The black cat advanced towards George. Mrs Jones stood up and let out a ferocious hiss, then darted under the chair. As Mrs Smith approached, George could tell that something was terribly wrong with her. She was walking with difficulty, her steps slow and uneven. Although there was no visible damage to her legs, she seemed to lack coordination.

It wasn't until the cat was just a couple of feet away that George got a good view of her eyes. They were no longer their usual bright green but a sickly grey, streaked through with deep veins of red.

A dark trail of fresh blood pooled around her lips.

"Mrs Smith! No, not you. It can't be. Just stay there and I'll..."

George's voice trailed off as the cat snarled. It paused for a second, then leapt forward.

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