Friday 15:00 - Mark

"Spare some change, pal?" Mark held out his hand, looking up from the pavement at the figure passing by. He didn't really expect an answer. Most people didn't even look at him, they tried their hardest to pretend he wasn't there. Occasionally someone would give an embarrassed shake of the head and mumble "Sorry", usually they just ignored him.

Mark scratched his ragged stubble – he shaved once or twice a week at a hostel – and reached down for the drink can on the pavement next to him, only to find it empty. So instead he pulled the stinking blanket tighter round his knees. There was never a good time of year to be on the streets, but December was worse than most. Especially when you spent the day sitting in one place. The begging lifestyle – if you could call it a life – hit the body hard. Mark was 43 years old but last time he'd looked in a mirror the unhealthy face staring back had seemed at least twenty years older.

This was a relatively good spot for begging, one of his favourite pitches. He didn't get much money here, but he rarely got kicked or spat on. And there were no restaurants or burger places nearby. The smell of hot food could be a soul killer when you were hungry, your last meal having been half a sandwich that somebody had dropped.

"Spare some change, lady?" Again he was ignored. When he'd first started begging, that had annoyed him. Sometimes he'd shout at them, demand they recognise him as a fellow human being. After a few visits from the local police he'd realised that it was best just to stay quiet and accept his status as a non-person.

Mark shivered. It was cold, colder than it should be for early December. The chill seemed to be getting through to his bones. Some of his fellow homeless tried to stave off the cold and the misery with booze, but Mark avoided that trap. The empty can next to him had originally contained a fruit flavoured sugary soft drink. No alcohol, that had done far too much damage already. Drinking had lost him his job, so he'd started drinking more. Then he'd lost his wife and his home and ended up on the streets. So he drank even more and several months of his life were missing from his memory. Then one day he'd woken up in a hostel, still drunk, and decided that enough was enough.

He hadn't had a drop of alcohol since that day three months ago. He wasn't going to let the booze destroy what little was left of his life. One day he'd climb out of this hole, all he had to do until then was survive.

He took the few small pleasures he could in his situation. Realising that people just ignored him he started to play games. Instead of saying "Spare some change?" to a passerby, he'd mumble "Beware the trains" or "Home on the range?". Then for the rest of the day he'd smile at the idea that this was probably worrying away in their brains as they tried to decide whether or not they'd really heard him say that. It was a small, petty pleasure but it helped him get through an otherwise unbearable existence. Somehow, he would manage to bounce back.

At least that was the way he felt on a good day. But the good days were becoming increasingly rare. No money meant no clean clothes which meant no job which meant no money. He was trapped in a downward spiral from which escape was looking ever less likely. On the bad days it took all his willpower not to give in. Not to spend his few coins on a bottle of cheap, strong cider and dive back into welcome oblivion.

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Today was not a good day. He could kill for a drink.

"Spare some..." Mark stopped part way through the question. Why were people running? He looked to the right, in the direction they were heading. What was going on down there? Had someone famous arrived? Was there some free entertainment? Not that he could see. In fact the people in the crowd didn't seem to running towards anything in particular. They seemed to be running from something.

He thought about holding up his arm to shield himself from the forest of legs, but none of them were coming close. Even when running, people still instinctively avoided him. Tripping over his seated body would not only slow them down but force them to admit he existed.

Unable to work out what the fuss was about, Mark turned the other way and looked to his left. As more of the stampeding crowd went past, he got to see what they were running from. Behind them was a small group of maybe a dozen shambling figures. Their clothes were torn and their eyes blank. Many of them had blood on their faces and some seemed to be carrying joints of meat from which they took frequent bites.

Mark laughed.

This was too rich. Stupid bloody tourists, scared of fake monsters. This was probably some brainless reality TV show. Actually, it was more likely to be some pretentious attempt at "performance art" by the students at the local college. They did a lot of stuff like this.

Except... it did look very real. Too real for students. And from what he remembered of reality TV shows, they rarely had much of a budget either. Certainly not enough for an impressive display like this in a public place. The insurance cost alone would have been astronomical.

The monsters were close now and they certainly looked realistic. As Mark watched, a running woman tripped and fell. Two of the shambling figures reached down. They grabbed an arm each and lifted her up. Then they sank their teeth into each side of her neck, ripping out chunks of flesh. Blood spurted out from vicious wounds and Mark could make out the woman's screams over the general sound of panic. Another creature joined in the attack; this one began chewing at her leg.

The others carried on their slow walk along the street. Towards Mark.

Shit. This was real. The fucking monsters were real. They were fucking eating people! And they'd be on top of him in a few seconds.

Mark knew he had to run. Now. If he didn't, he'd be dead. The monsters – the zombies, he corrected himself – would eat him.

He started to move, tried to stand. His legs had become cramped from sitting in one position and by the time he got himself upright the creatures were almost on him.

Life on the street had left him malnourished and unfit. If he tried to run, he'd probably trip over the way the woman had. Then the zombies would pounce on him. He didn't want to go like that, down on the ground. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it standing and facing his death like a man.

Mark stood still and smiled. The monsters were alongside him now. He knew he should be very, very quiet and hope not to be noticed. Instead he began giggling. He couldn't help himself. Overcome by a fit of hysteria, he held out his hand.

"Share some brains, pal?" he asked of the rotting corpse closest to him.

The creature moved over in his direction. Its bloodstained mouth opened. Slowly it moved its head down towards Mark. Prepared to rip out his throat. Mark's temporary madness passed and in its place he felt a surprising calmness. He stiffened, ready to die.

Then the creature stopped. A look of puzzlement came over what was left of its face. It sniffed the air a little, then it turned and walked away. Its fellows all walked past without a glance in Mark's direction.

Oh for fuck's sake. Now even the monsters were ignoring him.

Mark began to cry.

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