James looked across the row of gardens. They were a mess, with fences torn down, plant beds overflowing with weeds, and grass rising as high as his knees. This was a problem, because to James they represented mini-jungles that were full of hiding places for the dead men to hide. He'd seen many people go that way, dragged by an unseen hand from under a car, or bitten by a set of teeth waiting behind a tree stump. But he had no choice. A dozen of the things had followed him since he left his safe spot in the loft of Old Man Cowskie's house, down the end of the street. He'd tried to be subtle and stealthy about it, but the dead men noticed him anyway. They were slow though, real slow - so long as he kept going, he'd be okay. The problem was, the further he moved down the street, the more he encountered blocking his way. Turning off from the path, and into a garden, seemed like the best way to lose them. Now he wasn't so sure. At least if he tried to run through his pursuers, he had a good chance at outrunning them. With the gardens on the other hand, he might not see a hidden danger until it was too late. He became hesitant. He closed his eyes, as he often did in these situations, and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He opened his eyes, and was blessed with a calm but certain sense of direction. He couldn't go back, because though he could out run the dead, he'd draw more to him as he went, until eventually he'd have hundreds chasing after him. Eventually he'd have to stop, and then would find himself surrounded, no matter where he sought to hide. No. It had to be the gardens. Stepping over the low-lying picket fence, he entered the first of them. Immediately his feet landed on something hard, hidden in the grass. He took a step back, peered down and saw that it was a small fire truck. He couldn't remember the children who had lived here, and he didn't want to. He just hoped they were okay. Then there was a thump, off to James' right. He turned and raised the tyre iron, but wavered briefly. Sure enough, a small child, about six years old perhaps, in faded and tattered clothes stumbled towards him from an open patio. "Jesus," James uttered. He hadn't killed any dead men yet, and the prospect of striking down a dead child was somehow inconceivable. He moved on, vaulting a chest-height chain-linked fence and tumbled into the next garden. A barbecue sat in the middle of it, fighting back the weeds and the rust. James looked around, and noticed loads of picnic chairs that had been tossed and turned - and then he saw the pools of weeks old blood. Something bad had happened here, and he didn't want to find out what. He looked up ahead, and sized up the thick hedge that formed his next barrier.