The silence of no life was almost deafening.
London had become a dark and eerie place since the city had been overrun by flesh eating corpses. Those who were lucky enough to still be alive found comfort in the colourful and vibrant shops of Brick Lane. Most of the buildings there were also well on their way to becoming derelict; houses of death itself. Graffiti and torn illegible posters covered what once were shop fronts. Windows smashed in from looters as they fled from the encroaching ‘walkers’, their webbed cracks a new home for spiders.
Amid the chaotic outside world stands the orange store on the corner. Inside this orange store, a group of survivors had barricaded themselves in. The happy colour of its exterior acting as the antithesis of its new tenants’ mood. The floor was strewn with tinned food, empty water bottles, dried blood that stuck to their shoes. They’d already ran out of bread, they’d stolen it from the local bakery just a short distance away.
Gangs of the living had been heard to have formed in other parts of London; taking the law into their own hands – enjoying a newfound anarchy. Whilst the Walking Dead had been the problem, the living were becoming a much bigger one – what is yours become their’s, and there is no way to fight against them. One question remains however, to those hiding in the orange shop on Brick Lane. How long will this remain a safe place? How long will we last?