When the virus came and went, there were very few of us left.

The world had changed. Horribly so. And things could never go back to how they were.

Well over 99% of the world simply died when the virus hit. Some sort of super-flu, many of us now believe.

The affected would start with a sniffle. And a raging sore throat. Then the fever would set in. And their temperatures would increase rapidly until brains boiled dry and eye balls popped. The world was a dark symphony of screams, but after a fortnight, the deaths stopped abruptly.

At first we thought it was pure luck that we survived. We’d won some sort of genetic lottery.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Practically no-one under the age of 14 survived.

Very few fit-looking people survived.

Fewer people in countries with good healthcare survived.

People in lower-socioeconomic areas survived.

Even the ones who didn’t seem healthy. At all.

For a time, this remained a mystery.

Us survivors made do. We wandered, avoiding piles of bodies, just in case. Canned food, and bottled water were reasonably abundant at any corner store, or shopping mall, or gas station. And when things dried up, it was easy enough to simply roam to the next town. The new wars were a few years away.

It was after six months of drifting that it dawned on me: we all had some things in common… we were all smokers, and we were all drinkers. At first I assumed that the stress of plague had made many gravitate to vice. This was a known behavioural trait for many soldiers in combat zones. So I started asking around. Discreetly at first. Then more openly. Seemed as though we were all fairly committed smokers and drinkers before the virus levelled the earth.

Coincidence? You tell me.

When I first saw violence – I mean pure, unalloyed brutality – it was when we happened on a town full of skinnies. (I call them skinnies, because I don’t like to use the word zombies. Reminds me too much of watching innocent horror DVDs as a kid.)

Our scouting party had gone into the local supermarket to start collecting cans that were still within their used-by date. We were unarmed, of course… hard to believe that, looking back.

One of the team, Seth, had let out a scream of surprise, and some of us had piled into the market to help out.

We were confronted by a weedy looking man, who was just staring at Seth’s front pocket.

Seth wasn’t intimidated. Just stunned at the guy’s appearance.

“Hey buddy, what’s your name?”

Nothing.

“I’m Seth. Not here to hurt you, man.”

And BAM!

Survivor Man had leapt a Seth. Torn out his trachea. Waited for him to drop. Then extracted the packet from Seth’s front pocket.

He opened the pack, maintaining eye contact with us. We were too scared to move.

He started making a gesture with his thumb and forefinger.

Lighter.