Nothing beats waking up in your own bed. Okay, technically this isn’t my bed or even my house, but I’ve been living here for about a year and no one minds. And of course waking up means you actually made it through the night to fight for survival another day. And these days surviving literally is a war.

Who would ever have thought things would go downhill so fast. We’re not talking about some distant future with hover mobiles and food in capsule form, although that would have made things a lot different. It is 2013. No, the world did not end as the Mayans predicted, but some people definitely would have preferred that. People have become divided – not along religion, race or sexual preference – into two sides: the ones resisting the change, and the ones swept up by the change and fighting to survive this new order. Or disorder, depending on which side of the fight you’re on.

What caused the war? A virus. It’s always a virus, isn’t it? It has caused a mutation among infected individuals. It is not airborne or terminal, unless you are discovered by the ‘patriots’, but it has lead to food shortages as people who are infected live strictly carnivorous. Unfortunately there’s only so much meat to go around, and at some point the hunters became the hunted and from there it just went from bad to worse.

But enough about all that. Even in the chaos that is modern day living there are little glimmers of hope. Like love. Or at least I think this is love. As someone who is infected, one can question whether I’m able to feel love, know the difference between good and evil or have a soul. The daily struggle is made worthwhile for me by my neighbour, Ila. I don’t think she knows I’m infected. Unlike the others I shower daily, brush my teeth twice a day and bother about the upkeep of my garden. It also counts in my favour that Ila is a little scatter brained. Mmm... Sorry, got side-tracked for a moment. She sometimes forgets to buy groceries. For her benefit I stock things like seasonal fruit, tofu and vegetables in the fridge in the kitchen. My personal groceries are kept in a separate fridge lest she be grossed out. I know; secrets and omissions are the basis for assembling a disaster rather than building a relationship, but if she gets to know the er, person I am, she might be able to see past my infection.

This morning’s newspaper headline is warning the non-infected about the food shortage among the infected race and telling them to ‘stick together’.  Like that would save them.

“Morning Eric!” Ila managed to sneak up while I was fantasising about, well, never mind all that, she’s standing behind me now.

“Hey!” I smile nervously.

“Did you see the news?” She nods toward the paper in my hand.

“Yeah.” Okay, so I’m not a great conversationalist.

“It’s scary. I’m thinking of moving to the community at Church Square. Don’t feel so safe on my own anymore. I love my home, but having a rock garden is not worth the risk of becoming some... thing’s dinner.”

“That is a pretty awesome rock garden.” Dude, not the point! “Ah, maybe it’s just fear-mongering. You know papers will say anything for greater sales and circulation figures.”

“I don’t know. Those things have been running out of food for a while now. I hear they’ve started turning on each other and eating their own kind!” Her lip curls in distaste and I realise I’m mimicking her. Not because I’m freaked out by the idea, but because I’ve been in a situation where I’ve had a taste of my own kind, I know that it’s something that only happens in extreme situations. We don’t taste too great; like something chewy way too close to its sell-by date. And it’s true, the food scarcity has been on the increase the last two months.

“Uhm, maybe you could move into my guestroom, we can watch out for each other, you can tend to your rock garden every day, still have your own space during the day at your house.”

She thinks about this for a minute. “Maybe we could take turns sleeping in each others’ guestrooms? That way there won’t be any major changes for either of us and we can back each other up.”

“Sure!” It’s a start, and a much easier one than I expected.

“Cool,” she beams at me. “I’ll be around at six. Should I eat at home first, or will we make dinner together?”

Fuck. Of course meal times would be interesting if shared, but I don’t think we’re quite ready for that. How to put this delicately though?

“You could make dinner here or eat at home. I’m following this new celebrity diet that forbids me to eat anything after five pm,” I stutter. She cocks an eyebrow and employs elevator eyes. I feel heat rising as I blush – yes, we can still do that. “Keeping a six-pack from becoming a keg is hard work!” I pat my stomach and smile as broadly as I can.

“Okay,” she shrugs. “I’ll eat at home. Don’t want to tempt you with my ratatouille.” Did she just wink at me?

I chuckle. “See you later then. Have a good day.” I suppress the urge to do an air-punch as she strolls back to her place. I’m suddenly reminded of an old animated film. ‘Just smile and wave.’ Which is exactly what I do.

The day passes in a blur of spring cleaning the guestroom, getting flowers for her night stand and stocking the ‘human’ fridge with human consumables. By the time I’m done I realise it is past five already, and unless I want to go to bed starving, which is never a good idea when you’re infected, I’d better eat something quick before my guest arrives for our first sleepover. Fortunately I don’t have to bother with cooking. I head around to the garage where I keep the fridge with my personal provisions.

After a mediocre meal I return through the kitchen, glancing at the clock above the stove. Ten minutes until my guest arrives. Just enough time to clean up. Except when I look down she’s standing in front of me with a steaming Tupperware dish. And then the smile drains from her face.

“Oh my god! Have you been attacked? Are you okay?” She drops the dish on the tiles. I quickly cover my mouth, but it’s too late. Ila isn’t so scatter-brained after all. Slowly she backs away toward the front door. “You’re one of them!” I flinch at the way she spits out the last word.

“Yes,” I confess. “I am, but you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“So that’s why you wanted me to move in with you? To feed on my brain?!” She’s being completely hysterical now, and I tell her so.

“Brains are considered a delicacy. However, consuming that first usually leads to more people being turned into zombies. It’s such a fabulously rich dish that it’s impossible to eat more than that, and most zombies can’t resist eating them until last. That’s what caused the population explosion. But just so you know, we eat other body parts too.” I hadn’t realised that I’d been walking towards her while speaking, and she, sensibly, backed away. Except now she was backed into a corner. This wasn’t quite my intention.

“I love you Ila,” I blurt out.

“Go to hell you fucking freak!” Not quite the reaction I was looking for. We don’t react well to being called names. The disgusted look on her face tells me everything I need to know; everything that determines our future: we have no future together. Even if I ate her brain and turned her, she would never love me like I love her. I cannot eat this woman’s brain. Not yet. My hand shoots out toward her chest, and before she can try to stop me, I’ve ripped out her still-beating heart and we both stare at it.

“You’ve broken my heart, Ila. I need a new, whole one now.” I watch the life drain from her eyes and take a hearty bite from the now still organ in my hand. Now I can throw away all that crap in the ‘human’ fridge and have space to keep her body. It should last me a good couple of months. I burst out laughing. Tomorrow I’ll have brains for breakfast.  Brains kept overnight in my human fridge.