When the dead rose, everyone panicked, well almost everyone.
Not us, we had waited for this, we were prepared.
All those weekends of camping, the survival manuals, the episodes of Bear Grylls. We knew how to survive in the wild anywhere in the world for months at a time.
As soon as they confirmed the first case, some chump in Chicago who had a heart attack then spent three days in the morgue before he was found still "alive".
We knew the end of the world was nigh and survival of the fittest was the order of the day.
We packed up the truck and headed to hills.
And there we stayed, living off the land, sleeping under the stars.
And then it all went wrong.
We were out, miles away from camp, in a field digging some potatoes when we saw our first ever Zed.
Shambling along after some poor old sap. We did the decent thing and ran to help, putting our own lives in jeopardy to save a fellow human being.
As soon as we were in range Darth drew his bow and lined up a shot. The arrow sailed through the air and sank into its throat. It fell to its knees, claret spraying like a fountain from where Darth tagged it.
A head shot would have been better but after six months of shooting rabbits, sheep and Deer he did alright.
I sprinted to where it was thrashing about on the floor to finish it off with my trusty crow bar.
It was then the farmer started screaming, what the hell we were doing to his wife? What we were doing on his land? Was it us who had been killing his sheep?
It was then I stopped hitting his wife and he filled us in on what we had missed.
How the end of the world hadn't quite panned out how we thought it would, how people aren't really dying any more but life is carrying on.
He's telling us all this while what's left of his wife is trying to get to her feet, the arrow sticking out of her neck, trying to pick up what's left of her head, trying to put humpty together again.
I'm trying not to stare, trying not to heave when the farmer tells us to leave him be, to get back home, that the world hasn't ended after all.
He turns his back on us, takes hold of his wife's hand, tells her everything is going to be alright and leads her back off the way they came, away from us and the mess we have made.
Me and Darth just sort of look at each other, neither of us knowing what to say.
We trudge back to camp, pack up what we have called home for the last six months and head back to civilisation.
Back to normality.
Back to mundanity.