"Yes."

"Jesus."

"What happened?" I asked.

"They went after a thinker."

"Jesus," Tommy said again.

Now, as you know, most flesh-eaters are creatures of pure instinct, but a few of them, perhaps one in ten thousand, seem to possess a rudimentary intelligence of the sort that evolutionists are nowadays fond of comparing to tool-using chimps. The obvious absurdity of such comparisons notwithstanding, these 'thinkers' are an especially dangerous and highly prized quarry.

"Has anyone bagged it yet?" asked Jim. I guessed at once what he was thinking. So did Tommy.

"Forget it," he said. "We haven't got time to get down to the Southern Reserve."

"Yes we have, if we only spend a few days up here."

"But the hunting's better here."

"No it isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't."

"Give it a rest," I said. Franz barked as if in agreement and pressed his nose to the window, staring across a flat expanse of scrubland to the edge of a pine forest about 300 metres away. His ears were p.r.i.c.ked and his fur stood on end, which could only mean one thing.

Cutshaw stopped the Humvee, slid back a reinforced-steel panel in the roof and stood through it.

"Do you see anything?" I asked as he scoped the densely-packed trees.

"No, but there's something in there."

Cutshaw has the eyes of a hawk. Often when we're out hunting he'll point to what appears to me as a smudge of colour and say, "Target." But even his eyes are no match for Franz's nose.

"Let's bag it," Jim said eagerly.

Cutshaw shook his head. "I'll radio it in. We don't start until tomorrow."

Jim didn't argue-no one ever argues with Cutshaw-but I could tell he was disappointed. We all were. None of us had shot anything but tin cans and crows since the previous autumn. It'd been a long hard winter and we were ready to let off some steam. In another way, though, I was relieved. I used to know a pro-footballer who never pulled on his shirt until he was running onto the pitch. I'm a bit like that with hunting. There are certain rituals I like to perform before I go out. For instance, I always bring a bottle of single-malt whiskey with me to share round the campfire on the first night. Dad got me started on that one. I also get everyone in the party to kiss my rifle, which they're usually happy to do because they've just drunk my whiskey.

"Possible activity nine miles out from Pier 12. No confirmed sighting," Cutshaw mumbled into his radio as we pulled away. Franz settled back down on my lap. Forehead puckered, I stared at the dark band of woodland blanketing the hills to the south.

I glanced at Bob as the Humvee pa.s.sed a dirt-track that branched off the sealed-road, skirted the woods and ended at a derelict farmhouse. Behind the house a sandy trail was faintly visible rising into the forest. You have to be a brave man with a steady nerve to hunt there. Apart from flesh-eaters, hungry packs of wolves and bears roam in ever increasing numbers. Bob and me went up there once, against my dad's advice-he'd hunted there and knew how the wind moaning through the trees and bringing the shadows to life can play with your imagination. What he didn't tell us was how the mist can roll down off the hilltops so that before you know it you're groping along like a blind man.

I cringed inwardly at the memory of that day. From Bob's face it was plain he felt the same. Neither of us was yet ready to admit how close we'd come to losing it in those woods. It was only through dumb luck we got out of them alive.

"Hey didn't you guys hunt that trail a couple of seasons back?" said Tommy. A low grunt from Bob was the only response he received. "Man, you wouldn't get me up there for any money."

Sensing my unease, Franz lifted his head to look askance at me. I smiled at him, pushing my fingers through his fur.

It was late afternoon when we rolled into Camp 14. A gate made of platted iron slats slid back and a guard waved us through. We scanned the compound for a spot to pitch our tents. Luckily there were only a couple of other parties in.

As soon as the tents were pitched we got down to the serious business of sampling Bob's homebrew-an evil-smelling moonshine he called Skull Cracker. "What do you think?" he asked as I took a slug.

I nodded approval, trying not to choke. "It's smoother than the last batch."

"It's a new recipe."

I hadn't eaten since breakfast and the stuff made my head buzz like a swarm of bees. Jim tutted and chuckled. "I always suspected you were a lightweight, Mikey."

Bob nudged me, eyes wide with awe. "Over there," he said quietly as if he was in church.

A stone's throw to our left a skinny old guy with a straggly beard was crouched outside an old-fashioned Whelen lean-to tent struggling to open a tin of beans with a pocket-knife.

"Jesus," I murmured.

"Exactly."

"You think it's really him?"

"It's him alright."

"Do you reckon I should ask him if he wants to borrow our can-opener?"

Bob looked horrified at my suggestion. "That's Jesus Martinez. That guy's wasted more flesh-eaters than you've seen weekends."

Just in case you don't know, Jesus Martinez is only the greatest living hunter. A whole lifetime spent on the reserves (most people don't last more than a couple of years before their brain turns into jelly). More confirmed kills than every hunter I know put together. Always hunts alone. Just him and The Viola, his rifle-a weapon of near mythical status. A real living legend right there in front of us.

We reverently watched him labour at the tin. After a couple of minutes he threw it down. "Puta," he spat, glaring at the tin as if trying to bore a hole in it with his eyes.

I dug out the tin-opener and, despite Bob's protests, took it over to Jesus Martinez.

"Que chingados quieres?" muttered the old man without taking his eyes off the tin, which roughly translated means, What the f.u.c.k do you want? Whether this remark was aimed at the tin or me I wasn't sure, but I held out the tin-opener.

Jesus Martinez looked at me. I was struck by the blackness of his eyes. They were like a shark's eyes, absolutely unreadable. He accepted the tin-opener, levered the tin open and handed it back with a slight nod. I stood there awkwardly a moment, a starry-eyed idiot vainly trying to think of something to say, then turned and headed back across to the others.

"What did he say?" Bob asked eagerly.

"Nothing."

"Not even thanks?"

"He said thanks."

We sat down to a meal of bacon, eggs and beans, followed by tinned fruit in syrup-a real luxury in these times. Most of the talk concerned our plans for the following day. There was also much hushed speculation about what Jesus Martinez was doing here. As the sun went down, the midges started to bite and we retreated into our tents-Bob and me in one, Tommy and Jim in the other. Bob couldn't get over having seen Martinez in the flesh. He'd spent half his youth listening to tales of The Mexican's exploits. He said that for d.a.m.n sure he was going to speak to him in the morning. He was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. I heard him tossing-and-turning in his bag for hours. My own sleep was fitful and disturbed by ugly dreams. I didn't mind, though. I knew that tomorrow night with the first kill of the season under my belt I'd sleep like a baby.

Day Two.

Bob prodded me awake at first light. From the look of devastation on his face I knew Jesus Martinez was gone. "I can't believe I didn't speak to him," he said.

"Don't worry, you'll get another chance."

"No I won't." Bob got into his sleeping-bag and pulled it up over his head. After five minutes of silence I left the tent. I was surprised and a little concerned by Bob's reaction. He was usually so steady. I was supposed to be the emotional one.

It was a damp morning with a high, blue sky. I headed for the toilet-block. A guy about my age was stood outside it. "I see Martinez is gone," I said.

"Left an hour before daybreak."

"Do you know where he's headed?"

"South, I reckon."

"That figures."

After answering nature's call, I busied myself with making breakfast. Tommy poked his head out of the other tent, sniffing. He looked like he hadn't got much sleep either.

I handed him a mug of coffee. "Looks like it's gonna be a hot one."

"Hope so."

From inside the tent came a groan. Jim crawled into sight. He grunted at me before shuffling off to the toilet-block. I called to Bob that breakfast was ready and got no reply.

"What's up with him?" asked Tommy.

I shrugged. When Jim returned we ate a big breakfast. I didn't have much of an appet.i.te-I never do on the first morning of a hunt-but I forced myself to eat until I was full. I knew from past experience that Cutshaw would push us hard to see what sort of shape we were in.

Cutshaw was leant against the Humvee smoking a cigarette. I approached him and asked, "Have the spotters seen any activity?"

"Some."

"Where?"

"Colt Creek."

"How many?"

"Two."

"What type?"

"Stage three."

This news got my adrenaline pumping. As you probably know, zombies go through five stages of decomposition characterised by progressive physical degeneration. A stage one zombie is at the height of its physical powers. By stage three, with the onset of black putrefaction, the zombie's bloated body begins to deflate like a punctured tyre, fluids ooze out of its mouth and nostrils and its flesh takes on a creamy consistency. Also, the bones fuse giving the zombie its familiar stiff-limbed walk. A word of warning, though, stage three zombies may be slower on their feet than an arthritic old man, but they're as powerful as a grizzly and can bite through bone like it was b.u.t.ter.

Jim rubbed his hands together excitedly when I gave him the news. Tommy looked apprehensive. I ducked into the tent. Bob was rummaging through his kitbag.

"Everything alright?" I asked.

He nodded. I told him about the sighting. "We're heading out in ten."

Ten minutes later we were in the Humvee rumbling along Route 56 towards Colt Creek. Already you could see the heat shimmering on the unsealed road and the brushy meadows to either side. Tommy giggled at Jim's terrible jokes. Bob was silent. I sipped constantly at my canteen to stop from feeling like my mouth was full of cotton-wool.

Cutshaw pulled-up north of Colt Creek where we were downwind of our quarry-a zombie can smell living human flesh from up to several miles away depending on the wind's strength and direction.

We checked our weapons and got out of the Humvee. Franz was instantly alert, prowling forward, stiff-tailed, nose pressed to the dirt. Cutshaw followed him, slightly hunched over. We fanned out to either side of them.

I glanced at Bob and was relieved to see that he was totally focused. The hunt was on, nothing else mattered.

All around wildflowers were coming into bloom. The landscape was awash with purple thistles and bright yellow sundrops, with scattered patches of Virginia bluebells, Rocky Mountain beard tongue and red-pink creeping phlox. You could get drunk on the smell of it. The air hummed with bees.

A ring-necked pheasant rocketed up out of the gra.s.s. Jim squeezed off a short burst from his AK-47 and it fell from the sky with a thud.

"Jesus, Jim," hissed Tommy.

Jim stuffed the fat bird into his rucksack. "At least we won't go hungry tonight."

I laughed. Cutshaw didn't look amused, but then he never does.

We started up a long slope. By the time we were halfway up it I was wheezing like an asthmatic buffalo. Bob was only doing a little better. I could tell from Cutshaw's frequent glances that he was irritated by the amount of noise we were making, but so long as we were going after nothing worse than a stage three it wouldn't make any difference if we belted out a couple of verses of Jake Leg Blues. All zombies go deaf shortly after turning.

At the top of the slope Franz stopped suddenly, fur bristling.

Cutshaw dropped onto his belly, motioning for us to do likewise. About 300 metres away was a steep-banked creek. Cutshaw scoped it, then handed me the binoculars, saying, "In the water, beneath the river birch."

The zombie was standing waist-high in the stream. It was a stage five in about as advanced a state of necrosis as any I'd seen, a real ugly mother. Only a few tatters of putrefied skin still clung to its skull, its eyes had rotted away, most of its teeth were missing and it'd lost an arm.

"Who wants it?" asked Cutshaw after we'd all taken a turn with the binoculars.

"I'll take it," said Tommy, unslinging his rifle. There were no complaints. A stage five kill might be something to brag about when you're a novice hunter, but not when you're a veteran of seven seasons. What's more, this one probably didn't have more than a couple of months to go before the billions of microbes, maggots, flies, beetles and moths feeding on its mouldering body killed it off.

"I almost feel sorry for it," said Jim as Tommy sighted the flesh-eater.

There was a sharp crack and the zombie dropped back into the water. I watched it go over through my scope and knew it wouldn't get back up. We congratulated Tommy. It was a pretty good shot considering it was his first kill of the season. We took turns drinking from Bob's canteen while Cutshaw got on the radio to see if any of the spotters knew where the stage three had got to.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"It was seen an hour ago four miles south of here," answered Cutshaw, starting towards the creek.

The zombie was bobbing about in the water face down, flies swarming over it. Cutshaw cut a branch off the birch, hooked it through the zombie's tattered clothing and pulled it into the bank. Tommy and me dragged it out of the water, struggling to get a firm grip as it was slimy as a rotten fish. The stink was hard to take. All zombies smell bad, but when they're that far gone they have a smell that's difficult to describe. It's like a cross between rank cheese and raw sewerage, only much worse.

"How far gone do you reckon?" asked Tommy.

"Christ knows," I said. "It's probably older than us."

We washed our hands in the creek while Cutshaw doused the body in ethanol and set it alight. As smoke mushroomed into the sky, we made our way south. The sun felt hot enough to fry an egg.

We hiked alongside the creek for about two miles on an overgrown trail, then climbed a hill crowned by pine trees. We looked out over a broad, gra.s.sy country dotted with thickets of birch and ash. Cutshaw pointed at something I couldn't see. I squinted through my scope and spotted the stage three about three-quarters of a mile away, goose-stepping its way southward. I wanted it straight away. So did Bob.