You know when you see something happen and all of a sudden everything goes into slow motion? But, there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the impending doom you can see before you?

It was the sudden screech that made me lift my head. In front of me my mother was mid-speech, coffee cup in hand, the dainty coffee shop with its frilly white curtains, rustic wooden tables and little daffodils the perfect picture of serenity. Behind her, through the glass of the window, I watch a man bite into a woman’s neck. Pulling away and taking part of her with him. She twists, hits the window and falls to the ground. Leaving a smear of blood as she goes. I blink. I blink again. I blink a third time and look straight into the eyes of the man.

All hell breaks loose. The scrape of chairs and tables being pushed away in the desperate need to escape. Men climbing over women they’ve knocked over, women trying to pull their kids up out of the way of this sudden stampede. I grab my mother’s hand, we’re both still sat watching the scene as if we aren’t stars in this horror show.

Outside I see more people lunging at one another, biting, scratching, screeching. I pull my mother, through the backdoor into the kitchen. No point tackling the bloody barricade at the main entrance. I dance around the barista, he’s shouting expletives at us, his headphones indicating that he’s not fully aware of the chaos outside. I shout at him to follow us, and at the last minute, I grab a knife from the stand.

I kick open the fire escape door and we’re out into a backstreet.

‘We need to get home.’ I say, stating the obvious. But the word ‘home’ seems to bring my mother back to her senses. I notice she’s still holding her coffee mug. Her hand slips out of mine and she darts forward, straight into the chest of a woman. A woman who’s arm is hanging on by what looks like a few tendons and little remaining skin. I’m frozen in place as I watch my mother fall to the floor, her stomach ripped open in one swift motion as this ravenous, one-armed women begins to suck the life out of her.

The barista reaches out and slowly puts his hand over my mouth.

‘Please don’t scream.’ He pleads quietly. The desperation in his tone helps me understand that screaming wouldn’t do anything to avenge my mother’s imminent death and would only condemn me to mine. He pulls me backwards, away from the last quiet gargles of my mother and towards what I hope is somewhere safe that I can scream, cry and lose any remaining clutch on reality.

Around us there are screams, sirens, some kind of explosions. Gun shots? In England?

I look at him and realise that we’re going to have to wait this one out. We’re cornered.