The young man stood by the picnic table, watching the approaching figure.  He was about a hundred metres away, and drawing nearer with every step.
    "How are you doing there, Joe?" he called, casting a glance over his shoulder.
    A second man sat on the ground by the side of their car - a metallic blue Sierra.  The car was jacked up, with the driver's side front wheel lying shredded a few feet away.  He reached for the spare which he'd already hauled from the boot.
    "A few more minutes... I just hope that these damned nuts go back on easier than they came off."
    "Well hurry it up, this one's getting close," the first man replied.
    Joe looked up.  "Nah! He's miles away yet."
    The first man responded with an indecipherable grunt.  He unzipped his jacket, revealing the handle of a revolver sticking from his belt.
    "You remember that I've only got one bullet left, don't you," he said, carefully withdrawing the gun.  "After that, we'll have to club 'em to death with that useless shotgun you brought along."
    "Hey! How was I to know my dad never bought any cartridges for it," said Joe.  "Besides, it's going to be easier to find some cartridges for that, than it will be to find bullets for that antique you're carrying."
    "I'll have you know," the other replied, facing his companion, "that this gun used to be my granddad's, and it's as reliable now as it was the day he was given it."
    "I thought you said he nicked it from a dead officer?"
    "He did, but he fought in the war just like everyone else - he earned that gun."
    "Hey, Tom! Your friend's getting close," Joe pointed to the approaching figure.
    Tom turned around.  It was less than thirty metres away now.
    "Damn!  They're getting quicker," he said raising his pistol.  He closed one eye, then stretched out his arm, taking aim.  "Why can't they just stay dead."
    Tom could see the thing more clearly now.  It was male, about the same height and build as himself, it's face was ghostly white, and it's clothes and skin were soiled with dirt.  He noticed the stain of dried blood on it's hands and around it's mouth.  This one had already fed on some poor bugger, he thought, squeezing the trigger.
    BANG!
    The bullet hit just above the thing's right eye.  It fell to the ground almost immediately.
    "Right, you better hurry up," said Tom.  "If there are any more of them nearby, they'll be coming for us now."
    "Nearly done," said Joe, screwing the wheel nuts in place.  He tightened them as best he could by hand then picked up his spanner to finish the job.
    Tom slid the empty revolver back into his belt.  In the distance, three more figures had appeared.
    "That's it!" Joe announced, getting up off the ground.  He walked around to the back of the car and threw the spanner into the boot before closing it.  "We'll need to pick up a new spare when we have the time."
    The two men got in the front of the car, Joe in the driver's seat.  He started the engine.
    "So, where do we go from here?" Tom asked.
    "I've already thought about that," the other replied.  "There's this little place called Mill Chapel, about two-hundred miles from here, and there's this old vicarage there that's built like a fort.  My uncle was on a job down there, helping to restore the place so they could sell it."
    "Well, Mill Chapel it is then, but we'll have to stop off for some fuel if there's any left," said Tom.  "Maybe we'll come across a farm house or something on the way, and find some cartridges for your shotgun."
    "Hm, and maybe we'll find a museum and pick up some bullets for your pistol as well," Joe replied with a smirk.
    There was a screeching of tyres as the car sped off.

    About an hour later, the car was cruising casually along the motorway.  The petrol gauge was on the dangerous end of the red.
    "Look, there's a garage over there!" said Tom, pointing to a service station in the distance, almost poking Joe in the face.
    "Yeah, I see it!" Joe answered.
    "Oh, damn!" Tom continued, disappointment evident in his voice.  "The place is crawling with those things."
    The car pulled up at the side of the road, where it was hidden from view by an embankment.  Joe switched the engine off and opened his door.
    "What are you doing?" said Tom, sharply.
    "Well, we need some fuel don't we?" the other replied, "and we're not going anywhere else without some."
    "So?" asked Tom.
    "So we grab some tools from the back and we kill a few of those suckers, then, when there aren't so many of them left, we'll come back and get the car and drive her to the pumps."
    "You're mad!" said Tom.
    "Well, it's either that, or we walk from here on."
    "Oh, hell!" Tom exclaimed.  "Okay then, but I'm having the crowbar."
    The two men got out of the car and walked around to the boot, where Joe opened it quietly.  Inside there was Joe's shotgun, a metal tool box, a jack, a wrench, a first-aid kit, and a crowbar.
    Tom grabbed the crowbar.  "I still think this is insane," he said.
    "It won't be so bad," said Joe, as he reached into the tool box and pulled out a long screwdriver and a claw-hammer.  "They're pretty spaced out around the edges, so we should be able to take them out one at a time without too many problems."
    "You'd better be right, 'cos if those things kill me, I'll be coming back for you."

    The forecourt was like a scene from a George Romero movie.  The undead where just wandering around aimlessly, moving back and forth between the pumps, the shop, and a few abandoned cars.
    Like Joe had said, they were well spaced out, except for the half-dozen lurking around the pumps.  The two men emerged from behind the embankment, staying low to the ground to avoid detection.  Using the abandoned cars as cover, they took an indirect route to the opposite side of the service station, never staying in one place for too long.
    A few minutes later they reached the rear of the building.  They both stood with their backs pressed firmly against the wall, breathing heavily.
    The rear of the building backed onto an open field with a line of trees across the far side.  A wooden partition formed a windbreak around the entrance to the toilet, and a little further along, a couple of steps led up to the back door.  Two wheelie-bins had been knocked over and now lay on their side, the contents strewn across the path, being blown in circles by the breeze.
    "So far so good!" said Joe.
    "Shh!" gasped Tom, slapping his hand to his friend's mouth.
    A shuffling sound came from just around the corner.  The two men went rigid.  Tom began to tremble.
    They waited for what seemed like ages before the creature that used to be a man - in fact, by the look of his clothes, used to be the garage attendant - finally turned the corner.  It spotted the men immediately and stretched out it's arms, ambling it's way  towards them.
    Tom's eyes opened wide in stark terror.
    Joe rushed forward to meet it, thrusting his left arm out in front of him, jabbing the thing in the neck with the screwdriver.  The creature almost fell backwards.  A gurgling noise rose from it's throat, then a torrent of blood began to flow from its mouth.  It started to grasp at Joe's arm.  The young man raised the claw-hammer and swung it into the creature's temple.  There was a sickening crunch as the tool smashed through its skull and into its brain.  He quickly withdrew the makeshift weapons from the things body.  It stood for a few seconds with its limbs jerking like a string puppet before dropping to its knees, and finally falling face first to the ground... its body still twitching.
    "I think I'm gonna be sick!" groaned Tom, his face as pale as a sheet.
    "Pull yourself together, man," Joe snapped.  "This is how the world has gone.  It's either kill or be killed.  Now, I don't know about you, but I don't fancy being eaten alive by those things."
    "I'm not as brave as you, Joe.  I don't think I can do this.  Shooting them from a distance is one thing, but-"
    "Look, we can't walk all the way to Mill Chapel.  We need some fuel, and those things aren't going to stand around idly while we fill up.  We've got to get rid of them, and as we've run out of ammo, this is the only way."
    "Alright!  Just give me a minute to prepare myself," Tom said, still shaking.
    Together, they edged their way to the corner of the building.  Joe took a peek around the wall.  There were two more mindless corpses wandering about at the far corner.
    "There's a couple more of them, hanging around at this side," he said, turning back to his companion.  "I'm going to show myself for a few seconds and see if I can get their attention, and lure them round here, then we'll take 'em out."
    "Okay, but what happens if more than just a couple come round, or some come up behind us?" Tom asked, nervously.
    "Then we leg it," Joe replied, stepping around the corner into full view of the two creatures.
    A few seconds passed, but they didn't seem to notice him.  He started waving his hands about.  That worked.  One of the things saw him and began to approach, dragging one leg behind it.  A moment later, the other zombie (for want of a better description) started to follow.
    Joe backed up a couple of paces, still in view of the creatures.  He glanced at Tom.  "Get ready, here they come."
    The first zombie passed the corner of the building, where Tom stood poised with the crowbar at shoulder height.  It didn't notice him, it's attention was on Joe.  Tom let it continue on its way and waited the second one.  He didn't have to wait long.
    CRUNCH!
    Tom struck the thing on the back of its head, with such force that it went straight down to the ground.  At the same time, Joe attacked the other one - stabbing and swinging at it with his tools.
    The one on the ground began to rise again.  Tom stepped forward and struck it again, and again, and again, until it lay motionless on the concrete in a pool of dark liquid, the back of its head smashed to a pulp.
    Joe wasn't having such an easy time with the other.  Every time he took a swing at it, it moved and lunged at him, forcing him to back off.
    Tom attacked it from behind, striking it in the back with the crowbar.  It turned toward its new assailant.  Joe wasted no time in slamming the hammer into the back of its head.
    The thing turned again, with the hammer still protruding from its skull.  It stumbled forward, grasping at Joe's shirt, then dropped to all fours.  A rasping cry came from its mouth.  Tom kicked its behind, sending it flat on its face, then finished it off with the crowbar.
    "That was a tough one," Joe panted.
    "How many more of 'em are there?" asked Tom.
    "I'm not sure," the other replied.  "About five or six, I think."
    They moved quietly along the side of the garage, towards the forecourt, stopping just short of the corner.
    Again, Joe took the initiative and looked beyond the wall.  He brought his head back in, quickly.
    "There's five of them," he said urgently, "and I think one of them saw me."
    "Well, what do we do?" asked Tom, with a touch of panic in his voice.
    "Okay, new plan.  I'll run out there and get them to follow me around the building, then lead them out into the field.  Once they're all coming after me, I'll give you a shout.  Then you go into the shop.  They should have some of those plastic petrol cans for sale in there.  Grab as many as you can find and fill them up.  I'll give you about five minutes before I come back."
    "You're mad!" gasped Tom, incredulously.
    "It'll be a doddle.  You've seen how slow they are."
    "No way, it's suicide!"
    "Look, I haven't got time to argue with you," said Joe.  With that, he rushed around the corner, leaving Tom standing there, open-mouthed.

    Joe ran quickly across the forecourt, shouting, and flapping his arms wildly, attracting the zombies' attention.  It didn't take them long to notice.  He stopped about twenty yards from the building, midway along the forecourt, waiting for them to approach.
    "Come on then, you ugly sons of bitches," he goaded.
    The creatures ambled closer and closer, until the first was only a few feet away.  Joe took a few sidesteps to his left, keeping just out of its reach., and then started to walk casually towards the far corner of the building.  The zombies turned and followed him.  His plan seemed to be working.
    Tom watched from the other corner.
    "What are you waiting for," he muttered to himself.  "Run, you bloody idiot!"
    Joe was level with the far side of the building with all of the undead closing in on him before he gave Tom the go-ahead.
    "Go for it Tom," he shouted.  "You've got five minutes."
    With the zombies now facing in the other direction, Tom emerged from the cover of the wall and made a dash for the shop door.  Fortunately it was only a couple of metres away and it opened easily.  That surprised him, as he'd expected it to be locked.
    The inside of the shop was pretty much what you'd expect from a service station: a row of chillers along the far wall facing the entrance, containing canned drinks, milk, and savoury snacks; shelves of sweets and chocolate bars in front of the windows, leading up to the counter; a couple of racks in the centre of the floor, displaying tinned foods, and a selection of toys and other goodies; behind the counter was a closed door which probably led to the toilet and store room; the area he was looking for - motoring accessories - was situated against the wall, right next to the door as he came in.
    There were seven one-gallon, plastic petrol cans lined up on the bottom shelf.  He propped the door open with his foot, then reached across and picked up four of the cans - two in each hand.  Once he'd got a firm grip on them he carried them out to the pumps.  The forecourt was now vacant, with all the zombies following Joe.  He could still here his companion shouting and taunting the creatures, just out of sight.
    Tom hurried back inside and picked up the remaining cans.  Before taking them outside, he paused for a moment and glanced around the shop to see if there was anything else they might need, then his gaze settled on the till.
    Everything'll probably be back to normal in a few weeks, he thought to himself.  They're not gonna be worried about a few quid missing from a garage till in the middle of nowhere.
    Dropping the cans on the floor, he strode over to the counter and climbed across to the other side.  He cast his eye over the till, looking for a button to open the cash draw - nothing stood out, so he gave the draw a gentle tug but it didn't move.  Next he started tapping buttons, to see if one of those would make it open, but still nothing happened.
    Maybe there's a catch or something underneath, he thought, kneeling down to get a better look.  He failed to notice the handle of the door, just a few feet away, start to turn.

    Joe was leading the zombies round the back of the building, walking backwards to the open field.
    "Come on, what are you waiting for?" he shouted at them.  "Aren't I tasty enough for you?"
    Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his arm, and then another on his shoulder.  He twisted about, just as a zombie was about to sink its teeth into his flesh.  Instead, it took a bite out of his shirt.  He jerked away from the creature, breaking free from its grasp, but in the process he lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.
    The zombie fell upon him, its hands pressing against his shoulders, its mouth open, displaying black and rotten teeth.  Its head came down towards his neck.  Joe shoved a hand into the things face, holding it at bay.
    Glancing sideways, he saw that the others were almost on top of him.  One of them dropped to its hands and knees and started to crawl towards him; soon it had a hold of his ankle.  He drew his foot back, pulling the creature off balance, then kicked out with all the force he could muster.  His heel slammed into the things forehead, sending it lolling backwards, trapping its legs beneath it.
    Next, Joe rolled to the side, trying to dislodge the monster on top of him.  Their positions were soon reversed, and he was now on top, but it still had a grip on him.  He still had the hammer in his hand, and he brought it smashing down against the creatures head - again and again.
    It took several blows before the zombie finally let go.  Joe immediately rolled to the side again, avoiding more clasping hands.  A moment later he was back on his feet.
    Damn, that was close! he thought to himself, getting his bearings, before heading out into the field.

    Tom was still fumbling under the till when suddenly, something cold and hard pressed against his temple.  He turned his head, slowly.
    "What the hell do you think you're doing?" said the young woman, sharply, holding a rifle at his head.
    "Please don't shoot me!" Tom begged.  "I wasn't going to steel anything, honestly.  I was just gonna pay for the petrol cans.  Gonna put the money in the till, see."  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of notes to show her.
    "Oh, sure you were," said the woman, with a phoney grin.  "Anyway, I wasn't referring to that.  I meant that the world has turned into some kind of crazy nightmare, and there's people like you trying to rob a till."
    "Look, why don't you lower the gun," Tom said, nervously, "and we can discuss it, okay?"
    "Alright!" the woman replied.  "But if you make any sudden moves, I'll shoot."
    "Okay, I believe you!  Look, my name's Tom," he said, offering her his hand.  She didn't take it.
    "My name's Becky.  You on your own?"
    "Er... yeah, I am!"
    "Liar!" said Becky, sharply, prodding Tom with the rifle.  "I was listening at the back door, and I heard two voices."
    "What?" said Tom, incredulously.  "You heard us out there, and you didn't let us in!"  Now it was his turn to get angry.
    Becky backed off a few steps.
    "Look, you could be a pair of murderers or something, for all I know," she answered in her own defence.  "Besides, the door was locked and I didn't have a key."  She raised the barrel of the rifle and took aim at Tom's head.  "Now, stay back!"
    "Okay, okay!  Point taken," he replied, raising his hands, "just lower the gun."
    "Alright," she said, lowering the weapon.  "So, where's your friend?"
    "He's outside, playing follow-my-leader with the zombies."
    "What?  Is he crazy?"
    "Pretty much, yeah," said Tom, with a grin.  "He's buying some time for me to get some petrol for our car."
    "How much time is he giving you?"
    "About five minutes."
    "Then we'd better get out their and fill those cans up.  Where's your car?" she asked.
    "Just behind that embankment," he replied, pointing toward the motorway.
    "Well, come on then, what are you waiting for?" Becky demanded, making her way to the door.

    Joe was in the middle of the field.  Recent rainfall had softened the mud and it was beginning to stick to his shoes in large clumps, making it difficult for him to keep ahead of the zombies.  They had started to spread out, as though they were trying to prevent him from circling around them - he could almost swear there was some form of intelligence co-ordinating their mindless bodies.
    He looked beyond the rotting forms that were closing on him, and focused on the service station, but he was in the wrong position to see anything of the forecourt.  The undead were getting closer every second.
    "Oh well, Tom, I hope you've got us some fuel, 'cos I'm coming back your way," he muttered to himself, while trying to shake some of the mud from his shoes.
    He was going to have to go wide to get past all those zombies.  And he was going to have to be quick as well... and careful.  The last thing he needed was to slip and end up face down in the mud - they'd be on him in an instant if he did.
    With a quick glance behind him, to make sure it was clear, he started running.

    Becky and Tom stood on the forecourt.  Tom was filling his third can with fuel.  Becky watched over him, keeping a tight grip on her rifle, still unsure of her new found friend.
    "Is that your mate over there?" asked Becky, pointing toward the field.
    Tom looked in the direction she indicated.
    "Yeah, that's Joe!" said Tom.
    "Well, you'd better hurry up with those cans, because he's going to be here any minute the way he's going, unless he collapses first."
    "It'd be a lot quicker if you'd grab a can and help."
    "Sure," Becky replied, sarcastically.  "Then you'd steal my gun and take me prisoner, and do what you want with me."
    "Don't flatter yourself!" Tom snorted, showing his annoyance.

    Joe was almost back at the service station.  His lungs were ready to burst from his chest with all the exertion, and a stabbing pain was growing in his kidneys - he really wasn't used to all this running.
 As he approached the side of the building, he noticed that there were two figures by the pumps.  His first thought was that they were more zombies.  Then he noticed that one of them was Tom.
    Oh, God, no!  His heart skipped a beat as the thought struck him.  Not Tom!
    Then he saw that Tom was still filling a petrol can, and gasped a sigh of relief.  A zombie wouldn't be bothering with fuel.  But who's that woman next to him, he thought.
    He was still thinking about it when he tripped, and fell unceremoniously at her feet.
    "You must be Joe," she said matter-of-factly.  She made no effort to help him up.
    He pushed himself upright, gasping for breath.
    "Are you going to use that?" he panted.
    "What?" Becky replied, somewhat puzzled.
    "That?" he repeated, sharply, snatching the rifle from her hands.
    "Hey!" she protested, trying to grab it back.
    He brushed her aside, and took aim at one of the approaching zombies.
    "What the hell..." he cursed, lowering the weapon, looking at it oddly.  "It's a bloody air-rifle."
    "So what?" said Becky, reaching for it again.
    "So it's useless against those things!" he replied, thrusting the gun back into her hands.
    "That's three filled up," said Tom, looking over at the zombies.  "They're getting close, let's split."
    "No, we've still got time to fill up a couple more," Joe replied, his breathing starting to return to normal.  He grabbed a can and moved to the next pump.
    Thirty seconds later, the zombies were getting too close for comfort.
    "Come on," urged Becky, nervously, aiming her rifle at the approaching undead.
    "Okay, that's it!" exclaimed Joe, hooking the petrol hose back on to the pump.  "Let's get out of here."
    "At last!" sighed Tom, dropping his hose to the ground.
    "Here, take that," said Joe, handing one of the filled cans to Becky.  He and Tom took the remaining four.
    The trio were barely twenty yards from the pumps when Joe stopped suddenly.
    "Hold on a minute, I've got an idea," he announced.  "Here," he said, thrusting another of his cans into Becky's arms.
    "Hey, wha-" she started to protest.
    "I'll meet you at the car in a few minutes," he cut her off.  Turning around, he headed back towards the pumps.
    "Wait! What are you doing?" Tom shouted after him, but his question went unanswered.

    Joe returned to the pumps.  The zombies were pretty close now, so he'd have to be fast.  He put down the petrol can that he was carrying and grabbed one of the hoses, then squeezed the trigger on the handle.
    Petrol spurted out of the nozzle and started to form a pool on the ground, but he needed something to keep the trigger in place.  He thought about it for a moment, then quickly removed his belt and fastened it around the handle.
    Just the job! he thought.
    He flung the hose to the ground with the petrol still flowing from it, then picked up the can and unscrewed the cap.  Backing away from the pumps as hastily as he could, he left a trail of petrol stretching all the way to the roadside.
    The zombies covered the forecourt now, and were gaining ground on him.  He cast the empty petrol can aside and pulled out his lighter - he didn't smoke, but found that it sometimes came in handy.
    Touching the flame to the ground, he ignited the trail and ran for his life.  The flame sped quickly to the pumps and joined the large pool of petrol that was there.  Within seconds there was a huge explosion.

    Tom and Becky were standing by the car when the service station exploded - Becky standing watch, while Tom filled up the tank.
    "Bloody hell!" Tom gasped at the sudden blast, dropping the can he was holding.  He whirled around to see the cloud of black smoke rising up beyond the embankment.  "What the hell has Joe done?"
    "Why don't you ask him yourself," Becky replied, pointing to the limping figure coming down the road towards them.
    "What on Earth happened to you?" said Tom, looking at his friend's bloody trouser leg.
    "I did my knee in when I dived for cover," Joe replied, wincing with pain.  "Is the car ready?"
    "Just one more can to put in," Tom answered.
    Joe looked at Becky.  "Well, I guess you'd better come with us then!"
    "Considering you just blew up my safe haven with all my gear in it, I think that's the least you can do," she replied, sharply.
    "Hey! Cut it out you two," Tom interrupted.  "Let's try and get along, shall we."

    Half an hour had passed and the Sierra was well on its way to Mill Chapel.  The atmosphere inside the car was a little tense with Joe and Becky not saying a word to each other.
    Joe sat with the first-aid kit on his lap.  He'd cut one leg of his trousers up as far as his knee and wrapped a bandage tightly around it.  It seemed to have stemmed the bleeding but it still hurt like hell.
    "You'll have to get that seen to," said Tom, finally breaking the silence.  "We'll have to see if we can find a doctor when we get to Mill Chapel."
    "Mill Chapel?" Becky responded.
    "Yeah!  Do you know it?"
    "No, but its sounds familiar," she replied.  "I think I might have heard something on the news about it, but I can't remember.  It's going to bug me all day now until it comes to me."
    "Well it can't have been that important then," said Joe, matter-of-factly.
    "No, I think it was," she said, giving Joe a sharp look.
    "Hey, we haven't even introduced ourselves properly yet," Tom interrupted, trying to lighten the mood.  "I'm Tom Morton, and this is Joe Ward."
    "I'm Rebecca Johnson," said Becky, smiling at Tom, "but you can call me Becky.  Sorry about pointing the gun at you earlier, but you can never be too sure of people these days."
    "That's okay," he replied, looking round, taking his eyes off the road for a second.
    "So where are you guys from?"
    "Sheffield," he answered.  "We've been holed up at Joe's place for the past three weeks, but things were starting to get really bad.  Those zombies were getting everywhere, so we decided to quit, and head for the country."
    "Hm, well my story's the complete opposite," she responded.  "I'm a country girl, and decided to head for the city.  I thought that with there being more people about it would be safer."
    "Except with more people around, there's more death as well," said Joe, joining the conversation.  "What were you doing back there, anyway?"
    "Same as you," she retorted.  "My car ran out of fuel a couple of miles down the road, so I walked to the garage.  There wasn't anyone around, so I popped into the shop to pick up some food and use the toilet then, when I came out the place was crawling with dead guys."
    "Why didn't you lock the shop door?" Tom asked.
    "I didn't have a key, so I hid in the back and propped a chair against the door.  I'd been there for four days when you turned up."
    "Must've been rough," he said.
    "Actually, it wasn't too bad," Becky continued.  "It had a kitchen, a couch, and a portable telly.  When I heard you moving about I decided to take a peek.  At first I thought you might have been one of them, then I saw you looting the place..."
    "I wasn't looting the place," said Tom, with mock offence.  "I was going to pay for that stuff."
    "Sure you were.  So why did you choose this Mill Chapel place?" she said, changing the subject.
    "Joe's uncle was working down there a couple of months ago and, apparently there's an old vicarage there that's built like a fort.  Should keep us safe until all this blows over."
    "I don't think this is all going to blow over, Tom," said Joe, sternly.  "This is how things are going to be from now on, and we'll all have to get used to it."
    "Hey!  Do either of you two know how this all started?" Becky asked.
    "Yeah, I heard a report about it on the radio a while ago," said Tom.  "Apparently some military boffins developed some kind of retro-virus at a top secret lab.  It was supposed to regenerate dead skin tissue, but then it mutated and actually reanimated the dead.  Then it became airborne and escaped the lab, and now it's spreading across the world."
    "Wait, that's it!" Becky gasped.  "That's were I've heard of Mill Chapel before.  There was a big furore in the newspapers months ago.  Locals discovered that an old warehouse complex was being used as a secret research lab by the army."
    Both men suddenly turned their heads, staring at her for a few seconds, with worried looks on their faces, then they turned back to face the front.  They sat in silence after that.
    The Sierra continued on down the motorway.  After a few minutes it passed a sign.
    'Mill Chapel, 12 miles'.