‘I’ll kick all your asses,’ Harry shouted, holding his face as he rolled out of the gutter.

But the healthier of the two girls had a little .22 revolver waving in Harry’s face. This was scarier than a regular mugger, because most zombies had no fear of committing crime. Four walls, free healthcare and food pushed through a cell door was practically their idea of paradise.

‘Give,’ the male said, pointing to the obvious bulge of the phone and money clip in the inner pocket of Harry’s Vilebrequin beach shorts.

Harry didn’t want to lose his phone or house key, so he pulled out his money clip. His hands trembled as he freed seventy dollars in small bills and threw them in the air. The girl with the gun looked up at the money as the male zombie snatched two twenties and a ten before breaking into a clumsy run.

‘Hey!’ the girl with the gun shouted, shifting aim towards her disloyal partner.

Harry saw his moment to escape, leaping to his feet and sprinting towards Fremont. There was no gunshot and he wondered if the gun wasn’t loaded. Or fake. Or jammed up, given how filthy its owner was. The casinos on Fremont Street paid for private security patrols, and Harry passed one of them riding a Segway down the pedestrianised street.

But seventy dollars was no fortune, and Harry was exhausted. The last thing he needed was to explain everything to some dumbass private security, then sit in an office waiting for real cops to show and having to write out a bunch of statements.

There were four cabs ranked in the street running between the Lucky Star and O’Malley’s Gambling Hall. Harry jumped in the first one and fought an urge to spew as he told the driver to take him home.

45 BACK TAXIS

Ellie wouldn’t get super wealthy until Elliegold floated on the NASDAQ stock exchange, but the company was now profitable, and his chief-executive salary covered the rent on a sizeable house in San Francisco’s trendy Marina District, and paid for a Mercedes SUV big enough for his wife and five kids.

The stretch along Marina Boulevard was usually busy on a spring Sunday morning, but today there were no moms with jogging strollers, or father-son sailing partnerships.

Ellie took the Mercedes right, away from the ocean, and was surprised by the handwritten We’re Open sign on a family-owned gas station. There was an old Nissan plugged into a rapid charger, its driver leaning against the hood, vaping.

Ellie glanced at his watch as he parked up, grabbing his anti-virus mask off the passenger seat and snapping the elastic straps behind his head. Then he fitted white sanitary gloves and stepped out. The shop was open, but it was in night-time mode, with the automatic doors bolted and the server picking items from behind a bullet-proof screen.

‘What are my chances of size-two diapers?’ Ellie asked.