Great Bitten: Outbreak (2 page)

“Sorry sir, you can’t buy more than two packs of painkillers.”

I snapped back to reality.

“I’m sorry?”

“The aspirin sir, you can’t buy more than two packs. It’s illegal.”

I was incredulous. “Do I look like I’m going to fucking overdose? Just ring the things through!”

“I
can’t
. The tills
prevent
it.”

I didn’t like his attitude but I suppose mine was pretty shitty by return.

“Look kid, I just want to get out of here. Tell you what, just make it look like you’re ringing those things through for the cameras, and you can shove an extra twenty quid in your pocket from this, deal?”

He sneered at my apparent desperation, and complied. Why on earth I didn’t just go to another store to buy more didn’t occur to me then. I was in the middle of London it’s not as if places were sparse.

I grabbed the backpack and got cashback on the lot to give the kid what he wanted. I suppose curiosity got the better of him as I shouldered everything and he asked,

“What do you need all that for? Bit of an odd time to go for a trek.”

“I saw a zombie, and London has over 8 million residents. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me again and I resisted the urge to hit him.

“Zombies, hey? Sure you’re not going to kill yourself later?”

I flicked him the the v’s with a sigh and left with my haul. The streets were still damp and deserted. I threw the backpack in to the hallway and went back to my computer, checking train and tube times. Chances were these would all still be running okay for me to get out of the city itself, but I was paranoid about the stereotypes and didn’t particularly want to become someone’s lunch stuck in a tube train in the deepening dark. No. I didn’t want to go that way at all.

It was 5:30am when I thought it was a reasonable time for me to call my younger sister. I was the early-thirties go-getter with the City Pad and all the trimmings. At this introduction most people expected me to say that she was either the Black Sheep stoner or the Mummsy home-keeper. Neither. My younger sister was just as career minded and brutal as I have ever been, but she made her monies in law and was already working the rungs to Partnership in a regional firm in the south. She lived in a thinly populated suburb by the South Downs. Hills and space on one side and the coast on the other, with an airport nearby and enough marinas and boatyards for half of England to set sail if they wanted. If this thing was going to hit the fan, I wanted to be at my sister’s place.

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“Who
the fuck is this?”

Professionals we may be, but both my sister and I were blessed with a soldier’s repertoire of swearing from our colourful and well-travelled father, may he rest in peace. Him and our mother, both gone in a car accident. It was tragic at the time but with post-apocalyptic hindsight, maybe that was for the best.

“It’s me, Carla.”

“Wa… what the hellfire time is it?”

“About 5:30. Look, don’t hang up, this is important.”

I heard her swear again, and the click of a light. This was met by more cussing, presumably from her boyfriend, who apparently farted, bravely pulled the covers over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

“Why are you ringing me at this time? Did you wet the bed or something?”

“Ha fucking ha. Listen, this is important. I’ve seen some… odd things. Don’t interrupt” Carla was normally quick on the draw for her side in a conversation. “Honestly Carla, go on Twitter and look at some of the shit people are saying on there. I saw an old woman on the street this morning.”

“So? Call the police and get them to pick her up. Care homes these days, what a load of…”

“She had no
throat
, Carla. She was dead.”

“A dead body on the street? You called the police, right?”

I had her full attention now, clearly. “She was walking Carla. She was walking towards me. She was a zombie.”

“I’m sorry I think I must still be pissed. Rick, how many mojos did I drink last night?”

There was a grunt in response in the background, so I spoke slowly and clearly for her. “I’m not joking Carla. And I haven’t had any coke either, before you ask, I’m not twenty any more. There was an old woman on the street, covered in blood, wandering around for anyone to see. And I think she was a zombie. I went on twitter and people are going nuts, there are sightings everywhere.”

“What do you mean everywhere?” she shrieked, understandably frightened at that statement. Complete lack of accuracy, also known as artistic embellishment.

“Everywhere in London, Carla. Nowhere else, just the Smoke.”

“Fuck. Where are you?”

“I’m at home, but listen. Call me batshit if you want, but I need to get out of this place. Even if I am going nuts and this is all a load of twoddle, maybe I just need to get a break and I’m picking you here. So I’m coming down.

But I don’t want to get on the tubes, or the trains. Yes it sounds bollocks, but if I’m right I don’t want to be stuck on a shitty Virgin train whilst someone tries to suck out my brains because the ploughmans just isn’t going to cut it anymore. You know what I mean?” There was no answer the other end of the phone. “Carla? Hey, you there!” I yelled and she yelled right back.

“Yes I fucking am, I’m just looking on Twitter. Jesus, it sounds like it’s going mental over there. Is there nothing on the news?”

“I haven’t looked for the last couple of hours, but you can bet they’ll just be calling it London Riots 2.0 if there is anything going on. What are you seeing?”

“The West End sounds like a bloodbath… I… there’s nothing happening where you are?”

“It’s Shoreditch love. At the very worst stoner zombies are in their studio flats doing murals with brains.”

She giggled at this a little, a bit too maniacal for my liking considering she was nearly 100 miles away from the immediate danger.

“So, listen, I don’t want to get on any of the public transport so I’m going to bike it down to you.”

“Bike it? Are you crazy?”

“No,” I drawled “I did that charity ride down to Brighton a couple of years back and that only took about 4 or 5 hours. If everyone is trying to get out of the city and everyone wants to avoid public transport, they’ll be getting in their cars. I don’t have a motorcycle. I don’t even have a driving license. So I’ll cycle it, and I can still be with you tonight if all goes okay.

But listen, I need you to get up now and go to your nearest supermarket. You’ve watched the movies, get stocked up, water, canned goods, the lot. And fill anything you can with water. And go to the hardware store to shore up the house. And…”

“I
get
it.” Carla stopped me in full efficient flow. “But if you’re wrong about this, you’re picking up my credit card bill you mother fucker.”

“I hope I’m wrong, what’s a couple of hundred. Get it sorted, and stay safe. One last thing. Check in with me every hour, on the hour. If it’s not important, just text me so I know you’re still alive and kicking. If it’s important, like I need to go somewhere else or if there’s big trouble ahead of me, I need you to ring me okay?”

I heard her gulp once. I had never truly dicked around when we were kids. I had been an okay big brother, in a serious and boring kind of way. But that helped now, as she had no reason to not take me as being completely truthful.

“Okay. Stay safe. Please.”

I heard her shaking Rick awake again before she hung up. I ran to my room and picked up a spare set of clothes for the night just in case. I didn’t expect to be caught anywhere and it was a cycle run I’d done more than once before, so I was confident of my route. It was summer, but for good measure I shoved in a base layer top and trousers. You really couldn’t trust the weather in this ridiculous country.

I took a cursory glance around my flat and went to my kitchen drawer, selecting my cleaver. Thank you, Sam Stern. Your kitchen recommendations have led me to have a decent selection of weapons in this early foray. And when I got to Carla’s, I was safe behind her gun license
and hobby collection of rifles. I wrapped a cleaver in a couple of kitchen towels, as I didn’t want to stab myself in the back if I fell off the bike. I turned off everything at socket in the flat in case I was simply being deluded and I had to come back to a home that wasn’t a burnt out husk in just over a week.

And that was it. Downstairs, bike unlocked, and on my way.

No, I was an arsehole, and I didn’t have many friends. But in hindsight, that wasn’t a bad thing, and was probably the second life-saving and defining moment. Later on, before the power went out, social networks would be full of horror-hero missions gone wrong. Women expecting their boyfriends or husbands to come and save them, only to find themselves alone and stranded and expected to survive. Think Penelope Pitstop, with Peter Perfect failing epically to rescue the damsel in distress and Muttley having a good old chow down when he caught up to his marshmallow-coloured opponent. Entire friends would become crazed and go out to kill the zombies, only to be overwhelmed and devoured. They had clearly watched one film too many, and they all expected to be the hero that got away safely with his life; the Captain that returned to the ship. They were all red-uniformed paydays with nothing more than a bit part to play and a token number running for them in the credits.

There will be enough books that tell you the bastards in this life are the ones that thrive. I’m not a bad guy. I pay my taxes in full and recycle. I take old stuff to the charity shop instead of throwing it out, and when I flog things on eBay I actually charge people the right postage. I’m just… annoying. Smarmy. I can’t be bothered to make friends if that means I’m not accepted on face value and so I find myself devoid of close companionship of any variety. I didn’t have to peg it across London to find out if my mother/father/sister/wife/girlfriend/small dog of said ball and chain needed me to save them.

I fled from the old lady without a throat. I pedalled away from London as quickly as my gears could take me.

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Cycling
isn’t hard. If you build up your muscles and your cardiovascular system enough, you can keep going for miles and miles. Natch.

I wanted to cycle Land’s End to John O’Groats one day. Maybe I still would, but it wouldn’t be for some anonymous and oversponsored charity, unless communities get together and start funds for the “Rehabilitation of E Corpses to U of Mankind”. See. I’m still an arsehole, even after most of the country is dead.

I’d cycled from London to Brighton before. If you’ve never done it, I’d recommend it. It’s an easy enough ride until you get to the South Downs, which has some bitchy steep rides that I’d rather forget. Cycling out of a city destined for meltdown and towards the safety of a house with guns nestled by a National Park, I felt like the spearhead of a movement. It took me an uneventful hour to get out of the main city.

I will readily admit to being a git. Not often to I admit to being an idiot, and never without pressing. However, that morning, I was an idiot.

I was outside London City itself. I was thinking “I’m getting out of this without a hitch.” I’d caught it early – maybe that lady was Patient Zero. Then I thought of the other tweets and discarded that thought, exchanging it for her being an early victim of the outbreak. Carla sent me her check-in and I even stopped to reply to it.

“Making good time, all OK. C U soon.”

Text speak. Even more of a cretin.

I sent the message and had a look around. I was on the A217 and too close to Croydon than I would ever be comfortable with, so I was hardly out of the woods yet to call myself safe from the living or the dead.

Dawn had long since shown herself over the horizon and true to form for me being on a long-assed cycle with a heavy pack and heavy clothing to boot, the sun was out and turning me in to a sweat ball already. Just up the street was a car, hood open, steam rising gently from the bonnet. I wheeled over, more curious about the situation than good Samaritan. I could see someone bent over the engine – well, in my defence now I could see their arm moving – and thought I could ask if they needed help. I hadn’t a first clue about car engines, that’s what the AA is for, but I did have a phone with charge. As I rounded the bonnet I shouted out in shock and startled whatever had been having its morning feast.

Yes, there was someone hanging over the bonnet, but how long they had been there for I don’t know. There was a young lad, hoody spattered with blood and arms flecked with gore, tearing into the back of the body’s neck. Sinew strung out of the neck mixing with hot and bright red blood, dripping to the floor with a gentle patter. The smell mixed with petrol left a bitter and tinny taste on my tongue. This thing fixed me with the fuck-me eyes the same as the grandma had the night before and I felt like peeing myself. I staggered, almost falling off the bike and landing on my back. I shouted out in fear and pain and lauded myself for covering the cleaver with cloths. I rolled over and scrambled away on my hands and knees, yanking the drawstrap open and scrabbling for the handle of the hatchet. I could hear McHoody behind me. Still no groans, but apparently he was still chewing on whatever he had managed to mulch off that poor breakdown.

Gratefully my hands closed around the pockled silver handle and I shook it free of its bundle. I turned, and McHoody was still gently ambling to me as if there was all the time in the world. I carried on scurrying backwards on my hands and feet, like a crab being approached by a rabid gull. I knew I had to stand and bring the cleaver round, that was all. But my heart hammered halfway up my throat and adrenalin was turning my muscles to nothing at all. I could barely move, let along give a killing blow.

I thought I would be sick all over my front when I was saved by a taxi.

I don’t know who wasn’t looking and I don’t care. They didn’t save my life, I can’t say that for sure, but they saved me there and then as their black cab, that solid mini-tank of the London streets slammed into McHoody. It was a built up area so the cab can’t have been going more than forty. As a result, McHoody slid under the car and into the path of its rear tyres. As the cab screeched to a halt, I saw a bloody fragmented mess of mulch in place of what used to be a head, and was eternally grateful. The cabby screamed in an unidentified language and drove off at speed. I hadn’t been seen.

As the engine roared off in to the distance and a dog belatedly started rasping at the tumult in the street, I looked around, bemused at the silence. And then, I vomited.

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