Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (12 page)

18:30, 24
th
March.

I’m not quite sure what to make of it.

19:15, 24
th
March.

I think it's Mahler. I’m not sure, I was never too into classical music, but it's a different track, that's the important point. The music is changing. Someone is there, reading the message, changing the music. But what's happened to Jen? And where is Lenham Hill? It's a vaguely familiar name, but I can't place it. And how do you follow a radio signal? Presumably using the same skills that allow you to transmit on an emergency broadcast system, but is it something I can do?

No. Of course not. But I can follow a map. If I had one. Tomorrow I'll look for one downstairs. If I can find Lenham Hill, perhaps if it's near the coast, then perhaps I can sail a boat from the river to there.

I've got sheets, more than enough. How do I get them onto the roof, though? How would they know that there's someone in here, would they use satellites? Would they be able to reach me here? Is it worth the risk?

I suppose the bigger question is whether I want re-supply or rescue.

21:20, 24
th
March.

Do they really have a helicopter? Probably. Are they actually going to help? Are they really just after the places that have supplies?

Day 13, 65 days to go.

08:00, 25
h
March.

The water pressure dropped overnight. It's coming out of the tap as a bare trickle now. I've refilled the bath and am now filling every container I can find. Then, soon, I'll have to light the fire to boil it. I don’t know how long standing water remains potable but it can't be more than a few days.

15:15, 25
th
March.

I've filled every container I can. I'll do it again tomorrow. Taken some sheets from downstairs. Too tired to try and break a hole in the roof now, maybe later.

The radio is just playing music now. An announcer comes on every so often to repeat that message, but there are no further details. I wish they'd say what the music is though. It's annoying me that I don't know. Who are they? The only maps I could find were tourists' ones of central London. Where is Lenham Hill?

Day 14, 64 days to go.

14:00, 26
th
March.

I’m exhausted. My arms ache, my left leg is sore, my right isn't any better and my back feels like it's going to explode. The simple act of filling a container with water, then moving it a few yards over and over... I must have about 300 litres now, including the bath downstairs, the toilet cisterns and the hot water tank. Maybe more. Do I mean pints or litres? I'll count again.

120 litres in the bath, 200 in the hot water tank 8 x 4 litres for the toilet cisterns, add to that the kettles, and pots and jugs, and I’m going to run out of things to burn before I run out of water to boil.

Day 15, 63 days to go.

10:40, 27
th
March.

The pressure dropped again. The zombies are still shuffling by outside, still moving, but with less direction. Will I be able to get past? Probably not. There are twenty out there now. I'll wait a few more days, see if They disperse a bit more. It's not really the undead outside the house I’m worried about, it's the others between here and the river.

I can't just go straight north, I mean I can try, but I can't see it working out that way, but even with diversions it'll only be five or six miles. That's about two hours, normally. With the leg, call it three hours. Then another couple of hours to find a boat, though how hard can that be? I'll just look along the river until I spot one. It's all less than a day's journey.

The Radio people have changed their message:

“This is Radio Free England, please listen carefully. There are more survivors than we thought. We will be able to reach all of you, but not immediately. We have a virtually unlimited amount of fuel but a limited number of pilots and limited room here. If you can support other survivors in your current location please display four sheets on the roof to let us know. Only together can we triumph.”

There was more, but that's the gist of it.

The roof itself is directly above my ceiling here, and I guess it wouldn't be too difficult to break a hole through the roof. But that would knock off dozens of tiles, and wouldn't that get the attention of Them? Let's say I did it, that I hung up a sheet, where would they land? Wouldn’t the noise of a helicopter coming here, bring more of the undead from all around? And then, since there's nowhere to land, wouldn't I just be left trapped without any chance of escape?

I’m going to try and make a small hole, but only a small one, and only to see if I can.

17:30, 27
th
March.

It's a lot harder than I thought. My ladder is locked up in the storage bin outside so I climbed up onto the desk. That wasn't easy in itself, but I can just about reach the ceiling with the tip of the knife. I could, probably, make a hole, but not without knocking the tiles down to the ground, and even then, it would take days.

That's not really why I’m reluctant to follow the instructions on the radio though. It was the tone of the broadcast. There's something about it that I don't like. I can't work out what, though. Is it my natural distrust of pretty much everyone or something more?

Day 16, 62 days until the cast can come off.

18:00, 28
th
March.

Today I spent packing and repacking a small bag, a sort of day sack, I found downstairs. Dry socks, underwear, some canvas shoes for when the cast does come off, the last couple of chocolate bars, two packs of sunflower seeds, the small stove and two litres of water. That's as much as I can carry. After two hours of standing in the hall wearing the pack as practice I was exhausted, and it's nowhere near enough.

I need to assume at least three days on a boat. That's three days of supplies, and I just can't carry that. I’m still unsure about the bike, whether, with a crutch in each hand, I'll be able to pull it along. I can picture myself holding onto the handlebars and hopping along, using the
momentum to move the bike and get me further and faster, but picturing it and actually doing it are two very different things. Nonetheless it's the only way I'll have enough to survive. I've filled three bags with extra food and water bottles. One from the handlebars, one hanging on the frame, one hanging at the back. I'll make it work.

Day 17, 61 days until the cast comes off.

09:00, 29
th
March.

Thirteen zombies outside. That's the fewest I've seen so far.

I've added a knife to each of the bags. They're carvings knives from the rather nice set Tom had and are the only alternative to the hammer that I can find. Stab or crush, and that's what my world has come to in just over a month.

Day 18, 60 days until the cast comes off.

13:00, 30
th
March.

Now there are fifteen outside.

If only I could ride the bike, I could cycle out of here. If only I could walk, I could just jog past Them. Without this leg, if I'd not slipped on that staircase I'd be in some bunker somewhere eating military rations, not constantly worrying every time one of those things turns its head towards the house.

I don’t think I'll ever escape

Day 19.

A few more zombies, a few less. What does it matter?

Day 20.

A lot more. Too many to count, going passed in a slow and steady stream. There must be hundreds, thousands more that I can't see.

I can't move faster than Them. I can't sail a boat. I don't even know how to start the engine of one. I can't freely use my arms unless I drop my crutches which would make me a stationary target

I don't have a map. I'm running out of food. I don't have any proper weapons. I can't carry more than a couple of days worth of food.

Even if I get to the river, and follow it down stream, then what? The sea's a massive place. Really, and I mean really, what are the chances I'll be rescued?

The water pressure dropped again.

Day 21.

There's no chance to leave now. Not now. There are hundreds of Them outside. I daren't even light a fire, just in case They see the light through the curtains. I should have sealed up those windows properly. Where are They going? Why are They going there?

I’m stuck here, then. Leaving would be suicide.

Day 22.

The horde keeps coming. How many are there? Thousands? Tens of Thousands? Is the same scene being played out across London? Hour upon hour, day after day, the noise isn't loud, just persistent and pervasive, an unceasing thudding and hissing and scraping and rattling and cracking as this never ending army of golem's marches on, oblivious to the shattered glass on the street, heedless of obstacles, ignorant of fatigue. Will it ever stop?

Day 23.

I’m down to twenty little blue pills, now. Would that be enough, if I took them all at once?

Day 24.

11:13

The water's stopped.

14:00

Nothing I can do about it. Nothing. The water's stopped, and the plug in the bath didn’t fit properly, and I didn’t realise. That water was my margin, the only thing keeping me alive. If I can't go outside, if I have no water... I need that water. I needed that water.

You can last for three weeks, maybe longer, without food, but water. Three days. Three days without water and I'll be dead.

18:00

I went to sit on the stairs. For me this counts as a holiday There are no windows for Them to see me, nor me Them. I've just over fifty litres of water. Not as much as I'd planned for, not nearly as much. It was stupidity. It was laziness.

I'd emptied the bath. I should have filled both baths. Then... But I didn’t. I thought one would be enough, one bath for water storage, the other for washing clothes. One bath for drinking water would be enough. Except the plug didn’t fit. I turned on the tap, letting it fill from the hot water tank, in turn that would refill the tank from the mains.

But the plug in the bath didn’t fit properly. As quickly as it was filling the bath, the water was trickling down the plug-hole. All I managed to do was drain the water tank. I kept sticking my head into the bathroom, checking it wasn't full, but my attention was on breaking up wood for the fire.

I didn’t notice until I went into the kitchen to get a drink. When nothing came out of the tap I went to check the other kitchen next door first. By the time I thought to check my supply in the bath all the water had drained.

It's about 50 litres of water, call it 45 after I've boiled it. If I don't wash, then I can get by on about a litre a day, but since I've about twenty days worth of food I don't suppose it really matters that much. As soon as I can I have to leave.

19:30

I’m savouring a cup of tea, carefully tasting every last drop, trying to preserve the memory of it. It's going to be a long time before anyone brings any more of it to this Island.

That got me thinking about the things I'll miss the most. Things like steak, conversation, hot showers, those will come back. Not any time soon, sure, but they will come back. Other things, like books, movies and new clothes, they'll take longer and when they return they'll be different. Books will be shorter, maybe only printed online, maybe printed in magazines and newspapers. Maybe films will just be recordings of plays shown in the theatres when the actors are too busy getting the harvest in to learn lines. Clothes will be duller, more functional and maybe all made of wool, but they will come back.

But tea? How long before a community in India or China has enough food it can start growing tea again? How long after that before it can export it to the other side of the world? The same with coffee and chocolate. Maybe there are plants somewhere in the UK, maybe at Kew or maybe some hobbyist was growing some in their greenhouse, but what are the odds those plants survived?

Tea, coffee, chocolate, there's probably enough boxed and sitting in warehouses around the world to keep the survivors stocked until the stuff spoils, but how long is that? Ten years? Five? For chocolate it must be less, maybe a year. A year until there's no more chocolate. Not in my lifetime, anyway. And where exactly are these warehouses?