Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (15 page)

Well, then I'd have the extra supplies in the car, wouldn't I? There's got to be enough for at least another month. Enough until it was safe to take off the cast and I could leave actually peddling a bike, not just pulling it along. I'd be far faster than any of Them. It'd be safer. Much safer.

17:00, 14
th
April.

I went downstairs. I was going to go outside, see if I could get to the car, but there's one in the back garden. It's sort of squatting there, right in front of the door. I couldn't see it from the window, it's hidden by the angle of the house. I'll need to kill it.

Sam probably noticed it. That's why he didn't come any closer. He'd seen it and it'd seen him. It wasn’t Sam's fault, he'd committed to helping me, but after he'd been spotted he had to escape. It wasn’t like he had any choice. Now I feel bad for him. Maybe we'll meet up, when this is over, maybe on some ship out in The Channel, we'll talk and laugh and he'll apologise and it'll all be cool.

I don’t know if it'd been drawn there by the noise I'd been making over the past weeks, but it was within two paces of the door, so close that if I'd been unaware of it, I'd surely have walked right into it. It's old, well over sixty, male, wearing a suit and tie. Sort of dressed in its Sunday best. I wonder if he always dressed like that or if he'd dressed up for the evacuation. No, that doesn't make sense, who wears a tie to go on a hike? So not an evacuee. Who was he?

It's impossible to tell whether it's actually a good suit now, the sleeves are tattered, it's torn at the knee and covered in blood, dirt and stains I don't want to identify.

There's a story, a long terrible story, behind the man and how his life brought him here to my door, a story that will have to end tomorrow morning because I need to get that radio.

Day 34, six days until I leave.

06:15, 15
th
April.

I’m going outside now, to get the radio, grab whatever else I can and then I'll come back inside. But I’m going to be cautious. I’m going to be clever. They can't be clever, you see, that's where I can beat Them. This house has two doors, see, that's the clever bit, I'll go out the front, and try and get to the car without any of Them noticing.

Maybe They are so far gone by now they won't be able to smell or hear me or whatever They do, so I'll go slow, but if I am spotted, I'll lead Them around the block, away from the house, then I'll sneak back in from the other side.

I’m going to take the bike with me. This will be good practice in case my plans change and I have to use it. See, I’m planning now, planning ahead.

06:30, 15
th
April.

Damn. There's one out the front, it's not moving fast, but it is moving. Killing two of Them is not part of the plan. I'll just wait.

11:00, 15
th
April
.

Damn, Damn, Damn. It's just sniffing around the door. Did it hear me? It must have done.

12:00, 15
th
April.

It's gone. Not sure where. Can't see it from any of the windows. Too late now. Going to wait until tomorrow.

16:00, 15
th
April.

One of the last videos I watched before the power went out was of a group in a compound in Colombia. My Spanish isn't very good and I couldn't tell if they were FARC, a drug gang, or just some group of like minded citizens which fate had trapped together. There were thirty six men and women, all well armed, with the oldest being about sixty, the youngest not yet old enough to shave.

The footage, which had been uploaded live, started with each one saying a few words to the camera. These weren't goodbyes, I could understand enough to tell that, they were exhortations to the people of the world, a call to rise up and make a stand. As each person said their piece, you could see the others behind them, nodding, psyching themselves up. By the time it got to the last one, the youngest, the crowd were chanting along, waving those oh so recognisable AK-47's in the air.

They were in a courtyard of some kind, with big thick wooden doors, double the height of a man. By the time the kid finished, two of them were standing by the doors. Everyone else was stood in two lines facing the doorway, some were standing patiently, others were jogging nervously from foot to foot, or gripping their rifles, pointing them straight forward.

Then one who hadn't spoken before stepped forward. He was dressed as a priest, though like the others he carried a gun. He gave a short speech, as much to the camera as to his comrade's, his flock. I couldn’t work out much of what he was saying, not until the last few words. “Though there is a lot to fear, what we should fear most is fear itself. Walk with God and we shall restore this Garden of Eden.” Then he blessed them all and took up a place at the front.

He counted down, “Tres,” and the others joined in, “Dos. Uno.” The doors were thrown open and they started firing. Slowly they advanced, one step, two, the ones at the front firing, until they'd emptied a magazine then one in the rank behind would step forward and take their place.

They advanced as far as the door before the first of them was killed. One of the zombies who'd been shot, but wasn't dead, rose up and tore at the legs of a woman in the front rank, pulling her to the ground. Her screams were cut short by that kid, now in the second rank, who fired a single shot into his comrades head before shooting the zombie and stepping forward into the gap.

The boy died less than a minute later. When the priest saw the child die something in him must have snapped. He fired until his gun was empty then he rushed forward swinging his rifle like a club. That's when the camera was dropped. It still recorded and uploaded the footage, but from its position on the floor all that could be made out were the bodies dropping one by one as the sound of gunfire slowly faded.

That is the fear of going outside, the fear of an uncertain death, set against the almost certain death that awaits me if I stay here and risk nothing. But I will go. I have to go if I want to live, and above all I do want to live.

Day 35.

05:30, 16
th
April.

This is it.

Part 2: An Empty England

Day 35. The Walworth Road, London.

19:15

Killing the zombie in the garden wasn't hard. I opened the door, swung myself two steps and let go of the crutch's grip, letting it swing from the loop I'd attached to my arm. The zombie was starting to rise from its crouch as I took a firmer grip of the hammer I'd been awkwardly gripping with my right hand. As I brought the hammer up I adjusted my stance, better balanced I swung it down just as the creature started to turn towards me, the blow landing just above its right ear.

The noise is something I won't forget, a cracking sucking sound as the skull shattered and a brown sludge-like ooze sprayed out. I don’t know what a brain should look like but I’m pretty sure it's not that. It collapsed onto the path, and that was that. It was over in a matter of seconds. I didn’t even have to see its face.

Everything was going to plan. I took a moment to look around, to make sure everything was clear, then I pulled the bike out, closed the door and began making my way down the path.

The bike didn't work, not like I'd hoped, perhaps if I'd been able to practice... I’m glad I brought it though because there was another zombie, invisible from the house, hidden behind the low front wall. I didn’t notice it until it had already lunged at me. Its legs were gone, along with half of its jaw, it couldn’t move far, couldn't move fast, but if the bike hadn't been between me and it, I'd be one of Them now.

Reflexively I let go of the bike, letting it fall as it tried to claw at me, its arms becoming tangled in the frame.
I froze.
I just stood staring at it for I don't know how long. I tried to lift my arm but it was like moving through water. All I could hear was my own silent scream. All I could see were its crazed eyes flecked with grey, vacant but still very human. I brought my arm down, but there was barely any force to the blow, the hammer glanced off the side of its head, bringing away a chunk of hair and flesh and brown pus, exposing the white skull beneath.

I struck again and again and again. It stopped moving after the fifth blow.

I was in shock, I guess. I left the bike there, I didn't even try to disentangle it. Time didn't slow down, I wish it had, if anything it sped up as I slowed down. Every step seemed to take an age as I limped over to the car. I told myself to focus, to stay on task, that I'd get the radio and then get back inside call for help and a helicopter with an extraction team would be here before nightfall.

Foolish!

It seemed like an hour had passed before I got to the far side of the car, but it can't have been more than a minute. That's when I saw the driver properly. His head, lolling forward, was hanging on by a few inches of grey sinew, his eyes stared unseeing at nothing. As I nudged his body with the crutch, trying to move the body to see if the keys were underneath, his mouth gaped open.

I jumped and nearly fell over as I stumbled sideways. From the safety of my home, through the illusory security of my window the idea of moving him, searching him for his keys and radio, it all seemed so simple, but this...

He was dead. Properly dead, I mean. It took me a long while to realise that. I guess I'd known it at some level since in all this time he'd never moved. Perhaps it was because he'd been almost been decapitated. Or maybe it's something else, something to do with the way he died, I don't know.

I began searching. There was nothing on the ground, which meant I had to check the body. The insides were already putrefying, held in by nothing more than his clothes. The radio, there was a radio, tucked onto his belt near his back. That went into a pocket, and was zipped closed. After all I'd been through I didn't want to lose it.

That's when I should have gone back inside. I'd found what I wanted, but I guess my success had made me complacent. His pockets contained nothing except a lighter, pack of cigarettes and a couple of ID swipe cards. No gun, no holster, no keys. I scanned the ground again and spotted the keys near the rear tyre. They must have been kicked there when he was attacked.

I hobbled over, bent, picked them up, and since I was there, took two steps round to the back of the car and unlocked the boot. It was empty. At least it looked empty. Maybe the emergency supplies were in a hidden compartment or maybe there's a special lever you have to pull. More likely wherever he brought the car from they were already so low on supplies that the first aid kit and emergency gear had been removed and used up. I looked briefly at the back seat but it too was empty.

That left the glove box. I decided to go round to the passenger side, rather than try and move the corpse out of the way and was almost there, my hand almost at the handle, when I saw two things, the silenced pistol lying in the driver-side footwell and the third zombie, the one who'd stopped me leaving yesterday.

I starred at it, and it glared back with those unblinking grey flecked eyes as it shuffled closers, its mouth opening. It wasn't a moan, not like in the movies, it was more a hissing guttural grunt of escaping air as its lungs were compressed whilst it moved. It was a far more inhuman sound than anything I was expecting.

What made this worse was that it was coming from a fire fighter. She was wearing the protective jacket, the thick boots, and trousers. I doubt she'd donned them to tackle a blaze, but those thick clothes must be practically bite proof.

Maybe I should have killed it, hindsight's a wonderful thing. I think I could have, and made it back inside afterwards. I might even have had time to check the glove box and to make a proper search of the boot, perhaps even to remove the driver's body and see if the engine worked.

I just didn't have time. It was twenty feet away and getting closer whilst I was still gripped by fear-laden indecision. The gun was only four feet away, but on the wrong side of the car. There was no way I could reach it without getting into the car on the passenger side and twisting forward. I don't know if it was loaded, but all that was running around in my head were scenes from movies where someone tries to fire and the gun just clicks because the safety catch is still on. The only gun's I've fired have been shotguns on pheasant shoots where the gun is handed to you already loaded. I've no idea what a safety catch even looks like.

What I needed was distance between me and it, enough distance I could retrieve the gun, get out of the car, and kill it without risking my life if I couldn't get it to work. What I needed was not to panic, to stick to the plan. Instead I just turned and fled.

I limped as fast as I could to the end of the street, turning left because I was on that side of the road. Then I ducked down the cycle path running down the back of the next block. I didn't even think to check it was clear before I started down it. It was empty, but by the time I got to the end of it and back onto a main road there were two of the undead, and They were keeping pace. I went down roads, doubling back on myself, trying to head back towards the house, sobbing all the
time
.

I tried to get a grip, I told myself to get a grip, to calm down and think, but all I could do was keep looking behind me. Two became three, became four, then five and I ducked down another alley, across a cul-de-sac and straight through a laurel bush, tripped on a low brick wall and hit my head as I fell.

I crawled under the bush, curled up as close to the wall as I could manage and lay as quietly as I could, barely breathing, just listening. I couldn't outrun Them. I couldn’t fight all of Them. I just hoped that They wouldn't hear me. I think I passed out for a time, maybe for an hour, maybe for two.

When I came back to myself I held my breath, closed my eyes and listened. There was plenty of noise, the trees blowing in the light breeze, the drip of a broken pipe, the scurrying of something too small to worry about. Then there was the noise of Them. It wasn't close, it was at least a few streets away, a clattering snuffling sound as They slouched along, knocking into each other and whatever lay in the roadway.

Slowly, painfully, I got up. My leg had been knocked about a lot during the chase and when I stood up it didn’t waste a second letting the rest of my body know it. Going by the chunk I'd torn out of the cast I must have fallen over the wall harder than I thought.

As I made my way out of the garden it took a moment to work out I was roughly a mile south of my house, on a street that ran parallel to the railway. I remembered that the alleyways were down on the map as a pedestrian cut through to the station, one that the locals had wanted to get closed due to the late night traffic. It was completely the opposite direction to the one I'd wanted to go.

Since heading north was out, at least for the moment I headed south east, trying to put distance between myself and the undead I had woken up. I moved slowly, each step far more painful than it had been at the beginning of the day. My breathing was more laboured, and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep going for long. I took my time and was able to avoid Them.

I killed my third zombie a half hour later. I had found a cycle path that follows an almost straight line between Crystal Palace and Greenwich. It cuts through parks, across supermarket car-parks and along railway cuttings and offers a great and quick route to the river, but it was a narrow path. In most spots it was enclosed either by the high walls of the buildings it ran alongside or by the fence that was meant, in some unfathomable way, to make it safer at night. It was that fence that kept me on the roads as much as possible. There was a greater chance of meeting one of Them, but also more options for getting away.

It was in the middle of a footpath about 30 feet from the road. It was facing towards me, looking right at me as I walked past the edge of the house. If I'd been more cautious, if I'd gone a different way...

It came toward me at a fast stilted walk, I didn’t panic, I don't think I had any panic left in me at that point. I looked around for an escape, but it was moving faster than I could manage, and then it was only a few steps away.

I flailed at it with the left crutch, trying to push it away. That meant putting more weight on my right leg, which screamed in agony. It raised its arms, batted at the crutch, its momentum swinging it round so it was now sideways on to me. I shifted my weight onto my left leg, let the crutch fall from my right hand to dangle from its strap as I tightened my grip on the hammer and swung with all my strength.

The first blow knocked it down, but my own impetus carried me forward another step, my weight now completely on my broken leg. I stumbled, almost collapsing on top of it, my right leg stuck out behind me, my entire weight was on my left knee.

It was pushing itself back to its feet, snarling, trying to snap at me with its mouth. The blow must have done some damage as it was moving jerkily, its arms groping out, clearly unsure where the threat was. I brought down the hammer a second time. It died.

I picked myself up as best I could, and limped away. The leg... I’m worried I've done something serious to it, but what can I do? I needed to take one of my painkillers but couldn’t afford to have my senses dulled in anyway. I tried to focus on something else, anything else, and that's when I realised that when I spotted it in the alley, it wasn't in that half crouch posture the undead adopt when there isn't any prey. It was upright, waiting.

What had I done to give myself away? If it was smell They would have known I was in the house or under those bushes. Perhaps They still can see, but not as well as humans, after all They didn't notice the light when I was signalling to Sam, and in this case since I couldn't see it, then it couldn't see me. That left sound. Instead of listening for Them I started listening to myself. My breathing was loud and laboured. I began to take shallower, slower breaths. Then I heard the sound of my crutches. It wasn't that loud, but it was a rhythmic clip-clunk. I paused again by a brick wall and tore off strips of cloth from my shirt and wrapped them around the rubber feet.

It was an improvement. I took my time at corners, avoided streets where I could see Them, cut through back gardens, doubled back a few times, until I was thoroughly exhausted.

I found a
laundrette
, maybe a mile and a half from the river. There's nothing at all useful here except intact windows and a door that was easily broken with the chisel and just as easily secured again by pushing a washing machine in front of the door.

Looking back on the day I think I saw less than two dozen of the undead. I was expecting more, a lot more. I'd imagined a dash to the river, hundreds and thousands chasing me as I slammed that locked gate to the community of houseboats closed just in time. As far as I thought about killing any of Them I didn't think of it as anything more than a swing of the arm, that They would fall and I would move on. I didn't think of it as killing at all, not really.

And the undead can hear. I've suspected it, but today I had proof. It's obvious, really, every time I emptied the sink or bath or flushed the toilet They heard water running through the waste pipe to the sewer by the side of the house. Sam must have been doing the same and with the same sorts of sounds coming from different ends of the street They couldn't work out exactly where the noise was coming from. As their numbers began to thin about the same time the water ran out the conclusion seems sound.