Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (21 page)

OK, it doesn't sound like a great plan, not written down like that, but it is. What makes me certain, you see, are the scorch marks on the concrete and this group of trunnions. They are called trunnions aren't they, these metal hooks embedded in the concrete that the walkway can be attached to? No, maybe they're called something else, I can't remember.

Someone went to a lot of work to prepare an escape route. All I need to do is attach the walkway and push it forward, gravity will do the rest and I've got a ramp to walk down to the other side. More of a slide, I suppose, and there's going to be a drop at the bottom. Won't be able to get back up here afterwards either, but that's OK. I wasn't planning to anyway.

I've made a splint out of some lengths of aluminium, gaffer tape and electrical wire and strapped it over the cast. I have to be careful with the leg now, something scrapes inside when I try and move it. As long as I’m careful, and don't panic I think I'll be able to outpace Them. Yes, yes I will. I’m certain of it. I've been practising up here. There's not much space, only fifteen steps from one edge to the other, but that's more than I had in the flat. I’m good to go. Just need to wait for Them to disperse a bit, I've just got to wait.

Yes. All in all a good day.

Hope it rains. Best not to think about it I suppose. I should think about something else. What though?

This is the first time I've seen a group of Them up close. At home They were always in that sort of torpid state. When I was in the gym, and from the flats above, I couldn’t see much of the streets below, and on the web the distan
ce afforded by the screen kept me removed from the reality of what I was seeing.

There are a couple of bodies out there, killed, I assume, by whoever sought refuge here before me. Who were they? When did they leave? How far behind them am I? As to why they left, that's clear enough. This is a good place to defend as long as you have supplies, but without them, without anything to burn, with no real shelter against the elements, with no water to drink... No. I mustn't think about that.

Where did they go? It's not that I want company, you understand. I mean, it'd be nice one day, when all this has settled down, but I’m coping on my own. I got this far alone, didn't I? Other people, they'd just slow me down. Too many arguments, too many compromises. I've a plan, as long as I stick to it, I'll be fine.

Very thirsty. It's cold up here and there's nothing to burn. I should have thought to carry some kindling and firewood with me. I could burn this journal I suppose. No, this is my link with... with sanity, I suppose. Besides it wouldn't keep me warm for more than a few seconds. I'll remember to bring wood or something with me next time.

They're not really pounding at the door, They are trying to reach through it. The banging is as often caused by their heads as it is by their hands. And those hands aren't knocking with the knuckles or slapping with the palm like I would. No, as often as not They are clawing at it, as if They can't understand why this great impediment is between Them and their prey. I suppose They can't, They don't understand, do They?

How many calories do the undead burn up doing that? How long before their bodies are exhausted? It can't be long. I can't imagine They actually eat their victims, not eat and digest I mean.

Are these zombies decaying, or just desiccating as I feared? It's still too early to tell. Some look far more ragged than others, but I don't think it's decay. I think it's just that They aren't healing. Open wounds just widen, as movement pulls and tears the skin and muscles apart, but that doesn't slow Them down much. I suppose this explains the torpid state, when They rest on their haunches and hibernate, or whatever it is.

Time. That's what I need. Time to rest. Time to outlast Them. I need to find somewhere safe for a few months. Somewhere with water, maybe until the end of summer, then I'll need food for the winter. That'll be the tough one. Which direction to go, though? The rivers to the north, not far to the north either, and that's about the only direction that there isn't any smoke. Everywhere else, south, east and west, and across the river, pillars of smoke dot the skyline. I could go back to the house, I suppose. It's not far, and the car would be there, the car which may work and the gun which probably does, but that's going back...

There's Buckingham Palace, of course, that will have food for thousands of people for a decade or more, plus a fire suppression system that's bound to work even in a power cut. Trouble is, that so to is the alarm system. It'd be just my luck to get that far and find bars over the gates and windows. No. Besides it's on the wrong side of the river.

It's the same with the Tower of London. I can almost see it from here. It'd make a great place for a stand-off. After all, it was built as a proper castle, wasn't it?
But the Tower is also north of the river
and unlike Buck Pal it wouldn't have any stores.

They've stopped banging at the door. Let's see, it's half five. That's a sooner than I'd have expected. I’m going to investigate.

19:15

Half have already wandered off, the other half are milling about by the door to the building site, acting as if They can't decide whether to continue to pursue me, or to follow the others. I slid the walkway back onto the main building and have climbed up to the fourth floor, that's as high as the ramps go. I’m not going to risk the ladders.

They're heading to a building south of here, it's about half a mile away, maybe less than that. A third of a mile? I wish I had a map.

The building's completely surrounded by Them, five or six deep and not just around the front, but the sides as well. There's only one reason They are there, but I don't think I can do anything to help.

Day 50, Surrey Quays, London.

15:00

I am saying a prayer of thanks to whichever sainted politician decided to allow vending machines in schools. I’m sitting in the Business and Innovation Centre at St Miriam's Academy, gorging myself on sun-dried tomato bites and cartons of genuine fruit juice.

I took a detour inland today, to avoid the Rotherhithe tunnel, and whatever horrors dwell inside it. Maybe they blew it up but maybe they didn’t.

Finally I got a view of the river today. A proper view, and as far as I can see there are no floating zombies. There's a lot of detritus in the water, but I think that it's safe.

That building to the south, the one with all the zombies outside it, I decided to give it a wide berth. I thought a lot last night about what I might be able to do to help. Starting a fire is about the only safe thing I could think of (safe for me, I mean) but that wouldn't distract the undead. Besides, I had nothing to burn.

In the end I did nothing. That wasn't as callous a decision as it sounds, but I think that whoever is in there must realise that it's noise that attracts Them. If those survivors stayed quiet for a day or two then the crowd would disperse and then they could escape. That they haven't, suggests that whatever noise they are making is deliberate. It could be that the people in that building have plenty of food and are trying to gather the undead there to make it easier for others. Or maybe it isn't intentional and they just don't realise, like I didn't with the pipes, that some mundane action of theirs is the siren song, bringing death to them. I couldn't see a way to help them then, I can't think of one now.

The best find here has to be toilet paper and an unblocked toilet. I can't flush it, but I don't plan on staying here long. It's the simple things in life...

Some schools tried to open the morning after New York, many others couldn’t as staff refused to turn up. They were all closed whilst I was still in the hospital. It wasn't that the kids at the schools were going to be a problem. These days, with their double locked security gates they're about as secure as any prison. More secure really, and if there was an outbreak in a school then it would be easily contained.

There was a plan for that, one that, as far as I know, never needed to be implemented, at least not at a school. The day after I got back from the hospital a plane from LAX tried to land at Heathrow. It wasn't a scheduled flight, far from it. A USAF Colonel, home on leave, had led a mixed bag of full-timers, reservists and their families to the airport. They'd broken in, stolen a plane and he'd managed to get two hundred of them airborne.

There was almost a happy ending. The Colonel knew the right frequencies, he'd warned London he was coming and we were willing to accept him, except that he hadn't said there was at least one infected person on board. He was smart. Smart enough to wait until he was approaching the Capital, anyway, before he told the air traffic control. By then it was too late to shoot down the aircraft. He must have known at least some of his passengers were infected even if they hadn't yet turned. He'd kept his family with him in the cockpit and they, he assured the tower, were clean. That wasn't good enough.

They used the plane as an experiment. A way of testing different nerve agents to see which would work on the undead. Not many, Jen told me, which tallied with the reports from the countries where we'd got those weapons.

The point is that we, no, they, the government, not me, they were ready to take out a school if it was necessary. But the real risk wasn't in having to sanitise a school, but in some overly conscientious journalist backsliding and reporting it, and then we'd have ended up with the riots they had in Japan.

How did I feel about learning that my erstwhile colleagues had devised and were prepared to implement a plan to kill school children if they felt it might halt the outbreak? I can't even think of a single historical precedent for such actions, not until a few months ago at least.

I can blame the painkillers, the pain itself, or just the whole psychological disconnect everyone must have felt when they found themselves in a living nightmare, but maybe it goes deeper than that. How did I feel? I didn't care.

And now? I think I feel differently now. It's hard to say. I’m so emotionally drained, so tired, so on edge I don't know what it means to be human any more beyond that basest, simplest desire to live.

I should just be grateful for something to eat, something to drink and somewhere safe to sleep.

And toilet paper. I’m grateful for that, one more thing I didn't think to include in my pack. Two rolls now have pride of place at the top of the bag where they'll be easy to reach. Double wrapped in carrier bags, of course, because there's nothing worse in my little world than soggy toilet paper!

There's a thought. Maybe there's some plaster of Paris, or whatever the modern day equivalent is, in the art room. Surely there will be something. I’m off to investigate.

Day 51, New Cross, London

05:00

The school was infested. That's a good word for it. Infested. One almost got me. Almost. It was breathing into my face. I was worried all night that it had spat some of its saliva or whatever into my mouth or nose or eyes. It can't have though, I mean, I’m still here, right?

Yeah. Lucky again.

They weren't old. I mean They were newly turned. Their ages before, I'd have to put at between twenty and thirty, maybe a little older but not much. They didn't appear dried out and desiccated the way some of the others do. There were twelve of the undead, that's how many chased me. Since the doors were unlocked one of Them must have been staff. I should have noticed that.

I was looking for the art supply room. The only maps of the school listed the classrooms but not the subjects that were taught in them so I looked around for the block with the most student art on the wall, hoping that was a logical place to start my search.

The ground floor was just classrooms filled with chairs and tables but no sign of any supply cupboards. I went upstairs and tried the classroom at the top since it had a likely looking collection of pottery and clay figures on the window sill and a promising door at the back of the room.

I heard Them before I got to the second row of desks, not coming from the supply room, but from behind me, from the door I'd just entered.

Slowly I turned around. As quietly as I could I let go of the handle of the crutch and pulled out the hammer, then, holding both it and the crutch and ready to drop the later, I inched forward.

I could hear it somewhere beyond. It wasn't getting any closer, but nor was it getting further away. It knew I was here somewhere. I decided to make a run for it.

Gingerly I stepped out into the corridor. I saw it on the other side of the fire doors, about ten yards from me. Our eyes met. It snarled and staggered along the corridor towards me. I hurriedly stepped back into the classroom. I didn’t know if fire doors could be locked, and what would happen when it hit the plastic windows. I was hoping they were locked...

They weren't, and they weren't made of plastic. It ran straight into the plate glass and kept going, over the banister and down into the stairwell, landing in a twisted gory heap about halfway up.

I followed it down the stairs not sure if it was still alive, its body was punctured by shards of glass, but that's not enough to kill Them. It started to move, its grunting hiss and moan punctuated by the crunch of glass as it tried to stand. It flailed its arm at me, catching the crutch, knocking it from my grasp. I was unbalanced. I slipped, I fell. Now I was sitting on a step three up from it, and it was crawling up towards me, the fragments of glass biting into my skin.