Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (3 page)

Who exactly Patient Zero was I don't know. I don't even know if he was a patient, all Sholto told me of the event itself was that it took place in New York State and that Patient Zero had contaminated twenty eight people. That was the word he used, contaminated.

One of those twenty eight had been chased to the mall. Who exactly she was, where she was trying to get to and who was chasing her, Sholto didn't say. I’m not sure he knew. Of the other twenty seven, they had gone on to infect people from all walks of life, but it was the airline pilots, the tourists, the executives, the sales reps, politicians, and a full panoply of others, all with easy access to air travel, that spread the infection out of the state and out of the US. Some turned at the airports and train stations, others when boarding, some when they were in transit, some not until they had reached their destination.

I told Jen what I knew, but she didn't seem to care. I suppose she's right, what does it matter?

As the outbreak spread it became clear that this wasn't a localised problem, nor even one that would stay on the other side of the Atlantic. That was when the focus of the news shifted. It happened overnight, literally, as the news outlets were all nationalised. They kept their individual tone and format, but they all started towing the official line. The UK was free of infection and, despite what rumours you might have heard, Britain was safe.

Safe, there's a hollow ring to that word now. It was safe only when compared to the rest of the world. Our first major outbreak occurred four days after New York, but it was quickly dealt with and news of it suppressed. The number of daily cases, like the calls to the police about strange noises from an unlit house, or the isolated cases of boats being run aground on the coast, stayed in double digits. Without a mobile phone network, with more and more web-sites failing, the few people who found out the truth had no way to tell anyone else. I wonder, how many people believed the lie and how many didn’t but wanted too?

I'd been unconscious during the shutting of supermarkets and petrol stations, the implementation of The Food Distribution Plan, the press nationalisation, the curfew, martial law, the riots and the shootings that followed. By the time I woke, order had been restored and a defence plan was in place. Everyone was instructed to stay at home and listen to the official announcements. They were told there was no infection reported in the UK. They were told the government was in control.

Yeah, right. Jen was the government and I've never seen her so scared as she was in the hospital.

12:00, 13
th
March.

I thought I heard something outside. I was hoping it was another car, but it wasn’t, at least not one close enough that I could see it. It sounded like an engine though and from somewhere close. Maybe I’m just imagining it, hearing a phantom sound because I want that car to arrive. I know it's coming and I don't want to miss it. I can't miss it.

I've got to be ready. My phone's on, there's no signal, but that doesn’t seem to matter. There was no signal when the last message came in. There's only half the battery left, though. That could be a problem. I didn't have it plugged in since the day before yesterday so that means about forty eight hours worth left. I'll turn it off. It's best to be cautious.

I have to keep getting up and moving around. I like to sit here on the bed, next to the window with my back against the wall, that way I can see out and rest my leg at the same time, but every half hour or so the muscles start to cramp up. Maybe it's something to do with the blood flow. I wish I knew. If only I had the internet, not the internet I had over these last few weeks, no, not the one which took twenty minutes to load a page, I mean the proper internet.

Over the last few weeks I've spent most of my time sitting here by the window, watching. At first I saw people skulking away in the middle of the night, then there was the evacuation when people went by in droves. Then the undead started to appear.

At first it was just one or two heading off down the street at that slow ambling gait that I'd describe as a stroll if it wasn't for the bloody stains on their clothing. Over the past few days They've stopped moving on. Now They just stand or sit in that weird sort of half squat, half crouch, like They're waiting for something, and I just sit and watch waiting for any kind of movement, any indication that They know I’m here. Last night I couldn't sleep. I knew They were there, outside in the dark but I couldn't see Them. It was the worst night of my life and I know tonight will be worse.

I've not much of a view. The house is built on a corner with a slight elevation. From up here in the attic I can see the rooftops of this street and the next. Below the roofs there are sixty or so windows most of which belong to flats and below that is a hundred yard stretch of road.

I inherited the house three years ago from an uncle who'd been halfway and a million pounds into renovating the place. When I say halfway, I mean the place had been gutted and half the floors were ripped up. He'd been an investor in the firm Jen and I set up. What I didn't realise until after he'd died was that he'd bought the house in the company's name saddling me very neatly with the mortgage. I had to give up my flat in Pimlico and moved in up here, converting the downstairs into four apartments with money I borrowed from Jen's parents.

My flat in Pimlico was spectacular. It had an open plan sitting room/kitchen, an office, a proper walk in shower and a bedroom big enough to fit an Emperor size bed, all within ten minutes saunter of Westminster. Now my entire living space would fit in my old bedroom with space to spare.

My uncle had lived up here, it was the only part of the house he'd finished before his death. He was the one who'd put in the balcony and fitted the big glass doors so there'd be enough natural light for his painting. I had the tinted glass fitted after a very polite letter from a neighbour pointed out that my morning walk from bed to the shower left nothing to the imagination.

And the worst part, you want to know the worst part? In a month's time they were going to announce an express service from the train station. You'd be able to get to central London in 8 minutes or the coast in 40. I could have flogged the place to a developer for enough to pay off the debt and afford a proper London flat like a civilised person.

13:10, 13
th
March.

I thought I heard a car again. I’m sure it is a car, but there are so many houses for the sound to bounce off, it could be coming from anywhere within a half mile radius of here. In the
summer, if I left the balcony doors open at night, I could hear goods trains rattling by in the distance, and the railway has to be at least a half a mile from here. Now those sounds are gone, there's nothing but the quiet rustling of wind and the constant shuffling of feet along the road outside.

I don't know if the undead would be able to see me if I stood in front of the glass. How could They? But how can They be out there in the first place? I don't want to risk it, nor do I want to lose the chance to see the world outside by blocking up the window, so I sit on the bed, waiting for my leg to cramp up.

I tried the phone again, just in case, but there's no answer. Maybe it's broken. It must be broken, Jen would have noticed that her driver didn’t come back wouldn't she? Of course she would. She'll send someone else, but I've got to be patient. She's got millions of evacuees to feed and house. She knows where I am. I've just got to be patient.

My four tenants moved out with the first wave of evacuees. That was on the 6
th
March, a few hours after Jen had appeared on TV to announce the evacuation would start the next day and that the vaccine was ready but would only be distributed to evacuees at the muster points. She'd visited me that morning with my last care package.

I suppose I was so caught up in the excitement of new food and the sight of all those people going by outside that I didn't notice my tenants were gone until the next morning. Traffic, trains, aeroplanes, kettles boiling, cups rattling, cupboard doors closing. All those little audible queues that you've woken to an ordinary world, they were all gone.

It was about mid morning before I decided to go downstairs and see whether I was alone. I think I knew. Yes, I knew, but I didn't want to believe it. It took me an age to get down to the first floor. I can't remember the last time I had to actually use my arms to lift anything close to my own weight. Probably not since school and maybe not even then. I tried lowering my good leg first and taking the weight on the crutches, but the stairs are too steep and narrow for that, instead it was crutches first then I had to contort my body into an L-shape at each step. It was agony. I almost gave up after the third step.

The two first floor flats were empty, the keys left in the locks. There wasn’t even a note. I haven't checked the ground floor flats. I called out, but it took almost all of my energy just to get down one flight of stairs, besides, what would be the point? I've got food here and Jen will come back, or send another car. Probably, in all the confusion of the evacuation, she's not realised that the car hasn't returned, but soon she'll ask someone and they'll check and then they'll send someone. I've just got to stay quiet and listen and wait.

14:40, 13
th
March.

When Jen visited that last time she didn’t stay long and her security people were clearly nervous, pushing her to hurry it up. It wasn’t that they actually said “Hand over the food, and lets get out of here” but you could tell they wanted to be elsewhere. One of them stuck to her side all the time, not that we needed privacy, our relationship was never in that particular place, but this guy walked in right behind her and stood staring at her the whole time she was here.

This was after the PM's disappearance. According to Jen he'd had a breakdown and been temporarily replaced by the Foreign Secretary. According to Sholto, the PM had been forcibly removed during what in other times would be described as a coup.

She didn't say where she was going, she didn't say much at all, but as she was leaving she asked me to wish her luck. The only time she'd said that to me before was the night before the by-election. I was still furious with her for ditching me and our plans for the security of a government pay check, but I wished her luck then anyway. It's what you do. So as she left I said good luck, and tried to smile.

It's the other one who's down in the street, the one who first stood outside the door then went to stand by the car. I never spoke to him, never knew his name, never even got a good look at his face and he's the one who died coming to rescue me.

16:00, 13
th
March.

There's no power. There's still water, but without electricity there'll be no more hot showers. Fortunately that's not a great hardship since it was a pain trying to wash in there anyway. I had to sit down on a stool, and it's such a small cubicle it meant leaving the door open, which, in turn, meant the carpet out here was getting ruined.

I know, who cares about the carpet at a time like this, but it's my carpet, my house and as much as I hate it my home. So I make do with a sponge bath which at least has the merit of giving me something to do.

No power for the kettle though and that's a real blow. I'd begun to ritualise making tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil then waiting for the tea to brew meant a few minutes I could just ignore the problems of the world. I didn't have any milk, not real milk anyway. Jen left some powdered milk, but I'd rather drink black tea than mix that stuff into a brew!

No, there's been no real milk since before I went into hospital. Of course since the fridge no longer works there's no way of keeping the milk anyway. No fridge. Not that there was anything much in there and what little there was had gone off whilst I'd been in hospital. I didn't do much cooking. Sandwiches were about the extent of culinary expertise, ready meals were for when I was feeling extravagant. Usually I ate out, never anywhere particular grand, but it was better to spend a few extra quid each day than have all my clothes smell of cooking.

No more fry-ups. I had an electric stove, a two-ring affair on top of the world's smallest oven, but even if it was gas that wouldn't help, that was shut off the morning of the evacuation.

Today's lesson; you really can't make tea with cold water. I knew, in the same way I know the sun's a long way away, that tea has to be made with boiling water, but I'd never tried it before. I tried making coffee with cold water, but the granules didn't dissolve. Maybe they would with some other brand, but not with the stale jar I've got.

No more bread-maker. I used to set the timer so there would be a fresh loaf when I got home. Oh, the smell of fresh bread... I rarely ate more than a couple of slices; it was coming home to that smell that I liked. Oh, yes, fine, it was wasteful, didn't I care about the starving children, etc. etc. Well I didn't care. I don't care. I think I did enough good in the world to deserve that small extravagance. I've still got the flour, about half a kilo, but like I said, it's an electric oven.

No films, TV or music, but I can live without those. I never had much time for TV and definitely no time for the cinema. As for music, I rated it on its ability to block out the sound from outside, not on any artistic merit. I regret that now. There's no heating. It's a small room, but it's a big draughty house and I’m well aware that I’m the only thing radiating heat in here. Technically it's spring, but it still feels like winter. At least there's been no snow since the end of January.