Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (6 page)

They don't seem to move much. They just squat on their haunches, not even staring at anything. It's almost as if They're waiting, but that's what humans do and They are not human.

No. They're not human.

09:10, 16
th
March.

I’m sitting extra quietly. God, that sounds childish! I didn't notice how much noise I was making until I went downstairs to check the ground floor flats, so it is possible that I’m making a lot more noise than I think and I’m just not conscious of it. So I’m sitting extra quietly, just seeing what goes on out there. Since we're being childish, what do you do when you're sitting quietly? You read!

The books were useless, but I bet you guessed that. OK, not completely useless but not exactly helpful. They did give me something to do last night, right up until the battery died around three am, but any advice they offer that even approaches the practical starts with the assumption that a) you're mobile b) you're armed c) live in a fictional world where your survival is guaranteed, at least until the last few pages.

Three of the ten I picked up yesterday, including the one with the promising survivalist quarterly review, had the protagonist discovering a house belonging to a Mormon family, complete with a year's supply of food. Like I said, not helpful. At no point did it give any advice on how to spot a house that belonged to Mormons. I think there was a large community of them near Bath or Boston or Buxton or somewhere beginning with B, but that's about as useful as saying they're in Utah. Were there other communities with that sort of cultural preparedness built in? I don't know.

There was one book, it was completely useless but I actually really enjoyed reading it. It's not really a zombie book at all, but a comic romance between a zombie and a human. It's a sort of re-working of Romeo and Juliet, a tragedy about loss and unattainable love.

Out in the street there's a woman I vaguely recognise. She lived in one of the houses on the next street. I've no idea what her name is, after all, this is London, no one talks to their neighbours here! Now she's dead, just another zombie.

For the last couple of years I couldn’t afford gym membership, not with the millstone mortgage around my neck, so I took up running. Not that frequently, it was more a case of guilt when I'd wake up on a Saturday morning and realise I'd not done anything more physical than lift a coffee mug during the past week. I'd drag on my trainers and head to the park before my brain had a chance to convince my body that going back to sleep would be a far better idea. That's when I'd see her, running the same circuit as me.

She always had a little dog with her, a tiny thing with stubby legs, big hair and either a coat or a bow depending upon the season. She wasn't cruel, just forgetful. She'd start off slowly, just meandering along, talking to the dog, encouraging it along. As her stride lengthened, the talking would stop, and she'd start going faster until the dog couldn’t keep up. For a few steps it'd be dragged along before she noticed the weight and remembered it was there. She'd stop, bend down, apologise profusely to it and stroke it for a minute or so. Then they would start once more at that slow and sedate pace, and sure as the sun rises, after a few steps she'd pick up the pace and the dog would be dragged along a few more steps.

I never knew her name. I'd just see her in the park or occasionally out in the street. We'd nod and smile and wave at each other, and that was that, no words were ever exchanged.

Maybe she ran out of food. Maybe she thought the longer she waited the worse things would get. Maybe she thought help wasn't coming. I’m leaning to the latter because she made her move on the 11
th
, the day after the car came to collect me. The sight of a dead military uniform lying uncollected in the street must have made her think there was no more help coming, not here anyway.

Wearing a backpack and hefting a cricket bat, she came out of the back gate to her house and headed straight to her car. She'd knocked two over on her way there, but from my vantage point I could see They were still moving. The bag went into the car and she followed it. The engine wouldn't start. She didn’t panic. I was impressed with that. She got out, looked around and saw that there was a zombie between her and the house. Realising it would be on her in seconds, she turned and began walking briskly up the road.

They'd noticed her by now, and two of the nearest, their faces too disfigured to even guess at their gender, slouched towards her. She gripped the bat tightly in both hands and scythed it forward. She misjudged the blow, it barely grazed the first and missed the second completely. She swung again and this time one of Them went down.

She pivoted gracefully, shifting her weight to her back foot, and brought the bat down with a ferocious backhand. Its skull shattered and I swear I saw teeth fly out of its mouth. It was stunning, and I guess she thought so too because she stopped. It was only for the merest heartbeat, just long enough to adjust her grip, to take a breath, just long enough for the first zombie, the one who'd been crawling along the curb, to rise up onto its arms and bite her leg.

She screamed and brought the bat down, again and again until its head was nothing but a reddish brown smear on the pavement. By then she was surrounded. I didn't watch the rest.

She lost an arm at some point, chewed off above the shoulder. Enough of her left calf is gone that she can't really stand any more. She just half sits, half lies on the pavement, until there's some distant sound and she stirs and moves in this terrible circle, never getting more than a few inches towards it. I wonder what happened to her dog.

11:00, 16
th
March.

Should I try and get the bag my neighbour took to her car? Relatively speaking it's not far away. I can't decide if there's likely to be anything useful in it that would be worth the risk. Not weapons, clearly, since if she had anything better than a cricket bat she would have used it. Maybe there's food. Then again, she left the bag in the car, so maybe not.

I have to accept some responsibility for her death. No, not responsibility, that's not quite the right word. I didn't know she was there, nor did she know I was here, but her actions were precipitated by a car pulling up, a uniform getting out, being killed and then left, unlooked for by anyone in the overlooking houses and unclaimed by any of his comrades. If I wasn't here then maybe she'd still be in her house, maybe she would have lived, if only for a little longer.

No I shouldn't think like that. I mustn't think like that. It's not my fault, it isn't! Her death is not my responsibility. Even if I'd called out I doubt I could have reached the door in time to let her in. And if I had, all that would have happened is she'd have ended up in here sharing my food, with Them outside knowing where we were. It's not like I could have escaped with her. All it would have meant is the food would have run out in half the time, and that's the best possible scenario I can think of.

I've done enough soul-searching over it, and whether I kept silent out of self-preservation, fear or cowardice and whether it was the right thing to do or not, it wasn’t a conscious decision but it was a decision, and it's made and done.

It was that book, the romantic idea of two people finding and saving each other, of a Zombie with compassion. Reality is just so much more depressing.

But the batteries ran out last night, I need more unless I want to face another night in the dark, so back downstairs I go.

19:00, 16
th
March.

Out of all the job description's I've ever had I think looter sounds the best. It's certainly more rakish than survivor. It's more proactive, yes, that's it.

It got me out of the maudlin introspection that's been plaguing me for the last few days. I found some more batteries for the torch (thank you Jessica, I refuse to call you Jezzelle any longer. I'd apologise, but since you aren't here...). There are two sets, neither new. Hopefully they'll last the night.

There's still a chance of another torch in the downstairs flats, but it's such a supremely useful and practical thing I just can't see either of them ever even thinking of buying one. Those two were both utterly hopeless, completely incapable of changing a light bulb, fuse or even of just turning the central heating off. I kept getting these emails, the summer before last when I was at the party conference (I forget which one, I usually went to all three), saying the house was too hot. They'd tried everything, and couldn't fix it, and on and on until I got in the car, and drove back arriving about three am and solving the problem ten seconds later by turning the thermostat down.

No, I can't see them having anything useful, but am I any better? I mean, there's my tool kit, but what else of any practical use do I have here? My torch, and it's a good one, along with the survival blanket, wrench, multi-tool and decent pair of walking boots, though those wouldn't be much use right now, are stuck in the boot of my car in an underground car-park on the other side of the river.

If they did have a torch it'll have been an App they downloaded onto their phone. How long would that have lasted them? One night? Two? It'll have run out by now, certainly.

When I found out they were gone I called Jen. I was sure that, since they'd left whilst the curfew was still in place they must surely have been picked up. She was in a cabinet meeting and I ended up speaking to an assistant, some officious dogsbody whom I'd never heard of and who clearly hadn't a clue who I was. I was assured that due to the large number of people who'd left early, no one was being arrested. They were “just muddling through with the evacuation as best they could. Thanks for the concern”. Then he hung up.

My plan, for it was my plan, though others may have come to the same conclusions was that an evacuation of our urban areas was the only practical solution to the problems we were about to face. The only other choice was to tell the country to stay inside, barricade their homes and hope that the zombies would die or decay before the uninfected starved. Some in the cabinet office wanted to extend that idea and use our nuclear arsenal to destroy those urban areas. That would reduce the pressure on what were increasingly scarce resources, but there was a very real risk that an action like this would bring about the anarchy and chaos that we could see taking grip elsewhere.

Our Thin Blue Line was stretched
taut
, even bolstered as it was by camouflage green. The only thing stopping the mass desertions that had spelled the end for Russia was that our troops had nowhere on the entire planet left to flee too. We needed to give people hope, and asking them to stay put was never going to do that.

The plan was simple. With close to thirty million citizens, tourists and refugee's in our cities and urban areas it had to be. With no food coming in except that which could be stolen from aid depots and foreign shipping, with refineries running out of oil to process, with what little fuel we did have being reserved for coastal defence, the situation was dire and would swiftly turn to collapse.

First we would move the people to the coast where it would be easier to distribute what we could steal and fish. Then our aim was, or is, I suppose, to begin massive agricultural works. With the sea at our backs, we'll push forward and reclaim the island. It's not the greatest plan, I see that now, but we had so little time.

Six days after New York the announcement was made that there was to be an evacuation. No date was set and only scant details were given, but following an increase in riots and curfew breaking, people needed to know that there was a plan, that someone was still governing. The citizens were told to prepare. Those that could would have to walk, or cycle, up to forty miles to a muster point from where they would be transported to an evacuation zone. Those that couldn’t make such a journey would be transported by train or bus.

Each city had its own evacuation plan, with cities split by postcode, each given a different muster point. The bridges over and the tunnels under the Thames had been closed, so for London there was a roughly North-South split.

As soon as it was announced restrictions on travel were increased. Most motorways and many A-roads were closed to the little traffic that was left so protective fences could be erected along the routes the evacuees were going to use. Anyone caught trying to leave a city without a permit was lucky if they ended up working on one of the gangs fortifying the roads.

Not everyone had to stay and wait. The doctors, nurses, scientists, engineers, logisticians, builders, plumbers, electricians and others whose skills were needed to cater to the basic needs of the tens of millions of refugees were evacuated, along with their families, over that first week.

Then there were those who remained behind. In order to prevent the kind of anarchy seen in Sao Paulo the appearance of normality had to be preserved. That's why the football matches were shown on TV, it's why the roads were swept, why the dentists stayed open.

I’m proud of that last one. I couldn’t think of a better way to reassure people that Britain still functioned than by telling everyone to visit the dentist. A lot of people did. It's pretty clear that of all the priorities after the evacuation, dental supplies are going to be very low on the list and we don't want to worry about the loss of labour during the first harvests because of tooth decay. I know, this sounds really petty, but by keeping dentists open, by making all treatment free again, by telling people to go now, because they really wouldn't get a chance in the near future, it made the evacuation real. No, it was more than that, it made the idea of survival and life afterwards real too. That kind of hope was as important in maintaining order as a whole regiment on the streets.