Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland (17 page)

“That's how Hurley died,” Stewart added.

“He was too old!” Daphne snapped. “Shouldn't have gone out there on his own.”

“He woke early,” Stewart said. “Earlier than any of the rest of us, old habits you know? If I got up at five, he'd already be dressed with the fire lit and a kettle on the stove. He was like that. The work was tiring, and maybe we were exhausted. Whatever. He got up before us, and we slept in, longer than was usual. It was a few days after we'd found a few dozen rolls of chicken wire. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. Every few seconds count, right? He must have decided to go and make a start on putting it up on his own. He was attacked and he got bitten. He killed the zombie, though, but by the time we got outside, there were three more in the yard, and he was lying there, blood pouring from his neck.”

“He'd probably have died anyway,” Daphne said.

“Probably. But we shot him. We had to. Just to be sure,” Chris said, staring at Kim and I, as if daring us to judge.

“Then Annie...” Stewart began

“She died too,” Barrett said firmly, and then they exchanged a look, one that told me that wasn't even half the story.

“That was when we lost the water tank, and things just got worse after that,” Chris continued. “This huge mass of Them came by, trampled everything outside. All that we'd planted. All gone. No food come autumn and there was nothing left to drink. We'd been through most of the places within walking distance, but there hadn't been much there to start with, not after the rationing.”

“That's when we decided to leave,” Barrett said. “And for that we needed fuel.”

“We looked everywhere. All the farms nearby, the village. Barely a thimble full,” Liz said.

“Enough for a couple of dozen miles. At most,” Chris said. “But where'd that get us?”

“That's when I went out,” Barrett said. “It was alright, too. These zombies aren't that hard to avoid, not until some tank of a truck comes roaring by, waking up every creature in the county.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment until Stewart made some comment about the Abbey and the Restoration, and after that the conversation drifted on in a desultory tour of historical Britain. From castles to monasteries, Medieval university towns to Welsh mining villages, all were discussed as to where would be the best place to escape to. Their lack of enthusiasm suggested they'd been over the same ground many times. I chipped in occasionally, just for politeness’s sake, but all I could think of was that I wouldn't want to travel very far with these people.

Barrett didn't share any more of her personal story, but then neither did Kim. I gave some details, skipping over the finer points, focusing more on being stuck in London. I told them what I'd seen and what I'd learnt, at least as far as the places I'd been to, but no more than that. I think I would have told Kim the truth, even if she hadn't found the journal, but this lot, no. I don't know that I trust them. No, that's not it. It's not an issue of trust. I can't say why, exactly, but I just don't like them.

I told the others about the motorway. I repeated it, over and over, making sure they'd heard, but I don't think they understood. Kim was right. If we have to leave, if we have to escape I'd rather get it over and done with. I want to get to Lenham, and get it over with so that, perhaps, I can then settle down. And if I’m honest, I want to do that with Kim and the children. As for the others, they can just fend for themselves.

Day 114, Brazely Abbey, Hampshire.

17:00, 4
th
July.

I'd been sitting at the top of the walls, watching the undead, trying to come up with a way of getting Them away from the gate. The best idea I could come up with was a sort of cage, like the kind they used to film sharks from in the old days. What I couldn't figure out was how we'd build it, or whether it would be possible to build some kind of crane or pulley system to lower it over the walls. I was heading down the scaffolding, on my way to see what the others thought of my idea, when I was stopped by Daphne.

“Come with me,” she said, and led me into the prefab kitchen. She took a seat next to Chris, Liz and Stewart who were sitting by the long oven, now useless without a gas cylinder. Barrett stood in front. Her expression was so grim, that at first I didn't notice Kim standing by the door, holding Daisy, with Annette by her side.

“Have a seat,” Barrett said, pointing to a solitary chair opposite the other four.

“What's going on?” I asked, sitting down and stretching out my leg. “What's happened?”

“We read this,” Barrett said. Throwing my journal down at my feet with what even then I thought was overblown theatricality. “We know who you are.”

“Right,” I replied, bending forward and picking the book up. It was the first volume, the second, since I've been writing about these people, I've been smart enough to keep on me. To be honest, I'd forgotten that the first volume was still in my bag. Why and what they were thinking going through my possessions I don't know. What gave them the right? Well, whatever it was, having read it they clearly felt justified after the act.

“I thought I recognised you,” Barrett said. “I wasn't sure from where. I'd seen you on TV, next to that Masterton woman. Always with the politicians weren't you, always standing behind them. One of those spin doctors, the consultants who no-one elected, but that didn't stop you from carrying on like you ran the country.”

“I...” I'd been about to defend my former career choice, but I stopped myself. “No. The past doesn't matter. It's dead. It's over,” I said.

“Over? After what you did,” she spat.

“I moved to Bournemouth a few years ago,” she said. “Four and a half if anyone's counting, and I certainly was. Four and a half years before the world fell apart. I had a job in London with a web design company. High end stuff, not your usual flash drivel. I started as a receptionist and worked my way up. The pay wasn't bad, I got a bonus and the chance to make more. Then my parents moved to Bournemouth. You know what they used to say about that place, how people went there to die, but often kept walking around long afterwards. City of the Dead and all that. It's not that funny now. They were happy, they had friends and the sea air was doing them good, right up until they got sick. Both of them, both within a few weeks of each other. Old age, that was what the doctors said. A combination of factors, that was the more official term. They had some savings, too much to qualify them for state help, but not enough to pay for a carer themselves. My salary wouldn't cover it and pay my rent as well, so I had to move. I had to give up my job, my life, to go and look after my dying parents. Where was your caring society then, eh?”

Kim took Annette's hand. “Come on,” she said, loudly. “We've places to be.” Barrett looked annoyed that this witness was being taken away. For some reason I got the feeling that this speech I was being subjected to was for Annette's benefit, because it clearly wasn't for mine.

“You know how many jobs there are in Bournemouth for a web designer?” Barrett continued, after Kim had left. “I worked in a pub in the evenings and spent my days trying to keep my parents out of a nursing home. I managed it for about a year, but it was too much for me. So we were going to sell their house, use the money to put them in a nursing home. I'd even called up my boss and managed to get my old job back. It was all going to be OK. Not great, it couldn't be that when you've lost a year out of your life, but it was going to be OK. Then there was the housing crash. I mean, we all saw it coming, everyone did, right? Everyone except you lot.” She paused. I don't know if she was expecting a response. I sat there, and said nothing.

“Their home wasn't worth half of what it needed to be. So no retirement housing for them. No return to London for me. Live in nurse by day, glorified barmaid by night. Everything you could possibly dream of when you're single and the wrong side of forty. They died last December. My Mum went first. My Dad a week later. It was a combined funeral, and wasn't that a miserable affair. My old job in London was long gone by then. I was going to sell the house and go abroad. I didn't know where, didn't care either. I was going to take the money and just get out of this miserable country. I'd just put the house on the market when the outbreak hit. Four days later, I was in the restaurant when they came in.”

“The undead?” I asked, surprised. I'd not meant to say anything, but surely I'd have heard if there was an outbreak in Bournemouth.

“No. Your lot. Government,” she spat. “We weren't open, of course, but all of us staff used to go there and share what food and news we'd got. I know we weren't supposed to be meeting in groups, weren't meant to go out of the house except to collect the ration or go to the dentist. The dentist? That was you wasn't it. One of your bright little ideas.” She shook her head scornfully.

“When the rationing started, we'd just had a delivery, and there was enough to guarantee each of us a meal a day for the foreseeable. It was communal living, and didn't that infuriate the old Colonel who owned the place. He was a true blue Tory, a dyed in the wool cold-warrior who loathed all things socialist. He was even suspicious of the NHS. But Paul was good to us, good to me. Now he's dead.

“They came into the restaurant. They were dressed like soldiers, led by a guy not exactly dressed like a civilian. He wasn't in uniform, except he had that look about him of the kind who was always wearing uniform even when he wore jeans. Suit, tie, overcoat, and if it didn't come from Saville Row, it was only because it came from some bespoke tailor in Baghdad. They were a little surprised to find us there. We had to explain who we were and at first they didn't believe us. They thought we were looters, until we showed them the photo we had, one we'd taken at Christmas, all of us staff, standing by the bar. They said they were clearing out the town, evacuating everyone, final location dependent upon skill set, whatever that meant. Bournemouth wasn't worth saving. By their expressions you could tell they didn't think we were worth saving either. We were given two hours to be on the street out front, ready to walk down along the coast. Walk, mark you, from Bournemouth, a place where the average age has got to be at least eighty.

“Paul didn't want to go. He demanded to see the man's orders, demanded to speak to his superior, he even tried to pull rank. I don't know where he got the gun. Maybe it was a souvenir from some overseas posting, maybe it was old service weapon, I don't know. One minute his hands were empty, the next he'd slammed the gun down on the table. He didn't wave it at the soldiers, didn't even point it at them, he just calmly told them to get out. The officer looked at the gun, then looked at Paul, then nodded to one of his men. The soldier shot him. Three bullets in the chest. The table, and all that wonderful, never to be seen again food was covered in blood and bone and worse.

“After that we were marched outside at gunpoint. There were two lorries, both nearly empty, one an army truck, the other a supermarket freezer van. We had to stand there in the rain as they emptied the restaurant. When they'd finished we had to follow the lorries as they went through every coffee shop, restaurant and fast food place in the area, loading everything into the back. Finally the officer felt he'd made his point, whatever it was, and we were escorted to the east side of the city where we joined up with the tail end of this much larger group that must have been made up of most of Bournemouth. Then all they pointed along the coast and told us to walk that way.”

There was a noise from outside. I don't think the others heard it, not over the shuffling and banging of the undead against the outside wall of the kitchen. Even if they did hear it, I doubt they would have recognised the click-clack of the rifle.

“It was a long walk,” Barrett went on. “A brutal walk, all through the evening and into the night. I was glad I was wearing trainers. There were some buses running alongside to collect those who couldn't walk, but there weren't enough. It's not like we could even help each other. It was us or them. It wasn't our choice to leave them by the side of the road. That was you, you did that!” Her fists were clenching and unclenching with the memory. I straightened my back, expecting her to lash out and strike me, but she took a breath, and went on.

“By the time we got to the enclave, it was after dawn and I was exhausted. We were directed into a warehouse. There was a bathroom, or a toilet at least. One cubicle used by the night watchman now had to do service for about five hundred of us. There was no bedding. No blankets. Nothing. At one end, near the doors was a trestle table, with soup. They had bowls. But it was one per person, issued when you walked in with a stern warning not to lose it, since there wouldn't be any more. There were no spoons. Wasn't that absurd? I mean, they were collecting food from these restaurants, right, but no one had thought to bring any spare cutlery.

“One bowl of soup. That was all we got. Someone asked for more. A real Oliver Twist moment if ever there was one, and we were all hungry. No one was allowed seconds, but at least the people serving the food didn't make anything of it. They just apologised, said there really wasn't enough. But the worst bit was what they said next. They said we should make the most of it, because it was only going to get worse once they'd emptied the other cities. Some people found a cot and slept. Others collapsed on the floor where they were standing. That wasn't going to be me. I hung around by the doors, talked to the people serving the food until I found a guard. I... persuaded him to give me a chance.