Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (11 page)
11:00, 22
nd
March.
Having difficulty planning lunch. I’m starting to feel hungrier more often and thought if I spent more time planning the meals that would help distract from the size of the portions, but I've not much variety of ingredients. It's going to be rice with herbs and spices. The only real decision is whether I should add oregano or thyme, paprika or cayenne.
They're moving faster. They're still slow, slower than I could walk. Slower than I think I could walk, anyway, but They are getting faster, as if there's something drawing Them in. Is it herd mentality or could there be some kind of hive-mind behind it?
No. There's no evidence of that. I need to stop thinking like that. It's just late night horror show stuff. There aren't any hives or herds. I need to stick to what I know, what I actually know, that today They are moving faster than yesterday.
16:00, 22
nd
March.
Outside of the UK and New Zealand I don't know of any country that turned off its mobile phone network. Even with the fractured internet
a lot of video was uploaded, particularly in that first week of the outbreak, and thanks to my government phone I had access. I watched some of them. All in all I don't think my fellow Brits missed out on much. Most of it was camera phone and web cam stuff that could be split into two categories; the forlorn goodbyes of those about to leave whatever safety they'd found and the bloggers who saw it as their duty to chronicle the end of the world. I didn’t see much point in either of those, but there were a few genuinely interesting pieces that stand as a final testament to the macabre marvel of the Internet.
My favourite has to be the pseudo-scientific pieces. I found them oddly reassuring despite their content. It was these videos that I was thinking of when I was trying to recall whether or not They can swim, though I’m not sure I ever saw a piece where they covered this. In some they dissected living zombies, in others they catalogued how to turn household objects into weapons, or categorically proved things like holy water, for instance, had no effect. Even I know it's from the wrong mythology, but it was clear from the blogs that others didn't. Then again, what has myth to do with this harsh reality?
There was footage from the space station where the last astronauts set the cameras to automatic before evacuating, or of the disastrous attempts made again and again of refugee ships trying to dock on the Antarctic ice. And then there was the blog from The American Free Army.
The group, if you were to believe their own site, was based in Texas, but based on the exterior shots I'd say they were somewhere in Colorado. According to their hour long vitriolic propaganda piece, they'd been preparing for the UN-Zionist backed invasion for decades, they'd tried to warn the world, that this apocalypse was the result of us ignoring them, it was our fault. They had declared themselves the natural successors to the United States government and they commanded all citizens… and so on. After a half hour or so of the worst kind of vitriolic paranoia the cameraman took us on a tour of their bunker. I have to say that it was a good thing the zombies came, because there was no way the Feds would have ever dug them out of there.
They had concrete bunkers with three feet thick walls, fall out points, underground tunnels, a storeroom with enough food for a thousand people for twenty years (which I guess is why they lied about their location), with the largest chamber kept for the armoury.
The video finished with footage of them killing what they claimed were a handful of zombies in the woods outside, but to me they looked like refugees. That footage was uploaded on the 24
th
February and I'd initially only watched it in the hope that there might be something useful. I stayed on their site afterwards because after that video finished there was another, a live stream.
I don't know whether they were just technically incompetent, or whether some hacker decided to embarrass them in front of the world, but the web cams they'd set up inside and out were broadcasting over the web. It was like reality TV when you really didn’t care what happened to any of the contestants, and it was compelling, just as long as you kept the sound off.
There were about sixty of them in that bunker, split into four firing teams and a command and supply unit. Seriously, that's what they called it. Each day more zombies would appear and each day they'd kill more and yet more and more would take their place, drawn in from miles around by the sound of gunfire.
Each day the number of full boxes of ammunition in the armoury got smaller and smaller. On the third day the leader told them to start making the shots count. “Aim for the head”, he said, “one shot, one kill” he said, and he took to marching around the compound hitting the younger ones who were “wasting rounds”. They tried, but they just weren't that good.
On the fourth day, at 16:04 GMT, I made a note, someone went into the armoury and found it was empty. They were overrun thirty minutes later.
What got me about that video was that these guys in the bunker had no idea that the rest of the world was watching. You could tell that from the conversations, from the bravado and banter that turned to bluster and threats, that they thought they were talking in private. I don't know how many rounds they fired in the end, or how many zombies they actually killed, but outside not one of them knew anyone who cared enough about them to call and let them know the world was watching.
Day 11, 67 days to go.
13:00, 23
rd
March.
I need a plan. I need somewhere to head to and a way to get there. A goal, if you like, and one more purposeful than counting down the days until the cast should be coming off. Someone still may come for me, but with each passing day the chances of that recedes. If I am truly on my own then I need to start planning and act whilst I still have the luxury of time.
If this had happened at any other time, or if our apocalypse had manifested itself in any other way I'd have headed up to Northumberland. Jen's parent's place isn't really a farm, it's more of a manor. There's farmland attached, but that's all looked after by tenants. At last count t
here was a dairy herd, six fields of potatoes and an organic farm tied up in an exclusivity deal to supply courgettes to one of the London department stores. It's not exactly the makings of a balanced and varied diet but it is food and the farmers there know how to grow it.
Her parents are real life aristocracy, the landed gentry, genuine minor nobility that can trace their stewardship back to the times they used to stand on the walls and square off against the Vikings at the gates. Not that there are walls now, that part, the
crenelated
castle part, that burnt down around the time of the Restoration, but the manor house that stands on the spot would be ideal to hold off the undead.
I suppose the question is whether the place would stand against the living as well. All over the world, there are, or were, millions of people looking for somewhere like that, somewhere that was obviously safe, and if I managed to get there would I find those people I knew still there? That's if I could get there.
The government car would be the how of getting there. If it still works, if the battery's not flat and there's enough petrol. If I can get enough speed to push through and out of London, if the roads north aren't blocked and if, when I get there, there's someone there I know, someone who will take me in, then I'd be safe.
Too many if's. I know the bridges over the river were closed during the crisis, but did they remove the roadblocks when they evacuated? Looking out at the street right now I don't think I could push through Them. No, I know I couldn't. There's too many. So the car's out, and without it there's no way I can limp to Northumberland. What then?
The government, the new government, was going to be based, nominally at least, on the Isle of Wight. Eventually any journey there would be by sea. One option, the obvious one, is to head south to either Portsmouth or Southampton, where a large coastal enclave was going to be created around the two ports and the New Forest.
How far is that? I wish I had a map. About eighty miles I think, but that's as the carrion crow flies. How far would I have to travel? That's a very different question and one that's impossible to answer. But let's say I’m lucky, and miraculously, somehow, don't have to take any detours, how long would it take? If I was healthy and fit, four days, since I wasn't close to fit before the outbreak I’d say without the cast, five. With the cast, ten days? Twenty? I really have no idea.
That's without detours or hiding up for days on end, or the time it would take scavenging for food. What chance is there, what real chance, that I would actually make it on foot?
But there's another way. The river. I've no idea how to sail a boat, but would I have to? If I could get on board one, couldn't I just ride it out to the coast? Surely I'd get picked up by a fishing trawler or some Naval vessel, or maybe I'd be spotted by a satellite, for there's no reason why they shouldn't still work. Certainly I'd have a greater chance out on the water than I would here.
There are, or were, dozens of houseboats dotting the banks of the Thames. I don't know how many of them have engines let alone fuel, but all I’m really looking for is something that can float.
Or I could stay here and scavenge from the surrounding houses. Except, if my tenants are anything to go by, the rationing will have left the cupboards pretty bare. Soon what's left will start to spoil, and then what? How long will it be before the government tries to take back the city? What will I do if they don't and I’m still here next winter? What will I do if a fire starts nearby and I’m forced to leave?
No, staying here isn't an option. It's three and a half miles to the river. That is by far the shortest route, so it's now the official one. But not today. Not tomorrow either, there's just far too many of Them outside.
Day 12, 66 days to go.
04:30, 24
th
March.
I was woken in the middle of the night by a scurrying noise. It was just after eleven and like a child terrified of the monsters in the night I hid under the duvet. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been a half hour, before I, slowly, quietly, sat up and reached for my crutches. The noise stopped. I waited, trying to work it through, trying to get my brain to fire on at least half a cylinder. It wasn't a zombie, that was clear enough. There was some light from the stars, but not enough to see by. I fumbled for the torch, but caught myself in time, there was no way I was going to risk Them seeing a light through the window.
Just as I was starting to calm down, just as my heart was beating slow enough I could count the beats, I heard it again. I jumped with shock, I actually jumped, throwing the covers onto the floor. The sound stopped. This went on a few more times before I'd woken sufficiently to realise what it was. A mouse (or rat, but we'll assume the former).
This was the first time I've ever heard one in this house. It's in here somewhere and, at night, it likes to prowl around my room. I'll try and find it as soon as it's light, and whilst I’m at it, will box up all the food.
I couldn't get back to sleep. I tried, but, I was too excited, you see, this is good news, because if mice can survive then why not cows or sheep or pigs? One day, and it may be long off, but one day there will be bacon again. It might be mouse bacon, but that will do for me.
The long wave broadcast has changed. It's a different message, a new one. They're back to broadcasting music now, Bach I think, or Beethoven, it's something funereal. The gist of the message: the government has fallen, we're on our own.
18:10, 24
th
March.
This is what they said:
“This is Radio Free England, transmitting from the emergency broadcast station at Lenham Hill. We followed the emergency broadcast thinking we would find some remnant of the government here but the station was deserted. The message being broadcast was pre-recorded. We have taken over the station and have this message for anyone who can hear us. The government has fallen. All governments have fallen. The evacuation of Britain failed. The infection had spread too far and to too many.” There was a pause.
“That is the bad news. There is good news, of a sort. This is a secure location. We have helicopters. We are prepared to use these to evacuate those currently trapped in cities and towns. We are also prepared to re-supply those of you able to hold your current positions. The only way that we can win back our planet is if we fight.” Another pause.
“If you can hold out where you are, then you must. Please pay attention to the following instructions. If you need evacuation then display two white sheets from the roof. If you need re-supply display two coloured sheets. If you do not have sheets use paint. If you do not have paint then improvise.” there was a slight chuckle “I bet you're getting good at that if you've survived so far. If you have supplies to spare for others to continue the fight display four sheets of the colour of your choosing. We will broadcast further instructions and whatever news we can over the coming days. Good luck.”