Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (17 page)

Carefully and slowly I inched my way along the roads parallel to the Thames. What I needed was either a building that fronted onto the river that I could access from this side and walk through, or one tall enough I at least could see how far the barricades extended from its roof. Either way I needed to find it fast, I was beginning to tire and I needed somewhere I could safely rest.

I was a few hundred metres south and east of Butlers Wharf when I saw three of the undead in the street in front of me. I ducked into the doorway of an accountants, levered the lock apart and closed the door quietly behind me.

There was a staircase leading from the reception area, so I headed up. The first floor was split into three conference rooms, all ready for use save for a thin layer of dust. It looked like no one had been there since before the outbreak. There was a second set of stairs, less well kept than the first, with carpet only as far as the landing where it bent out of sight from the hallway.

I went up again, driven by a desire to get high enough to see the river. It wasn't easy. The staircase was narrow and steep but I felt compelled to go on.

At the top was a short landing, an open plan area with cluttered desks. I ignored those and headed for the door marked “Access Only”. It was unlocked and led to a flat roof dotted with dead plants and faded plastic chairs.

Finally I saw the river, a hypnotic sliver of blue green. I can't recall whether there were any boats on it because after that fraction of a glimpse of my goal my eyes were drawn away and down to the streets on the other side of the barricades where I saw Them.

There were thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe millions, maybe the entire population of the country north of the river. There were more than I could count, and all that was between Them and me was the haphazard barricade of concrete and steel.

That wasn't the worst of it. You know the old nursery rhyme, “London Bridge is falling down”? They'd demolished the bridges, or tried to anyway but there was a narrow section of pavement still standing. It was perhaps three feet across with the balustrade intact on one side, and on the other, an overturned army truck. Around that narrow gap the living dead were tumbling into the river, but through it hundreds were being funnelled across the bridge onto the already densely packed streets of the South Bank.

The noise I’d been hearing was the shuffling of thousands of feet pushing forwards, of bones breaking as the zombies at the front were crushed against steel and concrete, and the grinding of metal as the barricades
strained to hold
.

I can't be sure whether the undead spotted me as I stood there, or when I turned to flee or even if They spotted me at all, but as I raced to the door the noise grew to a deafening moaning roar. Underlying it was the screech of straining metal as the barriers began to move.

I practically fell down the stairs and ran outside, heedless of noise, of my leg, of anything, but I'd forgotten the three I'd entered the building to avoid. They'd spotted me, and were waiting right outside the door. I swung the hammer at the closest but missed, my aim was spoiled by the weight of the crutch. I hobbled forward, futilely shoving at Them with the crutches. Then I gave up and limped away as fast as I could. They followed.

I ignored the pain in my leg. I didn’t even have the breath to spare to scream. When I glanced back, They were only a few paces behind and now there were four of Them, and behind those I could hear the grinding of metal as the gates of hell opened and the barricades finally gave way.

I tried to go faster. I just wanted to get away, but now every road I went down seemed to have more of Them, heading, it seemed, towards me, with dozens more now following
in my wake. I
was tiring and They were getting closer.

I recognised the block I was heading down as the same one the gym was on. The entrance was round the corner. Could I get inside without Them seeing where I'd gone? Could I get inside before They caught me?

I turned the corner, reached the doorway, tore at the cord I'd tied so carefully that morning, slammed the door behind me smacked the bolts into place, then leaned against it whilst looking around. How thick was that glass? I grabbed a bench and pushed it against the door. That's when the first zombie arrived. It started slamming its fists down on the glass. The door moved. Another one arrived and started pushing at the door. I grabbed and shoved every piece of piece of furniture I could find, trying to make a barricade of my own.

Then it got worse. The banging stopped. It wasn't that They had given up, it was just that that was when the first rush from the barricade passed. They simply swept the other zombies up into that slow malignant wave.

They're not trying to get in, not any more but as this huge mass of living death makes its ponderous way past, it shoves and bangs and batters at the doors and windows. I don't know how long they will hold.

Day 37, Bermondsey, London.

03:25

One of the plate glass windows at the front broke about an hour ago. I heard it fracture, and just, only just, managed to get a display rack in front of it before it broke. I've shifted some weights and one of the benches in front of the rack, and I don’t think the undead can get in, but They might be able to see through the cracks.

I’m sitting in the showers with the door closed and torch on. It's the closest to pulling the blankets over my head I could manage. It sounds like the whole of Britain north of the river, all fifty million or so flooding south. It can't be, it surely can't be. All because of me. God, I pity Sam. I pity anyone south of the river right now, anyone who gets caught outside.

It would have happened anyway. It's not my fault. The barricade just wasn't strong enough. Maybe it wasn’t even me They spotted. Maybe it was just a coincidence. It's not my fault. This is not something I’m going to feel guilty about.

07:30

It's long past dawn, but there are so many of Them that not even the thinnest glimmer of daylight can penetrate through their ranks.

I've not really slept. There's an upstairs here but the staircase is on the other side of the lobby. Will They see me crossing the floor?

09:00

I’m upstairs in the manager's office. I can't tell if They spotted me or not. Every few seconds an irregular pounding will come from below as one of Them pushes at the door. Whether it's deliberate or not I can't tell.

Fortunately there's a window up here. It's high up in the wall, near the ceiling, and from here I can see nothing except the sky but just seeing sunlight again is soothing. Upstairs is far smaller than the ground floor, which itself isn't exactly spacious, but it feels safer. They can't get up here, not easily and I don't think They're really trying. No. I’m safe here. Safe, for now.

I don't understand where these zombies came from. Clearly from north of the river, but where exactly? This is important. I mean really important, OK? It's not just me trying to distract myself by thinking about something else. If all of those outside once were Londoners, then why didn’t they leave when they were meant to? If these aren't Londoners, then what is it that, after death, drew Them to the south?

I’m trying to remember what I saw, what I really saw, not what I think or dread I might have seen.
Were there barricades on the north bank? Tower Bridge was up. I remember that, what about Southwark Bridge? I think it was destroyed, but.. No, I can't say. I couldn't see the other side of the river, couldn’t say whether there were barricades there too. All I can remember, all I can see in my mind's eye, is a sea of ghoulish faces glaring up at me.

I've seen this twice before, at the house. One day there would be just two or three then the next there would be dozens, then a few days later one or two again. I'd imagined that this was like a cloud moving across south London, growing as it collected more of Them in its wake, its speed and direction dictated by the obstacles in its path. Perhaps those surges were caused by other barricades over other bridges breaking.

All right, so maybe it doesn't matter exactly where They came from. Whether it's from London, the Midlands or even Scotland, it doesn't really change anything, not now. Where They go, now that is the more pressing question and one for which I have no answer.

As for what I can deduce, what I can know from what little I've seen, if I disregard those assumptions that are driven by fear, then I can say that there must have been a major outbreak during the evacuation. I'd suspected, or rather feared, as much.

I can picture those fenced in roads and motorways, they were meant to keep the infection out but all they did was ensure that the victims were trapped. Someone, who had been infected, who hoped to reach the Muster Point, who hoped the vaccine was a cure, died, turned and came back. Perhaps not immediately. Perhaps the body lay there for a few hours. Perhaps it was reported to one of the officials, perhaps it was even moved into one of the trucks, the death assumed to be from a heart attack or exhaustion or one of a hundred other innocuous complaints. Then the body rose up and attacked. Panic set in. People fled in both directions along the fenced in road, not heading for safety, not heading anywhere but away.

But there were too many refugees. The road would have become clogged, and the ones at the back would be attacked, and they would die and some would turn immediately and slowly refugees would become the undead. Those that still lived, with no other way of escape, would have torn down the fences and, infected and uninfected alike, would have fled out into the countryside. It can't have been long before the undead reached the next reinforced road, and with hundreds or thousands of zombies now tearing at those fences, they too would give.

Perhaps that's why the barricades were thrown up, a hasty defence to keep the river clear, whilst those last core personnel attempted to leave. The military, the police, the hospital staff, the engineers, the politicians, Jen. Was this horde their downfall? Is this how the government fell? Are they now the dead walking the streets below? Is she one of Them?

11:00

What can I do about it? Nothing. If Jen's out there, then she is. If she escaped then she did. I can't do anything about that. I can't do anything to help her. All I can do is try and help myself, and myself needs to get out of here.

It's a small gym, exercise machines and weights downstairs along with changing and shower areas. Upstairs there's a small storage area, this office and a weird room with mats on the floor and mirrors around the edges. That gave me a shock when I opened it. I didn’t recognise myself at first, covered head to toe in dirt and grime. That door is now firmly closed. At the bottom of the stairs along with a water cooler, whose content had mostly evaporated, was the vending machine, whose contents are now mostly stacked on the table.

It would have been nice if there was even one replacement water canister for the cooler but there isn't. Judging by the stack of empty bottles by the back door they were overdue for a delivery. That's the bad news. The vending machine was half full, its contents amounting to about ten days worth of protein bars and vitamin fortified glucose and electrolyte enriched re-hydration fluids, or, to give it its more familiar name, squash. Add to that the energy bars, glucose tablets and some much welcome paracetamol in the office drawer, the boxes of vitamin tablets and body building powder stuff in the supply room and I’m set for a few weeks. I get the feeling that whoever ran this place might have had a side line in supplements, there's a few boxes here printed in Cyrillic, another two printed in (possibly) Chinese. Those I'll leave alone.

The towels though, oh, so soft and clean. If only the showers were working, I think I'd almost risk going downstairs...

For now the front doors are holding, so, for now I’m safe but under siege.

14:00

With the desk by the window and a chair on top of it, I have a platform from which I can just make out the tops of their heads. The road's not as densely packed as I thought. There are only hundreds, not thousands out there. I assumed there were more, it sounded like more, perhaps because They are moving so slowly.

I've blocked up the top of the stairwell. If the undead get in, then I’m stuck here. But if They do break down the doors, I'd not make it downstairs to the back door in time anyway. At least now I should be able to sleep in peace.

Day 38, Bermondsey, London.

09:00

Another sleepless night, caused not from the noise, which I’m almost accustomed too, but the leg. I closed my eyes and pulled out a few of the mats from the mirror room to sleep on, with towels as my pillows and blankets. It was comfortable enough but my leg wouldn't stop throbbing.

The exertion of the last few days has taken it out of me. Right now I can barely move, but even if I could there's no way I could survive out there. Better to die here, of thirst.

If I'd ever had to think about what the end of the world was like I wouldn’t have imagined there would be so much boredom. All I have to read are a selection of industry magazines, sales catalogues and one novel, “A Cornish Daughter”. It's some kind of romantic period drama that's as bad as the title suggests. When I get out of here I’m going to keep my eyes open for some Dickens.