Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London (25 page)

As I went through the house checking each room, I had to keep one ear on what was going on inside and the other on what was going on outside. It wasn't easy to concentrate on the two, and to be honest, the whole experience was utterly terrifying. My second lesson was to do any future tests out in the open.

As for the pike itself, it's far too long for inside work. I'd thought that inside would be safer, that as long as I had my back to the door I would have somewhere to retreat too, and with the fenced in gardens I wouldn't have to worry about being surrounded. What I'd not considered is how much extra noise I would make. The pike clattered against the walls and the ceilings as I tried to keep it in front of me.

The zombie heard me before I found it. As I retreated to the back door it lumbered down the stairs, spotting me when it was halfway down. It stumbled as it tried to grab me through the banisters, tripping on the cord to its dressing gown. I dropped the pike, snatched the hatchet from my belt, stepped forward and split its skull whilst it was still on the ground.

That's only the third time I've seen a zombie in night attire. I find the notion that anyone, on being infected, would take the time to change before laying down in bed unsettling.

I picked up the pike and headed back outside, through the gardens to the side of the block, then across the road toward the house where I'd found the bicycle. My target was hibernating in the middle of a stretch of curved road. I checked that there were no others around, then stepped out into the street. It spotted me, or perhaps heard me, because I am now sure that is the sense which They use the most, from about 20 metres away. It took its time getting to its feet, barely finishing its second step towards me before my blow came down, right on its crown. Its head split open, but the blade came loose as I pulled it out and almost came off.

I've made some adjustments, fixed on a heavier counterweight and reattached the blade. Tomorrow I’m off to the funeral home.

Day 67, Shooters Hill, London.

15:00

It's an oddly disquieting experience being surrounded by coffins inside and the undead outside. It's made worse when one is, well, I'd not say trapped, I've been trapped before and this is nothing like that, I’m just detained here a little longer than I'd like.

The funeral home is at the south end of Plumstead near Shooters Hill. It's a 1950's building at the end of a terrace of shops, most of which were boarded up long before the outbreak. The staff car park and entrance are at the back. The customer entrance is round the front leading into a small bleak waiting room and a frankly tasteless showroom. Not customer, sorry, the bereaved. The basement is, I assume, where they prepare the bodies. Maybe it's not, but access is from a very sturdy, very closed, door. There's no sound from down there and I'm not surprised, but even so, there's no way I'm going to unlock that door.

I took my time coming over here, not that there's any way of travelling these days except cautiously. I'd hoped to find some quieter route, some street that seemed empty, but no such luck. There weren't too many out there, but enough that I had no choice but to kill two. Both with swings to the head, both without sustaining any damage to the pike. Neither time did I feel anything other than irritation that the task slowed me down.

I came in through the back door, so I didn't see the pack in the street at the front of the building. Pack, yes, that's about right. I didn't notice the pack until after I'd found the address book, in the drawer of the desk in the upstairs office. By the state of the small break room someone had already been scavenging here. Everything edible had gone, no tea, no coffee, no biscuits, no sugar, nothing. The cupboards were open, even the cutlery had been removed from the drawers. Whoever was here before me made a far more thorough search of the place than I usually do.

It was as I was going back through the office, looking at it now with the eye of a looter, that I thought to check the small cupboard under the desk. It was, I thought, the right sort of spot for the Senior Funeral Director, or whatever his title might be, to keep his secret stash. No such luck. If there was anything ever there, it's long gone. It was whilst I was standing there that I thought to look out the window.

They aren't outside the funeral home, though there are a few
idling
within a few metres of the front door. There's another forty or so between here and the main pack, of about a hundred strong, gathered around a large office building at the end of the street.

Across two of the windows at the front is a banner with one word. “Help”.

16:00

The address book lists churches but not by denomination. Is there a way to tell just by the name? I mean do Anglican churches use some saints, Catholics the others? The depth of my ignorance surprises me sometimes. There are two relatively near each other, about a mile south of the Embery's house. Since I doubt there'd be two of the same flavour next to each other that seems like a good place to look.

That just leaves the question of the block up the street. Are there still any survivors there? By now they could easily have run out of food and water or decided not to wait until that happened.

No. The waves of zombies travelling through the city would have dragged these with Them. These must have gathered here in the last few days. It could be the undead are drawn to that building not by a human sound, but by something automatic, but surely even batteries would have run out by now.

But what can I do about it?

All I can think of is getting Them to chase me. If I’m going to risk that then I need to categorically know that there is someone alive inside there. I've brought two days worth of supplies with me. If there's no sign of life by mid-morning tomorrow then I'll head back.

I’ve broken the mirror that was hanging in the toilet, and will use a shard of that to try and signal. Here goes.

19:00

Ah, great. Superb. There are people in there.

The flashing mirror got no response. I figured I'd take it a step further and since it was getting dark, tried flashing the torch on off, on off, on off, pause. On off , on off, pause. On off, pause and so on. I have a response. Someone is alive inside there and what's more, they know Morse code.

For the second time in as many months I wish that I did. I repeated their sequence back at them until they (hopefully) understood I didn't know what they were saying. What do I do now?

20:30.

No further response. I need to come up with a plan to help them escape.

Day 68, Shooters Hill, London.

05:00

I can't think of a way to communicate with the survivors in that building without the undead knowing I'm here. But I can't just leave them be. Not if I want to keep my membership of the human race. Not after Sam. Not after thinking I was truly alone.

17:00, Woolwich, London.

I’m back at the Embery's. I’m safe. Whoever those survivors are, wherever they are, they've escaped, and I helped.

My first idea was to try one o
f the cars, to set off the alarm, or rig a horn to go off, but of the three I tried the batteries were flat.
In the end I went back to the funeral home, threw a chair out of the window, and then started hurling down the computer, the desk tidy, the paperweights and anything else I could grab until I was sure that the pack was heading towards me. Then I ran, but I didn't run far.

I wanted to know that the zombies had moved from the office building to gather around the funeral home, but I also wanted to make sure They weren't following me. The last thing I wanted was to end up under siege at the Embery's. When I was sure that They hadn't followed me I started retracing my steps. I was about two hundred yards away when I heard the shouting, about a hundred and fifty yards when I heard an engine start.

By the time I got close enough to see the street the vehicle had gone. So too had whoever was inside, leaving behind nothing but a few corpses and a dozen twitching bodies that had been run over in the escape.

Maybe they left details of where they were going somewhere in that building. I’m not going to check. I saw the undead which had trapped them heading east, following the sound of that vehicle, and now too many of Them lie between me and whoever they are.

Day 69, Woolwich, London.

I couldn't sleep last night. I’m not the only survivor. I don't think I wrote it down or even said it out loud but I thought it, I think I began to believe it.

There are other people out there. I didn't see them, but they are there. That was my first real contact since Sam and was far more real. They are alive because of me. What counts, what's important, oh so important, is that if they survived then there will be others.

I feel like Robinson Crusoe, knowing th
at King and Empire is
out there. Somewhere, across the impossibly wide ocean, as distant as the stars, yet
indisputably
still there. Yesterday was like seeing the masts of a ship against the horizon. Impossibly distant and in no way a rescue, but evidence that there is a wider world still out there, that life can go on and that one day rescue may come.

Who wrote Robinson Crusoe? I thought it was Stevenson, but he wrote Treasure Island, didn't he? Was it Dumas or did he write Monte Cristo? I can't remember. Maybe it wasn't Stevenson. Maybe it wasn’t King and Empire. That's one more book I must find.

Day 70, Woolwich, London.

Before the outbreak, bike's were making a real come back in the UK. We had the state sponsored ones, of course, the designated train carriages, the cycle lanes, the recumbents and, this was always my absolute favourite, the parents driving around with boxes on the front for their kids, like miniature rickshaw cabs.

The Embery's children were far too old for that, but they do have panniers, one I think, was designed to carry a suit, but it fits on the bike and I’m asking for nothing more. The tyres are pumped up, the breaks work, the bags are full. Water, food, a change of socks, a few tools, some rope (washing line, actually), the A-Z, the torch, spare batteries, D-lock (in lieu of any chain for securing the doors to wherever I choose to lay my head), the last of the vitamin tablets, aspirin and paracetamol, (I should try and find a pharmacy and something stronger), the address book from the funeral home and, since I've carried them this far, the laptop and the hard drive. What am I missing? It's a heavy enough load as it is.

I've checked and double checked and don't think I’m leaving anything behind that I’ll regret.

15:30

A spare tyre! I can probably get a few miles on a flat one, but if I do get a flat in the middle of nowhere, I don't fancy walking. I've strapped two to the back of the bike, they're all the thin narrow racing type, but that's better than nothing for now. I suppose if I find thicker tyres I’ll need thicker wheels too. What about gears and the chain, will I need to replace those as well? Perhaps it would be easier to look for a whole new bike. No. I’m ready to go, no more stalling.

16:00

I forgot the wok. That's now tied on. I can't guarantee finding an open fireplace the next time I fancy a cuppa. Spare matches, the grill tray and the second smallest saucepan and I’m starting to worry that I’m packing too much. I've added some spare break cables to the packs, too. I don't have any idea how you attach them, but better to have them and try then miss them and end up on foot.

I've got four litres of water, enough I think for four days. I'm leaving the rest of the food, all sealed in plastic boxes, and a note on the door. It's quite a large one that reads SAFE! Maybe if I get back here I'll find others at home. If. But I don't think I'll be coming back.

I'll head to the church and from there head to a monastery. If I can't find an address book, or if the churches are inaccessible then I'll just keep going until I’m as far away from London as I can get.

Day 71, Woolwich, London.

05:30

Off we go.

12:15, near Croydon, London.

It feels so good to be outside!

They say you never forget how to ride a bike, it would be better to say you never forget how to fall off a bike. Three wheels would be better, I'd be able to charge at Them like a knight of old, as it is I've almost fallen off trying to avoid Them. But the bike is fast, zombies are slow, and most importantly They don't hear me coming.

I've stopped a couple of times this morning, whenever I think it's safe, just to see if I am being followed, and a there have been a few trailing behind me, but not many. I really think this is going to work.

There was a zombie at the end of the road near the house, a tall lanky one wearing a tattered trench coat ripped almost in two along the back. I thought I could get passed before it noticed me, and I would have except that there were another two I hadn't noticed, hidden by a ragged hedge. I swerved, lost my footing and almost fell off. They were on their feet, moving towards me, calling others with that wheezing alarm of theirs.