The Undead. The First Seven Days (7 page)

I reach the end of the street and turn left again, this takes me out onto the main road. I look back down to the shop and can see thick, black smoke and flames licking at the side of the building.
  Bodies on fire… they are still standing there; like they haven’t the sense or intelligence to move away. Even the ones standing on the outside aren’t moving away. They wait at the point they last saw me; ever hopeful to find one more piece of living flesh to bite into.
  The building has caught light now, flames are shooting up the side, more smoke pluming into the air. There is an undead female moving across the square, heading towards the flames, and another undead behind her.

Further on, past the fire, I can see the undead moving up the street, heading towards the blaze.
They are like insects at night; drawn to light. I don’t know if it’s the action, the movement, the fire or just the crowd of other undead that draws them.

I move away and head towards the garage.

Last night I watched as they massed at the front of my house and behind my front door. But then I was screaming abuse at them from my window, alerting them to my presence. Then the armoured van went past, the horn sounding repeatedly. Was it the noise of the horn that pulled them away or the already huge stream of undead in its wake?

The thoughts give me hope.

Maybe I can carry something that will distract them with movement or noise; something I can throw if I get cornered or trapped. There are plenty of children’s toys that bounce about with loud noises and flashing lights. I should have kept a can of lighter fluid and matches… I could set one of them on fire, which will draw others to it while I get away.

I need supplies and weapons.
  The bat is good; it’s longer than the hammer and means I can keep them away from me.
  A gun would be perfect, but I have no idea where to find one, the only guns in Britain are shotguns, even a double barrelled shotgun only gives two shots at a time, but a shotgun is also long and heavy - like a bat.
  I think of the movies and news reports, of robbers using sawn off shotguns. That would make them smaller and lighter to carry, but reduces their secondary use as a blunt instrument or a ranged weapon.
  The police have guns, you see them quite a lot these days, armed police with pistols on their belts. They keep the bigger guns locked in armoured boxes in the car. I guess there must be armouries in the police stations.
  That gives me another thought… maybe the police are holed up in their stations? If they have weapons and strong buildings they could remain safely inside. Boroughfare has a police station in the town centre - I should have gone there first.

Ridiculously, I wonder if they would arrest me if I was armed with a gun.

The garage is detached, a sprawling collection of buildings, workshops and lock ups.
  To either side of it is wasteland. There are old wrecks and pieces of machinery rusting in the grounds. Big ,double, wooden doors face out onto a hard standing; oil stains on the ground. There is a single fuel pump in the middle, hardly used as the price is always so much cheaper at the supermarkets.
  There are two cars on the front, an old
Vauxhall Cavalier
on a jack; the drivers side wheel is missing. The other one is a silver
Nissan Micra
.

I move slowly over to the
Micra
, the bat is held in my right hand, out to the side. The car is locked. I walk over to the reception door, which is also locked. I then look through the window: no sign of movement and the lights are off. I start walking around the edge of the building, looking for an easy entry point.
  I hope the
Micra
is in for a service and not a repair. There might be other cars inside that I can use.
  Round the back, there are more doors, old wooden ones with no windows, the few glass panes are filthy and barely offer a glimpse inside.
  I could force one of the doors open, but I worry about the noise that this will make.

At the front again, I check the double doors, but they are flush together and well secured. The reception door is the best option as the top half is a large glass pane.

I stand listening for a few seconds.

I will have to be quick, smash the glass, get inside and find the keys - then get out and go.
  I pull the bat back and swing at the glass pane in the door. The glass is toughened and fractures, but stays in place. Another swing and the bat smashes a hole in the glass, but the pane remains in place.
  The glass is designed to withstand impact and not shatter into pieces. I keep hitting the glass, smashing holes and forcing the bat around to create a hole big enough to climb through. The noise is too much and it’s taking ages to clear the glass, but I keep going; hitting and moving the bat around in circles.
  The hole is big enough to lean my head through and I check to see if I can unlock the door from the inside.  No good, I look about to check for movement. I can see thick, black smoke in the sky above the village - the fire must have caught on the buildings.

I keep smacking the glass away, until I have cleared a hole big enough to get through.

I slip my bag off and put it through the hole, then I push the bat through. I climb in, which is harder than I thought it would be, as the bottom ledge is too high to step over and I don’t want to enter head first. I have to hop my leg in and straddle the bottom of the frame, then shift my weight over to draw my remaining leg in. Within seconds, a loud alarm is sounding, and, looking up, I see a motion sensor attached to the wall.
  I grab my bag and the bat, look about, and see a small sales counter for fuel payment; packaged wiper blades, oils and lubricants are on display.
  I go behind the counter… but there are no keys. I check drawers and cupboards – again, nothing.
  A door leads into the workshop area and I go through. It’s very dark as the grimy windows are not letting much light in.
  I notice light switches on the wall and flick all of them, watching expectantly as fluorescent strip’s blinker on slowly.
  There are three clear work bays: one has a car jacked up high enough to walk under, the other two are clear. Tool drawers and various machinery are positioned around the outside. There are shiny red sets of sliding metal trays with cool logos on them - everything seems to have a “snap on” sticker on it.
  There is a small, metal key cupboard on the wall, but the door is locked.

I search and find a large, flat-headed screwdriver. Taking this back, I force the end into the gap between the metal door and the frame. I lever back and the door is forced open.
  Inside are a few rows of hooks, with various keys hanging down and two sets of car keys on fobs. One of them has the
Nissan
logo on a metal clasp. I take the keys and head back into reception; the ceaseless, wailing alarm feels like it’s penetrating my skull.
  An adult female undead is leaning through the door, groaning and trying to walk forward... her head and shoulders are through the hole.

I use the bat and strike downwards on her head. The undead bends over the frame and I quickly swing upwards and she goes flying back out of the door and keels over.
  I look out of the smashed window; she is lying with her feet by the door and her body stretching away.

Her head is at an unnatural angle; the neck broken with either the force of the blow or the impact from hitting the ground.
  I start to clamber through and my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again. I step down on the leg of the undead, which makes it easier to get out. I move away quickly, in case she gets back up.

The
Micra
keys do not have a clicker; it’s an old car and I have to put the key in the door. I put my bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. Soon the car is in gear and shoots forward and… stalls.
 
Shows how long it’s been since I last drove a car
.
  I try again, keeping my foot down on the clutch.

The car starts and I pull away. The seat is too far forward and I feel for the handle underneath me and push it back.

I drive away from the village, heading in the direction of my parents’ house. In the rear view mirror, I can see plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.
  The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. There is no one to put the blaze out. No police will cordon off the area. No ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.
  It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.

I have an uneventful drive to my parent’s village.

The car radio has buttons for preset radio stations. I press through all of them but hear nothing – only silence and the odd burst of static.
  Don’t they have emergency broadcasts telling people to stay in their homes or wait for further instruction?
  I use the tuner, going through the frequencies.

The radio locks onto any signal being broadcast, and, after a few minutes, the car is filled with the sound of a man speaking in calm and measured tones.

He repeats a message, over and over:

“
There are survivors, you are not alone.

Do not come to London, we are completely infested.

I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.
   If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.

Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.

Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”

I keep listening to the deep voice which I find calming and re-assuring.
  There is no sign of panic or distress in the clipped English accent.

I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of a well-kept older man; groomed and sophisticated.
I think of the Forts on the south, they are known as Palmerston’s Follies.
  They were constructed in the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There are many of them along the coast: old style batteries that were used for huge cannon and mortar placements. They were positioned to repel ships but also built to withstand land forces. Some of them have fallen to ruin, but most have been preserved by historical societies. They are all surrounded by high walls and have underground rooms connected by tunnels. I have seen them many times but never paid much attention; they are just a part of the landscape, a forgotten history.
  The most famous are the three or four big, round bastions in The Solent; the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering - used now as private hotels or left to decay.

I start to form a plan in my head.

If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the Forts and then try to find my sister. She lives in a posh apartment block, with secure entry.

It was Friday evening, yesterday, when it started, so she would most likely be out at a wine bar or social function – networking, as she calls it.
  The message on the radio said that London was infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.

There is a small gathering of undead outside the shop near my parent’s house.

Unlike the previous village, this shop is on the main through-road and it’s a modern, large, convenience store - more like a mini-supermarket.

I slow down as I drive past, scared that I will see my Dad amongst them.

No sign of him, but
they
are standing outside the shop, peering in.
  As I go past, I see movement from within the shop - there are people inside. The windows have posters and signs up and I can’t see them clearly, but someone is waving at me and I catch a glimpse of another person standing with them.
  My Dad could be inside! He might have gone there for his newspaper and become trapped with some other survivors.

I think about going straight to their house, but if he is inside I could be too late if I have to come back.
  I slow the car and look back; there are five undead, all adults.
  One of them looks like a delivery driver, wearing matching blue trousers and jacket, another is very old - even from here I can see his hunched over thin frame and wispy grey hair, he is only wearing baggy shorts and a white vest, the shorts are pulled up high and the vest is tucked in.
  There are two undead women, late middle-aged, both dressed in sensible trousers and shoes and sleeveless jackets with pastel coloured shirts. They look like they were dog walkers: early to bed and early to rise, clean living with dogs that are always perfectly behaved and expertly trained.
  The last undead is a young male, he is dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt.

I watch them move; slow and shuffling, facing into the shop. They are trying to walk ahead and are pressing their bodies against the door and windows, banging into each other.
  I look about, but I can’t see any more undead anywhere. If I am going to do this I have to be quick, the noise and movement might attract more and I don’t want to end up trapped inside too.