by Frank Tayell
“It's old fashioned,” I said, as we waited for the saucepan to boil.
“Sorry?”
“The scene. Us. The fire, the saucepan, the setting, the whole thing. It's like the last two hundred years never happened. Thousands of years, even.” I said. “I found some bones in the kitchen. One of them was at least three foot long. Giraffe, or Elephant, perhaps. I think they were eating the animals from the wildlife park.”
“Wasn't us,” she said. “Them. Those two, I mean. Whichever.” She stared into the fire.
“You knew them? Before,” I asked. There was a long pause before she answered.
“They thought we were the last,” she said, and the words came out in a rush. “That of all the people in the whole world, only the three of us were left. They were certain of it, so convinced I think it drove them crazy.”
“You knew Sanders?” I asked.
“Yes. Sort of. Not really.” She grimaced. “That's exactly how to describe him. He was a friend of a friend of someone I used to work with. He was the kind of guy you'd just see around. I think Sanders was a nickname, but when you've been saying hello to someone for years you can't suddenly ask 'What's your real name?' Then he moved into a place on the next street, and I'd nod to him at the bus stop, or say 'Hi' when I saw him at the supermarket, you know? Nothing more than that. When the evacuation started, when they said everyone had to leave, we decided to head off together. Or he did. There wasn't anyone else close by, and he was familiar. He was safe, I guess that's what I thought. That’s why I went along. And it was safe. Safer than if I'd been on my own.” She stirred the fire with the poker until sparks danced up the chimney.
“We got trapped on the motorway. The M3. About five hours out of London. I don't know how far that was, there were so many people, all trying to go the same way, no one could get very far very fast. There was meant to be a lane free for buses and coaches to collect the stragglers, but the road was clogged. This great heaving, sobbing, swearing, shouting, mewling mob, all heading out to who knew where and who knew what.
“Then the screaming started. I think it was from in front at first, but a few minutes later it was coming from behind as well. Then everyone was screaming. Most of them, I don’t think they knew why. They were screaming because everyone else was screaming. You know how people are. Were. Then it changed. Everyone started pushing. Everyone. Those behind, in front, to the sides, it seemed like every single refugee in that column, all wanted to be exactly where we were standing.
“Sanders saved my life. He dragged me through the crowd, over to the fence and practically threw me up it. I managed to claw my way to the top. It wasn't difficult, I mean, they'd not built this thing to stop people getting out. I got to the other side and didn't know what to do. I watched him as he helped other people climb up and over, and I was just standing there, unable to decide if I should wait for him or run or what. Then the screaming changed. Or maybe that was when it really started. Pain and terror, that's what it sounded like. Before it had been anger and fear, but now, now it was filled with desperation, and it seemed to be echoing up the entire length of the motorway.
“I worked it out, since. Thought about it a lot. Didn't have much else to do, but think. Those first screams, that's when the infected died. Someone standing next to one, when the body dropped, they screamed. Then the pushing, the shoving, that was when they realised what it meant. They wanted to get away, before the bodies turned. That last lot of screaming, that was from the people who hadn't managed to escape when those zombies started standing up.
“All those people who'd been infected, the ones who thought they were special. Who thought they were different, immune,” she glanced at me, “if they'd just stayed at home, then maybe the evacuation would have worked. Of course if they'd done that we'd have made it to the Muster Point and the vaccine. So, small mercies, right?
“Sanders managed to climb up and over, and then we ran. The last time I looked back I saw this huge section of fence just collapse outwards under the weight of about two dozen people. Or zombies. Or both. I couldn't tell.
“We kept running, kept hiding up when we found food and water and moved on when we ran out. Then we met Cannock. That's when it went wrong. Some people are good, some people are bad, most though, they live their lives with their souls balanced on a knife's edge, just waiting for circumstance to push them one way or the other. Cannock was different. He wasn't just bad, he was truly evil. When he pushed, well, I guess Sanders didn't really stand a chance.
“It was Cannock's idea to come here. When we arrived there was an old couple here. Not old old, but maybe sixties, seventies, made a lot older by the rationing and the power cut and the fear of the undead, you know? Cannock killed the woman. Made Sanders kill the man. Said it was survival of the fittest. Said there was no room for passengers. Afterwards, he said it was the merciful thing to do. Sanders believed him, he wanted to. He needed to.”
“The, uh, the man. Did he have a fussy little moustache? A Poirot sort of thing?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You knew him?”
“And the woman,” I said, ignoring the question, “was she short, rake thin, with a mole on her left cheek?”
“I think so. Who were they?”
“The butler and housekeeper.” I sighed. “Good people. They didn't deserve to die.”
“No one does,” she said. “Not like that. I think that's when they both started to go mad, Sanders and Cannock, when the whole last men on Earth thing started. It got worse, each day that no one came, each day they had nothing to look at but the empty skies. That's when I should have run, but where to? As days went by and we didn't see anyone, didn't hear anyone, I think I started to believe it too.” She stabbed the poker into the fire.
“They'd go out sometimes for supplies in that first week or so we were here. That's when Cannock brought back the rifle. I can't remember what it's called, but he knew the name and everything. He said it was the one the British army sharpshooters had, said he'd used one of them in Iraq. I think he was lying, I don't think he was ever in the army. He said he found it in the MOD Armoury on Salisbury Plain and I think he was lying about that too. He was a good shot, though. He knew about the suppressor, knew it would make the rifle less accurate, but he also knew enough that silence was important. Everything had to be done quietly. Everything.
“The rifle made him happy, kept him... occupied, I suppose is the best way to describe it. Right up until they went out hunting. They made a big deal out of it, how they were the last people on the planet who'd ever bag themselves a Rhino. I wasn't to go with them. I had to stay, prepare the fire, get everything ready for a feast that evening. Woman's work!” she said, bitterly. “I should have run. They came back empty handed and soaked through. I said I should go out. That I'd been hunting, that I knew how to use a rifle. Cannock hit me. Then... well, you saw the cell, the handcuffs, you can work out the rest.”
She stopped, lifted the saucepan off the fire and poured the boiling liquid into the antique china teapot we'd liberated from a glass display stand on the ground floor.
“Last men on Earth, Ha!” she went on. “That's one too many. They didn't go out after that, just stayed in the house, day after day. Cannock would have killed Sanders soon enough. Or maybe it would have been the other way around. Then I would've killed whoever was left.” She poured the tea, and, as she handed me a cup, our eyes met. There was no point putting it off any longer.
“I need to tell you something,” I began. “About the evacuation...”
“That you came up with the idea. I know, Mr Bartholomew Wright, I read your journal,” she shrugged. “Some of it anyway. Whilst you were sleeping.” She sipped at her tea “Too much angst for my taste.” She took another sip. “It's how I knew about the vaccine. Cannock wasn't interested in it. I wondered what had happened to all the people, why no one had come. A house like this, I mean, fresh water, walls, I think I was expecting someone to com
e. Helicopters and army or something. Maybe that's why I didn't run when I could.” She shrugged. “I thought about killing you, I mean, that's what I’m meant to do, isn't it? I’m meant to blame you for everything. I’m meant to take it all out on you. At the very least I should be conflicted or something... something.” She took another sip “I think,” she said slowly, “that whatever happened, it was bigger than you. You were just another pawn, and me? I didn't even make it onto the board. I should say thank you, for rescuing me.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I am, for everything.”
“Save it,” she said, but not unkindly. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. After a while, eyes still closed, she said “So. Bart.”
“I prefer Bill.”
“Hmm, yes, I can see why. Bill, then. What are your plans now?”
I hesitated. I didn't know whether I should tell her, but for some reason I trusted her, and besides that, she'd already read the journal.
“I'm going to Lenham Hill,” I said. “I have to.”
“OK. Why?”
“It's hard to explain. There's a video on the laptop, it would be easier if I just showed you,” I said, standing up.
“But didn't you realise?” she asked. “You were shot, or your bag was. Your laptop's broken.”
I didn't reply, just hurried from the room. My pack still lay where I had dropped it. She was right. That blow that had knocked me to the ground, when I thought I had been shot, I had been shot. It was just that the bullet had come in at an angle and had been deflected by the bag and its contents. The laptop was broken in two. Shards of plastic and circuitry were mixed up with the dirt and grime at the bottom of the pack. I knew at once it was broken beyond repair. The files on it were lost forever.
I emptied the bag out onto the bed. The external hard drive looked fine, I turned it this way and that, and couldn't see any damage, but without a computer to plug it into I had no way of knowing. I glanced over once more at the pile of mp3 players, net-books, tablets and laptops that lay discarded amongst the shell casings. I tried every device that had a USB port. The batteries were all dead.
“They kept their haul somewhere downstairs. I don't know where, but they brought back a lot of stuff,” Kim said from the doorway.
It didn't take long to find the room she was talking about. It was filled with electronic gadgets, jewellery and even clothes. I remembered the house I had spent the night in, how it had been stripped of anything that might once have been considered valuable. It must have ended up here, amongst this pile of worthless wealth.
I tore through the piles until, finally, I found an Apple laptop. I turned it on. Victory! It had power. I rushed back upstairs.
Click-clack. I heard the rifle being reloaded as I approached the bedroom.
I ignored Kim, as she fired off another shot, grabbed the hard drive and plugged it in. I waited, my fingers crossed until I heard the drive starting to whir. It was working. The green power light came on. A dialogue box came up on the screen.
“Disc Unrecognised. Would you like to format disc? Yes. No.”
I slumped despondently onto the bed. It wasn't a real set back. Not really. I knew what was on the laptop. I'd not looked at the files on the hard drive, but after what I'd seen on the laptop, that didn't really matter. I knew where I had to go now, and why I had to get there. Everything else was just a distraction, a way of delaying the inevitable. I repeated those and another dozen similar sentiments and tried to believe them.
Click...
“Would you leave that rifle alone! Please.” I added though it came out through gritted teeth.
She turned, and looked at me. “Alright,” she said. “So tell me what was in those files. What's so important that you have to go trekking across the country?”
“There was a lot of stuff,” I said, standing up. “There were accounts, supply lists, shift rotas and spreadsheets filled with millions of pieces of raw data, and those might be important, but I didn't have time to look at them.”
“So what did you see that was so important.”
“There was a video. It was a reply to some other message, a walk-and-talk presentation, explaining why the facility needed more funding. Obviously it was recorded before New York, but I don't know how long before.”
“And?” she prompted.
“Out of context, without knowing who it was sent to, what questions it was answering, it's hard to draw much from what they said. The doctor, the same one who was in that hospital in New York...”
“The one where the outbreak started?”
“Right. The same guy, he was giving a tour, I suppose is the best way of describing it. The camera was following him around Lenham Hill as he explained the facility's limitations. One thousand doses per day. That was the maximum they could produce. He was stressing that wasn't enough. He was explaining, in a lot of depth, why they couldn't increase production any more. It was to do with air filtration systems, the need to focus on testing and refinements, on how the facility couldn't be run as both for R&D and production at the same time.”
“That doesn't explain why you think you need to go there,” Kim said
“I was getting to that. Like I said, it was hard to follow him, without the context. I was trying, right up until he stopped outside of a room. It was one of those walk in vaults, containing rack upon rack of vials of this super vaccine, this virus that started it all.” I stopped, and waited. When she didn't say anything, I went on “Don't you see? What if it's still there? What if someone else finds it? It has to be destroyed. That's why I've got to go to Lenham Hill.”
She continued looking at me for a long moment, then turned back to the window and picked up the rifle once more. Click-clack, pause, click-clack, pause. I stood there as she fired off three rounds and then I stormed from the room. I was furious. Couldn't she understand? Didn't she want to?
The fury quickly evaporated, turning to morose despondency as I turned down corridors I recognised as ones I'd run down as a child. I stopped by a portrait of the third Duke. Someone, I assume Cannock, or possibly Sanders, had slashed it. The canvas now hung limply from the frame. I stood there, looking at this wanton, purposeless destruction, until my resolve returned, and I marched back to the bedroom.
Click-clack. Pause, click-...
“We should go,” I said decisively.
“We?” she replied, not turning to face me but pausing, one hand on the rifle bolt.
Of course, I had assumed she would want to leave with me. Not thought or considered or even asked, I had just assumed. “You want to stay here?”
“Alright, no,” she said without much of a pause. “But I don't like the idea of some wild chase across the countryside to some research facility that may or may not still exist.”
“But...” I began, and then stopped. “There's Brazely Abbey. I was going to head back there and get some supplies, before heading north. It's a good spot. There's a well, there's fruit trees, strong walls. You could stay there. If you want.”
“Thank you, that's very kind,” she said. I couldn't tell whether she was being gracious, sarcastic or a mixture of both. “But why the rush?”
“To get it over and done with, before someone else...”
“If it's still there now, then another few days won't matter. Besides,” she slid the bolt forward and removed the cartridge, “how much do you reckon one of these weighs?” She twisted slightly and threw the round to me. I fumbled the catch, dropping the cartridge on the bed.
“Well?” she asked again. I picked it up.
“I dunno. Half an ounce, maybe.”
“So, in the real world we'd say between ten and twenty grams, right? How many do you think a thousand would weigh? Because that's how many are here. There were over two thousand, when they found the rifle. Now there's half that, but it's still too many to take out on foot and since there's no car here we will be on foot. Water, food, weapons and ammunition, it all adds up.”
“Between ten
and twenty kilos. I should get the scales, get an accurate weight for them.”
“You're missing the point. Weight, size, call it what you want, but we're not going to be able to take all of them.”
“We can leave them here then, come and collect them sometime in the future.”
“Even if we were to come back, what is it you think you'll be doing with these bullets? One zombie is as good as any other. Kill Them all now, or kill Them all later, but they all have to be killed.” She turned back to the window and slid another round into the chamber. “I'd like to stay a day or so. Recover. Then we can go to the Abbey and you can head off on your quest. A day won't make any difference, will it?” She asked, and the edge to her voice had now gone.
“No,” I admitted. “I suppose not.”
She pulled the trigger.
19:00, 26th June.
There's a line in Macbeth, “If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.” That sums it up really. I want sanctuary, I want to get to Lenham Hill and destroy those vials, I want answers, an explanation for all of this nightmare, and I want it all now. I don't want to hang around, waiting, when there's a job in front of me. There's nothing wrong with that, that's who I am.
I didn't remember the quote, not exactly, and fine, I'll admit I’m mangling the meaning of the line a little to suit the circumstances, but so what? I’m hardly the first person to do that with Shakespeare. Why I feel I need to be honest to this journal, I don't know. It's something to do with Kim. I can't say exactly why, but somehow just knowing that there is someone else, another survivor, someone not that different from me, that changes things. It doesn't alter my resolve. I still need to go to Lenham. Someone needs to make sure that the place is destroyed, and if not me, then who?
I did remember the line was from Macbeth, so I went looking for a copy in the library and ended up spending the afternoon leafing through the plays.
I tried Julius Caesar first, but somehow the way the language has changed over the centuries makes the opening few scenes almost comical. Macbeth though, I can relate to that. It's strange that the distance of time, the almost alien nature of the language, makes it somehow more relatable than more recent works. Dickens and Solzhenitsyn, Steinbeck and Orwell, no matter how great and skilled the writing, the subject matter is now less relevant than the cheapest pulp science fiction. What does ideology matter when the species is virtually extinct?
