by Frank Tayell
I made sure the pistol was loaded, the safety was on, and that it was secure in my pocket. Easy enough to get out in need, but not likely to fall out. I checked my gear was tight, that there were no easy-to-grab straps, then I got up and I ran.
Running, or as close to it as I can get with my twisted leg, turns a mile into a marathon. It's a never ending cycle of one more step, one more step, one more step, just to push through the pain. I can't fight whilst I’m running. The pike has to be a staff, a third leg, it becomes all that's keeping me up. The further I get, the more the brace jars and rubs and abrades my skin, until blood mixes with the sweat seeping down my leg.
There weren't many of Them at first, just one every fifty yards or so. A hop-skip sideways was all I needed, then it was a straight bit of road until the next zombie. Then there were two, then three, then five, and then I stopped counting.
My vision narrowed. My world closed in. I danced left to right, right to left, forward and even backwards to avoid the grasping hands and snapping teeth. They seemed to be everywhere. A forest of arms. A sea of teeth. In front. Behind. Coming through the hedges to the sides. I waved my free left arm, punching at their faces, pushing at their bodies, clawing back at Them. I screamed with the pain shooting up my leg. I yelled as I felt their hands tug at my clothing. I swore as nails clawed at my hands and face. I roared my anger and hatred at all They represented, all They had done to me, to my world, until my voice was hoarse and I needed all my effort just to keep going. One more step, then just more, then one more after that.
Then there were no more zombies. I glanced around. They were all behind me. I looked ahead, the road seemed clear. I looked down and saw the surface of the road had changed, becoming darker, the lines less faded. I saw the turning into the small development. There were six five-bedroom houses, clustered in a crescent around a pair of converted barns. Not a large development, far smaller than I had remembered it being. I ran down the cul-de-sac, stopping by the small round-about, turning a full circle, looking about for a bike. I saw none. What was I expecting?
The garages, I thought. In February bikes weren't left outside, they'd be locked up in a garage. I turned around once more, looking with an indecision borne of desperation. I had so little time, barely enough to look in one garage, but which?
“Act,” I told myself. “Just pick one.”
I ran to the nearest and slammed my fist against the metal garage door. All I achieved was a resounding echoing gong and a bloody smear on the flaking paint work. Of course it didn't move, didn't open. The keys would be somewhere inside the house. I glanced back towards the road. They were close behind me. Two hundred yards, getting closer. I didn't have time to search for keys.
I could stay and fight, except I knew I would lose and I would die. I could keep running, except now that I had stopped I didn't know I'd be able to start again. Desperate, terrified, angry at having come so far, having gained so much, determined not to lose it, not so soon, I stuck the tip of the pike in the gap between the bottom of the garage door and the ground. I heaved.
The door didn't move. What was it Archimedes said? Give me a lever long enough and somewhere firm to stand, and I'll move the world. I looked around. I made the mistake of looking back along the road. They were one hundred and fifty yards away. Almost too close. I spotted an old zinc-galvanised watering can by the drainpipe. Fulcrum, I thought. I grabbed it, threw it close to the door and tried again. Something snapped. For a moment I thought it was the pike, but no, it was something inside, some part of the mechanism. The door shifted, clunked forward a few inches. I grabbed the bottom, scraping my knuckles on the concrete drive, and heaved at the door. It swung up and inwards, sticking about halfway. There was a gap of about three feet. I looked behind, They were less than a hundred yards away. My hand went to my pocket, checking the now reassuring weight of the pistol was still in easy reach, as I ducked into the gloom of the garage.
There was a bike. The garage was packed with boxes and old time junk that would, in my universe count as a looters paradise, but there was no time for it. No time for anything but the bike. I half dragged, half threw it outside. It wasn't even an adult's frame, it was one of those cheap BMX knock-offs, the kind you gave to placate a kid for Christmas, when you know they'll have outgrown it before Spring.
Seventy yards. I was tired. Dog tired, dead tired, whatever expression you want to use, I was beyond exhausted. I was drained, but I wasn't going to give up. I half carried, half wheeled the bike away from the road, through the back garden opposite, over the small fence and into the lane beyond. I kept on, until I got to the top of a slight rise, then I got on the bike and let gravity carry me down the hill and away.
I travelled east then south then west then north, a huge circling of the compass before I found a familiar looking road. I don't know how long it took, but surely it can't have been more than thirty or forty minutes. Perhaps it was, because when you add to it the time spent waiting for the music to stop, by the time I got to the rendezvous I wasn't surprised to find both the bicycles were missing.
A note, pinned to the door with a kitchen knife read “Bill. Gone to Abbey.” And that was it. I didn't stay any longer than it took to read that note. The undead were on my heels. We'd woken all the dormant zombies in the neighbourhood and now They seemed to be on every road, down every lane and I was barely keeping ahead of Them. I kept going, with no real plan except to head towards the Abbey, not thinking about the distance, not thinking about anything but the few yards of road in front of me.
The further I travelled, as yards turned to miles, as I outpaced the undead chasing me, I began to notice something different about the zombies on the road ahead of me. More and more were heading in the same direction I was. I realised that They must be following Kim. What else could explain it? I tried to pick up my pace, tried to catch up, tried to work out how far ahead she was. But the saddle was too close to the pedals. To push down I had to half stand, with my leg twisted. I could only manage that for a minute at most, before I had to sit, rest, and free-wheel until I caught my breath, gritted my teeth and tried again.
Once I had to dismount, at a spot where an old tractor had been abandoned in the middle of a country lane. Three of the undead were standing in the narrow gap between it and the hedgerow. I was too tired to use the pike. I took out the pistol.
The first shot hit the tractor. The second missed the leading zombie, hitting the outstretched hand of the one behind. The third shot hit the first zombie in the chest. With the fourth I killed it. It took nine rounds to kill those three, and They were barely moving. Kim must have done more than just a little target shooting or casual weekend hunting to have become so proficient.
After that, twice, when the undead blocked the road, I dismounted and, holding the bike before me, used it to push a way through the hedgerows into the fields. It was slower, but safer.
I arrived here, at the garage, four hours after Kim. It's an odd little place, a mixture of high end extravagance and fourth-hand wrecks. I'd seen the undead outside, six of Them by the main gate. I was going to give it a wide berth, to head across the fields to shelter in a house I could make out in the distance when I heard the baby crying. I knew it was the one Kim had rescued, I don't think misfortune would extend to trapping two infants in this nightmare land.
June 30th, 22:15
Instead of watching Bill exhaust himself even further, I have said that whilst he sleeps, I will write down the account of how I rescued Annette and Daisy.
Escorted, sorry, not rescued. Annette is reading this over my shoulder and she wants me to make that clear. This, then, is how I escorted Annette and Daisy out of the village. Where to begin? Daisy is the baby. I would say she is around nine months old. She's just working out how to crawl and, except when she's crying, finds everything absolutely fascinating. Annette is thirteen. She rescued Daisy from London, but that is another story.
After Bill and I split up, I headed back to the village. What didn't
dawn on me until I was halfway there, was that I was also halfway between the zombies and the music that was going to start any second. We didn't think of that, either, did we Bill?
In the village, there is an annex to the old Post Office, which I think used to be for depositing parcels outside of opening times. In the building's new incarnation as a set of cramped flats, this partially enclosed hut was the home to a multi-coloured plethora of wheelie-bins. That was at the east end of the village, not on the High Street itself, but off a side road. Through a knot hole, across the road and along the alley between two cottages, I had a reasonable view of the edge of the pack of zombies.
I was concealed from the undead, that's true enough, but the bins, overflowing before the evacuation, were now filled with a sodden rotten mess. The ground was carpeted with a thick layer of moss and mud, which fractured under the merest pressure. Each shifting footfall, every tiny adjustment of weight, and the surface would crack, exposing the foul smelling slime underneath.
The music started. Through the knot-hole I saw the undead slowly stream out of the village. That disorderly procession seemed to take forever.
The house opposite had a flat roof with a view of the High Street. Once the stream had turned to a trickle, I left the annex, crept across the road and climbed up. I shot the undead that I could see. It wasn't easy. Twenty three bullets to kill thirteen zombies. It was wasteful, but it's not like target practice, it's not even like hunting. I'd learnt on a rifle with a comically large calibre, a “let's give it to the girl to teach her a lesson” gun. The hole one of its bullets would leave in a deer would kill the animal regardless of where it hit.
With the undead, though, it has to be a head shot every time. Not just that, but a good, centre shot. I hit one of Them with a glancing blow. It was a lanky gangling thing, wearing the remains of a tattered kilt or tartan skirt, I couldn't even guess which. Its head kept bobbing back and forth, its neck twisting, craning round, whilst its feet seemed anchored to the same spot. I tracked its movement, tried to get a feel for the rhythm of it before I fired. It bobbed right when I was expecting it to go left. The zombie went flying, and I didn't realise, until it stood up a few minutes later, that the bullet had only grazed along its face, taking off its ear. No, it's not easy.
When I was sure I couldn't see any more, knowing that wasn't the same as killing them all, I climbed down and went into the village. I don't know how to describe those few minutes. How do I get across the feeling of isolation and impending dread as I walked down the narrow alleyway? How can anyone explain that gnawing expectation of pain and death as I stepped out into the street? How do I express the fearful doubt as the zombies turned towards me, the nausea, the almost overwhelming desire just to turn and run? I can't. If you've lived this long, if you've been through it, you know, and if you haven't, then be thankful.
There were three of the undead left in the High Street. I unslung the axe. It was over in minutes. I went over to the restaurant, called out and waited for a reply. That was when our plans hit another hitch. Annette had so thoroughly barricaded the door that there was no way in, not from the High Street. We met up around the back. We had to leave the buggy behind. With the music still playing we couldn't risk taking the road, instead, with Annette carrying Daisy, and me carrying my axe, we headed off out through the village and cut across the fields. Not all the undead had gone.
Practice doesn't make it any easier. I don't mean physically. This axe was designed for fighting knights in armour. The undead, they seem to burst under its weight. Each time, though, I can't help thinking that this is a person, someone like me who just picked the wrong straw. With the rifle, I can see their faces. I can take the time to apologise first, to wish them well on their journey. Walking through that waist high grass, not knowing at what moment or from what direction a desiccated mouth would snap up at us, there was no time to do anything but swing the axe and hope.
Twice in that field we were attacked by the undead. They had been stationary for so long that the grass and weeds had grown up to ensnare them, trapping them in place. Even the sound of distant music hadn't been enticing enough to get them to struggle free of their organic chains. The sound of humans close by, of a girl crooning gently to a baby, that was different. One moment we were walking along, the next a snarling apparition, all teeth and hands, jumped up, appearing from nowhere. I swung. They died. I apologised afterwards.
By the time we got to the rendezvous I knew we couldn't wait for Bill. It wasn't safe there. It wasn't going to be safe anywhere that wasn't far away. We took the bikes, both of them. I felt bad about that, even though Bill and I had agreed it might be necessary. I rigged up a sling for Daisy, and carried her on Bill's bike. Annette took mine. There was no way of fighting, no possibility of doing anything but cycling as fast as we could. When we set off I'd actually been worried that Annette wouldn't be able to keep up. She outpaced me in seconds.
The sight of Bill checking for fuel, yesterday had reminded me of being carted around car showrooms as a kid. I remembered how the cars were always ready for a test drive. How the sales reps even had the keys in their pockets, ready to throw a potential punter into a car where they'd be a captive audience for a long hour's drive of hard selling. I knew we weren't going to make it back to the Abbey on the bikes, not with so many of the undead on the roads. We needed a car and I could think of nowhere else to look.
No. That's not quite right. Bill was honest with what he's written, I suppose I owe it to him or someone or maybe to myself, to be honest in turn. I was scared.
It was suddenly being responsible for these two other lives. Suddenly everything was different. I can't explain exactly why, but everything then, and now, it isn't about me, it isn't about survival or escaping or anything else. It's about Daisy and Annette and their future. I’m not explaining this very well. I mean that it is ensuring that they get to have a future and that there is a future for them to have.
This is the second car showroom we tried. Someone had already been to the first and taken all the petrol. They'd even left rubber tubing in half a dozen fuel tanks. That's a sign of planning, I suppose, and of a hurried exit. When that was and who they were, I didn't bother trying to find out.
When we arrived here, I closed the gate, checked we had a car that worked and enough fuel in the tank to get us to the Abbey. Then we decided to rest and wait until morning. Safer to drive then, when we could see the undead on the roads.
Then Bill turned up. We helped him climb over the fence, using the same improvised rope Annette had insisted on making in case we needed to make a sudden escape and couldn't use the front gate.
And that's about it. We're safe, for now. We'll siphon off the fuel in the other cars, then drive back to the Abbey. What more needs to be said?
Day. 111, Heritage Motors, 30 miles south of Brazely Abbey.
08:15, 1st July.
I was woken at around five by the sound of Kim singing. We'd spent the night in the windowless break room, and by the look of her I don't think she'd slept at all. She was holding the baby, crooning a quiet lullaby, Annette curled up on the seat next to her. I got up and, as quietly as I could, went into the relative privacy of the workshop to clean the leg and repair the brace.
There's a veritable foundry's worth of steel in there, more than enough to turn any car into a tank, if you know how to do it. I certainly don't. After I'd replaced the padding around the straps, I went from window to window, counting the undead outside the car showrooms fence, until I heard Annette wake.
“How many are out there?” Kim asked, when I returned to the small office.
“Not many. Perhaps a dozen around the gate,” I replied. “About the same number scattered along the sides.”
They're active as well, trying to get in. They won't, but it just doesn't feel safe when you can see their arms flailing through the gaps in the fence's metal supports. I've tried telling myself that there aren't that many, that, really, we are in no danger. It doesn't
work.
“It's about thirty miles from the Abbey?” Kim asked
“About that.”
“We'll have to drive back,” she said. “What do you think?”
I took a moment before I answered, not to think about the question, but about the way that she had framed it.
“It would be six hours by bike. At best. But we'd have to do it in one day. I can't think of anywhere between here and there that would be safe to stop for the night. On the other hand, a bicycle is quieter, and it would only be half an hour before we'd be far enough away from here that these undead wouldn't be a threat.”
“Yes. Maybe,” Annette said. “But then there's going to be more. There's always more. What happens when you find the road blocked and you have to take a detour, and then you're still a day away from the Abbey?”
I took a moment to work out what the question actually was. Kim stifled a laugh. It was a pleasant sound, at least from her and at least in that it made a change from her usual dour stoicism.
“If a road's blocked,” I said, “it'll be blocked just the same, whether we're on bikes or by car. You're worried about Daisy...”
“No. That's not what I meant,” Annette said testily. “I mean the unknown. You don't know what's out there, none of us do. However we get there, we don't know what's going to happen on the way, so why take the risk of an extra day or two when you can do the journey in a few hours? And it's not just Daisy. It's you as well. You wouldn't make thirty miles on a bike.”
