Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland

by Frank Tayell

One hundred and twenty days since the power went out in London. That was how Bill recorded it. I suppose that is how long it has been since the Nuclear Bombs were dropped on the south coast. That doesn't mean much to me. I’m not being callous, not intentionally, it's just that compared to the hideous fate so many billions suffered, an instantaneous death in a radioactive fireball seems almost merciful by comparison. I suppose I could count the days since the evacuation, or from when Bill rescued me, but why would I want to remember either date?

  Today is the tenth of July, that's a more normal way of thinking about it, a nice, neutral, sterile way. Summertime, school holidays, sun-bathing and beaches and last minute getaways. Not that I had any of those in the last few years. I couldn't afford them. I could barely afford the rent, not that any of that matters now. These days I could have my pick of the grandest mansions, the most resplendent jewels and the finest furs, but no caviar. It's a shame. I've never tried it, I never really wanted to, but now that I can't, now that I never will, I can't stop thinking about it. Caviar, lobster, Kobe beef, all gone forever. Luxury now is finding a sealed bottle of water, a few vitamin pills and a pack of gum. That was all I had to show from my looting expedition when I got back this morning.

  At least I think it was morning, it could well have been afternoon. Bill's watch got waterlogged. It still works, sort of. It stopped at five minutes to twelve. That seems significant, but maybe, in times like these, you can find significance in anything. Right now, it feels like eight pm, and that's as accurate as I need to be.

  We're at a golf course on the north bank of the Thames, somewhere south of Oxford, west of London. According to the maps, this is Oxfordshire, but I found those maps hanging on the walls by the reception desk. They were printed at least two centuries ago, before the invention of trains, let alone cars. I could find a proper map in one of the nearby houses, but there is just so much else that needs to be done, just to stay alive.

  Bill would want a record. He'd want details. Well here goes. To the south there is the river Thames, which carried the boat here. Along the north bank, runs a footpath dotted with little white painted metal rings for tying the boats to. Then there is a patch of grass, then an access road for boats being towed to the jetty a little way downstream. After the road there is a bowls green, a lawn and a patio. Then there is this club house. Downstairs there are double doors leading from the patio into the bar. I am upstairs, in the office with its door leading out onto a balcony. If I want, I can open the doors and look northward, over the remains of the golf course, a two mile patchwork of wild overgrowth and barren dirt. Beyond that are trees which, I think, hide a railway line.

  Next door is a boat yard specialising in “pre-season repairs”. There are no boats inside. I looked. There had been, but whoever had taken them, all they had left behind was a lifeless corpse. Not one of the undead. How and why he died, what story he was part of, I didn't bother to investigate. There were no boats, there was no fuel, and so the place had nothing to interest me.

  On the other side of the club house is the car park, beyond that is the main road, and a long, large storage building. I’m not sure what is inside there yet. The door is locked and withstood my brief attempts at breaking in. There's bound to be a key around here somewhere, I just haven't had time to properly look for it.

  There is just so much to do, I haven't really had time to explore. When I do go out, I feel so lonely. It's an echo of that same feeling I had when I was locked in that room in the Manor, that an infinitely vast world is towering over me, and at any minute it will come crashing down.

  The club house itself is still intact, around us though, including the greens in front and the gardens of the houses nearby, all of the grass and gardens have been churned to barren dust by the passage of millions of feet. It looks like a battlefield, like pictures of the Somme. Trees, hedges, lampposts, pylons, they've all been pushed down, trampled and crushed, and about them lie scores of bodies.

  Some of those bodies still move. Their legs crushed, their backs broken, some pinned under the wrecks of cars, these undead are trapped, twitching and grasping at empty air, hissing and keening their hideous moan if ever I stray too close.

  Bill would probably have counted the footprints to get a more accurate figure of how many undead were in the horde that passed through here, but I’m not Bill. I could count the zombies out there easily enough, but to what end? I don't need to know how many are there, I don't want to know. They are everywhere, and everywhere I look is nothing but devastation and ruin.

  I don't know what I was expecting the land here to be like. I didn't really give it much thought. I thought if Bill and I, and Annette and Daisy could just get away, if we could get across the river, everything would somehow work out, but when has the grass ever been greener

  We reached the river three days ago, on the afternoon of the 7th. Or was it morning. It must have been morning, because we left early and it can't have taken that long to drive from the Abbey to the Thames. It seems like a lifetime ago.

  After Chris died, after I killed the zombie he became, the atmosphere in the Abbey grew tense. No one shouted, no one threw around accusations or blame, not out loud. Daphne cried a little but otherwise, at least on the surface, everything was calm. You'd have to be a total fool not to know that tensions were boiling underneath. Rigid politeness, that's what my father called it. Something had to give. I could sense it. I don't think Bill could. He was too focused on the details to see the wider picture. We didn't have a meeting, not exactly. We stood around, staring at the ground, the walls, the truck, at everything but each other.

  “We should leave,” Annette said, abruptly.

  Those words broke whatever spell was being weaved. We filled the water bottles, loaded the car, and went through the plan. It seemed simple enough, not changed much at all since the day before. We would play the music from the walls, one last time. I would climb up to the section of the wall above the gate and shoot as many of the undead that I could. When I started shooting, the music would be turned off, the speakers unplugged and the cars pushed into position. Bill would drive the truck, with Annette and Daisy inside. Barrett would drive the car with Daphne and Liz inside. When they were ready, Bill was going to signal, I'd climb down, Stewart and I would open the gates and then we'd jump into the back of the truck.

  Bill had a route mapped out, one that he thought would be safest based on the roads he took to the M4 a few weeks ago. Honestly, the bit I was most worried about was whether Stewart might open the gates whilst I was still up on the wall.

  It was simple, about as simple as it really could be. All it required from pretty much everyone else was to get into a vehicle and sit in it. It fell apart whilst I was climbing up the scaffolding. By the time I'd climbed down again, Bill and Barrett were shouting at each other loud enough that if they had stood a bit further apart and a bit further away we wouldn't have needed to bother with the music.

  Should I write down what they said? Bill would. He's scrupulous about that. I just can't remember, not exactly. I tried to listen, but all I could hear was a clock ticking down, all I could see was Annette, shifting from one foot to another. All I felt was a growing impatient fury at what seemed like such a pointless delay. I was so wrong.

  It was an argument over who should take the car and who should the take the truck. I think Daphne, and Liz were in shock. They'd known Chris a long time. Even Stewart seemed distracted.

  Then there was Barrett. I couldn't work it out at the time, but now I've had time to think and now I have little but time to think, I see what it was. The words she spoke were full of concern, of pragmatism in protecting the young, in the need for leadership to overcome this next short struggle. Her tone, that though was judgemental, calculating and dark.

  It came down to the this. Daphne wasn't any use. Nor was Annette, apparently, and didn't that make the girl kick up a storm. Daphne should go in the back of the cab, with the kids. That was fine with me, fine with Bill too, fro
m what I could judge, since we weren't planning on ditching the others until after we got to the river. Since Stewart knew where we were going, he needed to be in the car in front. Since the truck would have to go first, so it's bulk could push the undead out of the way, that meant Daphne Annette and Daisy in the back and Stewart in the front passenger seat. That meant it made more sense for Barrett to drive the truck, and for Bill and I to open the gates and follow in the car with Liz as our sole passenger.

  Barrett went on about how we were more experienced, more capable in case the truck got into trouble and a dozen other unmeant platitudes besides, until that clock counting down in my head got so loud it drowned her out.

  “Enough!” I said, and that was how it was decided.

  Bill and I didn’t get a chance to exchange anything more than looks after that, but personally I figured that since we had Liz as a hostage we'd get to the river and take it from there. I double checked that Daisy's seat was safely strapped in to the back seat, made sure that the child-lock was off, and that Annette was ready to grab the baby and run. I gave them both a hug and then closed the door to the truck. I hated that moment, even though I didn't understand why at the time.

  I climbed back up the scaffolding and got in place. I took a moment to survey the scene. I wish I hadn't. There were zombies everywhere. Those that were closest began beating furiously at the walls and gate a few seconds after I appeared. I signalled, and the music was turned on. I waited. It took a few seconds for it to have any effect. Then, the few zombies along the track down to the road started moving towards the Abbey. I didn't look down, not then, but it seemed as if the entire Abbey was shaking as those closest to the wall redoubled their efforts to punch and claw their way inside. That was probably just the terrible fear that was beginning to take hold. I kept my eyes on the track, and the undead that we would need to drive through in order to escape.

  At first the zombies headed straight for the Abbey. A sickening thumping began as they got closer and began crashing into the heaving pack only a few metres below me. Then, as the first song ended, I looked down. Slowly, almost as slow as a glacier, the mob was starting to flow away from the gate, sliding sideways around the walls, towards the sound of the music. I crouched down again, and as Bill and Annette and the others down in the courtyard stared up at me, waiting, I closed my eyes and listened. The noise from the far side of the Abbey grew. The reverberation of fist on stone intensified, but I waited. For six songs, I waited, then I stood up. It had worked, not nearly as well as the day before. There was still a throng of the undead immediately in front of the gates, but behind them, the track itself was relatively clear.

  I aimed, fired, reloaded. The music stopped. I fired again, and again, and again, until all the zombies around the gate were down, Then I shifted my aim. I picked a target to the right of the track, a zombie with the tattered remains of a rucksack still strapped to its back. I fired. It went down. I aimed at a lanky creature, wearing a ski jacket that must have been too big for it when it had been alive. I fired. It went down. I aimed and fired and aimed and fired, and sometimes I missed, but either side of the track the zombies were falling. Then, when I put my hand in my pocket, I found it was empty. I don't know how long I was up there. I couldn't say how many shots I fired. I'd left a hundred rounds with Bill, and that was now all we had left.

  “Coming down!” I shouted, and half climbed, half fell down the scaffolding. Barrett had already started the truck's engine. I could just make out Annette, bouncing up and down in the back seat as I ran to the gate. I glanced at Bill.

  “Ready?” he asked. I nodded. We pulled the gate open and the truck shot out. I got a half glimpse of Annette and Daisy in the back seat, before I had to dive out of the way. By the time I'd picked myself up, the truck was already half way down the track.

  “Come on.” Bill called, already waiting by the car. I ran over and climbed into the driver seat.

  I had to drive. I don't know if Liz could drive, I never asked, but I wasn't going to trust my life to her. As for Bill, he could drive the truck, but not the car. With his foot twisted at that angle, and with the extra bulk of the leg brace, in the cramped confines of that little runabout every time he tried to put his foot on the accelerator it came down on the brake as well.

  We followed the truck down the track. It started to speed up the moment it turned onto the road.

  “You're too slow, you've got to match their speed.” Liz barked. I put my foot down. Ten miles per hour, fifteen, twenty. The undead were everywhere, in the road, coming from the fields, their dried up snarling faces filling every window. Then, suddenly, we were through. The ghoulish faces were gone and I could see the road, the hedgerow, and the truck, getting smaller as it got further ahead of us.

  “Faster,” Liz said, louder this time. Twenty five, thirty. I watched the needle bounce slowly up the dial, but the truck was still getting away. I saw it swerve, hitting one square on, its body came tumbling over the cab, bouncing over the truck-bed and into the verge.

  “They're going too fast,” Bill muttered.

  “You've got to catch up with them,” Liz shouted, into my ear. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore her.

  A zombie staggered onto the road between us and the truck. I slowed, swerving at the last minute to avoid hitting it. The creature banged a fist on the side window. Liz screamed. I remember wishing she'd just shut up.

  “Faster! You've got to go faster!” She whined.

  “Relax,” Bill said. “They'll slow down in a bit.” I don't think he believed it any more than I did.

  “Yeah. They'll slow down in a bit,” Liz said, and began repeating it over and over.

  I haven't driven much in the last five years. I didn't own a car, couldn't afford one. I drove a bit last summer when I was on holiday, and I hired a van to move flats a few years ago, but I haven't really driven since I got back from the US. That was an automatic on the back roads, backwoods and on a dirt bike round the back of the old wood plant. I had to concentrate. Clutch, change gear, accelerate, break, steer, clutch... It was hard enough without the undead drifting onto the road. I kept glancing reflexively at the rear view mirror. Most of the time all I could see was Liz as she shifted and twisted in the back seat, but sometimes, I caught a glimpse of the road behind us. They weren't close, but a horde of the undead were following us, and it was a horde. I'd never seen anything like it and couldn't begin to describe it. At least we were driving away from them, that was what I kept telling myself.

  The truck was half a mile ahead now, and as it edged further away from us I realised just how loud its engine was. As we drove up a slight rise, I could see the undead streaming towards the road, getting caught up in hedges, bottlenecking at gates and low stone walls, an inexorable flood, pouring onto the road behind the truck. Which meant these zombies were now in front of us.

  Bill suddenly pointed at a fork up ahead “Take a left here,” he said.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Can't you just go faster?” Liz pleaded.

  “We can't catch up with the truck and we can't go on like this,” Bill said. I took the turning. There were fewer zombies on this road, and those that I could see were, until they heard the putt-putting of our little car, heading toward the now distant roar of the truck.

  “But,” Liz began. “How will you know where to go if we become separated?”

  “We know where we're going. We have a map, we have the address,” Bill said, calmly. “We've got half the fuel here, they're not going to leave us. This way will be faster. There's a fork ahead,” he added to me “take a right. The road curves back towards the north after a half mile or so.”

  “Hey! You've got to stick to the plan. We've got a plan. Stick to the plan...” Liz started muttering that over and over as she rocked on her seat. Shock. I suppose that's what it was, though at the time I just thought it was pathetic. Maybe she realised what I hadn't, that we'd been betrayed. I don't know. All I could think was that she w
as distracting me. I gave Bill a meaningful look.

  He turned in his seat. “We're heading to the river. There's another bridge over the motorway about a mile from where we were going to cross. It was closed down, scheduled for demolition in April. That's our best bet.”

  “But if it was going to be knocked down, how do you know it's still there?” Liz asked and I swear she sounded petulant.

  “Because it's a bridge. Bridges don't disappear. They don't just fall down, and no one leaves them to just fall, not in the UK. It's got another ten or twenty years worth of life. Who's going to have bothered blowing it up since the evacuation?”

  “They did in London.”

  “Then if they did that here, we head due east, there's a rail bridge about five miles down. And,” he added loudly to forestall the next whine, “if that doesn't work we keep going until we get to Windsor and look for a boat there. We've got half the fuel, remember? We'll catch them on the river.” He turned back to face forwards once more. “The road branches again in about a mile, you take the left, then there's a hard right after a hundred yards. Your seat belts on?” he added half a question, half a statement. “And if we can't find a boat at Windsor, then we head out of town to a level crossing and get onto the tracks and follow the train line. Now” he said turning once more “Seatbelt on.”

  I took the turn, slowed, and took the hard right. We were now running roughly parallel to the planned route.

  Was Bill lying? Not about the heading to Windsor bit, with what happened after, I know that was all for Liz's benefit. I mean did he honestly intend to find a way to catch up with the others and the children? Maybe he was planning on just crossing the river and getting to his precious Lenham Hill, but I don't think so. I don't think he would have abandoned the girls.

  Driving a car along the train tracks sounds like a good idea. Maybe it just sounds fun, right here, right now, as the night draws in. The nights are the worst. During daylight I can look outside, I can see whether the undead are out there. At night, all I can do is check the doors are locked and hope that morning comes.