Don't Be Dead- Heartache After The Outbreak

by Paul Wilcock

  Carriage secured, a brief search of the kitchen area reveals the first aid kit, unopened and complete and I wrap my stomach in tape and bandages; a needle and thread would have been nice although I'm not sure I could have handled sticking a needle through myself repeatedly, it sounds more painful than the knife wound. The kitchen also contains food and drink, cans of fizzy pop, bottled water, bags of nuts and crisps and a load of mouldy sandwiches. I drag the bodies to the door and dump them out onto the tracks, I hate to be so close to so many active infected but I'll stay here a few days while my wound heals, I figure nobody has dared enter the train in all this time so I should be relatively safe from intruders and the train has been doing a good job of keeping the infected contained so far.

  I keep my head down, sleeping as much as possible, three days pass slowly by and I really miss my iPod, my wound has stopped bleeding but it’s still incredibly painful. The out of date nuts and crisps are running low and I'd really like a bit more variety anyway so I make the decision to get moving again, I'm tempted to move my way down the train and clear the rest of the carriages so I can do some scavenging but can't decide if it’s worth the risk, unlikely to be much more food but clean clothes would be nice and there's bound to be some suitcases on the train. I decide to try at least a couple of carriages, it was fairly easy to clear out this first carriage so I'm pretty confident.

  A dozen infected heads turn as the door slides stiffly open with a loud screech. I step down the aisle with purpose, the infected in the seats are easy pickings, my hammer raining down onto the tops of their skulls as I pass like cracking open boiled eggs, the few in the aisle are slightly more challenging but they can only come at me one at a time so a few well-placed blows take them down. I step over the bodies and continue, an infected conductor approaches, I’m ready to make a joke about him not punching my ticket when I hit him but I’m tripped before I get chance and find myself face down on the floor, a hand around my foot, an infected hand attached to an infected woman on the floor under the seats! Shit, where did she come from? I curse myself for being too cocky, getting careless; the conductor is getting closer and I can't get up. Kicking at the hand a few times frees my foot and my arm swings the hammer at the conductor’s legs causing him to stagger down towards me. That actually made things worse and I flail wildly to keep him at bay. The only place to go is sideways, up onto one of the seats and into a position to land a killer blow. The conductor gets his ticket punched but I'm no longer in the mood for jokes, I’m pissed off at myself and so I head back for the sneaky bastard on the floor and stomp on her head until it's not recognisable as a head any more. I think that's the last of them but make my way back along the carriage two more times, checking under every seat and even in the bag racks above the seats in case of any more surprises. I don't find any, but I do find suitcases full of clothes. Only a couple contain clothes that fit me but that's good enough for me and I remove my blood stained, shredded clothes and put on my new cargo pants and Hawaiian shirt with a fetching pink flamingo and palm tree print. There's a camel colour trench coat hanging from a baggage rack with only one or two arterial sprays across it so I grab that too and put it on.

  I've always wanted to run along the top of a train and chances to do it are rare so I make the effort to climb up onto the roof and start sprinting, leaping over the gaps between carriages, I even throw in a forward roll mid-way along one carriage but immediately regret it when it pulls my wound. A quick check of the bandages doesn’t reveal any fresh bleeding but I decide to walk the rest of the way anyway. At the front of the train I stop and look down the tracks to the city beyond and a cold fear grips me as I think of how many infected, dangerous survivors and other hazards await me as I search for one person in the country's largest city. I slide down from the roof of the train and follow the tracks towards Kings Cross.

  I'd only ever been to London once before today, with Sarah, she had an appointment at a modelling agency and I tagged along, made a weekend of it, Kings Cross Station had been a lot busier then, full to bursting with people coming and going, all in a hurry, when we were leaving to go back home we almost missed the train, blocked from getting on by barriers we had no means of opening, Sarah charmed one of the rail staff and we ran along the side of the train as the whistle blew and the doors started to close, leaping into our carriage seconds before it was too late.

  The station is empty now, but signs of the carnage when the outbreak hit still litter the ground, skeletal remains, from what looks like hundreds of people, bones picked clean by scavenging animals and birds, scattered in most cases so that they no longer resemble bodies, just a random assortment of bones and clothes, the floor and walls are stained with blood and trains that never made it out of the station still contain hordes of infected like the one I passed on my way here. I step through the debris, bones crunching and splintering under foot, the sound too loud but unavoidable, echoing in the large open space of the terminal with each step; I have to fight to control myself and not break into a run, I want to get out of here. I climb over the ticket barriers, grab a tourist map from a toppled stand outside of the newsagents and push through the doors out onto the street; stop, take in my surroundings, tall buildings loom over head, all dark, all quiet; queues of abandoned cars and buses line the streets and I unfold the map, searching for Sarah.

  I try to think of locations where people might have survived, buildings that could be fortified, Buckingham Palace seemed obvious but I doubted that anyone other than the cream of the crop got into there when the shit hit the fan. I set off walking with no real destination, sure I'll see some sign of survivors in central London, I mean, if you were going to bet on one city to get organised it would be London right, this is where the government and the Queen and Scotland Yard is, someone must have organised the people.

  London streets are long and I feel like I've been walking for miles without actually getting anywhere, eventually reaching the British Library building I find my first hope of a survivor camp, the gates are closed and chained, the courtyard between the gates and the museum stands clear of bodies and death and the usual scenes I'd become accustomed to. I climb onto the roof of an abandoned UPS van, run and leap to the stone pillar separating the fence panels, heave myself up and then lower myself down on the opposite side. I kick away from the pillar as I let go and land in the courtyard quickly surveying the area, check if anyone, infected or not, has seen me, it’s all still quiet, no signs of movement on either side of the fence so I skirt around the edges of the courtyard, keeping low, heading for the doors of the museum.

  The doors are either locked or barricaded from the inside and don’t budge when I push them, not surprising. The doors are big, thick and heavy, covered in scrapes and dents, obviously under siege at some point, but it looks like they held up, no signs of forced entry. I have no other choice but to knock; my knock sounds pathetic, I doubt anyone could even hear it if they were stood directly behind the door they are so thick. I pull out my hammer and knock again, louder now, so loud it makes me cringe and check around behind me for stirring infected. I press my ear against the wood but can’t hear anything, can’t be sure I’d be able to even if there was someone there. I knock again, longer and louder this time, feeling braver. A long wait in silence. I wonder if there’s a back door I should try but then there’s a sound. I press my ear against the door again, yes, definite sounds now. I knock again, make sure they know there’s someone at the door, shout “Hello! Is anyone in there?” My ear goes back to the door, no voices but an increase in scraping and knocking sounds.

  The door starts to open slowly and the gap is immediately filled with infected grasping arms and hungry mouths. I pull the door as hard as I can but it won’t close, too many arms in the way and they don’t feel pain so don’t have the instinct to pull them in no matter how hard I hit them, they just reach at me and I’m forced to pull away from the door and run as it opens wide and a horde of around thirty infected come staggering out into the cour
tyard, followed by a stench of death and decay; another camp overrun from the inside.

  It could be a good place to scavenge supplies but I don’t think I should try and fight this many on my own so I keep running, across the courtyard to the gates but there’s no handy van to climb on this side. I launch myself up the gates but the rusted metal cuts into my hands and my feet can’t get a grip and I fall back down to the ground cursing. I’m panicking now, I need to take a breath, think the situation through, force myself to calm down and think clearly, look around for a way over; try not to focus on the advancing horde. I’m trapped in here, no viable climbing options on any side, I pull out my hammer and run back through the horde, pushing and swinging at them as I go, cutting a line straight through the middle of the crowd and inside the building, slamming the doors shut behind me; there’s a large build-up of corpses around the doors, people trying to escape, trapped against their own barricades. But the barricades seem to have been cleared so what was blocking the doors when I first got here? A shiver runs through me when I realise it must have been the infected horde, lying dormant, crowded against the door. I continue running through the main hall, gagging and choking on the foul air that’s been trapped in here for months. I don’t stop, running and jumping over corpses and toppled statues towards the back of the building, following signs for the fire exit. The fire exits are blocked, barricaded with a giant stone toe, an antique clock and an Egyptian sarcophagus. I pull at the toe but it’s too heavy for me to move. I continue to look for another exit, fearing that they’ll all be blocked up the same, finding that they are. I do find the stairs up to the second storey however and mount them two at a time, looking for windows I can jump from or more fire exits. The windows along the side of the building go directly down to the street but I find that they are barred from the outside. I suddenly realise how so many people could have been infected in here, they were all trapped, they did such a good job of securing the building that they had no way out when they started to get overrun. I’m still running, slower now, losing hope of finding an exit, when I spot a trolley with two shelves, for moving boxes of artefacts around the museum presumably. I push the boxes of whatever off the shelves ignoring the sounds of fragile things breaking inside and lift a nearby ancient wooden chest onto the bottom shelf. The trolley is a little heavy to push but once I get going it rolls smoothly and I head for the front doors. The infected have made it back inside and there are small pockets of them littering the hallways, I race past most of them, ramming the ones that get too close with the trolley. A thicker crowd blocks the doorway but I don’t slow down, running as fast as I can building up speed with the trolley, jumping up onto the top shelf and riding it through the crowd as they are sent sprawling, swinging my hammer at the heads of anyone getting too close, the trolley clears the doors and hurtles down the stone steps into the courtyard, landing badly and throwing me and the chest to the ground. I quickly recover and get the trolley upright again, I fight off two infected, smashing their skulls, and pick up the chest, slowly heaving it back onto the trolley, placing it on the top shelf now and pushing the trolley down to the gates. I clamber on top of the chest and leap for the top of the gates, pulling myself up, over and down to the street. I turn and leave the museum behind, heading towards Piccadilly Circus.

  As I get closer to the centre of London more and more streets are barricaded, the infected successfully shut out, and the streets are full of people, living healthy people, market stalls sell essential survival gear; food, water, weapons, tools, clothes, wind up USB chargers. I haven't seen anything like this in so long it's overwhelming and as people push past me and knock me aside it all gets too much and I run out of the busy market down a side street crammed with makeshift shelters that stretch the whole way down into Trafalgar Square which now has so many ramshackle huts and tents erected it's turned into a small shanty town and it's still too busy for me to handle; women wash clothes in large tubs of soapy water, dirty tangle haired kids run by kicking a filthy ball of rags, their laughs and giggles a strange sound to me, a slight tug at my waist informs me that a kid has snatched one of my hammers and I only have seconds to choose which one I chase as they separate and disappear away down the gaps and alleys between the huts. I run for the closest, the narrow walkways are hard for me to manoeuvre down and I bounce off walls and fall into tents and I'm followed by shouts of dismay as I careen along after my quarry. I round a corner in time to see small feet disappearing through a hole I'm too big to squeeze through and I'm forced to skirt around and search fruitlessly for a way in; minutes pass and I have to admit defeat. I've lost them, more importantly I've lost one of my weapons. I lean against the wall, catching my breath and look around, I've been running through this maze for a while now and have no idea where I am any more, curious faces peer from tent flaps and through plastic sheet windows and I feel more threatened and scared right now in these closed in cramped streets than I ever have out in the countryside with the infected.

  After what seems like eternity I find my way back onto a main street and walk into a pub which happily turns out to still be a pub, serving a home brewed, paint thinning beer. I trade two tins of diced carrots for a large tankard and slowly sip the contents, my eyes wander over the walls of the pub, old photos from the fifties and sixties, street views of the pub back then, parties over the years, tattered band posters, things for sale, lost pets and job ads are pinned to a large notice board near the door. I flick through the ads, nobody would want to buy these things now and I wonder how many more pets have been lost since the outbreak as I look at Ruffle’s big brown eyes; I haven’t seen Ruffles on my travels through London so far but I decide to keep an eye out when I leave. An advert for film extras catches my eye.

  EXTRAS WANTED

  To play the parts of zombies in the climactic scene of upcoming film

  Don’t Be Dead

  Starring

  David Towers

  And

  Sarah Harrison

  Shooting 5am to 11.30pm June 18th at Deptford Park

  Pay £65

  The shock of my find brings tears to my eyes and I wipe at them furiously, blinking them away, that was my Sarah and that’s where she was when the outbreak started; I had to get over there, my hands shake as I rip the ad from the notice board, pull out my map and work out the best route to the park. A scruffy trampish looking man looks over from his tankard and tries to engage me in conversation; one of my least favourite things about the aftermath of the infection is that most people are now a bit trampish and it messes with the stereotypes you’ve spent years building in your head. Ordinarily I wouldn’t listen to what a drunk tramp has to say and would actually leave the pub to get away from him but this could actually be a reasonably sober and upstanding member of this ramshackle community for all I know so I hesitate in my exit plans.

  “You like actresses do you?” It seems a strange question and I think he may actually be a pre-outbreak style drunken tramp that I should have avoided but now it’s too late and I feel I have to answer.

  “Yeah I guess, I know the one on this ad, I’ve been looking for her.”

  “Best place to look for an actress is over at Madame Tussauds.” I’m not sure if he’s joking, I laugh a little bit and start edging towards the door.

  “Thanks, I’m actually looking for a real life actress.”

  “They don’t just have dummies there anymore, for the right price you can get an hour with a real life actress, well maybe not completely real life, I’d definitely wear a condom if you can find one.” He gives a little laugh at his joke while my exit falters again and I’m forced to turn back around and ask him for more details.

  “What exactly are you telling me, they’re pimping out actresses at Madame Tussauds?”

  “Yeah, people will trade a lot for the chance to fuck the faded stars of movies they used to like, wouldn’t you like an hour in bed with Angelina or Scarlet, even if they are a bit rotten around the edges, it’s not just actress
es either, they have singers and models too.”

  I’m shocked, I mumble a thanks and leave, consulting my map and plotting a different course, to Madame Tussauds. I really hope I don’t find Sarah there, I really, really hope I don’t.

  Sarah ii

  The streets between Trafalgar Square and Madame Tussauds are quiet and my journey is uneventful, I don’t see another person or infected along the way, the roads are clear of obstructions but the entire road surface is covered with litter and more than once I hear the skittering of tiny feet as rats dart away from my footsteps. The sky is a dark grey with thick clouds blowing across the small patch I can see between the tall buildings, no glimpses of blue in-between them, only an impenetrable endless shifting grey.

  As I reach the building for Madame Tussauds I can see that the usual posters advertising the attraction have been painted over with badly drawn, barely recognisable renditions of famous actresses and singers, I can only name three out of the eight or so displaying their wares.

  The entrance is guarded by two very large men armed with baseball bats, nails protrude from the hitting end at haphazard angles; their faces are made of stone, scars chiselled into them from affrays with uncooperative patrons, eyes hidden by dark glasses, hulking bodies encased in leather and armour. What look like Taser guns hang from their belts so I approach slowly, their only response to my presence is an outstretched hand against my chest, stopping me from getting any closer. They stand motionless then wave me inside, instructions received through earpieces from an unseen boss. Once inside I’m greeted by another large man, but this one is large around the middle rather than in stature and his bare chest and stomach wobble as he waddles towards me, shiny with sweat and grease; an unkempt beard frames his jowls and his eyes have a touch too much crazy in them.