Diaries of the Damned
By
Alex Laybourne
Diaries of the Damned
By Alex Laybourne
Published by Alex Laybourne
Copyright © 2014 Alex Laybourne
Diaries of the Damned by Alex Laybourne is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.Based on a work at www.alexlaybourne.com
All Rights Reserved
License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There is so much more to creating a book than just writing the words. There are a lot of people who have helped me along my writing journey thus far. Thank you to Paul Flewitt and Patti Geesey, Cecilia Clark and Julieanne Lynch.
Of course the most important person behind my success is my wife, who has put up with me for almost a decade now, while somehow resisting the undoubtedly strong urge to kill me in my sleep.
DEDICATION
This is for my wife Patty, and our wonderful children; James, Logan, Ashleigh and Damon
Contents
Entry 1: Jessica
Chapter 1 – Boarding
Chapter 2 – Jessica Bough
Chapter 3 – Something, Anything
Entry 2: Leon
Chapter 4 – I Can Help You There
Chapter 5 – Leon De Guzman
Chapter 6 – Mindless Fools
Entry 3: Robert
Chapter 7 – Don’t Judge Me
Chapter 8 – Robert Wise
Chapter 9 – They Came From Outside
Entry 4: Monique
Chapter 10 – A Trip Downtown
Chapter 11 – Monique Jones
Chapter 12 – Survival of the Fittest
Entry 5: Tim
Chapter 13 – Do What You Need to Do
Chapter 14 – Tim Dunn
Chapter 15 – Holding onto Hope
Entry 6: Tracey and Alan
Chapter 16 – A Little Bundle of Joy
Chapter 17 – Tracey and Alan Roberts
Chapter 18 – Smarter than the Average Corpse
Entry 7: Brian
Chapter 19 – Rats in a Maze
Chapter 20 – Brian Crawshank
Chapter 21 – Mad as a Hatter
Entry 8: Neil
Chapter 22 – We are all Damned
Chapter 23 – Neil Mayberry
Chapter 24 – Is it Ever Too Late for Redemption?
Entry 9: Landing
Chapter 25 – Landing Party
Chapter 26 – Base of Operations
Chapter 1 – Boarding
Paul Larkin sat in his seat and fastened his seatbelt. His body was caked with sweat and dried blood. His ears rang from the gunshots, and his ankle was swollen again; remnants of an injury he acquired jumping from the first floor window of his suburban home. At least, it used to be suburbia, before everything went to shit.
He sat back and let out a long, deep breath. Shock threatened to take hold of him, so he closed his eyes and waited. The plane filled up and the cries of those refused admittance echoed down the walkway, swiftly followed by the sound of their execution.
Paul spared but the most fleeting of moments thinking about it. He found it strange how killing and death had become such a large part of his life.
“Excuse me,” a fragile sounding voice stirred Paul from the calm place he had just started to settle into. “I believe this is my seat.” An elderly woman, late seventies at best stood before him, her face was smeared with blood, while one eye had been covered by a filthy rag that had been hastily secured to her face with what looked like duct tape.
“I’m sorry…” Paul asked, confused.
“Seat 17b. This is my seat.” The woman waved the ticket in Paul’s face.
Paul said nothing, but gave the woman a look which screamed, ‘the world as we knew it has ended, are you seriously going to complain that I’m in your seat’. If she could read his expression, she showed no signs of it. So with another heavy sigh, this one of frustration, Paul undid his belt and scooted one seat over.
“Thank you. I don’t mean to be rude, but after all that has happened, I feel the need to remain proper about some things,” she said as she sat down. There was an odor to her person that Paul found distinctly repelling, yet she had clearly gotten through the scanners at the gate.
“It’s fine,” he answered her, closing his eyes once more.
The seat he had taken was a window seat, just before the wings of the Boeing 737, which the military had been using as an emergency evacuation vehicle for the past two weeks. Looking out across the tarmac, Paul saw the troops standing guard at the perimeter of the small airfield. The sun had begun to disappear beneath the horizon, and in the dull afterglow of yet another survived day, Paul found himself staring at the firework like bursts of gunfire and wondering how it could have all gone so wrong, so quickly.
He tried to stop himself, but before he knew it, his mind was cast back. He saw his wife, Julia and their two children, Doug and Maddie. They were outside, Paul standing behind the barbeque as Julia busied herself by setting the table, while their kids played in the garden enjoying the summer weather. He blinked, trying to force the image away. It worked, but was replaced by the memory of his wife’s battered, bloody corpse lying on the floor in their living room; her face blackened and swollen by the sickness, her body broken from the repeated strikes he had delivered with his son’s baseball bat. Her blood was splattered over his clothes, his face, everything.
“Daddy, I don’t feel well,” his daughter had called. Paul had turned around just in time to see the blood flow from her mouth like vomit. She collapsed to the floor, the convulsions already upon her. His son followed suit within the hour. Their small bodies were an easy target for the virus.
“I love you,” Paul had whispered as he hugged them both tightly, and then pushed their heads beneath the surface of the water. They struggled of course, but their bodies were too weak from the disease to provide much resistance. His daughter fought the longest. “You’re with the angels now,” Paul whispered to them as he dried their faces, dressed them in clean clothes, and laid them in their beds.
The sound of an explosion within the terminal rocked the plane and pulled Paul from the nightmare. The sun had fallen behind the trees, yet the plane did not seem anywhere near full.
“Close those doors!” the lone flight attendant called out, running down the aisle, pushing passengers out of the way without a second thought. “Close them now!” she screamed again just as the roar of machine gun fire reached them.
The screams of those still in the walkway were cut off as the doors were closed and the engines roared into life.
“Ladies and Gentlemen please take your seats. We are making an immediate departure,” the now out of breath young women spoke into the intercom. “God help us all,” she added.
The plane shuddered into life and rolled away from the gate. The coupling that connected it to the terminal was still filled with bodies. Paul watched them cascade to the floor l
ike lemmings; a human waterfall. “Lucky bastards,” he whispered as he stared at their still, lifeless forms.
The plane rolled onto the runway and stopped. They sat there for ten minutes. Then just as people started to get nervous, three armored Jeeps came to a screeching halt either side of the aircraft, the machine guns mounted on the top of each firing into the unseen enemy.
“Oh God, they got past the perimeter fences!” a voice cried out. This was accompanied by a wave of panic that saw people leap from their seats. Paul however, sat still; shock and weariness had overcome him. As a result, he saw the guns cease firing, and the gunner of the car nearest his window waved his hands in a signal which even Paul understood meant, ‘Get going, NOW!’
Paul opened his mouth to warn the panicked mob, but he was too late. The engines roared and the plane sped down the runway. People were thrown to the floor and into their seats as the plane gathered momentum. Through his window Paul watched as the bodies of those that had caused the delay were mown down by the speeding jet. Even that wouldn’t be enough to kill them all, but what did it matter now; they were airborne and the legions of the undead were behind them.
Looking back, Paul was just in time to see the main concourse explode in a ball of flame. The mushrooming ball of fire looked, for a few seconds at least, as though it would engulf the plane too, but their ascent was steep; too steep to be safe. They avoided the blast, but the resultant concussive wave shook the aircraft enough to dislodge an extra round of screams from his fellow passengers.
Once they leveled out and everybody had pulled themselves to their feet, an eerie hush fell over the cabin. Nobody moved; nobody spoke. They had all lost people to the disease. They had all killed as a result of it and while they were alive, the world beneath them was locked in a bitter fight for survival. The city burned below them; the air dark with ash and soot. The military presence was immense: tanks, aircraft, and platoons of men armed to the nines with every weapon that could be issued. They had a lot to mourn, and a lot to be thankful for.
Of course, Paul had seen firsthand how the creatures…infected - it was all too easy to forget that they had been human beings just two weeks ago - had eaten bullets and kept on walking, so what use the military presence would serve in the long run was beyond him.
Beside him, the old woman began to weep. Within a few seconds the whole plane echoed with the sound of tears being shed; the conflict of emotions too over whelming. As a collective they had stayed strong, but now, like a house of cards, when one fell, the rest would never be far behind. Apart from Paul that was. He didn’t cry, he felt nothing; his entire body was numb. He was not an emotional man. That is to say, he was a man that had learned to deal with the dark tide of his emotions internally. He didn’t keep it bottled up in an attempt to look tough. At five feet eight and seventy kilos, a tough guy he was not; not under the traditional definition. He did it because he didn’t know how to let it out. Instead, he watched and listened as those around him gave voice to their pain.
The sobs died down and the gentle thrum of the engines seemed to ease the entire group into a semi doze. Even Paul found himself struggling to hold his eyes open. Climbing over the snoring elderly woman beside him, Paul made his way to the back of the plane. The bathroom stall was unlocked, but when he opened the door, he let out a cry of alarm when he saw the young air hostess who had run down the plane and closed the door when things got too heavy, sitting slumped over the toilet seat. She was covered in blood, which spilled from the two slashes she had made in her wrists. The mirror above the sink had been smashed and in her left hand she held a bloodied shard. She clutched it like a knife. Even as Paul reached over the spreading pool of blood on the floor to check her pulse, she managed to lash out feebly.
“Get away from me,” she whispered her words, sluggish from the loss of blood.
Paul froze for a moment; even considered just closing the bathroom door and leaving her to die, but at the last moment he raised his voice, and called out, “I need some help here.” As he stepped into the small cubicle, his foot slipped on the slick floor, and he almost fell, catching his balance at the last second.
“No,” the young woman protested, but Paul took hold of her and pulled her into his arms. She was unable to hold herself upright; her legs dragging uselessly behind her, drawing a white line on the scarlet floor.
“Oh my God!” a few voices screamed, and a general clamor of interest sprang up as Paul laid her down on the row of chairs he had singled out as a good place to have a nap. He held her arms in the air, elevating them to stem the blood flow. Paul looked around and noticed how unfazed people were by the scene; how little they reacted to the shedding of blood or the taking of one’s own life. After all, they had all witnessed much worse, and the act of suicide, of opting out, was an option they had all considered at various points in time.
“Is anybody a doctor?” he called to the small group of passengers. There were only a handful, maybe thirty at most, but it was a legitimate question to ask.
“I’m a paramedic,” a voice spoke up and a tall black man with a shaved head strode toward them. Behind him, his daughter sat crying, afraid that he had strayed too far from her side. “It’s okay, I’m only going over there to help the young lady who gave you that blanket.” He soothed her, pointing to the airline blanket the stewardess had taken the time to retrieve for the young girl.
“We need to stop the bleeding,” Paul called as he held his hand over the two gashes. Blood seeped through his fingers making his grip precarious on her slick wrists. He could feel the stewardess losing consciousness; her body grew weaker and weaker.
“You, grab the first aid kit from the galley,” the paramedic instructed the nearest bystander the moment he saw the scene. “Here, let me take a look,” he spoke; reaching out toward Paul, who carefully slid the young girl’s arms into more capable hands.
The man inspected the wound, tilting his head to the side as he examined it, as though it were some rare find. “If we can stop the bleeding and get these things covered up she should be just fine. The cuts aren’t too deep and this one, I guess it was the second, doesn’t even span the whole wrist,” he spoke in a serious tone, as he took the offered first aid kit. “Hand me the gauze, will you?” He passed the kit on to Paul, the appointed nurse for the flight.
It took a little while, but the paramedic, who, when it was all said and done, had introduced himself as Leon Melcher, stopped the bleeding long enough to crudely stitch the wounds, and bandage them both. “It won’t heal all too pretty, but she’ll live.” He wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced it with a bloody smear. “Somebody will have to watch her. We need to get her talking as soon as possible, keep her awake.” His look at Paul made it clear he had been elected to watch over the girl.
“Ok,” he agreed. His head was pounding, but at least it would give him something to do to keep his mind occupied and hold the nightmares at bay.
The sun set and the cabin fell into darkness. With the stewardess out of action, the passengers had taken to helping themselves to drinks from galley, and thanks to the decently stocked supply of beer, wine, and spirits, soon began to relax. Paul refused the drinks when they were offered. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink, but he had consumed enough after the outbreak to keep him turned away from booze for a good time yet.
Sitting beside the woman he had rescued, Paul found himself drifting off into sleep. She stirred intermittently, but had yet to regain full consciousness. Paul knew the only thing he could do was wait. He tried to fight it, but there comes a point when exhaustion cannot be held off any longer. To his relief, it was not so much sleep that consumed him, but more an inability to stay awake. He fell into the darkness; a period of seemingly endless silence and welcomed it.
A shooting cramp in his left leg jolted Paul from sleep. He jumped to his feet and tried to stretch it out, gritting his teeth to stop from causing a scene. The cramp passed and Paul looked around. It was dark in the plane, the sun
not even beginning to tease the horizon. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than half an hour, but he felt better than he had in weeks.
A groan to his right caught his attention. The air hostess began to stir, the throb in her wrists finally coaxing her from slumber.
“Miss? Miss, can you hear me?” Paul whispered to her, conscious of the exhausted passengers that surrounded them. “I need you to open your eyes for me,” he coaxed gently.
At first Paul got no reaction, as the moans fell silent. He went to stand again, feeling the cramp threatening to return with a vengeance, when a brittle whisper stopped him.
“Why?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “Why?” she asked again, and slowly, her eyes opened. At first they had this distant, unfocused stare of a person woken suddenly from a deep slumber, but that soon changed, and they stared straight at Paul. Although her words were questioning, the look in her green eyes was one of thanks.
“Don’t mention it.” Paul sat down; his hands had started to shake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a cigarette.
“How do you feel?” he asked, mildly embarrassed at the seeming stupidity of the question, but remembered Leon’s advice to keep her talking. Paul kept his voice to a whisper, mindful of the sleeping passengers around him.
For a long time the woman remained silent. She looked at Paul, closed her eyes and when she opened them again, her tears fell freely. “Dirty, I feel dirty,” she answered, her voice breaking. “What we did back there…I just…all those people…” she began to sob.
Paul hated it when women cried; he never knew what to do. He reached out and clumsily placed a hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t be more than twenty-four; he was almost old enough to be her father, but what they had all been through could not be explained or prepared for in any walk of life. “I know, but we did what we had to...” he lied. “We needed to get away. Besides, we are out now, and we’re safe.” He paused. Were they really safe? Did anybody know if the virus had spread from the island or not? It wasn’t as though they were in the middle of nowhere. They were in England. The jump to France wasn’t a big one and with the tunnel, maybe it could have gotten through before they blew it up! Paul felt his mind begin to unravel, all of the questions nobody dared ask had started to bubble to the surface. He concentrated his mind, and forced them back down.
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