The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped

by Rob Cockerill

  These things are sick, properly sick. They’re machines now, not humans; thirsty, hungry feeding machines. They don’t tire, they don’t strain or feel pain, they have no weakness – they just feed, and feed. And they’ve been groaning and moaning and banging at the windows ever since they realised we’re here.

  We’ve had to keep everything to a minimum today, even more so than usual in these dark days. It’s been hell, and I know Jenny is feeling it too – she’s terrified. She’s keeping it quiet but I know it’s getting to her. But what can we do? We’re lucky we’re so sturdy and secure in here. All we can do is keep quiet, keep the lights low, sit tight and see it through. Hopefully they’ll get distracted and move on, before we crack up completely.

  2nd February 2016

  It’s been more than two full days now of groaning, whining zombies clambering at our four walls. It’s so intimidating, you just can’t understand how menacing it is until you’re in that position. It really does take the whole apocalypse scenario up a level.

  It’s one thing, one truly terrifying thing, to be running and hiding whilst the world around you is ripped to shreds, quite literally. But it’s another thing again to be face-to-face with that new world and to feel so threatened by it, every single minute of the day. They’re raging out there, raging for our flesh.

  We’re trying to sleep in shifts but it’s not really working. Neither Jenny nor I are really ‘sleeping’. It’s just closing your eyes at best. There’s no drifting away to another place, no dreaming or really resting. Maybe we’re getting like 10-15 minutes of actual sleep for every two-hour shift. We must be getting some sleep for us still to be functioning – it just doesn’t feel like it.

  What it does feel like is some kind of suffocation. Heading into our third day of this, it feels so overpowering, so smothering of our freedom – like going weeks without fresh air. We even feel too petrified to take a shower, in case we get caught out by a reinforcement somehow giving way and the apartment is compromised. It’s ridiculous, there’s no way that could happen without some sort of human error, but that’s the paranoia we’re living under. Something has to give.

  Three things are keeping me sane right now, believe it or not. Firstly, my family: I have to be strong for them. Secondly, writing this blog to you, whoever and wherever you may be. Thirdly, hope – blind hope that someone, somewhere out there far cleverer or braver than me is going to sort this shit situation out. Someone must have a plan, don’t they?

  3rd February 2016

  Has someone got a plan? I’m starting to wonder. I haven’t really slept in something like 80 hours. There’s been the odd doze or slightly resting my eyelids, but that’s it.

  It’s mid-morning so we’re headlong into another day of this nightmare. The groaning corpses outside still haven’t left the drive at the front of the house. It’s been this constant murmuring and shuffling and banging, all day long.

  By evening a few of them stumbled down the side of the building and through the gate into the back garden, so we’ve had them battering both the front and back of the house ever since. It’s even more harrowing to hear them scratching and hammering at the giant patio doors at the rear of the house. At least with the bricks and mortar the sounds gets a little absorbed and muffled – when it’s on glass, it feels so penetrating.

  I’m so sick of it, all I can see when I close my eyes is their rotting faces and permanently pained expressions, jaundiced yellow eyes and brown, discoloured blood-stained, mangled teeth. It’s so haunting. It stays with you. I don’t want to close my eyes. I think I’ll just push through the night again and hope for the best. Jenny’s been sleeping for a few hours now, bless her. I hope she doesn’t have any nightmares, she’s been through such a lot and just needs rest and clear thought to match. We’re all living in fear right now, with no idea when that will change, or if it ever will. There’s still no word from anyone official, well not that we’re aware of anyway. We are quite cut-off, I guess.

  At times I just want to scream and shout and join the melee that’s unfolding around us, but I can’t. I want to cry and break down, but I can’t. None of us can. My mind is racing. What do we do? Is this really happening? Can I get through this? Can I get my family through? In the order of nature, am I really strong enough to survive this shit, this brave new world?

  4th February 2016

  So I closed my eyes last night. I gave in. I didn’t want to, but I think after close to 100 hours without any tangible sleep, my body took over. Jenny said I slept for over 12 hours, I was completely out for the count and in the deepest sleep she can remember either of us having for years.

  Apparently toward the end of that stint, a lot of the moaning and groaning outside calmed down and disappeared. Certainly when I woke up early this morning it was a lot quieter in here. I feel better for the rest anyway, almost refreshed, but it’s definitely quieter out there. It’s almost unnerving and yet, we don’t feel like the corpses outside are so on top of us.

  So we’ve spent the last few hours getting back to ‘the new normal’ – trapped inside, only ourselves for company, and trying to mind our own business here while it all goes to shit in the world outside. We showered, we made coffee, and we ate the last of the eggs for breakfast. We even listened very quietly to a recent podcast to make it seem like we had a radio on in the background. How idyllic.

  With the last of the eggs eaten today, toast and porridge it is for breakfast from now onwards.

  We went all out on the food supplies as soon as we thought this outbreak actually meant something. We had a little time on our hands down here in Cornwall, as it would be proven, and we've always been avid zombie genre fans so we 'recognised the signs' if that's even possible.

  The first thing we did was take our cars to separate supermarkets and stock ourselves up. We were just ahead of the curve in our area, among the few early ‘pioneers’ to be essentially looting the shelves and happily spending as much money as necessary. We knew we weren’t likely to need that money ever again. Right now, the only currency that counts is bricks and mortar and whatever food and drink you have; earnings and savings are worth nothing, there’s nothing to buy, no-one to pay and seemingly no future to save for. It’s all just numbers on bits of paper – money doesn’t even really exist.

  So we stockpiled potatoes and bread, everyone's favourite carbs, bottled water, and snack foods like cereal bars and chocolate. We also bulk bought staple foods like rices, pastas, pulses and porridge oats, and stocked the freezer as much as possible with milk, bread, frozen vegetables, ready meals and even water. Our house is full of dull, long-life food.

  Coupled with an already bountiful supply of jams and other jar goods, we've been doing just fine with meals during this seclusion so far. It's amazing how some of the simplest, plainest foods can keep you going. We're already starting to run out of fresh fruit and vegetables, and in time that will probably be the biggest thing food group we miss. But we're holding on for now.

  5th February 2016

  The power is still on. I don't know how or why, but it is – and we're not complaining. Even a couple of weeks into this ordeal now, and we can still keep food chilled and frozen, we can still cook meals, we have lighting and heating, we can shower with hot water, we can both use and charge our electronic devices, and we can even watch DVDs to take our mind off things, so long as we keep the noise to a minimum.

  I just never thought it would last this long. It's the same with the water supply. I didn't think we'd still have fresh running water at this stage of the crisis, but we do and every day we check the taps we're thankful for that.

  Maybe both the power and water supply is somehow automated and not reliant on any manual input; maybe we just got lucky. Either way, it's kind of keeping us alive right now. If we didn't have them, we might have been forced to leave the building and look for refuge somewhere more equipped – or just to keep ourselves sane.

  As it is, we're still hunkered down here and apart from t
he mass of groaning zombies outside keeping our paranoia at maximum, we've got no reason to brave leaving the apartment just yet. We have power, we have water, and we have food – and each other.

  The WI-FI is down, but that's not such an issue. I've got a cabled connection that's just strong enough to upload these blog entries, and that's about all it's useful for anyway. Most news sites are now down or static, with the last apocalypse-related reports dated 26th January, and some I can't access because our connection won't support it. So the great communication and procrastination space that is the worldwide web is not really any use right now.

  In many ways I guess that epitomises how much has changed – on 16th January, the Internet dominated almost every aspect of most our lives in some shape or form, by the 22nd January it was largely irrelevant and right here and now, on 5th February, it's redundant.

  Meanwhile an army now millions-strong is relentlessly hunting down every living creature in search of flesh and blood to feed on and any survivors are in hiding, trapped just the same as us. I guess that is actually the epitome of where we're at right now; not the Internet's fall from grace. The Internet is not in hiding nor in danger, it is still there and just waiting to be used again. Mankind, however, might not be here much longer.

  6th February 2016

  Day 20. The last of the zombies that we can see has moved further from the house, apparently ambling away into the road having lost interest. The front of the apartment is now zombie-free, from what we can tell. There are several blind spots from our window vantage point though, so we can't be completely sure. But it's definitely a whole lot quieter out there.

  To the rear of the apartment, we think there's still probably quite a few lingering out there, largely because it's so narrow and enclosed. Once through that side gate, they're almost herded in there with no reason or intelligence to think about negotiating their way out again. Every now and then we here gravel crunching underfoot, which tells us there's still one or two out there at least, and maybe more. They haven't clambered at the patio doors for a couple of days now, so we must be doing a good job of keeping light and sound to a minimum.

  It feels a bit colder today. I'd say there's been a certain step change, maybe a drop of three or four degrees overnight. That's my guesswork anyway. While we still have electric we've turned the heating up a notch and decided to try and make the most of what we do have these days. Small crumbs of comfort, and all that.

  It's been an otherwise uneventful day, the first in the last week or so. We found ourselves wondering how this all ends, in the grand scheme of things. Will someone rescue us? Will we be forgotten or overlooked here in deepest, darkest Cornwall? Do we have to make our own destiny, or rather sit tight and hope for the best? We can't help but let our minds wander sometimes, especially when we have a day like today. But hey, we're still alive, safe and sound, fed and warm after three weeks of this ordeal, and that's something to be positive about.

  7th February 2016

  I fear we've made a mistake. Porthreth school, once the epitome of this village's lovely, tranquil community, was overcome with noise just a few hours ago.

  It came like a bolt out of the blue. At exactly 4am, someone or something began ringing the old clock tower bell at the school. That's the only explanation for it; the sound seemed to come from that direction and we can't think of any other such bells in the village. It lasted for 20 minutes and was the most incomprehensible loudness possible to puncture the silent air. Then it just stopped completely, as abruptly as it had started,

  Who or what the hell was it? What does it mean? We were so scared, it took us by such surprise and at such a crazy hour that we didn't know what to think. Upon hurriedly looking out of the window, we could see an army of the undead swarming through the street toward the school. I don’t think we’ve ever seen them move so fast, it was such a menacing, surreal sight.

  There also seemed to be some flashing light in the far distance, far enough away that we could only really see the fading end of it and some reflections off car bodywork. The light was certainly projecting quite far; perhaps it was those school security lights.

  So what the hell happened? All we seem to have are questions. All we know is, at 4am a load of noise and light was emanating from the school direction for 20 minutes exactly – and then it stopped. We saw a couple of neighbours make a foolish run for it toward the school, and Jenny was the unfortunate one to see them run into several walkers and get carved apart by frenzied hands and teeth. It’s really affected her, seeing the bloodshed and mutilation for the first time. She’s barely spoken since and keeps looking so vacant as she goes into long dazes. It’s haunting her already, and it’s mere hours since it happened.

  It’s now almost 8am and I keep reminding Jenny that we’re safe here, nothing can get at us while we stay within these sturdy four walls – we have our supplies, we have our power and warmth, and we’re doing just fine at riding this out. But now I fear that we made a mistake in not doing anything at all. Should we have tried to make a dash to the school ourselves – if someone was trying to rally people for a rescue operations, have we missed our ticket out of here? Was it a government-led rescue plan to get everyone to safety somewhere? Has someone got a cure for the virus? Or was it even just an attempt to round up the undead and slaughter them on sight?

  There are so many unknowns, it’s driving me insane. At the same time, I’m racked with frustration at the thought that we might have missed a golden opportunity to make a great escape in the other direction, while all the focus was on the school. We had no such plans, but should we have grabbed some clothes and supplies and gone for it toward the harbour side of town? I’ve been privately thinking for a while that life aboard a boat might just be the best way to survive this nightmare, but I hadn’t got any further than that in my mind.

  We had no sure-fire plans in place to make hay on, and we didn’t even get as far as considering a school run before the last bell rang. But it’s eating me up that we did nothing. Gripped by fear and caught completely off-guard, we simply watched and waited – but for what?

  Could we have been saved by the bell? Were we fools not to find out, or shrewd to stay put? Should we have done anything at all? We’ll probably never know now. As I stare at my hot porridge bowled up in front of me, I can’t help being consumed by a mixture of despair and intrigue. If there’s anyone out there reading this that knows what happened today, please tell us.

  8th February 2016

  We're still reeling from yesterday's impromptu events of the early hours. As you would expect, we have not heard from anything from anyone, so we remain in the dark on who was ringing the school bell at 4am - and why.

  Jenny is still coming to terms with the mauling of our neighbours that she witnessed, while I'm ever more concerned that we missed a trick somehow; that we should either have followed the noise or head off in the opposite direction while the undead were so intently occupied. Instead, we did nothing.

  Which leaves us here in the apartment, yet again wondering where we go from here. We have food and warmth, but lack direction or any kind of information at all. This apocalypse is increasingly just that - an indefinite situation. And I'm increasingly intrigued by the prospect of leaving these four walls, though I haven't told Jenny that yet.

  It sounds foolish and almost ungrateful to be agitating for change when we are doing so well here, I know that. If this were a scene from one of our favourite zombie genre box sets, we'd be screaming at the screen to sit tight and ride it out - DO NOT LEAVE THE BUILDING! It's the classic 'don't even think it' scenario.

  And yet I am thinking it, more and more. Despite the growing cold that seems to be seeking through the village at the moment. My first thoughts were always that surely survival at sea would be a fool-proof option. The undead presumably can't swim, they can barely walk at times, so how could they ever get near you on a boat? As long as you had everything you needed, you could survive this shit in peace, bobbing on the ebb
and flow of the tide and able to change your vista whenever you felt like it. It would surely be less tense than this.

  But another, more daring thought has come to me in the last few days...There's a disused military site at the top of the village, a relic of the second world war and, later, the Cold War era. Rumour has it that there was loads of chemical weaponry testing going on up there and, despite all of that apparently being mothballed decades ago, some still have suspicions about the activities up there today.

  The site is right up by the coastal path along the top of the cliffs, so it’s probably out of harms reach as far as the walkers are concerned. Secondly, it’s likely to be well defended if the undead do discover any life up there, so would provide a far better, natural stronghold than this apartment. Thirdly, I’m thinking there must surely be some kind of back-up or emergency connection to the outside world from that base. Maybe even a hotline to military help or something.