The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped

by Rob Cockerill

  But it isn’t all that it seems. The threat has not gone away, far from it. And we cannot allow ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security – as if such thing exists these days. Upon closer inspection, we see clusters of cadavers skulking on street corners, while other pockets of puss-filled undead idly loiter in gardens and hedgerows. Many houses project the silhouettes of what appear to be stumbling stiffs trapped in their mindless pursuit of fleshy feasts.

  It makes for beguiling, yet soon demoralising viewing. Porthreth as we knew it is all but gone. If we had even the faintest slither of hope for the village, for the community, those four cameras have all but extinguished it. Our thoughts turned to those still surviving in the church, struggling to combat the cold and make ends meet. Are they still there? Have they made it this far? Would it really be all that satisfying if they have? Perhaps we could find a way to get a message to them, to get them up here and build a new community, a new existence for all…

  27th March 2016

  We’re searching for clarity and clear thought this afternoon, having endured a fright in the night. The security light to the rear of the building came on, and stayed on. We could see it in the tiny clearance between the bottom of the blinds and the surface of the floor, seeping in through every crack and crevice of the window. Is there anything more unsettling than that? Knowing that something or someone is out there, something has triggered the security light, the very thing meant to alert you to an unexpected event.

  It's the fear, the crippling fear that the light itself evokes – it's the threat or anticipation of danger. The best movies were always based on suggestion, on paranoia. The worst fears are irrational; they are based upon suggestion, implication, and over-complicated thought. That's exactly what that light represents – imagination running wildly away with itself.

  It spawned so many questions: Who or what triggered it, and why? Was it just the gusting winds sweeping in over the cliff top, or are we to expect some kind of threat? Was it just an aimlessly wandering walker? We still don't know. Short of stepping outside into the unknown, into the dark of the night, we have no way of knowing for sure who or what triggered the infrared sensor. It tripped a couple of times in a 10-minute spell and then there was nothing for the rest of the night, not that we know of.

  I'm concerned, deeply concerned. Especially so given the slain corpses that we witnessed outside the fence only a couple of weeks ago. We still don't know who was responsible for those acts, or why - or where they have been since. We didn't see any signs of them during the mass flock of undead at the fence, nor during my crop run just the other day once the coast was clear – but now this. Is it all linked, or completely over-complicated thought, again?

  Concerned though I am, it isn't lost on me how equally absurd it all is too; here we are, Easter Sunday 2016, sat square in the middle of a horrific zombie apocalypse and having slain countless violent corpses to survive this long, and we are worried about the flicker of a security light in the early hours. It sounds ridiculous, but the paranoid mind is a very powerful thing – and we’re conscious that the last thing we need is any kind of new threat thrown into the mix.

  28th March 2016

  I cannot stop thinking about the so-called stalker walker. Ever since it faced me down out there just beyond the perimeter fence, it’s gnawed at my subconscious and provides a daily reminder – as if it were needed – of how lucky I am to still be here in one piece, without even a scratch or scrape.

  It doesn’t just stalk the site anymore, it hounds my mind and I can’t decide which is worse – knowing that it’s out there, or incessantly thinking about it being out there. It’s firmly got into my head. I think it was the moment our eyes locked on each other and that realisation that it had little other thought than to rip me to shreds; not in the same way as all of the other cadavers out there, but almost in a targeted, lustful manner, as if it has actively hunted us down. I guess it has – we know it has – and it has shown some kind of cerebral traits completely out of context with all other reanimated corpses. But that moment when our eyes met brought a huge reality check.

  It has also been stirring all kinds of memories from this apocalypse; thoughts of those we’ve killed or narrowly avoided, recollections of the savage things we have witnessed, even stills from the TV screen of the tragedies unfolding during the early onset of the apocalypse. About a 20 different faces seem to transition through my mind on a loop, some of those I know, some of those I have been face-to-face with, and some I couldn’t even place. They haunt me during the small hours.

  The biggest obstacle that this unwavering enemy poses right now, however, is to our plans for fortification. I cannot dig the trench we so desperately need to excavate while it is even vaguely in the vicinity. It’s not like any other lumbering figure of the undead that you can simply keep an eye on or lure away, it has so far proven itself to be ‘smarter’ than that. I can’t believe I just wrote that…

  I don’t even feel like I can take it on and plunge a knife into its bloody head like I might its peers. It somehow has this towering, foreboding aura about it like no other cadaver. I don’t want to be anywhere near it, let alone on the same side of the fence as it. Even now, as I write this from the secure depths of the living quarters, it’s almost as if I can feel its gaze penetrating the thick concrete walls and reaching deep into my soul – and its yearning to ravage my flesh from the inside out.

  As long as it’s out there, around the base, we can’t get to grips with the trench excavation. It’s a major stumbling block; I feel certain we’ll need to have such a measure in place sooner rather than later. Our lives could depend on it.

  It’s not as if we can even take a gun to its head; a gunshot would alert any and all passing corpses within about a five-mile radius. That’s not even a generous assessment; we’d be lucky to survive the amount of undead that would be unleashed upon the site in the hours that followed. I guess it all depends how quickly we can dig out a perimeter trench and shore up any other defences – we may have to weigh up whether the shot of a firearm ringing out is a risk we have to take in the next couple of days. I don’t think we can wait much longer than that.

  Though we successfully diverted the hordes of corpses away from the site, we have to live in the knowledge that they could meander macabrely back in its direction just as easily. The crunch of a twig snapping under foot, the squawk of a seagull, or even the rasping rustle of litter floating on the wind is enough to summon their unwanted attention. We are secure again for now, but it could change in a mere moment.

  29th March 2016

  Day 72. I think we may have unearthed our phantom bell-ringer at the school.

  Three days since the surveillance system unexpectedly came online, and we have barely had anything but deflating scenes to look out upon. Porthreth as we knew it is all but gone, with the system’s four active cameras painting a desperate picture of survival. They served only to depress, until today.

  While scanning the cameras as part of our early morning routine of looking for signs of life, we made a significant, if not inconclusive, discovery. On Cam3, and quite by chance, we saw movement from the wooden play equipment in the school grounds. Zooming in, we could just make out a darkly dressed figure hunched within the tree-house style cabin – the same kind of wooden play equipment structure that we found ourselves seeking refuge in during those dank, desolate days of late February in the thick of the woodland. Great minds really must think alike.

  Much lower to the ground, whoever it is must be far more exposed to the threat of cadavers, yet appears to go largely unnoticed. There are few, if any wandering corpses in the vicinity, from what we can see. We checked Cam2, positioned just beyond the school, and it appears to confirm the lack of undead surrounding the school.

  So is this the explanation behind the seemingly methodical bell-ringing we heard on several occasions in the last couple of months? There’s little to confirm it, but it would be one hell of a coincidence. Wh
oever it is makes little movement, barely breaking cover to adjust their shelter and blankets when we spotted them; it was only a forearm poking out of the side of the canopy that caught our attention. We watched almost religiously for almost an hour for any clue as to their identity – or any detail at all – but with no movement to give anything away. We couldn’t waste any more time than that, we have to make the most of the daylight hours to fortify the place and assess the furtive actions of the sinister corpse that is yet to kill us.

  Speaking of which, having finally located it to the far left of the site as we look out, our very own haunting cadaver kept an unnervingly safe distance today – so much so that I was able to make a start on the trench I’m so determined to plough beyond the perimeter fence. As Jenny kept watch to all sides, and particularly our left, I ventured just outside the main gate and began to dig out a five-feet deep ditch to the right of the gate. Using a ladder removed from the bunk beds in the base’s living quarters for my own escape, I was able to dig out a trough both deep enough and wide enough to maroon several corpses all at once. Progress was slow and unsettling, excavating on the edge of my anxieties as I was, but we have about a six-feet stretch of pit started and so the trench is underway. It will take weeks at this rate, but we hope that this added defence will have hundreds of cadavers beached should we be under attack again in the future.

  Today was indeed a day of progress. Questions prevail, however, about those sighted at the school – who is it? How many are there? How long have they been there? What is their status or motive? As things stand, we know very little. We have seen only one figure, presumably male, dressed in dark hooded clothing and tightly shrouded in equally dark fabrics. But it is reason enough to have hope and we intend to keenly observe Cam3 throughout the evening for more clues as to the identity and actions of the mystery survivor.

  30th March 2016

  Nothing is forever anymore. Four words that seemed to fall into my mind last night and, the more I mull them over, bleakly sum up the world we find ourselves in. There are two ways of looking at it:

  1. Nothing is forever anymore – because it isn’t. From what we’ve seen of the apocalypse of 2016, nothing lasts forever. Food, warmth, shelter, safety, security – all are fleeting, none are forever lasting. Even power and water, two things that have so surprisingly endured since society fell in mid-January, will surely not last the distance. As for happiness, if it can be found then it is so often momentary; a hug, a kiss, a look between loved ones, a shelter or security, they are all tender moments.

  2. Nothing is forever – all there is nothingness, all around us. Society, civility, are all but gone. As the undead maraud from town to town, village to village and even street to street, they breed a sense of nothingness. What little survivors remain are huddled in hiding. Where there was once industry, movement and community, there is now emptiness, stillness, and desolation. The nothingness endures.

  It makes for morose thinking, granted. But I find it’s important to have that perspective; at least we are grounded, we know where we stand. From there, we can build hope and just maybe, leverage some kind of happiness. Happiness which we accept will not last forever…but we can have a bloody good go at continuing to find new sources of happiness and fulfilment.

  That fulfilment has today been found in the form of our defences. There’s been nothing of note showing up on the surveillance system, and therefore no more insight on the school grounds survivor. But we’ve made more progress on the perimeter trench, furrowing out a further six feet to the right of the site as we look at it. We’ve also had some degree of success in other forms of defence, erecting a sort of lightweight ‘tunnel’ from one of the building’s exit doors to a location to the rear of the base.

  Of makeshift construction from old metal bedsteads, table tops and an assortment of fabrics and coverings, it spans more than 100 feet and has taken days of solid work to complete. We’ve even been able to set up a small viewing window adjacent to the door to ensure the tunnel is safe for departure. Now that it’s finally finished, it should enable a discreet passage off the site in the event of emergency, unbeknown to the militia of undead that might be approaching. From that point, we can skirt along the coastal path in either direction until we reach safe harbour.

  Another defence has again involved the mass of discarded wooden pallets that we have to call upon up here; we’ve been using them to buttress any proven weak points in the fence now that the hundreds of cadavers have been led away. They’re just another temporary measure in reinforcement and can surely be improved upon themselves, but if we get a few weeks, perhaps even a few months, out of it then we'll be happy with that. After all, nothing is forever anymore.

  31st March 2016

  Today we didn't feel like doing anything, nothing at all. So we didn't – we stayed in bed, talked about our future together and hazily wiled away the hours.

  Having ran up to the watchtower to glance out across the base, the sight staring back at me confirmed there was little we could do today anyway; there it was, menacing as ever, standing right to the front of the fence and right where I need to continue to trench-dig. We were just staring at each other, the ethereal corpse unwavering in its steely gaze. As long as it is stood there longing for my every ounce of 30-year matured flesh, I can't crack on with that earthy conduit.

  So we just thought 'fuck it' and I jumped back into bed with Jenny in some kind of Lennon-Ono style bed-in. On what would have been my Dad's birthday, I had little reason to want to wrestle with the world today anyway.

  So we decided to try to put some control back into our lives, as well as some hope. We chose to spend the day in bed, getting up only for toilet breaks or food rations. We tried to treat it like an old-fashioned duvet day and make the best of a bad situation. It's been so long since we had such a day, way back to those first few weeks of the apocalypse in our apartment, that it actually felt good. It felt good to wallow and rest our weary bodies.

  We talked for hours. From reminiscing about our wedding day to plans for our future son or daughter, and our perfect desert island discs in-between, we talked and talked; we fell asleep to idle pillow talk and woke up through dreamy hazes. We hugged and held Jenny's increasing baby bump, for what felt like hours at a time. We laughed and joked and just for a few moments at a time, we forgot where we were. We forgot what had happened. Momentarily, it was the 2016 we we're supposed to have.

  We had breakfast in bed, of sorts, followed later by lunch and tea. Ever so often, amidst the stillness and over the whirring hum of the base's various facilities, we could hear the unmistakable sound of the sea lapping against the equally sleepy shore – and off we would fall again to slumber. We rolled back the years and revelled in all things lazy and restful. We gained some ground back; we reined in the control in our lives just for one day; we made a concerted effort to live with some semblance of freedom. And it felt good. As I write this, we have but a few hours of vague daylight in which to wallow before the night is ushered in our thoughts turn to the daily grind of paranoia and bloodshed again tomorrow.

  1st April 2016

  I wanted to begin today’s entry with some kind of April Fool – that it was all a Dallas-style dream or something. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  After yesterday’s dreamy duvet day of taking back control and trying to pretend that this all isn’t happening, we were brought sharply back to reality this morning with the dark, morbid view over the site. It’s a cold and dreary day outside anyway, but that bleak, desolate panorama never ceases to demoralise. So I simply couldn’t bring myself to play an April Fool; I think it would undermine just how shit this world is now.

  New depths will be felt soon. It’s hardly crisis material, but we're starting to run out of the basic toiletries and products that we had been so fortunate to have so far. I had inadvertently stockpiled things like deodorants and hair waxes, aftershaves and shower gels from the obligatory 'smelly' sets that one traditionally receives a
round Christmas time each year, and we were naturally savvy enough to pick up plenty of spare essentials from the supermarket when the outbreak began. But we could only bring so much with us when we left our apartment. We needed to travel light and that's exactly what we did.

  So we're beginning to run low in several areas, some more important than others, and shortages will soon be felt across the board – toiletries and essentials, food and clothes. We do of course have our very own vegetable patches in progress now, but the produce from those make-do-and-mend raised beds will take a little while to come to fruition. And we don’t even know how successful or bountiful they will be. I have some basic gardening know-how, but I’ve never grown cabbages, corn or carrots before.

  Rations of snack foods and dried packet foods are also beginning to enter dearth levels, so we may have to address that conundrum soon. It’s all pointing to some big decisions to be made in the coming weeks.