The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped

by Rob Cockerill

  And our day at one with nature was not just beneficial in terms of food. It will also bear fruit from a medicinal perspective if needed, though we obviously hope that does not prove to be the case. If it should, we have identified good sources of Ribwort Plantain and Woundwort for packing or addressing wounds. Not that we are anywhere near foolish enough to think they could help us in the event of a corpse onslaught, but they might just help us to survive the trails and travails of 2016 in other ways.

  15th July 2016

  So we are, in many ways, beginning to make the base work for us again…but at what cost?

  Jenny’s concern more than outweighs her contentment, and she thinks this place can only ever work if I am literally breaking myself to make it happen – or risking life by straying beyond the fence to fend and forage. That, in her view, is not sustainable – especially with our baby on the way.

  I may be able to source the greenery required for nettle soups and Navelwort salads, but how long can that sustain us? And how long would we want it to sustain us? Likewise, we may be able to harvest Dock leaves or Woundwort for addressing our injuries, but the wounds we are more likely to face will be the fatal kind at the hands of savage stiffs. The sting of a nettle is a bit different to the jagged, toothy tear of your sinews. And the long-term defences put in place to protect us are only as good as the time and maintenance put into them by our own fair hands – time and upkeep that the threat of marauding crowds of cadavers seldom allow.

  The debate rages on between us and is very much reaching fever pitch. Do we stay or do we go? Jack and the children are now feeling more emboldened to join in and shape our futures, if only to take the strain off Jenny and I in our clear differences on the subject. Stress is not good for the baby. Yet Jack has only just taught us to forage and broaden our survivalist skillsets. Meanwhile, I am loathed to invest time and resources into making this our stronghold any longer if the feeling really is that we should jump ship.

  I am still stoked about our foraging finds and the array of unknown treasures that literally sit on our doorstep. But such is their nature, there is nothing to stop us putting those skills to good use both on our journeys in the future, and at whatever new abode we might find ourselves holed up in. Those skills and resources are very much transferable. The question is, are we?

  18th July 2016

  It's still so light at 10:30pm that we can just make out the Celtic cross at Carné Bre some 10 miles in the distance, as well as several other local points of interest across the skyline – whether that's a good thing or not, remains to be seen.

  After the dark and depressing mood that the storms delivered in recent weeks, it's pleasant to be reminded of summer an all of the usual bright connotations that come with that. But staring out across the land and stroking Jenny's hair as she slowly drifts off to sleep at such an hour so often brings despair. When all your eyes pick out is the stark lack of life out there and quite literal dead of the night, how can it not evoke despondency?

  We are so very alone. Just the six of us, our trivial belongings, our relatively meagre food supplies, and a heavily reinforced four walls that keeps us sheltered from the death outside; it's a lonely and seemingly futile existence at times. Worse still, we don't know how long it will last, or if we are missing out on a far greater survival elsewhere. Staring out across the desolate horizon only accentuates our sense of loneliness.

  As I write this, with Jenny gracefully slumped in her sleep across my midriff, I do so with a heavy heart; I have all but agreed to leave the base in search of pastures new. It goes against everything I have believed and fought for over the last six months, and I am still far from convinced that there is anywhere safer or more sustainable for us nearby. But I am tired of arguing the issue; I am tired of digging it over in my mind every waking hour; I am tired of seeing Jenny so visibly pained at the thought of future days and weeks here; and I am at a loss as to how to make this place any more bearable than it currently is.

  And so the stage is nearly set for our departure – I just haven't told anyone of my newfound agreement yet. I may even take another couple of days to fully reconcile with the idea before giving up my resistance. Who knows, something might occur to change our minds in that time; but I don't hold much hope for any green shoots in the raised beds changing Jenny's mind.

  The only think left to debate then, is where and when? Where do we move onto, and how? Can there ever really be a good time to head out into the open anymore? My gut, head and heart all tell me there cannot. But there has to be if we are to shepherd Jenny and the baby, Nic, Tam and Riley to safety. And that is the task that now faces Jack and I – to forge a new path forward for our families, to set up a brighter, more sustaining future for all of us. To cast off the eerie, unwanted and calculating attentions of Stalker Steph, and somehow stave off the savage, merciless mauling of its foreboding undead brethren.

  20th July 2016

  The mugfulls of homemade Dandelion coffee are doing little to quench my longing for the real cups of Joe, or take the sting out of the ongoing tension at the base. It is the threat of fallout, and not the threat of cadaver conquest, that currently stokes discord among us.

  But I have now revealed my agreement to leave the base, rightly or wrongly. It’s just a matter of time before we do so. It means Jack and I are heading out on the road again to do a recce run. It’s been several weeks since we last ventured out into the open for real – our foraging last week saw us skirt around the edges of the base only, we didn’t stray too far out of our comfort zone – and we need to establish what paths, and dangers, might be laying in wait for us if we do leave the base.

  The surveillance system tells the same tale of woe almost every time we check in on it; the scene remains much the same each time we scroll through the camera views. And with a lot of corpse activity up here waning of late (thankfully), it stands to reason that all of those cadavers have disappeared somewhere. They do not tend to migrate at much of a pace or deviation, unless they get the sound or scent of a kill on the wind, so they must be within a certain radius of the site.

  We need to be prepared for whatever eventualities we may face, and that means getting out there and scouting it out for real. We need to know whether we’re looking at an even more potentially perilous scenario than usual, or whether we should consider taking the 4X4’s available to us here. Do we go equipped with firearms, or do we stick to more basic combat? Can we be sure of making safe passage if/when we leave the base, and how long might it take?

  Those are all questions Jack and I will aim to address tomorrow. We’ll see how far we can get and what we can achieve along the way. It’ll be interesting to see if we can picture a clear path to my old apartment too; this roasted Dandelion root coffee is a great improvisation, but I can’t wait to get back to the real thing and I know we have a stack of coffee sachets and tea bags just sat there waiting to be recovered. Coffee was my only real ‘addiction’ before the end of the world as knew it – first world problems – and I need that hit more than ever right now. To say I’m not looking forward to heading out into the woodland again would be quite the understatement.

  Jack is reluctant to go too, I can see that. The recce run does not phase him, he likes a challenge and the chance to get out into the open whenever possible. It’s the long-term departure that concerns him. He appreciates what we have here. He likes it. He has even said that he has not felt safer anywhere else since the apocalypse began. But Jack is also devoted to his family, and he is naturally bowing to the will of his first-born daughter, Jenny. More than that, he is bowing not just to the happiness of his first-born, but to hers too. And he has to put the safety and wellbeing of his youngest at the forefront; Nic, Tam and Riley arguably need to be in a better place – both physically and mentally – more than anyone else right now. They have all been through so much, in such a short space of time, and at such a desperately young age. They need us to find a way forward for them.

  23rd July 2016r />
  It rustled like a crisp tissue wrapping paper, so delicate and yet somehow so damn noisy that it pierced the silence they had so pensively preserved. My abiding memory of our trek out into the open again will be the brambles that so crunched underfoot and revealed our presence at almost every turn. It was a fraught experience, wrapped in a blanket of fear.

  As a keen runner I had seen the trail overrun a great many times in the past. Council cutbacks, I assumed, had rendered such maintenance necessary only twice a year and often given rise to long stretches of overgrown, dense foliage. But I had never seen it as miserly and treacherous as it is right now. Like the increasingly intermittent internet signal that hampers my diary efforts, and the idle wind turbines that now stand as static and symbolic on the Cornish skyline as their antiquated engine house neighbours, the unkempt woodlands strike a very visual chord in these dark days.

  On the one hand, we have seen gardens and village greens that lay ravaged and ruinous; downtrodden and trampled by the incessant cycle of the undead’s aimless lumbering. On the other hand, every sapling, bramble, leafy fern and foliage that could run wild and free has – trails and paths, highways and byways tell tales of near Triffid proportions.

  Every inch of the trail is becoming overrun, making it almost impossible to move with any real stealth. Whereas Jenny and I had once furtively criss-crossed through the woods en route to sanctuary at the base, such craft in covertness is difficult to practice these days, as Jack and I very nearly found to our cost.

  Our trip was not without horrifying hazard. Hungry for the spoils of fleshy conquest, the undead are alert to every sound and smell – every snap of a twig that echoes throughout the coppice, every heavy footstep and, as it turned out, every bramble crunching underfoot. More than two miles out from the base, one misplaced footing from Jack seemed to catch the attention of a score of bloodied assailants, each one fired up with renewed appetite at the sight of us. Our bodies still offered more than enough sticky, hot flesh to feed a whole flock of biters and they snapped and snarled as they bore down on us. One particular corpse crept out of nowhere, almost unsighted, and had stolen a march on its brethren, convulsing as it juddered toward us in its blinkered bloodlust.

  In mere seconds I saw the anguish for Alice rear itself in Jack once more as he marched forward into battle and mercilessly thrust a six-inch blade into the longing corpse – first into its shoulder blade in a misguided flail and then, with even greater vigour and direction, in through the biter’s eye socket. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he shouted without limit. Anguish, fear and anger all rained down on the fading walker as Jack followed it to the deck and repeatedly perforated its chest. Every piercing, puncturing blow brought with it more gusto than the last. Muscle tissue splayed out from the carcass and a congealing deep red blood seemed to find every unfettered thread of Jack’s top. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he continued.

  It was the darkest moment of our run, and as we fled in zig-zag paths throughout the woodland to throw our pursuers off course, the anger and adrenaline still visibly coursed through every part of Jack’s frame. Several hours and hard-trudged miles later, and we had the picture of surroundings we were looking for. As we sat near the dilapidated school and collected not only our thoughts but the bountiful reserves of Navelwort from the wall we sat against too, it dawned on us that any journey away from the safety of our base would be beset with difficulty. Did we really expect any different? Not really, but the proliferation in predator activity is far greater than anything we had envisaged.

  If our long, drawn-out journey toward the school, and the subsequent slog back along the meandering travails of the tramway to the base, were anything to go by, we face some major questions in strategy and survival in the coming days. Where do we go? How long will it take?

  Can we be sure it is safe? Is it a risk worth taking? Do we delay our departure until the mass of the undead have (hopefully) passed?

  Those are just the baseline questions. Then there are various extensions of those considerations. Do we raid our apartment along the way? Is there time? Do we go by foot, our inherent first choice, or do we take the 4x4s? Do we 'secure' the base for an eventual return some day?

  And then there are those lingering questions that will inevitably have to be thrown into the mix. It would be irresponsible not to. Is there really no more that we could do or learn here? Have we exhausted every aspect of the computer system and facilities? Will we live to regret leaving behind that so sturdy perimeter fence?

  From what we have seen in the veritable jungle that now surrounds Porthreth, we have a lot of thinking to do if we are going to secure safe passage for Jenny, Nic, Tam, Riley and ourselves.

  28th July 2016

  Jack, Nic, Tam and Riley are caught in the crosshairs of the pestilence. Deep into the overgrown woodland of the mineral tramway trail, and surrounded by a fervent posse of cadavers, there are few options available to them for their escape. With children in tow, it would be no easy feat for Jack to dispense of the onrushing assailants.

  Quick on his heels, Jack turned to the poster boy lump of a walker and, realising that a mangled leg was the reason for its stuttered gait, slowed for a second to figure out his options. While Nic projected the torch’s dim light on the oncoming zombie, Jack protruded confidence and took just a few seconds before reaching for the cleaver-like kitchen knife stowed in the right leg pocket of his scruffs and wielding it in the direction of his attacker. Two clumsy, far from clean hits eventually brought the hunk of a body to its knees, ready for Jack to kick the slumped lifeless frame to the leafy floor.

  The thirstiest predator then bore down on Jack as he hesitated, unsure about what approach to take – how best to defend and attack, all at once. “Daddy!” Tam shrieked and uncontrollably shook as a fresh threat ominously emerged to the rear of the pack and offered to rip the children from limb to limb. Alerted by the commotion of corpses as they were brutally felled by Jack, the lone corpse had arisen from the dark of one of the trail’s wooded recesses, seemingly out of nowhere. How they had managed to sneak past it so unknowingly before, none of them knew. Now, as it gathered momentum toward both Tam and Riley, they wondered whether it really was alone – and how many more dormant bodies might now be twitching and climbing to their feet. All the while, Jack came under increasing pressure from the hungered walker now barely feet away from him.

  “Daddy, help!” Tam cried. His attention distracted, Jack was bowled over by the dominant walker, throwing itself at its prey in haste rather than any cunning. He was pinned to the floor by what felt like an almost 90kg of raging cadaver, and grew anxious at both the struggle to wrestle himself free and the thought of his fallen blade lying just out of reach to his right. Snapping and snarling, the crazed zombie sensed the blood now coursing through Jack’s veins, getting to within an inch of his gruff cheek. He writhed and wriggled, unarmed and beginning to show signs of fading in the fight.

  Nic instinctively shepherded her younger siblings behind her and shielded them from attack to the rear, but could see that her father was flagging and potentially only seconds from taking a perilous hit. He needed her and with tears strewn down her face, she made her decision and raced toward him. It was too late; Jack got his second wind and began his comeback against the pressing cadaver. Wedging his right leg between the attacker’s torso and his own, with surprising back-lift he used his foot to launch the biter backwards. It fell like a great oak, crashing to the ground shoulder first in a heap. Threatening to come back for more with its back arched and forearms jacking up its decaying frame, Jack sprang to his feet and pounced, launching into the back of the monster and pressing it into the stony path. In one ruthless attack he ripped at the corpse’s greying hair and slammed its growling head into the ground. Reclaiming his knife from the sodden leaves he struck an impaling blow to the back of its cranium and straight through the cerebral cortex, the final act of its sorry life being a deep roar that filled every wooded hamlet of the tra
il.

  But Jack soon realised that it wasn’t his victims’ dying groan that rippled through the trees. A lone biter had plunged its mouldering teeth into Nic’s neck, overpowering her and pushing ever deeper into the thyroid cartilage, ripping great chunks out of her clavicle with every mouthful. Nic screamed until her larynx was destroyed, blood spraying out into the air as the thriving attacker gorged itself on her flesh, pausing only to let out a victorious howl like a feral wolf in mid-hunt. Near dead anyway, Nic passed out as Tam and Riley ran back into the arms of their father.

  …

  That, reader, was my very vivid damn nightmare last night. I may have had a fever over the last few days that has robbed me of lucid thought and left me burning up and tripping out at night, but my head is clearly getting seriously fucked by all of this. It was so detailed; it felt so real. The moment I woke up with a sweat drenched T-shirt and uncontrollable shaking, I lumbered like the corpses we so fear down the corridor and into the main commune of the base to check that everyone was okay. There they were – Jack, Jenny, Nic, Tam and Riley – all tucking into their modest helpings of sugary porridge, our simple morning staple, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.