The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  The Pestilence

  The Diary of the Trapped

  By Rob Cockerill

  Copyright © 2016 Rob Cockerill

  All rights reserved

  All characters and names are intended to be fictional.

  Foreword: The original

  I've never been able to put my name to other forms of fiction before, it's like my grounding in reality has blunted my childhood imagination. I couldn't have written about a drug that would make a man limitless. I couldn't conjure up the idea of a boyhood wizard and a world of magic, goblins and good sorcery versus evil. Likewise, I couldn't imagine a new superhero and I wouldn’t know where to start a story about werewolves versus vampires. My mind puts up barriers and stops me from letting the idea flourish. Well that couldn't happen, I think.

  Yet I can imagine a zombie apocalypse, of some sorts at least. I have always been strangely drawn toward all manner of end of the world fiction. From modern adaptations of The War of the Worlds and The Day of the Triffids to zombie thrillers such as 28 Days Later, World War Z and I Am Legend, and even Mother Nature-based apocalyptic flicks like 2012 and The Day After Tomorrow, I've always been strangely fascinated by the genre and love getting absorbed in those carefully crafted stories.

  I enjoyed power cuts as a child, and through the years I’ve come to realise that I really am more of winter person than a sun-seeker – so I guess it should come as no surprise that I find myself easily imbibed in the whole ‘hunker down and ride it out’ spirit. I've always liked to imagine what I would do in such apocalyptic circumstances. It's one of the few things I can immerse myself in the idea of and run with it. So with The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped, I did.

  First and foremost, I wanted to see if I could do it. I wanted to live out my own apocalyptic thoughts, my own inner survivor, and see where that might take me. I wanted to see if I could really turn those musings into a fiction piece of any note. Secondly, I wanted to take this experience and make it as real or gritty as possible. I wanted it to be far more of the 'boring' side of a zombie apocalypse.

  Blockbuster films often have little more than 90 minutes to get through as much of the plot, the backstory, the character profiles and of course the action as possible. They have to do that as effectively as possible and generally do – they can't go for the 'boring' angle, they have to be successful, they have to win ratings and revenues. Even TV series cannot give over too much time to the basic drudgery of a given situation. But with my own interpretation of the genre and none of those pressures, I had the opportunity to tackle the other side; the monotony, the drudge of fear and entrapment, the gloomy realism without necessarily providing a hero versus villain narrative.

  I can't claim that what I portray is necessarily new, but in questioning what 'new' I could bring to the genre I realised that I wanted to go for a pragmatic approach. I had hoped it would encapsulate the intensely lonely, lost and purposelessness that I imagine such an oppressive, terrifying tragedy would bring. I wanted to bring it to life as it was me, in my home, going through this ordeal. It needed to show how I might think, how I might have to endure the things I do and the strategies I might take to survive in such a fatal world. I had the opportunity to cast ordinary people rather than employ heroes-in-the-making.

  What was surely new was my combination of gritty realism with that location in Cornwall. And that was my third goal – to make the narrative in rural Cornwall. It's where I've grown up, it's my home and my life, and where better to write about than somewhere you know so well? So this is my humble take on the apocalypse genre – there surely can't be too many first-person zombie apocalypse stories based in Cornwall. I hope you enjoy living and breathing it as much as I did.

  For Dad, I did it!

  Thanks to my friends and family for their incredible support.

  Prologue

  Antibacterials, commonly referred to and known by us all as antibiotics, were first developed in the 1940s and are widely used throughout the developed world to treat a plethora of infections and antimicrobial compounds.

  A whole range of infections and bacteria are remedied by thousands of different antibacterials, from natural compounds to semi-synthetic modifications of these compounds, and even entirely synthetic antibiotics. Yet a cure for the common cold and influenza still eludes modern society today, affecting thousands – perhaps millions – of people throughout the world each and every day.

  The body of each individual reacts differently; some effectively fight off these infections without even knowing they had them, while others need to visit a GP for antibiotics and assistance. It’s thought that each individual generally contracts up to eight different ‘bugs’ or viruses per year. What if just one of these, somewhere, some day, takes a sinister twist for the worse? What if one person’s unique DNA reacts differently to a particular virus, and bonds with it or mutates as a result of it? What if, in an age of increasing automation and digital reliance, including in the field of medical research and pharmaceuticals, one stream of biological data is modified? What if...

  The Diary of the Trapped

  23rd January 2016

  They told us this day might come. Fantasists. There were reports in the news and medical journals that an ‘antibiotic apocalypse’ was coming. Apparently, we were turning to antibiotics all the time, for the slightest of infections, and now we were running out of new antibacterials to treat things with. Scientists couldn’t come up with any new types of antibiotics to fight disease. Superbugs were becoming resistant to medication. At least that’s what the newspapers said, anyway. Disaster was just around the corner, they claimed.

  Well here it is – we just didn’t think it would come so soon. How did it come to this? How did it happen so soon? Was it an accident? All I know is, we’re scared shitless. We’re scared shitless of the vicious animals that lay in wait outside. We’re trapped here, slowly running out of food and one-by-one, our creature comforts as we know them are running out. God only knows how much longer the power will be on for; I’ve charged everything up as much as I can, just in case.

  The water’s fine at the moment, but will that run out soon? If there’s no-one to run the water companies, does that mean the supply will stop? We don’t know anything. There’s no information available. We’ve filled as many pans and bottles as we can, but it’s surely only a matter of time. What we could do with is some more supplies – basic food and drinks. Fortunately we’d only just done our grocery shopping when this shit began, but we still weren’t ready. Who really is?

  Fiction had always speculated this day might come, but we didn’t really pay attention. Did anyone? Did government have a plan for this? I know we’re sat here in deepest, darkest rural Cornwall, stuck inside the four walls of our small apartment, but it doesn’t seem so. Right now it feels like we’re trapped in a very scary, very lonely new world.

  24th January 2016

  I was always a huge fan of the zombie genre, it fascinated me and left me intrigued how we would cope if it ever happened. But I didn't want this, nor was I ever excited that it might happen. I guess I thought it never actually would, but I did think I'd be better prepared.

  I had all sorts of ‘plans’ and ideas at the back of my mind – how to fortify the flat, what rations we might need, where we might need to escape to if our safety was compromised. I had even thought about a long-term plan for survival, based upon a brave new world out on the high seas. But that all went to shit seven days ago when the fiction became reality.

  Stories began to emerge – on rolling news channels – of bizarre acts of terrorism, with victims bitten or ravaged in unprovoked assaults. Attackers would go on rampages, taking out several innocent people in each frenzied incident. At first no-one seemed to pay any great attention – it was surreal, but apparently not big enough in that first 24 hours to knock a celebrity death off the front pages. Suddenly the attacks became more frequent and spread out, and the authorities, media and the public alike began to join the
dots. These were no terrorist attacks. These were graphic, violent mutilations – and every mutilated corpse seemed to come back to life within hours and carry out its own feeding frenzy. That’s the only way I can describe it. The ‘undead’ were taking over.

  With every mouthful of fresh blood they were growing stronger and more ferocious, satisfied and yet all at once thirsty for more. With every feed, every new victim, the collapse of every region, the army of the undead was becoming ever stronger, ever more switched on, ever more overpowering.

  There had been barely any reprieve since the outbreak began, so much so that not only had the bulk of the country been taken over, save for the rural strongholds that had remained resolute off the beaten track, but there had been no known understanding of how or where the plague had begun. Some early reports pointed to the Cotswolds as the first source of the attacks.

  Within three days, what little media outlets were still broadcasting ran reports that up to 60% of the country had been ‘taken’ by these killers. The undead reached us here in Cornwall three days ago. Word began to spread that it had started. There were reports of deaths in both Penzance in the far west and Launceston further eastwards. The undead – the virus, whatever it is – had been carried into the county somehow. Perhaps someone was infected but didn’t declare it. It would have been easy to still board a plane or train in the early days of the crisis. Perhaps they drove down as far as they could to escape the chaos. It doesn’t really matter now; it’s here and we’re dealing with it. Except, we’re not. Not really.

  You could pretend it was cosy at first, in many ways. It was like one big, long weekend of lazing around in bed with nowhere to go and nothing to do; just resting between the sheets, idly chatting in more awake moments, and getting up every now and then for some convenience food. It was almost idyllic. But it wasn't really like that at all.

  We weren't resting between the sheets; we were cowering beneath them. We weren't idly chatting about our hopes and dreams; we were seriously questioning whether this would ever be over. And we weren't getting up whenever we felt like it for some tasty treats; instead we were sneaking around the house as little as possible to avoid creating any noise, unable to strike up the cooker and actually cook any proper meals for the same reason. We weren't enjoying our home comforts; we were imprisoned with them. We still are, seven days on.

  I may have been better-prepared than some, and clearly calmer than some of our neighbours. But nothing can prepare you for this. The undead stalk the streets everywhere. They’re dominating us. This is the end of the world as we know it. The year has only just begun, but we’re trapped in 2016. At best, we’re surviving 2016 – for now.

  25th January 2016

  Have I told you about the day this all started, the day it reached our once idyllic village? With only the same four walls to stare at and our lives changed forever, it’s difficult not to think about that day, over and over.

  Have you ever sat and watched people and their dogs at play on the beach? That’s exactly what I found myself doing that day, just for a few moments, as the sun shone down on the cold winter sands of this hamlet. In those cherished moments there was a sense of hope, a kind of freedom and collective spirit.

  Though the rest of the country was seemingly at war, beset by beasts and brutality and with all of it unfolding on our TV screen, our little community had unofficially gathered at the beach in a forlorn yet hopeful ambience. Against all government advice, at least half the village had assembled at the beach to walk dogs, take a stroll alongside the breaking waves, or simply stare out to sea like me. It wasn’t planned, it just seemed to be one of those rare moments where everyone had the same idea; like driving out to the woods to jump in muddy puddles with children on rainy days.

  Perhaps subconsciously we all recognised it might be our last chance. We had all seen it unfolding on rolling news channels and emergency bulletins, we had heard it playing out across the radio waves and – how very 21st century – many of us had updates pulled down to our smartphones. The plague was everywhere. And then it really was everywhere, for us.

  There we all were, drinking in those treasured moments on the sand in the cool, crisp air. As dogs ran about and people walked almost aimlessly, it happened – someone got an update through their headphones as they wandered among the caves and rocks; the first zombie-like deaths were reported in Cornwall. Within minutes there was pandemonium.

  People darted to and fro as the news spread and I immediately realised what had happened. It snapped me from my pondering and I stole a march on those around me, calmly striding back home to Jenny and planning our first lines of defence. I surveyed the beach again one last time, to take in the view and soak it in. That was when I decided to document everything, to write this blog.

  Within hours, carnage had reached Porthreth. Collectively, the village wasn’t ready. So many lives were lost in mere minutes; we heard them, we saw them. Now the blood-soaked streets tell their story, while their corpses beat at our doors.

  26th January 2016

  Day nine. No news, no developments in the story it seems. It’s all starting to feel a bit surreal now, as if it wasn’t already. It’s like none of this is really happening, like we’re in this big bubble with the hatches battened down and all huddled up in our duvets, waiting for someone to tell us to get up and get back to reality.

  On the other hand, the isolation feels so real it could really make you crack. When we all one day look back on this –I hope – through countless blogs and accounts like mine, I hope that everyone realises how crap we were at dealing with this disaster and how it was allowed to take hold, how we failed to keep it all together.

  We’re all in hiding, as far as I know at least, and that’s no way to fight a war. After all of the wars that have been waged against terrorism, dictators and tyrants, this is the biggest war that mankind has faced – and what did we do when faced with it? We ran, that’s what we did. We ran, and those that didn’t hide quick enough were consumed – literally consumed. Then the hunted became the hunters, and the war got even tougher.

  There are pockets of us here in Porthreth alone, and there must be pockets of survivors everywhere up and down the country, but what’s going on? Who’s in charge? And what’s the plan? No-one seems to know, not around here at least. I guess that’s nothing new for Cornwall; it’s all about London, of course. But there’s been so little coming out of government that we really are in the dark on this one.

  The groaning outside has stopped, for the most part. Most of the undead ‘trudgers’ either left or seemed to get tired waiting and have gone back into some kind of hibernation. I didn’t think that happened with them, but it must have. There are still a couple of them that scrape at the front window and groan longingly, but they’re mostly gone.

  It’s difficult to know what to do. We’re surrounded by walkers at the window, there are smashed skulls on the drive, bodies strewn in the street, and walkers still within earshot of a pin drop. It’s quiet out there but we know we’re far from safe – and that’s making it pretty quiet in here too.

  27th January 2016

  The last of the news networks went down tonight; the domestic news channels went off air right at the start, but we’ve been able to see one or two international stations over the last couple of days.

  To be fair there hasn’t been a lot of news, the infection seems to have hit most of Europe if the lack of reporting is anything to go by. The same headlines and reports were on a loop for nearly two days, with little other news from the remaining media broadcasts coming out of the Middle East and North America. But now even that has gone off air, one way or another. It’s lonely.

  It’s funny how lonely it is without the surroundings of 24/7 media – it’s amazing how much you miss the smallest of things like that. We’re all essentially in hiding, that’s what this is for anyone still surviving – we’re running and hiding. We’re cut-off, cut adrift from our friends, families, neighbours, colleagues,
everyone and everything we’ve ever known. It’s all gone. It makes it so lonely. Now the last of the news channels has gone, it’s lonelier than ever. And yet we’re only 10 days into this ordeal, this apocalypse.

  How much worse can this get? What do we run out of next: water, power, food? I don’t know, maybe I’m just overtired. I know Jenny is. It’s been a long day, an even longer night since we lost that contact with the wider world at large, and I’m finally getting sleepy – as sleepy as you can when you know there are corpses outside baying for your every drop of blood and flesh. I’m going to turn this off and save the battery. Good night.

  28th January 2016

  It’s been 11 days since the ‘outbreak’ as we’re calling it, and three full days since most of the moaning, groaning and bloodshed stopped – three lonely, difficult days.

  Only the incessant rain has really broken the silence, pounding the windows and pavements outside, and breaking up our dark, quiet ‘life’.

  What happened 11 days ago? We still don’t know. We don’t know where this problem came from or how it came to be. All we know is, on 17th January 2016 ordinary people began to attack and bite each other. It was everywhere, on every news channel, in all the next-day newspapers, and flooding across websites the world over. The message on the radio and TV was to stay at home, stay indoors and keep yourself as safe and secure as possible. No-one knew how long this might last, so keep yourselves safe for as long as you can, they said. That was it.