23rd February 2016
Safety, during days like these, is a foreign concept. Something that had so often been taken for granted before is now a rarity. It comes only in small doses and usually in the fortified sanctity of one’s own surroundings. For Jenny and I, it’s not even that – we’re not in our own home anymore, we’re in the abandoned shell of her father’s house. But it does feel safe, it has that rarity about it.
In fact, I can still remember how safe I felt this morning; safer than at any time during this apocalypse. Quiet. Still. I gradually opened my eyes and, sifting through the milky haze of morning, fixed my eyes on the stars above. Morning was not quite yet breaking, but I still had that semi-conscious comfort that you get when first awake; feeling warm and snug, protected almost, knowing that it's time to get up yet just seconds away from falling willingly back into the clutches of sleep. That feeling simply does not mesh with the zombie apocalypse.
We had fallen asleep on the floor in the converted loft space, the highest point in the house, with only sleeping bags, two pillows and a light patchwork quilt for luxury. The room’s double guest bed simply didn’t seem appropriate during such times. Sight nearing 100%, the stars seemingly shined even brighter through the skylight window, and the feeling of security was suddenly shattered as I remembered where we were – and why.
Deciding to spend the night at the highest point in the house, potentially with nowhere to go if the house was compromised, was hardly the best idea and went against all of my instincts. Yet it also felt somehow safer, so much more assured and removed from the shit outside. Maybe that’s why some people love loft conversions so much – the subconscious escapism from the world around them. All I know is, it instilled a confidence that we have not experienced since 16th January, when the world fell to a blood-spattered end.
Jenny’s breathing beside me was calm and at peace, and I could tell she had that same sense of security within. The comfort, however, has given me the time and mental space to do a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking how false that comfort is, how removed it is from the reality out there and how we can’t indulge in it.
We need to be smarter out there. We're prepared in almost every respect, but we're not being streetwise. We left our apartment almost a week ago with rations, with clothing, with the practicalities – but not with options. We safeguarded the apartment for a potential return, but we didn't have any other back-up plans. We left ourselves vulnerable, open to the kind of changing plans that leave you wound up dead one way or another.
We need to get ahead of the game. We need to think things through more. It's been at the back of my mind for a while – since the first night at the church – but there's been too much bloodshed and distraction taking over. I was so pent up with my frustrations and desire to leave that bloody church that I couldn't realise the thoughts that were gnawing away at me, waiting to come to the forefront.
If a moving target really is a harder one to attack, then I intend for us to be the most elusive target possible. We need to have detours thought through, and distractions planned for the undead that allow us to proceed on our path unfettered. We need to be more confident in both our weapons of choice and our own abilities. We need to play dirty. We need to always be one step ahead.
The power is still on, the water is still running fresh and bountiful, and we are blessed with the kind of food supply that I know countless others across the county, indeed the country, will not have. We have cabled Internet access again while here and a sense of freedom that we have not had for weeks. This house has given us more space and better vantage points with which to assess the scene outside. But those same vantage points, and the dawn of each new day, reminds us that our third attempt at leaving our safe surroundings lies ahead.
We must not kid ourselves; we are trapped here like an alcoholic trapped in the deepest depths of addiction. We cannot break the cycle alone; we cannot change what has happened and who or what has been lost along the way; and we must not allow the situation to consume us completely. We have to do what we can to make a change – and that means breaking out of this imprisonment and making something happen.
If we’re going to do that, without picking up the single bite or scratch that could be enough to infect us, we’ve got to do it properly. And that means boxing clever. I know now what must be done.
24th February 2016
The last hour has seen us have our first alcoholic drink since the outbreak began – hard, neat shots of vodka to combat the shock. Today we tried to leave the house, and spectacularly failed.
There’s about a 20-strong mosh pit of angry cadavers now piling pressure on the gated driveway, and it’s only a matter of time until they force their way through.
Twice before we have attempted to leave the ‘sanctuary’ of our surroundings – then the apartment and church – in our quest to escape the loneliness and unrelenting bloodshed that 2016 has become, and twice we have failed to breach the onrushing swarm of the undead. Getting out into the open was one thing, but actually getting more than 30 feet into a journey of human desolation was another.
Today was our third failure, achieved before we had even really started. Sensing an opening further down the road ahead, the first we’ve seen in days, we grabbed our bags and broke cover at mid-morning. And we were better prepared this time. Our bags were replenished with food and water, and we were packing more robust knives than before. I had a handful of percussion caps taken from a redundant cap gun we found in one of the children’s bedrooms, a rape alarm found in another bedroom, and the remote locking keys to one of the cars on the drive, all primed to create very audible distractions when needed.
But it still wasn’t enough. We need a bigger distraction. We also couldn’t account for a mega blind spot no more than 30 feet from the house where, unbeknown to us, a mini-pack of eight salivating, blood-dripping corpses were huddled in wait. Sighted, our presence exposed instantly, we became the object of their every bloodlust and yearning. Dormant corpses stirred in all directions, others emerged from garden hedgerows, and the sight of a diminutive little corpse in the far distance clutching a downtrodden teddy bear was the final deterrent. We sprinted back to the house, slalomed through the gate and reapplied the defences as we retreated.
Here we are again, trapped and surrounded by chilling corpse freaks of all ages, all craving and slavering for our bodies; they’re salivating over our skin, frenzied for our flesh, and thirsty for our natural juices. They’re angry, insatiable and apathetic for their destruction of our souls.
The constant reversion to imprisonment is crushing, the dashed hope breeds despondence, the near misses evoke undeniable fear, and the sight of child cadavers breaks your spirit. We have never cried so much, so uncontrollably. It’s intolerably shit, insufferably lonely, and all encompassing. Worst of all, it was only ever just around the corner. How did it come to this?
Curtains drawn, barricades renewed, weapons to hand and senses sharpened, we sit here to yet again wait it out.
25th February 2016
Jenny and I have been together for nearly eight years and this is, unsurprisingly, the biggest test of our relationship. We’re married, we’ve lived together for six of those years, and we’ve been through just about everything there is to go through as a couple, and yet this is another challenge altogether.
Jenny rescued me all those years ago, from the depths of despair. I had not long lost my father and, having lost my mother some five years before that, I found myself essentially orphaned in my early twenties. I was drinking to forget, and heavily, for months on end. When I met Jenny, she gave me a reason to believe again – she gave me hope. She made me better in so many ways and I said as much on our wedding day, years later – that she had not only saved me but continued to make me a better person. The same is true today; she gives me hope despite the never-ending chaos and carnage all around us.
But she needs some hope herself right now. She has always been a strong-willed, indep
endent person; kind, caring and of ever-increasing moral fibre through the years. This end of days scenario and everything it brings is severely testing that moral compass. It’s testing everything she believes in. The imprisonment by corpses goes against her independence, challenging her strong-willed nature like fire meeting fire. Every failed attempt to leave our incarceration adds another layer of fear and frustration.
Jenny is desperate to be reunited with her family, yet increasingly reluctant to head out onto the road again. The safety net that this house affords is softening her mindset. At the same time, it’s adding to the adsorption, the intensity.
We’ve never faced such intensity, nor such tests of character. I think that could go overlooked amidst all of the other, life-threatening challenges we face. It’s difficult to describe the intensity created by the situation, the constant fear-laden entrapment. It’s almost a paradox; the apocalypse only welds you even stronger together, and yet welds you so tight you could snap in two. That’s the intensity of the hiding, of the imprisonment, of the undead beating at the door for days on end – and of being involuntarily inseparable.
We have no space, no time apart. We are under each other’s feet, 100% of the time. There is no reprieve – no popping out to the shops for five minutes or walking the dog, no day out with friends or chores to do in the garden, not even the option to listen to music as loudly as possible and drown out the world around us. There’s no separation whatsoever. And there are vicious animals roaming the streets, slowly and enduringly, every minute of every hour of every day.
The sight of those rapacious corpses close up, particularly those we faced yesterday, weighs heavy on Jenny and eats away at her. I need to give her hope again – it’s my job, my raison d’être now. I need to reunite her with her family, find a better way of life and protect her from all of this torture we’re exposed to. I need to dissolve the distress and resentment that’s growing inside her.
That’s why I’m going to do what I’m going to do tonight. Jenny will not forgive me for it, I know that. She will struggle to find agreement with my actions. But I’m confident in both the act and the long-term effects…
26th February 2016
One more day – just one more day left to go. In just over 12 hours time, we will grab our belongings and leave this house for good.
Four feet wide and a hearty six miles to the next excuse for a village, the old tram trail is likely crawling with infected wanderers, but it will also be our route out of here – a path to freedom. Carved into the hillside, and quite often a muddied dirt track used by horse riders, dog walkers and would-be runners alike, the trail will be a fertile hunting ground for a slaughter at the haggard hands of the undead. Yet it might be our best hope of moving on out of town to sustained safety.
That path to freedom has been made more accessible by my attempt to ‘box clever’ last night. Emboldened by several slugs of vodka last night and armed with only a small torch, kitchen knife and some worn rope, I slipped out of the house on my own via the skylight window in the roof. Jenny had given in to several shots of vodka herself last night, which allowed me to go undetected in the early hours, while the dark of the night afforded me a bit of a cover against the throngs of corpses outside.
My scent no doubt rippled on the cold night air, but I was able to skirt across the rooftop without notice and leverage myself down to the adjoining garage. Once inside, it took me just a few minutes to find the camping stove we were once so familiar with from family holidays, and make light work of negotiating the path out of the garden. With only the safety of myself to worry about, weaving around clusters of corpses was surprisingly easy, if not spine tingling. In little time at all I was face-to-face again with Jane, or what was left of her; I had reached the pub’s beer garden. It shook me for a few brief moments, I thought I was going to throw up there and then, but I had not the time to ponder. I had to move fast.
Hands shaking with fear, I placed the camping stove right next to the caged enclosure housing the pub’s two huge gas bottles, turned on the stove’s gas, placed an empty plastic recycling box over the top and ran a trail of rope from inside the makeshift bomb to a quiet spot about 12 feet away. After several frantic, fearful attempts, matches were able to set the rope fuse alight and an increasingly ferocious fire blazed its way toward the pub as planned.
The explosion was huge, louder than anything I had experienced myself before. I hadn’t hung around long to find out if the two main gas bottles had ignited as hoped, but the raging boom of the explosion implied they had. Sparks, smoke and fire were in full flow by the time I had criss-crossed my way back to the house – and so was Jenny. She was incensed, not only at what I had clearly done but also that I had left the house in a ‘fucking reckless’ manner – leaving both of us entirely exposed.
What if it hadn’t worked? What if I had been compromised along the way? What if I picked up just one scratch? What if walkers had, in those moments, somehow found a way into the house as she was sleeping?
I knew she would not be happy. My half-arsed plan risked both our lives, as well as likely killing anyone seeking shelter at the pub. It completely defied Jenny’s moral compass and embodied the ruthless selfishness of this brave new world. But it worked. Somehow unknown to me, and as highly unlikely as the science behind it may have seemed even to me, a massive explosion was unleashed before our eyes. It tore through the night sky and left scores of corpses spellbound by the sights and sounds of the eruption, drawing them fervently in its direction. We watched as the house lost all its appeal and became less than a footnote in the undead’s attention.
Several hours and arguments later, and the road outside is empty, desolate. We have just been given our best chance of escaping these four walls and, despite our differences over the incident, we are in agreement that we’ll beat a hasty passage out of here in the early hours of tomorrow. We’ll take our chances out on the trail.
28th February 2016
Day 42. I’m back – and this shit really did just get real. We find ourselves well and truly trapped, yet again, in the darkest depths of the woods. Diverted off the beaten path of the mineral tramways, we were forced to make pitiful camp atop some wooden play equipment we stumbled across in the thick of the coppices.
When we left the house two days ago, the road ahead was relatively clear; all eyes were on the explosion at the pub beer garden. And we made good progress towards the tramway, not running or particularly powering through, just moving at a steady pace and reserving our energies for potential use later on – invaluable, as it would later be proven.
The main road in and out of the village had been overrun for weeks, it was like a constant thoroughfare of migrating, meandering flesh seekers. To rely on it as a route to freedom would be a dangerous voyage to make, hence our reasoning for using the wooded trail. We couldn’t risk it. I’m pragmatic – our limitations in the field of battle are not lost on me. To fight such an irrepressible militia of carcasses would be a near certain death sentence. Despite being only 31, my best days of fitness are probably behind me. I could comfortably outrun a group of corpses and manage a good pace for about five miles, but I’d be spent for a little while afterwards. As for Jenny, due to her asthma, she could barely break a canter these days without grasping for breath and feeling like her chest was collapsing in on itself. Any number of oncoming eaters might pounce upon us long before the chasing pack arrived. It could be fatal out on the main roads.
Yet we soon found the very same threat waiting for us on the tramway. I had barely had enough time and cold air to succumb to the grief and guilt of my actions, my selfish kills, since this apocalypse began, before we encountered snapping, snarling skulls lurking in the woods amidst the saplings and shrubberies.
Spotting an alarmingly quick biter advancing on us out of the corner of my eye, my footfall got heavier as my gait graduated to a sprint toward the next stile along the trail. A swift glance to my left confirmed the rapid advances of the unusuall
y sprightly cadaver, but also revealed a struggling Jenny now 10 feet behind me and beginning to heave laboured lungfuls out into the crisp dawn air. A hundred thoughts raced through my mind in mere split-seconds as I attempted to calculate the collision course between my slowing wife and the relentless attacker. Instinct kicked in and I launched back toward her, easily gaining three feet of ground just with weight and momentum alone. I could see the corpse bearing down on its prey and threw myself forward without thinking, clumsily lunging into it with my right shoulder as if staging some kind of dirty shove on the rugby field.
We both went crashing to the ground, the impact sending a spew of rusting red blood up into the air and showering me with flaking flesh. The stirred corpse demonstrated instincts of its own, snapping its head back into my face and snarling with renewed vigour. It was like coming face to face with our neighbour all over again. Blood and an overpowering odour hit me as the corpse’s head contorted and crunched at the air, almost taking my dazed head by surprise. I could feel the immediacy of its decaying teeth to my cheek, moving in for the first flourishes of flesh. From there on, everything unfolded in some kind of blurred memory; I can’t remember exactly how it happened, but I think I dropped my shoulder, slipped the rucksack from my back and used it to leverage some space between us, and unleashed a broadside of punishing punches. I pummelled it into the muddy ground, a cascade of crimson fluids and grey matter erupting before my eyes.
As Jenny looked on in stunned silence, still chasing breath, and I staggered to my feet with blood-soaked hands still shaking, three more rousing attackers lumbered toward us from the dark of the woods in the distance. Rage and a need to protect Jenny took over and three more kills were racked up in seconds with little more than a heavy duty kitchen knife wielded in anger.
The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3] Page 11
