The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  And with the assurance of security, and Jenny and the children firmly fortressed back inside the base for good measure, Jack and I have sated some bloodlust of our own this afternoon. Sensing a growing need to take control of our own safety, we took out a raft of zombies to a far corner of the base with only the fencing or a rural Cornish stone wall for comfort. Though always quietly and controlled, Jack and I let them come at us and get within a reasonable distance before letting loose a whole month’s worth of vengeance and frustration as we slaughtered those crazed cadavers with vigour. We left showers of maroon blood spraying up into the air around us. The big, bold radar dome to our right took on a garish red façade that leaves it looking more like a fiery comet from outer space than the mega golf ball that it once resembled.

  I felt all the stronger for it, for the combat and camaraderie. But it won’t always be like that and as I have so often said before, we won’t always be so lucky. Today we are savouring both our lives and the good things we have experienced over the last 12 hours. Today we are toasting our little victories with glasses of filtered rainwater; tomorrow is another day altogether. That has never been truer than in 2016.

  23rd June 2016

  Yesterday may have been a welcome reprieve from the deathly dread and tension, but today is indeed another day. As predicted and is so familiar in the survival of 2016, good days are followed by bad.

  Nothing drastic has happened, diary, it is more that we have plunged back down to the grim reality of the situation before us. Jack has not been quite himself since we slayed corpse after corpse a couple of days ago, almost as if he was slightly affected by it on some level. Traumatised, perhaps.

  I have clearly been affected by the act of battle again, which affirms to me that I am no valiant soldier capable of keeping the end up in terms of brute physicality. I awoke at 4am in cold sweats, thinking about almost every cadaver we ruthlessly butchered. My mind replayed over and over again the moment that countless biters fell to the ground without a sound, offering merely a dull thud as they collapsed in an undignified heap. It was not so much a crisis of conscience, as the haunting image of their contorted carcasses and fevered faces etched into my psyche.

  It doesn’t seem to matter how many corpses you pick off, how many close encounters you get embroiled in, or how many months you have been exposed to the unswerving environment of mutilation and mortality – it eats you up inside every single time. It festers in your mind, in your soul. It lingers and gnaws, tugging at the strands of your consciousness until it reaches crescendo and momentarily consumes you completely. That’s when you wake up in the dead of the night, sweating and shaking all at once, crying beyond control. For minutes at a time, it’s impossible to see anything in front of you – your sight is literally filled with the image of dismembered beasts twitching and twisting, snarling and snapping. All the while, you wear a vacant, shaken expression.

  It didn’t help today that we spent much of it outside, clearing up the wreckage of our rampage yesterday. Jack and I dragged bloodied, shredded carcasses to a nearby field and piled them up out of sight and – hopefully – smell, while Jenny and her siblings tended to the raised beds and tried to busy themselves with other less gruesome tasks. All around us, the stench of a thousand corpses lingered on the increasingly stale air.

  And on those pungent notes, our day was done. We had shifted the bulk of the slaughtered cadavers away from the site, with only a few left to tackle, and further etched their somehow visceral viciousness into our consciousness. Jenny, meanwhile, still had no fruits of her labours from the veg patches and little end product for a day meant to bring brighter thoughts out in the open air.

  This evening, as zombies zoom in on the base with renewed bloodlust after our daylight display, we will discuss plans for the day and, potentially the months, ahead. It's been five months since I began this diary. Despite the journey we've been on and the relative sanctuary we currently survive amidst, we still know little of the apocalypse, its origins or our future – however dark that may be.

  26th June 2016

  So, five months on, reader, and we don’t know where we’re going, not really. Our future is still up in the air and has been the subject of much tense discussion over the last few days. I feel like it all might come to a head very soon.

  That will probably result in us reaching a tipping point in Jenny’s favour in terms of leaving. I don’t want to fall out with her, and will not allow that to happen. But I am still not entertaining the idea that leaving this base is the right move; I’m in, not out.

  What’s causing all of this consternation amongst ourselves is the intense pressure we’re under, the continued shitstorm of conditions and mental abuse that we’re subjected to almost every hour of every day.

  We’re scared shitless of the vicious animals that lay in wait outside. We’re trapped here, slowly running out of food and freedom. We’re sat here in deepest, darkest rural Cornwall, stuck inside the sanctuary-yet-suppression of this ex-military base. Those proverbial four walls have become so familiar over recent months, and yet it feels like we’re trapped in a very scary, very isolated new world.

  We’re also in a visibly different age of the apocalypse. The power has finally gone out in many places; we’ve seen the iconic wind farms on the Cornish skyline cease to revolve and the lights go out in various roads and side streets. And while the undead were once rampaging and growing ever stronger and more ferocious with every mouthful of fresh blood they fed off, they’re now an altogether different breed. They are now starved and all the more menacing for it.

  The low-hanging fruit of the population has been conquered; mutilated, chewed up, spat out and converted to an all-encompassing army of cadavers. The prize is getting more and more difficult to attain; the pestilence has very much moved from feast to famine in recent months. But while those same undead might not be growing physically stronger each day anymore, they are growing stronger in other ways – more and more ferocious, decidedly desperate and dangerous, increasingly frenzied.

  And with every corpse clambering for whatever fleshy morsel it can get, the stakes are higher. It’s not easy to simply ‘dodge’ these fierce monsters anymore. There tends to be clusters or even packs of them bearing down on you all at once, not so much by stealth or strategy, but simply because they are all competing for the same meat. And amidst them all, we have our very own Stalker Steph tormenting us in the shadows, presenting a whole new type of threat.

  It’s difficult to know what to do, arguably more so than ever before. When we left our apartment all those weeks and months ago, we had a firm goal in mind, a plan, and good motivations for it. We were moving on for bigger, better things – and I think we could all agree that we were right to do so. This has been a better, safer place to be. But in potentially debating whether to leave this base, the options open to us are far less obvious – and by no means any better.

  Added to which the same challenges prevail. We may be safer here, but we’re still surrounded by walkers at the window; we may have far more space and freedom than we could have hoped for, but we feel as imprisoned and oppressed as ever; we are fortified, but still exposed to huge swathes of corpses to all sides; slain bodies litter the scrubland; and it’s quietened out there in the last few days, but we know we’re far from free of danger.

  28th June 2016

  Jenny says I’m looking more ‘weathered’ recently, that I'm showing signs of taking the strain. And deep down, I know she's right.

  My hair is all over the place. It's been a little off-piste ever since this shitty world began, with haircuts just about the furthest thing from our minds and my increasingly grey locks now only kept vaguely in check by Jenny's own scissor-bearing hands. They may be fair hands, but they're certainly not skilled in hairdressing.

  My hair's been slowly greying since I was 24, so I came to terms with that a long, long time ago and always vowed to grow old gracefully with it. But I know that it's suffered a lot more in the las
t five months; it's getting increasingly grey and wispy, and there's a lot more of it these days.

  It's not just my hair that's showing the strain. My facial hair is slowly greying too, it's all too stubbly and unkempt and a decidedly dodgy mix of grey and ginger. Combined with some serious crow's feet and deep lines creeping in with the tension of almost day, and I'm looking more and ‘Clifftop Craggy’ with each week that passes.

  I feel weathered too. Beyond the first 10 tormenting weeks of this brave new world, the last couple of months has been particularly tough and lonesome and I know I'm struggling to take the weight of that much longer. Physically, I'm in decent shape. But it's the mental fatigue; the ongoing oppression, the kill count and the cadaver countenances carved into your mind, the intense loneliness of imprisonment, and the pressure that I've willingly been under since 23rd January, that pressure to make all of the decisions and make them count. The pressure to always have a Plan B or C, or to think on the move – it all takes its toll in the end, and that leads to physical strain in the long-term as exhaustion and tension writhes the body.

  That’s where I’m at, and Jack is probably much the same. As for Jenny, she’s looking far from weathered. I know I’m her husband and I’m bound to say that, but as crazy as it sounds for battle-weary survival in a world that has been decimated and irrevocably changed forever, she looks radiant. The pregnancy that is so clearly confirmed right now with her beautifully burgeoning bump provides a natural glow that belies the hungered, washed out existence we endure. I only hope that it continues; that she does not become starved and gaunt as our food supplies dwindle and the struggle of survival weighs on her. For now, she carries a bittersweet beam and however long it lasts, it’s enough to bring a momentary smile to my weathered face.

  30th June 2016

  We‘ve had a better couple of days, reader – because we made them better days.

  With little in the way of produce coming through from our raised beds, food stocks that are slowly depleting again, and little else constructive to do, Jack and I ventured out into the open for the first time in days and moved out toward the desolate farmhouse to the far rear of the base. To be precise, it was our first time outside the fence since we slashed and slayed hundreds of the undead at the gates. It was good to get my weathered face out into the ‘fresh’ air again.

  We were met with a wall of muggy humidity, but no barriers in the form of cadavers – that was perhaps reward for both our patience and, as we ably scaled the perimeter fence, our absolute lack of hesitancy. It was unequivocally the result of our murderous rampage some days earlier.

  We did of course have a good inkling that corpse activity was at a recent low, having woken up in the watch tower in the early hours to the sight of a decidedly clear path through to the farmhouse; not a single zombie appeared to lurk immediately beyond the fence, only two seemed to be erring anywhere near our proposed route from the surrounding woodland, and just one solitary corpse lumbered aimlessly in the cornfield that led to the farmhouse. Just three cadavers potentially stood between us and the country building – it was clearly our best opportunity in weeks.

  And it was an opportunity that we grabbed with both hands. With the two biters still comfortably out of proximity in the thick of the woods, we had only one kill to make once in the cornfield, unleashing the rasping swing of my heavy chain weaponry and taking the oncoming stiff out in one hit. I may have become quite handy with my weapon of choice, but it was my best and most brutal swipe yet, even drawing a rousing roar of approval from jack.

  With that, we raided the farmhouse for everything we could possibly make use of. A whole rucksack was frantically filled with all manner of jams, pickles, flours, oats, tinned goods like sardines and butter beans, jelly cubes, pulses and pastas, tea bags and instant coffee sachets, spices and flavourings. Another was laden with a treasure trove of camping items, from a compact gas stove and canisters of butane gas, to lightweight mess tins, matches and plastic utensils.

  From the upstairs quarters we came back with carrier bags full of wind-up travel clocks, personal hygiene and beauty products, toilet paper, and even randomly gathered clothing items – many of which may only be fit for rags or layers. But we got them nonetheless, and it was a good day for our group. Jenny, Nic, Tm and Riley couldn’t believe the raft of goodies we returned with; nor how unobstructed we had been in our endeavours. It has surely only reignited discussion of leaving the base soon, if the time really is as right as it seems this week.

  Yet as I write this, it feels as though it was a good job we plundered the farmhouse when we did. Not only have we equipped ourselves with the veritable riches of 2016, we have done so before an almost certain change in conditions.

  There's a storm brewing out there. The air has that inimitable feel; a sense of pending cloudburst, of ferocious winds, even the smell of a storm's spirit. I felt it as I stepped outside with a freshly made cup of tea this afternoon; it's that pick-up in the air, the swirling layers of cutting, cold wind that are so sure to whistle soon. It's the brooding skies that look as sulky and stroppy as ever before.

  It’s been muggy for a couple of days, or 'close' as we used to call it. The lack of a quenching breeze has been stifling – like a car struggling to tackle the steepest of inclines with a clogged air filter. Jack and I certainly felt it as we trekked over to the farmhouse, and I do wonder if even the undead have found themselves more laboured in the last few days. Perhaps that in part explains the lack of activity of late.

  “We need a good storm,” we used to say in the good old days. And that storm seems to have arrived in the last couple of hours. It just doesn’t seem so good. It has that feel about it – you know it’s going to be a harsh one. Increasingly dark clouds blanket the base, the two flags flying from the site ripple in the wind, and as I write this we have the hatches battened down and the gas stove primed. We’re ready to ride this out, as ever.

  4th July 2016

  Well, the storm is well and truly here, be in no doubt about that. Coupled with the seeming slowdown in other walks of life, like the gradual power outages and the sojourn in the skyline of wind farms, and our surroundings have all the hallmarks of a very scary time indeed.

  The storm blows wild and deep. For two days and two nights it has waged around us, battling the daylight hours and quarrelsome with the woodlands. For two days it has taken no prisoners, leaving a ruinous scar on all nature before it.

  It has taken us prisoner, however, consigning us to two full days back in the entrapment of these same four walls. It may have quenched the undoubted thirst of our budding crops, but it has done little to refresh our cause – either physically or mentally. My computer reminds me that it’s the 4th July, Independence Day for many, and yet we feel far from free in our current state.

  I had always so enjoyed storms as a child and a young man, before my face had become so suitably weathered itself. I loved the drama and the sense of unknown; the sense of riding it out with only basic functions available to us. I loved the escapism and adventure. Like camping in a tent or holidaying in a static caravan, I loved the feeling of atmosphere – the sound of rain lashing the canvas, the 'batten down the hatches and ride this out' spirit. In storms, I always loved the occasion. As I have said before, I was always something of a fantasy survivalist.

  But such weather systems have an altogether different feeling these days. On the one hand they provide a welcome change of conditions, a brilliant break in the monotony of the undead taunting. On the other hand, changing conditions inevitably bring evolving challenges – and adding new unknowns to already complex requirements to stay alive is rarely a good thing. Do they dampen the aggression of the undead like the ground beneath them, or do they anger them further? Do they stem the progress of their advances, or do they create treacherous conditions that drive us into their deathly clutches? Do they overwhelm power stations and infrastructure, or do they have no impact at all? These are all questions/anomalies we can only be sure of by
venturing out into the open, and the storm currently condemns us to the opposite – trapped as we are yet again.

  Though it will surely only be a couple of days at the worst, the stormy clime has us cowering in the comfort of our dorms or watching it sweep across us from the observatory, in many respects paralysed by the fear of the unknown out there. In doing so, it has served only to further grey the ever-darkening complexion of our survival.

  12th July 2016

  Not since Jenny end I sat surviving in our modest apartment in February have we enjoyed such food riches. How long ago those days seem – and how much we long for the bountiful supplies that still wait for us in our former homestead. But with the storms eventually passing a few days ago and leaving pastures rejuvenated, if not bedraggled, Jack came into his own and made the best of a drab situation by putting his long lost foraging skills to the test.

  Ironically, it was the stormy imprisonment of the last six or seven days that really sparked his memories of natural days gone by. Many conversations in the last few days revolved around the food situation; when you’re bored, you tend to eat or graze. With a lot of tense time on our hands, and little inspiration to derive from a cobbled together kitchen, we all found ourselves wondering how we might pep up our options. We had worked wonders in this department with the rations raided from the farmhouse last week, but the hunter-gatherer in Jack meant that he was racking his brain beyond the dried foodstuffs and condiments. At times I could literally see him churning ideas over in his mind.

  And when the incessant rains dried up, the clouds cleared and a refreshed air arose outside, it was the almost inimitable and pungent smell of soggy Hogweed that caught Jack’s senses over the stench of death and decay that we have so become used to – and that’s when it clicked. He flew into action like a man on a mission, mumbling Latin words and more colloquial nicknames under his breath as he cleared out plastic storage boxes and readied his rucksack for a few hours of foraging.