30th June 2017
Having spent the last couple of days pitched up at the reservoir site and almost longing for Prim to take her first steps, we had to make serious tracks of our own last night as we were overrun by biters in what felt like a matter of moments. Quite how we had not seen this coming, I really don’t know. I’m a mixture of gutted and angry and yet relieved all at once. We got lazy. We became pre-occupied, distracted by our sheer love and adulation for Prim and seeing her grow.
We’d had another great day; another quick dip in the reservoir for me, more eating and playing out in the sunshine for Prim and us all. And then, right out of nowhere, the undead seemed to emerge in great swathes and were swarming all around us in the early evening light while we bathed Prim in a Trugg. We were caught off-guard, again, and sent into a tailspin.
Biters were coming at us left, right and centre, from the nearby meadows and woodland, from the road leading into the site, and even from the reservoir that I had swam in twice in two days. That freaked me out and made me shudder on the spot. Were they there under the surface all along? Did I stir them or create waves that brought them to the surface? Did they ‘swim’ across from the other side only moments before? Whatever the answer, they were climbing out of the water and joining the masses of biters that were closing in on the van from every direction.
Poor Prim had no idea what the hell was happening; not only did she not know what these people-like monsters were that were coming toward her, her bath time was completely interrupted (and she’ll probably take a while to be comfortable with that experience again) and her parents were crazily rushing her out of the bath tub and into the car seat. It was all a fucked up, panicked, unsettling whirlwind and I regret that – and the impact on Prim – almost as much as being caught out itself.
It was a crazy-ass few minutes of driving and trying to maneuovre the van through the maelstrom of walker traffic – undead that I might add are getting more and more terrifying with every week or month that passes. I’ve seen these things up close and personal, scores of times, and anyone that was familiar with my diary last year will know that I’ve been through as much shit as anyone with the undead – and I haven’t seen them as fiery, ferocious and famished as this.
It’s as if they multiplied at a phenomenal rate in those first days and weeks of January 2016, and that rampant conversion of pretty much the majority of the population continued at the same vitriolic rate in the months that followed. It was devastating and they thrived on the bloodlust; for anyone that witnessed it and survived, they were visibly wild with the excitement of the feast, as the blood and sinews of the living exploded everywhere. But in the more fallow months that followed they seemed to become angrier, frustrated almost. It’s ridiculous using those words for something that has no emotions or feelings – but they were and are frustrated. They were getting hungrier and hungrier, more desperate with every week that passed. Now, even further still down the line, the undead look to be raging inside. They’re almost more ruthless, if that were possible, more animated and direct in their line of approach; more fired up and frenzied. It’s as if their bloodlust has violently accelerated.
Making your way past them, through them, is becoming so much harder, even in the robust protection of a van. We just about forced our way out of the site and out onto the open roads again, but not without my heart being in my mouth a number of times. And the roads are not so open, either. It's not just the apocalypse debris and packs of the undead that are forcing us to rethink our movements at every turn, it's the wildly overrun hedgerows and verges, and the strewn storm damage of trees and phone lines. Nothing has been moved or tidied for over 18 months now; the overgrown undergrowth has begun to weave its way around the wreckage of at least three stormy seasons that I can think of, potentially more. Especially so in Cornwall, where there are so many micro-climates – there could be glorious sunshine in Porthreth and wild hailstorms in Gwithian, and no-one would batter an eyelid. So lord knows what storm damage there is across the county. I think we've only just begun to discover the worst of it out on these back roads, and that’s bad enough.
As I write this, we are parked up on the outskirts of Four Lanes, just inside a seemingly empty holiday park or campsite that we somehow got diverted to with every wrong turn and blocked road. Jenny, Prim and Nic have all now settled down and fallen into some semblance of sleep, though tonight’s ‘wind-down’ to sleep took a long old time to transition. Given the chaotic few hours that preceded it, I have a feeling Prim’s in for a restless night tonight, and that could bring with it problems of its own. It could be a long night, so I’m going to call it a day and shut this diary down for now. Wish us luck.
2nd July 2017
We've been held up in our plans to move on again, this time by the intense wind and rain we're experiencing. It hasn't been like this for a long time. It was almost as if the big freeze we had in the New Year was something of a reset switch after an often turbulent 2016 for weather – the last few months have been relatively mild and pleasant. Cool, clear mornings, mild days, cooler evenings again and little cloud cover. It had given us one less thing to contend with as we battle to stay alive and well.
But now it's turned for the worse and Prim's clearly bored of the relentless rain already. We're in-between places having had to flee the reservoir site, and with impassable roads and torrential downpours verging on floodwaters, we're beached in a back lane passing place and hoping to ride it out. I tried to get us as remote and into open space as possible before pulling in for a while, but that was two days ago and with the rapid onset of this stormy weather, this was about as far and as high up as I could get without passing up on the parking opportunity. Caution told me not to keep going and over-extend ourselves into a situation where we had to bail ourselves out of mud, or floods, or wreckage. We simply can't take those chances with our lives. The roads were getting ridiculously difficult for a van of this little torque and traction to navigate anyway.
We're doing everything we can to stay alert to any biters approaching the van, but there's only so much we can see without actually getting out there and risking the unknown. We're doing our best to keep a lid on Prim's screaming too, but she's just not happy. She's had a taste of the good life, of sorts – of being outside and being free. She wants more of that, and we completely get it. She needs that liberation to thrive. We just can't give it to her right now and with nowhere in sight to even date to think about going to, we just have to sit tight in the van this evening and hope for the weather to change overnight. As soon as it eases and it's light enough to make a move without drawing too much attention, we'll be gone.
Until then, we've got to keep our shit together here in this glorified metal box, keep warm and ignore the biter groans that our paranoia makes us hear amongst the cacophony of raging winds and beating rain. It's going to be a very long night.
4th July 2017
We've definitely had more moments of happiness, more chinks in the armour of the pestilence, more sparks of joy and excitement this year than in 2016 – and they are all down to Prim. She gives us the most incredible hope and happiness, but there really is little else going for life at the moment.
The roads are, generally speaking, chaos. We didn't seem to come across too many roadblocks in the first few weeks and months, but I think we definitely just struck lucky. Ever since, the bad roads have far outweighed the good; for every unnervingly empty road there must be five out there that have been chewed up and spat out by the apocalypse.
There are roadblocks, whether man-made by early day survivors or natural obstacles of flooding events or storm damage, or even over-growth. There are roads and side streets that are plagued with deep pockets of the undead, waiting to pounce at the slightest inclination of the living. And there are routes blocked by stacks of disorderly abandoned vehicles; one or two might be movable, but several at a time simply take too long to clear and leave you severely vulnerable to attack. Those damn roads have really
caused us problems for four days now. We’ve barely made any progress since leaving the Penhalvean area; we’ve been constantly beset by wrong turns and a need to backtrack. For two whole days we couldn’t even move, the van was so exposed to the conditions and the surrounding zombies. It’s been savage, and intensely claustrophobic; borderline suffocating.
But we did strike it lucky of sorts today – passing through Four Lanes, again, we spotted an old organic foods outlet on a farm at the side of the road. We couldn’t believe we hadn’t noticed it before. It was a huge risk, but the farm appeared empty, at least for the 15 minutes or less that we were there (we weren't prepared to stick around any longer, we didn't even kill the engine on the van so that we wouldn't get complacent).
Whether its owner didn't value the goods they used to sell, or the place simply hadn't been the subject of plunder to date, the shop was full to the brim with stock. Everything from homeopathic remedies and medicines to organic soups, snack bars and toiletries – you name it, this shop had it. I'm no alternative, organic, homeopathic kind of person – far from it in fact – but I had to admit that this was a treasure trove of inherently healthy, nutritious stuff. This wasn't simply beans and oats; this was wholesome swag. This stuff has serious benefits during the apocalypse. And we filled our boots. While Nic held Prim, Jenny and I slung the side door of the van wide open and just hurled as much as we could inside; we'd sort it out later.
With that, we got ourselves back on track and out on the road again – who knew how long it would take us to actually get anywhere. As it turned out, Four Lanes itself was teeming with errant biters that were only just beginning to come out of the woodwork, as were the roads into Carmenellis, Burras and later, toward Black Rock. Yet again we faced obstructions. By the time early evening arrived, we settled on a remote smallholding in the area, high up a tor, figuring that as much height as we could get would be preferable. It's quiet. I always find it eerily so. There's rarely any quiet evenings that feel calm and relaxing, that's why you've got to make them most of it in places like that lodge in Gwennap when you can. Here, I can't. My hearing is heightened and my weary eyes refuse to slacken off as I periodically peer out of the window and avert my gaze back to the screen every so often. I can hear Prim's heavy breathing as she deep sleeps next to Jenny, who herself lets out the occasional snore. Nic, meanwhile, is silent and out like a light next to them.
I'll probably give Jenny a nudge at about 4am so that she can take over for a couple of hours or so, by 7-ish we'll eat some sort of breakfast and by 8 we'll get moving again, all being well. We have to, for Prim’s sake.
8th July 2017
It's not where we want to be, but we found a house three days ago, a big house, and quite by chance. We were diverted off the main roads yet again, then forced to backtrack some more, slowly coasting through suburb after suburb en route further toward west Cornwall.
We had barely got anywhere when we passed through a village called Troon and got diverted again down a side road by a dormant pack of biters that we thought better of disturbing. So we stalled the engine on the van and just free-wheeled down a side street with what little momentum we had. As we ground to a halt we noticed a house, number five, and were weirdly drawn to it. Just out of nothing but sheer opportunism, we tried the door and it opened. We were in. It was vacant.
We spent a good 15 minutes or more slowly staking out every square inch of the property, until we were satisfied it was truly empty. When we established it was, and had been for some time, we began to take in the surroundings we had just gifted ourselves for the night. A weary day's travelling, covering barely five miles in eight hours of carefully picking through quiet B roads and side streets, was brought to a sheltered conclusion.
The house is an incredible find. Big, spacious, three decent sized bedrooms, two reception rooms, a separate dining room and kitchen. Set back enough from the road, with a noisy gate too, that we have a very slight sound buffer to passing biters. It's the perfect space for us to hide for a bit and regroup. There's even a decent garden and huge garage to the rear – not that I've ventured out there beyond my first bit of exploring. And there's one other good feature the window in 'our' bedroom leads right out onto the flat roof of the dining room and, with a huge jump, from there we could make it out into the rear garden and out through the gate to the back lane. So if our position is ever compromised, by the living or the undead, then we could theoretically make a hasty retreat out of sight. We have our contingency plans in place already.
It’s far from where we wanted to be, and not in our intended direction of travel really, but we were temporarily re-routed and we’ve decided to make an investment in it for a time. The last couple of weeks has been too harrowing and suffocating for Prim to take, and we’re feeling the strain ourselves, so we need this time out again. We’re treating it as a rest stop, a chapter in regrouping and checking out some maps to work out how we can proceed from here. We need to work out what alternative routes may or may not be available to us.
And this is a good place to do it. It has abundant gas supply, keeping the heating hot and the showers hotter. It still has electricity, keeping the lights on and the appliances functioning. It has a crab apple tree in the garden, a patio and decking; not that we can use them. Inside, there’s a front room, a snug middle room, a dining room-conservatory, a kitchen, three bedrooms upstairs, as well as a bathroom and a huge landing. The place is somehow modest, but huge. It has sturdy walls and robust doors to the front and rear. It has everything we need for a little while, and it gives us much-needed sanctuary from the ongoing storms and pestilence outside. It may have been a relatively non-descript terrace house once, but right now it’s our complete reprieve.
Prim is already loving the house, crawling around the long hallways and landing unadulterated, playing to her heart's content with the kind of freedom and innocence that any child should have in spades, yet she has rarely ever had as a child of the pestilence. She has been the epitome of contentment for the last few days; so much so that she doesn’t even notice me padding the doors and windows with spare fabrics and frantically concealing our presence.
15th July 2017
The more we learn about this place, the more we like it. We’ve been here for 10 days now and it’s hard to find a reason to move just yet.
The rear of the house is 'protected' by a decked patio area, steps up to a modest garden space, and a huge garage, which is itself flanked by a gravelled path, a small child-size gate and, 10 feet beyond that, a tall side gate. Between the gate, garage and the 25 feet or so of outdoor space, our presence is well hidden from the monstrous creatures out there – undead or otherwise. To a degree, Prim can be as noisy as she wants to. And boy she's being noisy. She's really found her voice of late...
Inside the house, the rear entry comprises of a set of study patio doors and blinds. There's a dining table and chairs, as well as a sideboard, which barricade the doors at night and are in regular use during the daylight hours, and the dining room is itself cut-off from the rest of the house at night by locking an internal door. So from the rear, we feel fairly secure.
The front of the house is not so secure, but there's surely only so many biters that can squeeze down one narrow pavement, and through one narrow gated path to the front door. That’s what we’re hoping, anyway. It's quite a heavy, thick front door and we've also barricaded that entry point not only with another heavy wooden sideboard, but also with a thick barrier of blankets and a spare duvet we found in an airing cupboard upstairs. Just as before, in our old apartment in Porthreth so many moons ago now, we're determined to make it as reinforced, soundproofed and darkened to the outside as possible.
And there’s gas central heating – during an apocalypse! Not that it’s particularly cold during the month of July, but even the stormy winds and rain have made it feel quite wintry and bracing at times, so to have working central heating at the flick of a switch is an incredible plus over 18 months into the world’s en
d. I still can’t quite believe it. Prim has never been so warm, so safe, so snug and quite so content. We could be imagining it, but it's as if she feels free and settled in her surroundings. Maybe she's picking up on our own relaxation and contentment, and that's breeding surety within her. In this bubble, these moments, you could almost be forgiven for thinking that the pestilence had never happened. Whatever it is, she's happy and that's all we could ever hope for.
This place really could be the best place we've found. A modest terrace house, but with all of the inherent features that just happen to make it the perfect secure hideaway. It could be our new home for a while. But underpinning all of our feelings of safety and security right now, there's just one thought running through the back of my mind – why was this place empty in the first place?
Why did the occupiers flee in what seems like such a hurry? And why does the rest of the street seem to empty too? There's not been a single sound from next door, from either side. I want this to be the place for us – this house, this site is the template for what we need, what Prim needs. But if it's so damn perfect, what's the catch? Why was it empty at all?
22nd July 2017
Teeth! Actual teeth. Our dearest daughter has teeth! There’d been some firm formations on her gums for some time of course, but we’ve had an intense week or so with Prim as she has been cutting her first proper teeth. Several seem to have come through all at once.
The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3] Page 36
