The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  Eventually it was joined by the lightning, a trancing electrical show in the sky that I simply hadn’t seen before – and certainly not in this country. It was immense, immersive, and entirely excruciating. Every 30-40 seconds, forks of lightning lit up the whole above for a good 1-2 seconds at a time. Again, it may sound like nothing at all, but that's a long time when you're watching lightning. These weren't split-second flashes that you can barely realise if you've actually seen them, these forks actually held in the night sky. They allowed you to recognise them, stare at them, and then focus on the ghoulish silhouettes they created too.

  Combined, the thunder and lightning were devilish. It really was the storm to end all storms last night. It just seemed to rage on and on; the howling wind and rain actually did. Our tents were sopping in the outside and by the early hours drops of rain were beginning to seep through the membrane of the tent and into the inner canvass. The wind was wreaking havoc with the structural strength of it.

  Thunder and lightning had eased by about 8pm, only to return by 10:15pm – I know it so precisely because I remember the exact moment I checked my watch and hoped daylight would soon relieve some of our anxieties; it wouldn't for hours yet. The second wave of that particular side of the storm was much fiercer and more prolonged. I actually lost track of how long it went on for, it was so enduring. It was ever so slightly less intense – but had far more longevity. I last looked at my watch at 1:30am, I recall, and it was still swirling and raging then.

  It has to be the scariest combination of weather combined with the Pestilence that we've experienced. We had a few times up at the military base back in mid-2016 that were pretty frightening, and I think I remember an almighty storm (mostly wind and rain) when we were trapped at the old mock-Georgian mansion house for a few days, but nothing like this. And last night we had only a tent for shelter too – that only added to the sheer sense of fear. It set your teeth on edge.

  Try to imagine it, if you need to wherever and whenever you are reading this. The deep roar of thunder passing through you and causing everything around you to tremor, coupled with the chilling silhouette of forked lightning across the skies, and all interspersed with the menacing, spine-tingling groans of bloodlust from the all-pervading undead closing in on you. We have been sheltered, almost cut-off here from the threat of biters, but it felt as though they grew nearer every time the sky lit up and projected a scenic outline on the canvas of the tent. Prim was surprisingly calm throughout, but was clearly growing more concerned and agitated with our own increasing edginess. Our inherent fears were visibly seeping to the surface and she picked up on that as it persisted.

  As a child, my late mother had always been told by her parents that thunderstorms represented the end of the world. As Jehovah’s Witnesses (I believe the story goes) they had taught her that it was a kind of Judgement Day and the world would gradually swallow up those who had wronged; that was the fear she carried. She had always been told to hide under the table during thunderstorms and hope for the best. It had bred a fear of these weather phenomenon that would last her entire life.

  Well this apocalypse is – and has been – the end of the world. It has ended days. Some of a religious leaning might suggest it has been a period of judgement, and that many who have sinned have been taken. So imagine the end of the world meeting the weather storm that is so feared and depicted as symbolic of the end of days. And imagine trying to get through that within the fragile, exposed confines of a damp and humble six-man tent. It’s another reason for us to think about moving on and finding more secure, stable and altogether less startling surroundings.

  15th December 2017

  Prim has had her first genuine moment of shock and fear, and it was truly horrible to see.

  We were still reeling from the stormy weather front of the last week or more, when a body just appeared on the top of the Cornish wall at the campsite, face up and lying flat on its back. Dead. Out of nowhere, it was just there at first light this morning. We unzipped the tent, stepped outside, and it was right there in front of us, barely three feet away.

  Considering how far we had come, how many scrapes and skirmishes we had gotten ourselves into, and how many different environments we had lived or looted in, it was the first time Prim had really been exposed to such a gruesome sight in all her life. It shook her to her core. She was terrified, absolutely terrified. She gripped me as tight as she ever had done and evoked a hugely powerful, overwhelming sense of protection and love out of me. And it brought a whole new side out of Prim that almost scared us more than the undead itself: she held her breath and passed out.

  Completely gone. She had screamed and screamed and just not inhaled, forcing herself into an irretrievable state whereby she simply couldn't breathe. She went momentarily light blue and passed out in my arms, her body just flopping instantly and becoming a sort of dead weight. She was totally unresponsive, completely empty. It lasted about 10 seconds – the scariest, most distressing and panicked 10 seconds of my life. Staring face down at a snarling biter about to sink it’s teeth into your flesh has nothing on the all-consuming fear of thinking your child has been taken from you. There is simply nothing worse than that – and nothing that can prepare you for it, as I now know. I was rigid, paralysed with fear, screaming and crying and wholly without the first idea what to do.

  Prim came around on the 10th of those fraught seconds, slowly waking up as if for the first time. She was completely shocked not by the cause of her unconsciousness, but by the passing out itself. It was like a reset switch for her body, and I could see her realise that at the same time as I did myself. It was a crazy, scary, intensely emotional moment that we all shared as Prim gradually came to, and found her senses again. She was suddenly so tired and restful, snuggling into my shoulder and refusing to leave my side for hours. I wouldn’t leave hers either; and we stayed clamped together for much of the morning, sheltered in the tent with Jenny and trying to make sense of what the hell had just happened.

  I’ve said this many times before since the Pestilence struck, but this tops all else – I have never been so scared and drained in all my life. You mean so much to us both, Prim, that I know there will never be any fear greater than that of losing you.

  The afternoon allowed me to pensively wrap up the body in the hedge and firmly tie it, and dispose of it across the neighbouring field. I think we have had enough warnings now.

  2nd January 2018

  Happy New Year. We're on the road again. I'll explain why and what's going on another time, but I felt I had to write this brief log of what we saw today. It's been a tough day.

  We've been snaking around the roads all over the place, those that are passable and in a fit state to drive that is. We're getting pretty good at this by now but even so, it's getting harder and harder to squeeze our way through these obstacle courses. The passage of time and the inactivity of these end times is enabling nature to reclaim its land.

  We've found all sorts of different homes along the way today that others had used for refuge. One of them was a modified horsebox – an ingenious, if not smelly, suggestion of a home. Whoever occupied it had equipped it with the same basic camping stove and commodities that we’ve been using ourselves for the last six months, a small ‘library’ of works of fiction to while the days and weeks away, two flimsy-yet-adequate camp beds and sleeping bags, a short washing line from one end of the carriage to the other, two camping chairs folded up in the corner, and some other trivial ancillaries. In many respects, it had everything a couple might need; in others, it was crudely basic.

  It had real depth and secrecy to it, as well as having the benefit of most people being completely oblivious to it as they passed by, I’d imagine. Ultimately, it was empty upon our discovery. They had long since gone, I would say, but I could wonder that they spent a good amount of time hiding out there, largely untroubled.

  Another refuge was a double-decker bus. Again, complete ingenuity. And yet, total heartache. It was a
double-decker bus, with a family perished at the back of the top deck. They had clearly used it to live in, with camping stove and kettle/pans, and a washing up bowl and empty 10 litre water carriers at the front of the bus. This family had clearly converted seats at the rear of the bus into beds for sleeping. The narrow spiral stairs would have provided a good obstacle to prevent or slow down the approach of zombies long enough to pick them off one by one, while the downstairs deck of the bus looked sparse and original, so was probably kept empty to avoid advertising their presence. Only empty cans littered the floor downstairs, presumably as a sort of early warning system in the event that the undead did find their way on-board.

  What struck me, however, and what compelled me to write this, was the sight of that family at the end of the bus. Three huddled together; Mum, Dad, and daughter. The little girl could barely have been bigger than three years old. They had ridden this ugly wave for so long, and so well it seems, with such complete togetherness, and yet they must not have been able to make it any longer. They must have simply starved up there and suffered in silence until their end. They didn’t want to meet their maker ripped to shreds by biters, I imagine. The three of them sat cradled together, huddled in the corner in a sight that was so poetic, so powerful – and ultimately so soul destroying.

  It hit me, hard. The sight of the three of them, of that little girl, it broke me. I couldn’t stop myself thinking of Jenny, Prim and I – that could have been us. How much time do any of us have? How much longer can we keep foraging food and looting supplies and making ends meet? Can we really keep Prim safe and healthy forever? Can we stay fit and strong for her? I already know now that Prim’s wellbeing is my biggest, all-consuming fear. This tidal wave of emotion all just washed over me and damn near drowned me in those moments. All of these underlying thoughts and anxieties that I had buried so deep, came flooding forward in a great torrent in mere seconds. I had to get out of there.

  I also wondered how the hell they hadn't turned yet, or hadn't stirred with our presence. Were they immune? Is there a way out of this virus, this plague? Were they simply dormant? I'll never know; we got the hell out of there before we had any danger of finding out. I will be forever scarred by that sight.

  17th January 2018

  Weeks have passed by again. It is now two years since the Pestilence began. We find ourselves in Zennor, having gradually weaved our way back up the coastline over the last few weeks.

  We've been bobbing around the craggy coastline of Penwith, venturing into every town, community and side street trying to not only catch a break with some loot, but also find half-decent roads to make some progress on. It really is slow-going out on the roads now; few are passable or without challenge.

  Oh, some of the sights we have seen along the way. Cape Cornwall was all but looted and plundered; Botallack a mixture of both and still in complete disarray; Pendeen was largely on fire or in piles of ash; Morvah was eerily empty and devoid of any activity at all; and Porthmeor was destroyed completely; and so we ended up at Zennor, once the home of the famous mermaid. We’ve not seen any mermaids, no such luck, but we’ve not run into a single zombie here yet either – and we’ll take that. Hence, we’re pitching up for some rest and recuperation here in the van tonight.

  The laptop I'm writing on is just managing to get from one use to the next and just hanging in long enough for us to hit the jackpot somewhere and find a stable electric supply. I couldn’t say how many more times we'll strike lucky like that. There are random hotspots with power, somehow bucking the trend with the rest of the grid in their area, but they're becoming harder and harder to find.

  When I think back to those days in Porthreth in 2016, when we were hiding out here there and everywhere, we really did have it good. We had power, we had warmth, we had hot water and hot food. Now, we seem to be lucky if we can strike up some place with just one of those basic commodities. Water is still running, and running fresh and clean too, which is something we've always been thankful for. It's always been there. But it is starting to feel like this is a whole new level of survival. It is starting to feel like the end at times. We're so much better at fighting and fending off the undead these days – in fact we're light years ahead in terms of avoiding them altogether. We're extremely streetwise in this new world now. But the goalposts have moved again where the bare bones of survival are concerned; the power is intermittent, the lights are going out, food is harder to come by, and we have no idea how long the water will keep flowing.

  Prim, you really do keep us going – even if you seem to be finding it difficult to keep going yourself right now. You keep us strong and resolute. You made me a better fighter, an even better survivor. We had survival nailed – we were stronger than we probably gave ourselves credit for. We knew where to hide and how; we knew what to hide with and how to ration it; we knew how to pick our battles. We strategized, and we did it well.

  But you made us have to be more than that. You made us look beyond simply hiding. Now we know we need to keep moving, to be a moving target. Now we don't just hide, we thrive. Now we know when something isn't enough; we know when to aim higher. Now we are brave, strategically bold.

  I hope that we can give you that back too – that we can help you to grow strong and independent, with courage and fortitude. I hope you can be a great survivor, a fighter with a sound moral compass. You already seem to be very headstrong and fiercely independent; quite how much of that we can take credit for, I really don't know, you have an innate drive about you already. But I hope we can help you to harness it in the right way.

  Right now you are passionate and insistent on independence, even at such a tenderly young age. You're just over one year-old and yet you are so characterful. You have an undeniable spirit about you; from the foods you like to the way you like your hair bunched, to the bullish strides you take towards danger as you walk off and seek space of your own. You somehow have an independent 'sass' Prim, there's no other word for it. And we love you more and more every day. Even when we think we couldn't love you any more than we do, we do all over again. I just hope we get to see how much more we really can love you. Goodnight.

  20th January 2018

  To look at the map, you would think we have moved ‘just around the corner’ from Zennor to St Ives Bay, but it has felt like a far more arduous journey than that over the last couple of days. The roads are chronic, congested with all manner of abandoned cars, overgrown trees and shrubbery and in some respects worst of all, vermin. This is no place for Prim right now.

  We must have been sheltered from it for so long in Sennen and other places, but the rise of rats and other vermin, everywhere, is so evident now. Suddenly, when you see that for the first time and have that moment of realisation, you start to notice them everywhere – like the undead all around us, they’re inescapable.

  There’s simply no human activity, no traffic, no footfall to intimidate, scare or suppress them. There are literally rodents just uninhibited, and growing in numbers. There's nothing to stop them now, save for the occasional one stumbling into a walker and succumbing. And there is the promise of rotting flesh, open food sources, and increased vegetation (and therefore the proliferation of other prey), all just lying around at every turn. This new world is like the perfect storm of conditions for vermin.

  It's a very scary addition to throw into the mix for those clinging onto survival, like us; preying on that fundamental fear that we seem to naturally harbour for such little critters. And its not just the vermin, it’s everything that comes with a lack of civilisation to clean up the unsightly, unpleasant side of nature; the unchecked spread of bacteria, the potential diseases, the bugs and ticks and thrusting, contorting maggots. Where there are animals and carcasses, and rats and vermin, there are open wounds and fleshes – and where there are open wounds and flesh, there are maggots and worms. There are millions of them, all over the place. In some places – and we have seen plenty of them in recent weeks – it’s like having sewers over
ground as well as under it. It’s not just the gruesome and gruelling undead that make this world a shitty place to be if you can survive it, it’s every facet of what we once considered grotty and grotesque too.

  I’m not loving this stage of Prim’s journey, I have to say. It’s not what it was, even just a few weeks ago. It feels as though everything has taken a distinctly drastic turn for the worse of late. From virtually being forced to abandon our idyllic setting in Sennen to seeing the states that so many once beautiful towns and hamlets have become, it feels as though our world, Prim’s world, is being turned upside down again. I thought of it like this yesterday, when a gooey-eyed Prim discovered the wonder of snow globe for the first time; it’s as though we have been in our very own blood-red snow globe for the last two years, and every time we think the bloodshed and snow has settled, something shakes it all back up again and a whole new world of pain and unsettling rains down on us from above.

  Which brings me to another development, something that I almost can’t believe I haven’t mentioned before – the sound of aircraft in the skies. At least, I presume that’s what it was. On at least three occasions we could swear blind we have heard the sound of aircraft in the distance. At first I thought it was just me cracking up; wishful thinking, I said to myself. But Jenny came running over with Prim in arms to say she’d heard something too. Within minutes, we all listened intently as another hum of a plane registered somewhere off in the distance, inland toward St Erth or Canon’s Town.