The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

But are we really the lucky ones? That's a loaded question. Who knows what the true 'answer' to that is. Would it have been better to simply go out early, right at the start when it was a huge unknown and we were all largely ignorant? I can see why one might think so, but I can't agree that it would have been. Partly because I couldn't have faced the physical pain of being ripped apart, the actual feeling of absolute pain and sadness and ultimately, submission. But mostly because of Prim – I simply cannot imagine never having known her. It's so hard to remember what it was even like before her. She's our everything, our complete world. Even if the world around us has gone to the dogs, I can't ever believe it would have been better to miss it because that would have meant missing out on Prim. She completes us. She is us. That makes us the lucky ones.

  I hope those survivors amongst our family and friends feel the same. I hope they have a meaning to their survival, a purpose. I hope they have that impenetrable glue that keeps them together. And I hope that some day we are all somehow together to share in those rich tapestries of joy and luck.

  10th August 2018

  Dearest Prim. Oh how you have become such a beautiful, angelic little girl. You are but a toddler, yet you protest otherwise and insist upon being a little girl – sometimes even a big girl.

  Your character has flourished since basking in beaches for the first time. You are so far out of your shell, bringing life itself to a world now so shrouded in death. You have been, are, and always will be simply the greatest thing to have come out of the Pestilence. You make it the Pestilence; without you and your spirit, and the joy you bring, this apocalypse would be so all encompassing that it would require no name. It would be everything – it would conversely be life.

  But you break that, your zest and happiness – and the sheer happiness you bring to us – renders the Pestilence exactly that, a thing that has happened, a plague that was brought upon us. It has ravaged, devastated and destroyed whole societies and civilisations, whole worlds, but as long as we are all here surviving, as long as you are in the world making sense of it, the Pestilence is not the only thing going on. It is not all encompassing; it is but a disaster. It is something, not the only thing.

  And you are undoubtedly the greatest thing that your mother Jenny and I ever did. You are our proudest achievement, the best thing to ever happen to us. Without you, I think we would be lost in every respect. It is now 19 months since you were born, which makes it around 30 months (over 2.5 years) since the Pestilence arrived. Two-and-a-half-years of desperate survival. Where did that time go? At no time in this apocalypse have we felt as happy and fortunate as we do right now. And that’s down to you.

  23rd August 2018

  I think you have the potential to be a great leader someday Prim, I really do.

  I'm not a natural leader, not at all. I've got us this far, but I'm not a natural leader. I have to work for it. I always have had to. My whole life it feels as though I've had to work for it, such was my lack of star-turn talent.

  Sure, I had my talents – and I was both admired and respected for those in my young career before the apocalypse. I was even a leader of my team, and a rising star within the company. But I had never been a great people person or the kind of person that had a flair to his leadership. I was inherently shy, borderline unsociable, Jenny would say. I had always been driven and fired by a passionate ambition; yet I had equally seen myself as very much a worker-bee-done-good.

  What I had was bags of resolve and energy to keep going. I didn’t bore easily of doing the same thing over and over, and striving to do it even better the next time. That’s the kind of endurance I had – that was my star turn, in many ways. Even during the Pestilence, I've had to work for it – work to prove that I could lead, that I could lead us not just to survival but to better things too. I had to do things I would certainly never have realised I could do. I had to turn my back on others as they cried for help while being mauled by the rampaging undead. I had to learn to kill those same undead. And I had to murder the living too, en route to the survival of our family. I never thought I could or would be able to do any of those things. I certain never thought it would actually happen.

  Your mother is much the same. She’s a leader in her own way; she has certainly been something of a leader to me in our married years. She does not go into battle nor throw herself to the forefront of debate, but she quietly leads and speaks when needed – and speaks her learned wisdom. She’s usually right, to be fair. Even though I never liked to admit it, I learned to accept that she was generally my better half. She was more sociable, kinder, and generally always right.

  But you Prim, well you are a different story. Even at this very early age, it is easy to see the charisma and charm about you, and the innate leadership skills that you already clearly possess. So many times this summer, right here on PerranPorth beach, you have orchestrated us as we have played games. You have taken the lead and put your basic language skills to the test. You’re an early talker and at only 19 months or so old, your vocabulary is really impressive. You’re just one of life’s communicators, and it’s so evident already. You will be a fine leader one day, I have no doubt of that. The question is what you will lead…

  31st August 2018

  I had to mark this day I have truly seen it all now.

  We’ve seen the undead insatiably ripping people from limb to limb in their bloodlust. We’ve seen corpses reanimating right in front of us. Zombies have walked through fire and ice before our eyes. They’ve thawed and reawakened in the cold light of day. They have emerged from the depths of the forests and literally risen out of dirt tracks, from the unsighted to the threat bearing down on you. We shrieked and ran as they hauled themselves out of a reservoir and stumbled towards us, water pouring from their every rotting crevice.

  Now, we have seen them riding the waves of the high seas and wash up on the beach and gatecrash our safe retreat. It happened at about 4pm, just a few hours ago. About a dozen zombies washed up on the autumn high tide, all dormant. They were not so much riding the waves and just been carried forward by them. We didn’t see them coming at all, and suddenly they were just there, floating in on one huge wave that swept right onto the beach in front of an unassuming Prim playing in the sand.

  I saw it happen from the cliff top as I was picking rock samphire from high up above. I couldn’t do anything to help, I was so far away even if I had sprinted with every last ounce of energy I had, I wouldn’t have made it in time. They were completely dormant at first, almost hypnotised by the throng on the tide, by the tossing and turning on the endless ebb and flow of the waves. But then they began to reanimate, they began to twitch and wake up. I could see them begin to spasm and jolt, even from so far away. And it’s a cliché but it really was happening as if it were in slow motion. Prim was right there. She didn’t know what to do, how to react. She appeared to just freeze in the moment.

  Thankfully I wasn’t the only one watching. Jenny saw them coming in and threw herself into battle, like a lioness protecting and avenging her cubs. She was magnificent. She ran full pelt, spear in hand and screaming for Prim to run toward here. She ran so fast – faster than I have ever seen before. I watched as I sprinted myself, down the craggy cliff top and turning my ankle with every loose stone underfoot. I ran and ran, and matched every energy that Jenny was expending right in front of me. Still afar, I watched her slay those biters with such protective, maternal venom. She was awesome, dispatching two before they even saw her coming, scooping up Prim and holding her behind her back with her right arm while swinging the blade of the spear with her left arm and swiftly taking out another three.

  With Prim safe for a moment, Jenny launched at every other biter beginning to wake and pierced through its eye socket before it could even arch its back to find its feet. As she scooped up Prim and held her tight, I kept running and picked up the spear like passing the baton in an athletics relay race, and proceed to take out two other oncoming biters further down the beach. They too
had washed up on the tide and were beginning to gather pace across the beach, unsighted and out of Jenny’s peripheral vision. They fell like a sack of shit as the blade came at them at full speed and took their slimy, salivating heads clean off.

  It was a tense, traumatic episode that began and ended in mere minutes. We so very nearly lost Prim; Jenny saved her. She normally be the staunch protector, sheltering Prim from harm while I do as much as I can to delay the oncoming – or unsuspecting – undead. But today Prim was threatened, caught completely unassuming, and Jenny snapped – and she damn near destroyed every biter in sight out of sheer instinct. She was awesome, totally awesome in her own inimitable way. She has no style or particular savvy around the snarling, snapping undead, but she males light work of them as she wields a blade and swoops and glides in evading attack. Now, I have seen it all.

  One of the only things we haven't seen that hurts more, is Jack, Tammy and Riley. Jack would have been so proud of his girl flying into action like that. It almost hurts more not knowing what happened to them, not knowing if they skulk among us salivating for flesh, or if they are still hiding out somewhere playing a very good game of survival. We'd like to think the latter.

  28th October 2018

  Winter is here again. It’s not been kind to us. Wild tides, rolling into the shore; crazy winds tearing across the beach unchecked, laying siege to our fragile building of a home; relentless rains pouring down on the sand and turning it from shades of golden to patchy, dirty brown.

  All of which has done little good for the onset of damp within the building. The leaking lean to roof has turned that ceiling from white to mouldy brown, and you can just see the damp gradually creeping into the rest of the building which, in the long-term, is a concern for our future domesticity here and things like Jenny’s asthma. But forget about all of that, it’s so hugely insignificant in the grand scheme of post-apocalypse survival – we are just thankful to be alive. It’s also insignificant with what’s happened today, too, because something massive has changed everything for us. We have something to cling to, particularly Jenny and Nic.

  Your Granddad lives on, Prim. Like something straight of a scene from a B movie, a bottle washed up on the sand this morning. A remnant of the high tide, it was a red wine bottle, with a screw cap lid and sealed with glue around the lip. Inside was a damp, rolled up letter – from Jack. They’re alive! Jack, Tam and Riley are alive. They all made it, lord knows how.

  It was a brief, but typically ingenious note from Jack. Only he would have the lateral presence of mind to revert back to such a very old-school method of communication. It must also have been a desperate, wishful shot at reaching out to us, which worries me a little in terms of their current mindset and circumstances. I haven’t voiced that to Jenny yet.

  The other question is, how long ago did they send it? He hadn’t thought to date it; I guess he perhaps thought, why bother? Depending how you look at it, time is irrelevant during the apocalypse. It read:

  Jenny, Nic, JP

  We are okay. We got separated, we lost you, but we managed to make it. We found somewhere and stayed there for a bit. We survived the big freeze, I hope you did too?

  We picked up bike and sidecar, and the three of us have been moving around the coast. We are staying here in Chapel Porth for a while. It’s quiet and empty, nothing like Porthreth in the end.

  We’re at the old National Trust car park. Got the bike, sidecar and now a van. Tam is okay, bit messed up by it all. Riley is okay, bored mostly. There’s nothing here to keep him entertained, just beach and rocks. But we’re safe.

  We’ll stay here as long as we can. Come and find us if you ever get this. We miss you lots, so much. I’m so sorry we weren’t ready for this, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep us all together, safe. We’ll be waiting to see you again. If we don’t see you in a couple of months, we’ll keep moving up the coast – reckon St Agnes has got to be looking good right now.

  Until we meet again – love you xxx

  And so, we have hope again that they are okay. We have absolute heartbreak, but we can believe that they are going to make it, that we might all be reunited one day – if only we have a way of communicating with each other. For now, at least we know they are out there – and living. And we know that they are barely 10 miles along the coastline.

  28th November 2018

  One month on from that momentous find on the beach, and we’re in a very reflective mood. There’s nothing like a huge bolt from the blue to cast a sombre, ponderous mood on us all. How do we act upon it? How do we not act upon it? How do we reconcile that instinct to react and find our loved ones, with the knowledge that it would be foolish to do so and there’s no telling how old that epistle is?

  I’m holding court with the view that we should stay put; we’ve travelled around enough in the last two years, we’ve nearly lost everything so many times before, and Jack said himself that if we don’t turn up at Chapel Porth then they will move on again themselves. They’re realistically probably only two major stops away from reaching us, and there’s no guarantee we would even be able to make it out of here alive anyway – so my thinking is that we should ride out this tidal wave of emotion and wait for them to reach PerranPorth.

  So far Jenny is going along with that train of thought, but I couldn’t blame her if she decides to change her stance. I would probably do just the same given the immeasurable emotional pull that she’s experiencing. It’s the same for Nic, if not worse. She’s still a child herself, and she needs her Dad and siblings more than ever. She’s on a heart-wrenching journey and needs her Dad by her side.

  For us all, this has been the most incredible journey, steeped in sacrifice and survival. If I were religious I might say that since I began chronicling the Pestilence on 23rd January 2016 (a date etched in my psyche), we've been on some kind of task or quest to prove our worthiness – or something like that. But I'm not, never have been, and after everything we've seen and narrowly survived these last two years, I don't think I ever will be. A higher being just doesn't unleash something like that on the world, in my opinion. Why would it? No, for me, this was an incredible, insane and unjust journey of Man's doing. It has to be. We got too clever, too arrogant, and too ignorant to the irreversible catastrophe that we could so easily bring about ourselves. I've grown convinced that's what happened here.

  But you know what, I think the most incredible journey is yet to come. It's still happening. Ever since Prim cane into the world on 28th December 2016, we've been on a journey so inspiring, so enthralling and rewarding that it's changed our whole focus of survival. Seeing her grow, seeing her flourish, has been the most incredible thing. Seeing her believe is still rewarding us right now. And helping her grow into herself will be the most uplifting journey we'll ever embark upon.

  28th December 2018

  Happy Birthday Primrose! Two years old today.

  I want to say, where has that time gone? And undoubtedly our time with you dear Prim has flown by, such is the incredible enjoyment and fulfilment that you have given us since your first moments in this world. But at the same time, it has also been a long two years – the never-ending Pestilence has grown weary on us all.

  And so, almost a full three years since the Pestilence began, and it could all end here in PerranPorth for our blogging; that’s what I’m considering right now. Why? Well, every time we wake up or fall asleep to the sight of the sea before us, is a victory. Every day that Prim grows up by the sea and plays in the sand with her auntie Nic, is a victory. Every day that we all, as a family, spend together safe and well here in the beach is a blessing. Every day that we have the safety net and unfettered quality time to think hopeful thoughts about what survivors there must be on different ‘offshore’ islands around the UK, is a good day. Every day that we get nearer to seeing Jack, Tam and Riley again is a little victory.

  That’s what victories are to us now. Sat here on PerranPorth beach, safe, is winning now. This is where we will survive. This
is where we have to thrive. And this is where our entrapment from the Pestilence ends. All of which is making me think we should make the most of that: live it, love it and soak it in. Added to which, there’s still no sign of a cure, nor a resistance or fight back either. So why keep putting all of my eggs in a basket of faith that isn’t really there anymore? When I started my Diary of the Trapped, I had always hoped that someone might be out there reading – that they might make a connection and come to our rescue, or at the very least let us know somehow that they were there too. Maybe they could offer an inkling into what happened, what went so cataclysmically wrong. Perhaps they could offer hope for a resolution. But we’ve never heard anything. Our story of survival has fallen on the proverbial deaf ears. Is there anybody out there? Is anyone reading this? I really do wonder. In so many ways, we all feel as lost as ever.

  I would keep writing a learning journal for Prim, of course. You have been the very best thing to ever happen to us and I will always keep an open diary to you here on the laptop, for as long as this device can be sustained. If ever you are in any doubt about how much we love you, I want you to always have this chronicle of your early years and beyond, and I’m confident you will be left in no doubt. But I just wouldn’t put this out there online anymore. I don’t even know if this is really uploading to anything – I keep updating it, but is there even an Internet to host things anymore? Has everything just been lost into a dead electronic ether? So many questions, so few answers. For now, let’s try to focus on the positives today, as your birthday draws to a close for another year…

  The Pestilence still dominates, but at our last estimate, the tide had firmly begun to be stemmed in terms of ‘new’ undead – the rampant killing spree seemed to have peaked and if anything, is declining now. That’s how it feels anyway. There’s no news or media to back that up, all we have to go on are the random and infrequent notes that are sometimes pinned up on telegraph poles and parish noticeboards, but these have tended to tell a similar story to our own observations – so we’re hopeful.