The One Percent (Episode 1): The One Percent

by Heller, Erik P.

  “Follow me, love.” Daisy yelled over the sound of both engines, and with a roar, and a cloud of diesel fumes, we were on our way.

  It was only a matter of half a mile or so before we reached the farm. The walls looked solid enough, and there were no Zombies wandering around which made negotiating the narrow gateway a much less stressful process than it would have been if the snarling monsters had been in close attendance. As it was there was just one, wandering haphazardly down the lane and it didn’t reach us before the horse box was safely parked up in Daisy’s yard, and the gateway blocked by a wooden gate with the tractor parked up straight across it making a more than adequate barrier.

  I watched from her front window as the thing wandered blithely past without so much as stopping.

  Daisy had dashed straight inside and put a large kettle on her Aga, then had opened a tin of cakes, and passed them around. Very homely and absolutely delicious.

  The interior of the farmhouse was almost as out of date as Lanchcombe House but with the way things were, it really didn’t matter anymore. From everything I’d seen it was really all over. The end of the world as we knew it and here we were, eight people stuck in a steadily darkening farmhouse in the middle of the Berkshire countryside with no plan, no supplies, no water to drink, no nothing. Or at least seven of us were.

  Daisy seemed quite relaxed about it all.

  She stood in front of her white enamel sink, leaning back against it with her arms crossed.

  “I’ve got water in my well. I’ve got plenty of food. Tins and rice and pasta and whatnot. I’ve got animals in the fields for milk and food. Chickens are in the yard out back and every day I get geese coming in to eat my crops. More food than you could throw a cocked hat at.” She crossed her arms looking moderately pleased with herself. It was clear from the place that she hardly lived in luxury before the fall, so losing electricity was not much more than a minor inconvenience.

  Other than that life didn’t seem like it had changed very much.

  “So, what are your plans?” I asked. I was interested mainly because a place like this would have been good to hole up in for a while, or at least I thought so.

  “I want to get as far away from here as I can.” She spoke completely deadpan although the cheery smile she seemed to wear permanently was still there.

  “Why? You’ve got everything you need here.”

  “You want to know why?”

  I nodded.

  “Follow me.”

  She trudged off through a dingy hallway and climbed the stairs. Halfway up she stopped to look to see why I was hesitating.

  “Come on. I promise I won’t try and take your string vest off.”

  I couldn’t help a small snigger and started climbing the stairs behind her. “Do you promise.”

  When we made it upstairs, she opened a door into an immaculate bedroom. Old-fashioned in its decorations but very spick-and-span. It smelled vaguely like my parents’ bedroom back at Lanchcombe, old and musty and vaguely of urine. On the wall were pictures of two older people who both looked like a watered-down version of Daisy.

  “This was my parents’ room. They died last year. I’m sorry but it still stinks of wee a bit in here.” I nodded knowingly but refrained from self-congratulation for picking the smell. Like a fine wine, that bouquet is unmissable.

  She turned the catch on a window and opened it wide.

  “Come and look,” she said, flicking her head at the window. “See ‘em all, up against the wall?”

  I could just make out a sea of bobbing heads above the height of the wall, and in the distance a handful of undead unsteadily made their way out of some trees and stumbled toward the rest of their companions.

  There were hundreds of the buggers all lined up against the wall.

  “It’s strong, but it won’t last forever. Sooner or later enough of them will line up and topple it over. See those trees?” She pointed out where the Zombies were coming from.

  “Uhuh.”

  “One field beyond that is the biggest housing estate in Newbury. Thousands of people. Now from what I’ve seen most of them stayed at home and turned, but you’ve only got to see how many didn’t, to know why I can’t stay here.”

  I understood perfectly. She was in exactly the same situation as I’d been before I left Lanchcombe, slightly better organised it had to be said, but essentially the same.

  “When were you planning on going?”

  “Tomorrow. Got my stuff all packed up in my room. I’ve packed enough food and water to last at least two or three days. That should buy me a head start. What about you?”

  “No plan other than to get away from where we were. The three young ladies we rescued from a house, so we don’t really know them well. You’re the only other person we’ve come across until now. One of the girls lives on the outskirts of Newbury. She wanted to check on her parents and family. After that, the vague thought is to head north where there are fewer people and fewer things.”

  “Things? Oh, you mean the Zombies. Yeah there should be fewer up north. Mind if I tag along? I’m a people person. I like a bit of company.”

  “Did you have company here?” I asked having seen no sign of a male presence.

  “Only my parents. I looked after them for years and when I finally got the chance to live a little, this happens. Talk about bad luck.”

  “Rotten luck if you ask me.”

  “You do talk posh, don’t you? What are you a Lord of the Realm or something. I don’t even know your name.”

  I had to think for a moment. The warning Jezza had given about hiding my birthright rang around my head.

  “No, I’m just a country boy, Daisy. A posh country boy. I’m Frank.”

  She half-closed her eyes at me as I held my hand out in greeting, almost as though she didn’t believe me. Then she grasped my delicate hand in her paw and squeezed the living daylights out of it while she shook it enthusiastically. I had to give it a shake once she let go to restore some circulation.

  “That’s no country boy’s hand, Frank. I know you were lying or covering something up. Maybe one day you’ll trust me enough to tell me, eh? Come on, let’s go down again or everybody will think we’re shagging like rabbits up here.”

  I tried to keep the shock at hearing a lady speak in such a way off my face, but seeing her crack up with laughter, I guessed I failed miserably. I tried smiling back at her, but it just made her stop laughing and give me a very strange look.

  “Constipation again?”

  I nodded forlornly and headed back downstairs behind her.

  End of Episode One.

  I wish I had a great theme tune and five minutes of credits, but I don’t, so if you miss that, just whistle your favourite tune for a while and read my name. If not, just carry on with your day, with my thanks for reading.

  Erik P Heller-Author

  Note: In the tradition of the great Charles Dickens and many other authors, I have decided to publish this in easily digestible segments which will be published in the third week of each month starting with November 2018 with episodes 1-3. Thereafter there will be one full-length episode per month until my fingers fall off.

  The full-length episodes (from episode 2 on) will be longer than this taster at about 30,000 words or so which should give a regular reader a few commutes/baths/bedtimes of entertainment—or misery if you don’t like the story.

  I hope you do enjoy the story and Frank’s weird journey. If you do and feel inclined to leave a review, I would be really grateful.

  As a sad sack who believes that one day, I might actually earn a crust from writing—I might be wrong—a review or twenty makes a huge difference.

  I don’t do mailing lists or the like, or for that matter social media so if you care about me in my lonely, draughty garret slaving by candlelight to produce the next episode, follow my author page on Amazon and prove it, and I hope you feel like buying/reading it.

  nbsp; Heller, Erik P., The One Percent (Episode 1): The One Percent