The news was grim. Aerial footage of London showed horrific scenes. Fire raged throughout the city. The cameraman, safe in a helicopter, zoomed in to show crowds of people fighting, each other, as well as with the infected.
Censorship seemed to have gone out of the window. The images were graphic. Close-ups of bodies being torn apart by hordes of undead. Text scrolled across the bottom of the screen, listing the cities affected. It would have been quicker to list the cities that were not. It wasn’t just the UK either. It seemed like most of Europe and America were under siege.
I stayed up all night watching the news. Morbid fascination, I guess. Sitting there in the comfort of my own home, it did not feel real. It was like watching a movie. It was actors and special effects, not real cities, not real buildings, not real people.
I phoned in sick again on Wednesday. Voicemail again. I did not even bother to get dressed, and just spent the day watching the news. It was as though I was binge-watching the latest box set. I could not get enough of it.
Which is why, on this grey and cloudy Thursday afternoon, I am so fucking angry with myself.
This morning, I decided to go food shopping. I grabbed my handbag and car keys and left the house. Sat in the car, ready to start the ignition, I cursed and got back out of the car. I had forgotten to take carrier bags. Since the introduction of the 5p charge, I had successfully remembered to bring them with me on a grand sum of two occasions. It’s not that I mind paying for them. It’s that I feel ashamed that I have to ask. I feel like the cashier looks at me in a way that suggests I am single-handedly destroying the world, one bag at a time.
So, when I remembered to pick some up before leaving the driveway, I was extremely pleased with myself.
Stupid me.
The short drive to the supermarket passed without incident. Lost in thought, I hadn’t even noticed how empty the roads were, or even that the car park was unusually quiet.
I just parked up and walked over to the shop. That is when I noticed something was amiss. To start with, the automatic doors did not slide open as I approached. They did not need to. They were now just metal frames, and the glass that had once sat within, now lay in shattered fragments around the entrance. I stepped through cautiously. The only lights were from the refrigerators at the back of the store. They cast an eerie glow and sent a shiver up my spine. I could not see or hear anyone else.
I wanted to turn around, to get back in the car and go back home. But I have no food in the house, so reluctantly I carried on regardless.
My local supermarket is massive. It is one of those stores that sells everything from screwdrivers to underwear. To optimise sales, they make you walk through the household goods section to get to the groceries. However, I just walked past empty shelves today.
In Electrical, not a single TV, laptop or tablet. Even the various accessories, power cables and USB sticks were gone. I walked on through to the homeware section. Toasters, kettles, blenders, also gone. Part of me was disgusted. This clearly was not a massive sale. This was looters. Scumbags. The other part of me was feeling increasingly uneasy. This thing only started on Monday. I do not live in a big city, just a small town. We are not affected by this. Are we?
I sped up, almost running through the rest of the homeware section towards the food. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the shelves were still well stocked. It must mean that it was just opportunistic looters. If we were in any danger, if the virus was here, then surely the food would have been the first thing to go.
I started to collect a few tins of beans, then cursed. In my haste to get in and out as quickly as possible, it had not occurred to me to pick up a basket or trolley.
I ran back through homeware and out of the store. I found a £1 coin and slotted it into the trolley lock, then wheeled it back to the front of the shop. It took me a few attempts to lift it over the static metal frame that used to be the door. Once back inside, I raced back up the aisles, pushing the wonky trolley ahead of me. It felt like I was on Supermarket Sweep. I actually laughed when I got back to the tinned food aisle. It felt good. I hadn’t laughed or even smiled since Steve told me he was leaving.
I selected a variety of tins, then headed to another aisle to get pasta. Milk, coffee and some cereal bars soon joined the rest of the contents, and I was finished. The trolley was half-empty. I probably could have just used a basket.
I made my way over to the checkout area. As the shop was officially closed, there was no one to pay. The self-service checkouts were all switched off.
I felt like a thief as I walked past the tills, vowing to come back when this is all sorted out to pay what I owe.
Leaving the store, I realised my mistake. It had been hard enough getting the trolley over the door frame when it was empty. There was no way I was going to be able to lift it when it was half full. Remembering the carrier bags that were screwed up in my handbag, I pulled them out and started packing them with food. I had two bags packed and on to the last one when I heard a noise.
I looked up. Someone was walking towards me. Another shopper, I figured. For a second, I went back to packing while my brain processed what it had just seen. Clothing.
The person stumbling towards me was wearing a dressing gown. Just a dressing gown. My eyes flicked back up, and I took in the image. The dressing gown was flapping open. Saggy tits hung down the woman’s chest, and a thick mane of unkempt pubic hair covered her pelvic area. Embarrassed that I was staring, I diverted my eyes to her face and stepped back in fright. Half of her cheek was hanging off, her yellowing teeth exposed by the gaping hole. Her eyes were inky black.
I came to my senses quickly and assessed the situation. The woman was heading straight for me, I had no weapons, but I needed that food. Discarding what remained in the trolley, I grabbed what I had packed, and ran for my life.
I made it about one metre.
I’d forgotten about the static frame of the sliding doors, so instead of hopping over it, I kicked it, tripped, and face planted the pavement. I lay there stunned for a few seconds. I cannot remember the last time I fell over. It is a strange sensation. One minute being upright, the next flat on the floor. I lifted my head and could see the bare feet of the woman stepping awkwardly towards me, the groaning noise she emitted sending a shiver down my spine. I jumped up, grabbed the shopping bags and once again ran for my life.
Holding the bags in one hand, I let my handbag drop from my shoulder to the crook of my arm and used my other free hand to fumble for the car keys.
When I reached my car, I threw the shopping across the passenger seat and jumped in, slamming the door shut behind me. I looked back in the direction of the supermarket.
The woman was still coming towards me. She was ungainly, her movement awkward, as though she didn’t have full control of her body. She wasn’t fast, and I reckon I could probably out run her. But she wasn’t particularly slow either. I suspect if it came to a race, the deciding factor would be who has the most stamina.
It had taken my trembling hands a few attempts to get the key in the ignition. By the time I had, the woman was at the car. Her hands were slapping against the window. By this point, I was shitting myself. I don’t know how I managed to get the car moving, but I did. I looked back in my rear-view mirror and saw another six or seven people stumbling around. They had the same awkward movement as the woman. Probably infected too. Not hanging around to find out, I sped off through the car park and out onto the road.
That was about an hour ago. Now anger has taken over from the shock. How could I have been so stupid and naïve? It’s been four days since this started and all I’ve done is watch the news. Why did I automatically assume that my home town would be safe?
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
It hadn’t taken me long to accept that fact that Steve had left. I’d rationalised his decision by believing he would be back soon. Now the cold hard shock that I might never see him again knocks me for six. I had believed the Prime Minister when
he said that it would all be over soon, that the military would get control. It occurs to me that he hasn’t made another appearance on TV since Monday.
In fact, thinking about it, all that has been on the news has been harassed and frightened looking news anchors, regurgitating the same information.
There’s been nothing useful at all. Not even any suggestions about how to defend yourself against these things. I can’t quite bring myself to say zombies. Zombies are the stuff of fiction. What I saw today at the supermarket was very, very real.
I need to act. I need to do something productive. An idea pops into my head, and I jump up and head to the kitchen. I flick the kettle on as I dash past on my way to my office. Selecting a notepad and pen, I return to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee.
I sit down at the kitchen table and start to make notes, sipping the hot coffee, when I pause to think. Occasionally I get up and open cupboards to take note of what’s inside. When I’m finished, I put down my pen and stare at the page in front of me.
Food
4 tins beans/ spaghetti
4 tins tuna
4 chicken breasts
1 pack microwave rice
1 pack pasta
8 cereal bars
Weapons
kitchen knives
golf clubs
drill
hammer
Defence
board up windows
“Oh crap,” I say out loud, “I am screwed.”
I read the list again, hoping for inspiration, and that I’ll think of other way to defend myself; that I would remember a stockpile of food and supplies that I had forgotten. Nothing.
“Coffee, coffee will help,” I say, then groan. Great, on top of everything, I have started talking to myself. I really need some company.
A pang of sorrow rushes through me and I miss Steve. Shaking my head as though to banish the emotions, I go back to the kettle and turn it on. The light doesn’t come on. I check the plug, but it is switched on. I lift the kettle up and put it back down on the stand, the kettle version of rebooting. Nothing. A thought occurs to me, and I open the fridge. No light shines out. I must have tripped a fuse or something.
The fuse box is in the garage, which is connected to the house by a heavy fire door in the hallway. I pull open the door and step in.
Without thinking, I flick the light switch. Nothing.
The fuses in this house do trip on occasion, although I thought there were different fuses for different things, that the lights were on a different fuse from the kitchen power. Maybe I’ve tripped the master.
The only source of light is coming from the small crack under the garage door. If the fuse box were next to the door, it might have been enough. Unfortunately, it’s on the back wall, as far away from the door as it’s possible to get. I stare into the blackness, thinking about where we keep the torch. Remembering, I run back to the kitchen, root through the junk drawer, and pull out a small head torch. Then I go back in the garage and use the torch to navigate through the variety of boxes and suitcases scattered around the floor. Reaching the fuse box, I shine the torch at each of the fuses. None of them have tripped. I stare, confused. With nothing better to do, I flick the master off and then on again. Nothing happens.
The realisation dawns on me. The power is out. Shit, that was fast.
The torch is still on in my hands. I quickly switch it off, realising I’ll need it, and don’t want to drain the batteries. “Twat,” I flick the torch back on and step quickly through the obstacle course that is our garage floor, turning off the torch as soon as I reach the house.
Back in the kitchen now, and I really want a coffee. The hob is gas, maybe that will still work. I press the knob, turn and twist, relieved to hear the faint hissing sound that indicates gas is coming out. I press the ignition button, but nothing happens. Doh, that obviously will not work. It’s electric.
I pause and think before opening the junk drawer again and find a packet of matches. I light one, then quick hold down the knob again, and the flame ignites. As I fill a saucepan full of water, the thought occurs to me, how long will the water last?
I settle the saucepan on the hob, and while the water boils, I go through the kitchen cupboards and pull out every bottle, glass and pan that I have and fill them with water. Just in case.
By the time I am done, the water in the pan is bubbling away. I make my coffee, then look at the water left in the pan. I like coffee. I drink far too much of it. Not only is boiling the water on the hob a pain, but it will also use up my precious matches. I empty the cold water out of two flasks that I had just filled and replace it with hot water. That should keep me going for the rest of the night.
I take the coffee into the lounge and sit down on the sofa. Reaching for the remote control and turning the TV on, I wonder how long it will take me to remember that there is no damn power. I throw the remote across the room, and it hits the skirting board with a crack.
My thoughts turn to my phone. I have a power bank somewhere, I’ll have to find that later. Hopefully, it’s got enough left in to give the phone at least a couple of charges. Although will the mobile networks still work if the power is out? Picking up the phone I hit the home button, and it obliges by lighting up. I have two text messages. I quickly open them. One is from George. Shit; I forgot to call in sick today. Should one phone in sick during an apocalypse? The other is from Steve. My heart leaps as I open the one from Steve first. The message is brief.
Get to George’s house, should be safer there. I love you xxx
My initial reaction is one of pleasure. He has text me. I feel like a singleton that has just received a text from a hot guy.
It doesn’t take long for my smile to turn into a frown. George? Why the hell would I want to spend the apocalypse with George? Steve knows I hate that man. Is he taking the piss? I stare down at the phone, thinking of the reasons why Steve would suggest going there. It is probably safer, because it’s remote, and the long driveway is secured by wrought iron gates. But surely Steve would know that being holed up with George for days on end will drive me insane. It’s been quiet here. Surely, I’ll be fine at home. The logical part of my brain kicks in. Steve is at an army camp, so he will know more than me. He probably isn’t allowed to say anything. My heart sinks as I come to the conclusion that I need to listen. I need to get to George’s.
Remembering that I have a text from George as well, I open it, and read the message. It changes everything.
Chloe. Sally has gone back to Heathrow. It is not safe out there. Help her.
Twelve
Sam glared at Lex. “Does she have to be right all the fucking time?” he thought. Lex glared back, asking herself, “Why am I always right? I hate being right all the time.” Claire was holding her head in her hands and gently rocking back and forwards, thinking “We are so going to die.”
The three of them were crouching behind the tills in W. H. Smith, jumping in unison as a loud bang sounded from close by. The banging persisted for a moment, then was replaced by the noise of glass shattering, followed by the whoops of people who had gained access to one of the stores. A scream echoed around the large terminal building, although it wasn’tclear which direction it had come from.
“What shall we do?” Sam whispered to Lex.
She shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe if we stay here for long enough they’ll get bored and leave.”
“Great fucking idea,” Sam hissed at her. “They could be here for fucking hours. Have you seen the size of this place?”
“I’m scared,” Claire whispered, ignored by Sam and Lex.
“Do you have a better idea then?” Lex directed the question at Sam. He glared at her for a few seconds then shook his head. “No, well then, shut up. It’s your fault we’re in this mess.”
Earlier that day, they had snuck back into their quarantine tent. No one appeared to have noticed their absence. They had crawled back in their sleeping bags, but only Claire slept.
/> Sam stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Dean and the rest of his friends. When the tears started to flow again, he had hidden his head inside his sleeping bag and sobbed quietly into the polyester lining.
Lex had also lain on her back, but she stared unseeing at a small black mark on the roof of the tent. Why had suit guy collapsed before biting Paige?
Having not been popular at school she’d avoided social media. The platform made it too easy to be targeted by bullies and trolls, so the account she had when she was thirteen had been quickly closed and she had never reopened it. As a result, she hadn’t seen the video from Germany that had gone viral. Had no idea that for a few days everyone was talking about zombies. To her mind zombies were a thing of fiction, and there had to be a more logical explanation for what was happening.
She thought back to Sam saying that his friend had been kicked in the head after being bitten.
What did that mean? Was it linked? She chewed on her bottom lip, thoughts were spinning around in her head, and when the rest of the camp began to stir she was no closer to understanding if suit guy collapsing was important or not.
The occupants of the quarantine camp were so absorbed in their own troubles, the guards had become just background fixtures, irrelevant and unnoticeable, like an old piece of furniture. It took longer than it reasonably should have for many to notice their absence. It was only when the food wasn’t brought in at eight-thirty, like it had been every day, that anyone noticed anything was wrong. Murmured grumbling at the delay quickly turned to loud, angry voices. A woman stormed to the entrance of the tent, ready to make a complaint to the soldiers that stood guard.
Lex had watched in amusement as the woman stopped short.
She looked at the entrance, then left and then right, before turning around and looking back in the direction she had come from, as though she might have missed the soldiers on her way. Lex wondered if she felt as silly as she looked, and judging by the quick retreat the woman made to her group, she guessed so.
Safe Zone (Book 1): The Greater Good Page 8
