Surviving The Evacuation, Book 1: London

by Frank Tayell

  I’ve decided the cast should stay on for another eleven weeks, that’s seventy-seven days. At which point, if I haven’t been able to get one of those fibreglass things the celebs get, I’m going to rip the damn thing off and ceremonially burn it.

  For now, I’ll keep the containers filled, change the water every day, and worry about the rest when it stops coming out of the taps. It’s getting dark now, too dark to write any more. I’ll just sit up and wait for the stars. Seventy-seven days to go.

  Day 2, 76 days to go

  10:00, 14th March.

  I got up at dawn but was awake long before then. After thirty odd years of sleeping on my side, sleeping on my back doesn’t come easily. Every time I start drifting off to sleep I forget about the leg just long enough to try rolling over, only to find this immovable mass anchoring me to the bed. That wakes me up and the process starts again. Besides, it’s impossible to sleep when you’re just waiting to wake up whilst the water tank is gurgling a few inches from your head.

  That’s right, the water tank. It supplies the hot water for the two flats with baths, or did anyway, the other two flats have electric power showers. The point is that there's a tank filled with water a few inches of ply-board away. When I realised that, at around four this morning, I felt relieved, calm even. Now, I’m fully aware that having ones spirits buoyed by such a small and trivial thing is indicative of how desperate the situation is, but I don’t care. Right now I’ll take any glimmer of hope I can find.

  I gave up on sleep at dawn. My morning ablutions took about an hour. I can’t get the desk chair into the bathroom, so I’ve got to walk in backwards and try and support my weight with the crutches whilst lowering myself down onto the toilet… well, okay, you don’t need a picture. It takes a long time, that’s my point. Breakfast didn’t. This morning was a tin of peaches and a long stare at my box of tea.

  I guess because of that, since about seven this morning I’ve been making lists. It’s not something I usually waste time with, but what else is there to do? I started with a list of things I wished I had, like for instance a flashlight. What I’d really like is a helicopter and extraction team, but right now I’d settle for a flashlight. If I had one I’d be able to read at night. I’d have to do it in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet with the door closed, but I could manage that. I’m not going to risk Them noticing a light from my room, equally I don’t want to go through another nine hours like last night.

  I went back to my list; the next thing I wrote down was hot water. A flashlight and hot water. The first may be downstairs, the second definitely is, or at least the fireplaces are.

  Going downstairs scares me. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’m scared, and it’s not some nameless fear of the unknown, it’s a fear of slipping on the stairs and breaking my other leg; of being woken in the middle of the night by the sound of the front door breaking; of being trapped up here with the undead on the stairs outside, left with nothing but the choice between starvation and suicide.

  11:23, 14th March.

  I didn’t check the front door. Or the back door for that matter. I think they’re closed, but I can’t be certain. There have been a few times when I got home at some ungodly hour to find the front door open. It sticks a bit and needs to be lifted closed. Clearly that was too much effort for my tenants, that’s why I’ve got a sturdy lock on the door to my room.

  If they didn’t bother telling me they were leaving then what are the chances they shut the door when they left? So, do I go downstairs? I know I have to eventually, but if the door is unlocked and if one of the undead has got inside, then can I deal with it? If one has, then it clearly doesn’t know I’m up here. I’m safe here. Safe until the car comes. Then what? There’s at least twenty in the street now, how many people would Jen send? Last time she just sent the one guy, what if next time she only sends one? What if he waits in the street? I can’t expect him to hold off twenty zombies, then climb up the stairs, carry me down, and deal with a threat in the house as well.

  When the car comes I’ve got to be ready to meet it. I’ve got to be able to get at least as far as the front door. Of course, if it’s locked I’ve got to be able to unlock it. Damn. I didn’t think of that. That settles it. I’ve got to make sure that the doors are closed. I’m going downstairs.

  15:30, 14th March.

  I’ve never looted before. It’s rather fun. I have returned with a net gain of a half-kilo bag of sugar (thank you, Jezzelle), a flashlight (thank you, Tom) and another ten zombie books. I’ve been more selective this time, picking the ones that look like they contain some vaguely useful survival techniques (one got four stars from Survivalist Quarterly. I wonder if that’s out of five or ten).

  First I went hunting for a weapon. And that’s another thing I’ve never done before. I’ve never needed to, nor thought I’d ever have to. The best thing I could find was the out-sized metal-handled hammer I bought about a year ago. It was a purchase of desperation, when I needed to put down a carpet to hide the disturbing stains a newly ex-tenant had left on the polished wooden floor. It was the only one in the only open hardware shop I could find, and ended up leaving a series of dents, a quarter inch deep, around each of the tacks. It’s a far cry from the machetes and shotguns that feature in all these books, but it was all I could find. Fortunately I didn’t have to use it.

  I couldn’t bring much back upstairs. Sadly that’s not a problem because it looks like whatever my tenants thought would be useful, they’ve taken with them.

  Tom and Jezzelle had the smaller two-room flats, each with a modest bedroom, a living room/kitchen/dining area and separate bathroom. They’re not huge rooms, but they were reasonably priced, at least for London, and far bigger than the space I lived in. The working fireplace was what clinched the deal in both cases. Tom’s from Macau, on a two year post-grad archaeology placement at UCL. He seemed like a nice enough guy when I met him, not that I saw him that frequently, just in the hallway every so often.

  I kept away from the tenants, partly because I was the landlord and partly because I didn’t want to hear, see or know anything that someone working at Whitehall shouldn’t. Tom made that easy by spending most of his time away on digs or on secondment to other universities. At least that was what it said in the emails he sent letting me know he’d be away for a week or three. I always thought he was a nice guy, but like me, he kept few possessions here. There are some textbooks on ancient cultures, some others in Mandarin or Cantonese, a massive collection of DVD box sets, and the usual bric-a-brac we all collect. Almost none of it is of any use.

  Almost. I said almost. He had a flashlight made of red and blue plastic with ‘The Man of Steel’ printed on the handle. It’s either a cheap kids’ toy or a geek’s very expensive collectable, which I guess is why he left it. He was used to camping out in the middle of nowhere, so he probably had a very good field kit with a very good flashlight and he took it all with him. As for this one, I don’t know why he had it. It would be useless outside, but as far as allowing me to read in the dark, it’s perfect.

  In the kitchen was the half bag of sugar, some herbs and spices, some dried apricots and a few tins. I assume they’re herbs and spices. They’re in little bags stamped with Chinese writing on them. I’m pretty sure one of them is oregano. Probably.

  As for Jezzelle’s flat, well, that was mostly garish purple. I never said she could repaint it, which means her deposit is mine! Ah-ha, he says rubbing his hands together with glee. There wasn’t much there, she clearly spent all her money on costume jewellery and bath salts. Oh, and her real name is Jessica, I wonder why she didn’t use it.

  Then there’s the fire. I decided not to light it, not tonight anyway, it’s getting late and there’s a limited amount of fuel up here. The coal is kept in the shed outside, and the tenants get a coalscuttle, key and the right to take however much they want. I thought that would be a sweetener after charging them more for the room. Wish I’d known what the weather was going to be lik
e back when I wrote the contract. Outside I’ve got three sacks, but outside might as well be Newcastle. Inside I’ve got two scuttles, each less than half full. That’s enough fuel for about four fires.

  I laid the fireplace in Tom’s room, so I’m prepared. I prefer his room, less clutter, less purple. Then I brought my haul up here. All in all, a good day.

  17:00, 14th March.

  I forgot to check the doors.

  18:00, 14th March.

  That wasn’t fun. The first time I went downstairs today, it was an expedition, an escape. I’d been distracted, so focused on what I was doing I’d forgotten why I’d gone down there in the first place. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Oh how I wish I dared scream!

  Crutch in hand, hammer tucked into my belt I went back downstairs. Those last few steps were the worst. I was so tense I was shaking. Sitting down, sliding forward, bracing my good leg, lowering myself onto the next step whilst trying to hold the cast up and straining not to let it bang down on the staircase. Each agonising inch took me further into the dark shadows, as the leg got heavier until it was a burning, impossible weight. I tried not to make a sound but the harder I tried, the more noise I seemed to make. Each creak of the stairs, each thud of the cast, each ragged heaving breath seemed amplified tenfold.

  The doors were closed. As quietly as I could, I slid across the deadbolts. It’ll slow me down when rescue arrives, but I won’t need to worry about noise then. It’ll stop my tenants getting back in if they try and return, but if they do and end up stuck outside with the living dead, well that’s just tough. They should have told me they were leaving.

  I do feel safer now, almost calm. My heart’s still thumping away, but that’s probably the adrenaline. The doors to the ground floor flats are locked, so are the front and back doors. I had to double-check the upstairs flats. I mean, I knew no one was in there, but I had to check anyway. Does that count as paranoia, or caution? Either way it’s got to be healthy.

  Day 3, 75 days to go

  09:00, 15th March.

  There’s one out there walking along the road slightly faster than the others. It’s moving along at an easy two or three miles an hour, almost as if it was heading off on the morning commute. Not that it’s dressed for that. It’s wearing thick trousers tucked into socks, sturdy boots, and a thick jacket that’s torn and stained brown around the shoulders. It’s even wearing a backpack. I wonder if it was going to join the evacuation, but changed its mind, thinking it’d be safer on its own, so turned back, maybe heading home, only to end up as the thing it had wanted to avoid.

  Just then it stopped, turned and looked, as if it had heard something. Now it’s walking off, crossing the street, angling towards a house at the end of the road. It’s walking faster now, almost with that same determined speed I’ve seen when They are about to attack.

  It’s stopped again. It’s been standing there for about twenty minutes now, and its head is turning slowly from side to side. Is it looking around? Can it see? Or can it hear something, but can’t pinpoint the sound?

  11:00, 15th March.

  I’m bored. Bored and hungry. The hiker is still just standing there, unmoving except for its head which slowly shifts from side to side. Why it’s doing that I can’t tell. Watching it is about a notch more interesting than daytime TV, and a notch below watching paint dry. Isn’t there a saying that fear breeds boredom, or is it the other way around? Well, either way, it’s true.

  Dinner last night was a cold tin of beans. I hate beans. I’ve always hated them. Jen knows I hate them, she used to taunt me with them when we were kids, she didn’t like them much either but she’d always ask for extra, and when her parents weren’t looking, she’d take a big spoonful and hold it just over my plate, silently threatening to drop it. We spent a lot of time together when we were younger. Her father had known my parents before they died. I think it was he, not my uncle, who paid for my schooling, though I never dared ask. Anyway, that’s why I think the food had to come from her flat. If it was from a government storeroom, and she had her choice of what to include, then she wouldn’t have brought me beans.

  I was thinking about stringing together a bunch of cans and sticking them halfway down the stairs as a sort of early warning device. I don’t think They will be able to get through the front doors, but the windows down there would be easy enough to break. Would the sound of rattling tins attract more of Them? I think I could deal with one, on its own. Yes, I could manage that, but what if there were two, or three?

  17:00, 15th March.

  I wonder where the car was going to take me. Not to one of the muster points - that’s what we called the temporary evacuation centres, where people would be physically examined, given the vaccine and then sent onward to an island or enclave. When Jen said a car was coming to take me away I asked if I was being evacuated, she said no. She was going to send me somewhere safe. She’d replied by text - a lot of our communication was by text after the outbreak - but I could imagine the sarcasm and hollow laugh. I’d asked about getting a permit for one of the trains leaving London during that week before the evacuation proper started. I was entitled, what with the leg and all, but she’d said no to that too. It makes sense, I mean, of all the places I don’t want to be, in an evacuee centre with tens of thousands of others is near the top of the list. Then again, nor do I want to be stuck in a flat in south London.

  The muster points will all be closed now, anyway. They were only meant to be open for twenty-four hours, at least that’s what people were told. It was always going to take longer than that, just because of the sheer number of people getting out, slowing each other down and causing choke points of pedestrians on the motorways. It was hoped the evacuation could be achieved in twenty-four hours, but they were going to give it forty-eight, after that they were going to close.

  Maybe the car was going to take me to a bunker somewhere, perhaps to one of those decommissioned Cold War ones that were refurbished in the panic at the beginning of the millennium. Maybe I'd have ended up on a cot next to the Windsors. I don’t think I’d have enjoyed that any more than they would.

  19:00, 15th March

  It’s seventy-five days until the cast can come off. It’s forty days until the food runs out.

  Day 4, 74 days to go

  07:00, 16th March.

  I can see twenty-two of Them from the window. That’s two more than yesterday. I think. I’m not sure. There’s one wearing a blue jacket that I might have seen before, except then it had a hat. It was one of those cheap pork-pie hats that everyone seemed to be wearing last year. Today there’s no hat, not on it, or any of the others. So did the hat fall off, or is it a different zombie?

  I need to start keeping a better count. Jen might call before sending a car, and she’ll want to know how many zombies are here. Assuming a roughly equal distribution around the entire house, then there are between sixty and seventy within shouting distance. That seems like a lot.

  It can’t be like this everywhere can it? Surely not after the evacuation, not if… unless… it would mean that about half the country’s population was out on the streets and that can’t be right. The only other explanation is that the undead are gathering here for some reason. No, not gathering, that suggests intelligence. Drawn, perhaps? But if They are being drawn here, then by what?

  They don’t seem to move much. They just squat on their haunches, not even staring at anything. It’s almost as if They’re waiting, but that’s what humans do and They are not human.

  No. They’re not human.

  09:10, 16th March.

  I’m sitting extra quietly. God, that sounds childish! I didn’t notice how much noise I was making until I went downstairs to check the ground floor flats, so it is possible that I’m making a lot more noise than I think and I’m just not conscious of it. So, I’m sitting extra quietly, just to see what happens outside. And since we’re being childish, what do you do when you’re sitting quietly? You read!

  The books were useless,
but I bet you guessed that. Okay, not completely useless but not exactly helpful. They did give me something to do last night, right up until the battery died around three a.m. but any advice they offer that even approaches the practical starts with the assumption that a) you’re mobile b) you’re armed c) live in a fictional world where your survival is guaranteed, at least until the last few pages.

  Three of the ten I picked up yesterday, including the one with the promising Survivalist Quarterly review, had the protagonist discovering a house belonging to a Mormon family, complete with a year’s supply of food. Like I said, not helpful. At no point did it give any advice on how to spot a house that belonged to Mormons. I think there was a large community of them near Bath or Boston or Buxton or somewhere beginning with B, but that’s about as useful as saying they’re in Utah. Were there other communities with that sort of cultural preparedness built in? I don’t know.

  There was one book, just as useless as the others but which I actually really enjoyed reading. It’s not really a zombie book at all, but a comic romance between a zombie and a human. It’s a sort of re-working of Romeo and Juliet, a tragedy about loss and unattainable love.

  Out in the street there’s a woman I vaguely recognise. She lived in one of the houses on the next road. I’ve no idea what her name is, after all, this is London, no one talks to their neighbours here! I’d just see her in the park, or occasionally out in the street. We’d nod and smile and wave at each other, and that was that, no words were ever exchanged. Now she’s dead, just another zombie.