by Frank Tayell
There are, or were, dozens of houseboats dotting the banks of the Thames. I don’t know how many of them have engines, let alone fuel, but all I’m really looking for is something that can float.
Or I could stay here and scavenge from the surrounding houses. Except, if my tenants are anything to go by, the rationing will have left the cupboards pretty bare. Soon what’s left will start to spoil, and then what? How long will it be before the government tries to take back the city? What will I do if they don’t and I’m still here next winter? What will I do if a fire starts nearby and I’m forced to leave?
No, staying here isn’t an option. It’s three and a half miles to the river. That is by far the shortest route, so it’s now the official one. But not today. Not tomorrow either, there's just far too many of Them outside.
Day 12, 66 days to go
04:30, 24th March.
I was woken in the middle of the night by a scurrying noise. It was just after eleven and like a child terrified of the monsters in the dark, I hid under the duvet. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been a half hour, before I slowly, quietly, sat up and reached for my crutches. The noise stopped. I waited, trying to work it through, trying to get my brain to fire on at least half a cylinder. It wasn’t a zombie, that was clear enough. There was some light from the stars, but not enough to see by. I fumbled for the flashlight, but caught myself in time. There was no way I was going to risk Them seeing a light through the window.
Just as I was starting to calm down, just as my heart’s pounding was slowing to the point I could count the beats, I heard it again. I jumped with shock, I actually jumped, throwing the covers onto the floor. The sound stopped. This went on a few more times before I’d woken sufficiently to realise what it was; a mouse (or rat, but we’ll assume the former).
This is the first time I’ve ever heard one in this house. It’s in here somewhere, and it likes to prowl around my room at night. I’ll try and find it as soon as it’s light, and whilst I’m at it, will box up all the food.
I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tried, but I was too excited because, you see, if mice can survive then why not cows or sheep or pigs? One day, and it may be long off, but one day there will be bacon again. It might be mouse bacon, but that will do for me.
17:10, 24th March.
The long wave broadcast has changed. It’s a different message, a new one. They're back to broadcasting music now, Bach I think, or Beethoven, it’s something funereal. The gist of the message: the government has fallen, we’re on our own.
18:10, 24th March.
This is what they said:
“This is Radio Free England, transmitting from the emergency broadcast station at Lenham Hill. We followed the emergency broadcast thinking we would find some remnant of the government here but, the station was deserted. The message being broadcast was pre-recorded. We have taken over the station and have this message for anyone who can hear us. The government has fallen. All governments have fallen. The evacuation of Britain failed. The infection had spread too far and to too many.” There was a pause.
“That is the bad news. There is good news, of a sort. This is a secure location. We have helicopters. We are prepared to use these to evacuate those currently trapped in cities and towns. We are also prepared to re-supply those of you able to hold your current positions. The only way that we can win back our planet is if we fight.” Another pause.
“If you can hold out where you are, then you must. Please pay attention to the following instructions. If you need evacuation then display two white sheets from the roof. If you need re-supply display two coloured sheets. If you do not have sheets use paint. If you do not have paint then improvise.” There was a slight chuckle. “I bet you’re getting good at that if you’ve survived thus far. If you have supplies to spare for others to continue the fight display four sheets of the colour of your choosing. We will broadcast further instructions and whatever news we can over the coming days. Good luck.”
18:30, 24th March.
I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
19:15, 24th March.
I think it’s Mahler. I’m not sure. I was never into classical music, but it’s a different track, that’s the important point. The music is changing. Someone is there, reading the message, changing the music. But what’s happened to Jen? And where is Lenham Hill? It’s a vaguely familiar name, but I can’t place it. And how do you follow a radio signal? Presumably using the same skills that allow you to transmit on an emergency broadcast system, but is it something I can do?
No. Of course not. But I can follow a map. If I had one. Tomorrow I’ll look for one downstairs. If I can find Lenham Hill, and if it’s near the coast, then perhaps I can sail a boat there.
I’ve got sheets, more than enough. How do I get them onto the roof, though? And how would they ever see them? Are they using satellites? And would they be able to rescue me from here? Is it worth the risk?
I suppose the bigger question is whether I want re-supply or rescue.
21:20, 24th March.
Do they really have a helicopter? Probably. Are they actually going to help? Or are they really just after the places that have supplies?
Day 13, 65 days to go
08:00, 25h March.
The water pressure dropped overnight. It’s coming out of the tap as a bare trickle now. I’ve refilled the bath and am now filling every container I can find. Then, soon, I’ll have to light the fire to boil it. I don’t know how long standing water remains potable, but it can’t be more than a few days.
15:15, 25th March.
I’ve filled every container I can. I’ll do it again tomorrow. Taken some sheets from downstairs. Too tired to try and break a hole in the roof now, maybe later.
The radio is just playing music now. An announcer comes on every so often to repeat that message, but there are no further details. I wish they’d say what the music is though. It’s annoying me that I don’t know. Who are they? The only maps I could find were tourists’ ones of central London. Where is Lenham Hill?
Day 14, 64 days to go
14:00, 26th March.
I’m exhausted. My arms ache, my left leg is sore, my right isn’t any better, and my back feels like it’s going to explode. The simple act of filling a container with water, then moving it a few yards over and over… I must have about three hundred litres now, including the bath downstairs, the toilet cisterns and the hot water tank. Maybe more. Do I mean pints or litres? I’ll count again.
It comes to one hundred and twenty litres in the bath, two hundred in the hot water tank, eight litres in each of the toilet cisterns, add to that the kettles, and pots and jugs, and I’m going to run out of things to burn before I run out of water to boil.
Day 15, 63 days to go
10:40, 27th March.
The pressure dropped again. The zombies are still shuffling by outside, still moving, but with less direction. Would I be able to get through Them? Probably not. There are twenty out there now. I’ll wait a few more days, see if They disperse a bit more. It’s not really the undead outside the house I’m worried about, it’s the others between here and the river.
I can’t just go straight north, I mean I can try, but I can’t see it working out that way. Even with diversions it’ll only be five or six miles. That’s about two hours, normally. With the leg, call it three hours. Add on another couple of hours to find a boat, though how hard can that be? I’ll just look along the river until I spot one. It’s all less than a day’s journey.
The radio people have changed their message:
“This is Radio Free England, please listen carefully. There are more survivors than we thought. We will be able to reach all of you, but not immediately. We have a virtually unlimited amount of fuel, but a limited number of pilots and limited room here. If you can support other survivors in your current location please display four sheets on the roof to let us know. Only together can we triumph.”
There was more, bu
t that’s the gist of it.
The roof itself is directly above my ceiling here. It wouldn’t be too difficult to break a hole through the roof, but that would knock off dozens of tiles. The undead would certainly hear that. But let’s say I did it, that I hung up a sheet, wouldn’t the noise of a helicopter overhead just summon more zombies from all around? And then, since there’s nowhere to land, wouldn’t I just be left trapped without any chance of escape?
I’m going to try and make a small hole, but only a small one, and only to see if I can.
17:30, 27th March.
It’s a lot harder than I thought. My ladder is locked up in the storage bin outside so I climbed up onto the desk. That wasn’t easy in itself, but I can just about reach the ceiling with the tip of the knife. I could, probably, make a hole, but not without knocking the tiles down to the ground, and even then, it would take days.
That’s not really why I’m reluctant to follow the instructions on the radio though. It was the tone of the broadcast. There’s something about it that I don't like. I can’t work out what, though. Is it my natural distrust of pretty much everyone or is it something more?
Day 16, 62 days until the cast can come off
18:00, 28th March.
Today was spent packing and repacking a small bag - a sort of day sack - that I found downstairs. Dry socks, underwear, some canvas shoes for when the cast does come off, the last couple of chocolate bars, two packs of sunflower seeds, the small stove, and two litres of water. That’s as much as I can carry. After an hour of standing in the hall wearing the pack as practice I was exhausted, and it’s nowhere near enough.
I need to assume at least three days on a boat. That’s three days of supplies, and I just can’t carry that. I’m still unsure about the bike, whether, with a crutch in each hand, I’ll be able to pull it as well. I can picture myself holding onto the handlebars and hopping along, using the momentum to move the bike and get me further and faster, but picturing it and actually doing it are two very different things. Nonetheless it’s the only way I’ll have enough to survive. I’ve filled three bags with extra food and water bottles. One on the handlebars, one hanging on the frame, the third at the back. I’ll make it work.
Day 17, 61 days until the cast comes off
09:00, 29th March.
Thirteen zombies outside. That’s the fewest I’ve seen so far.
I’ve added a knife to each of the bags. They’re carvings knives from the rather nice set Tom had, and are the only alternative to the hammer that I can find. Stab or crush, and that’s what my world has devolved to, and it took only a little longer than a month.
Day 18, 60 days until the cast comes off
13:00, 30th March.
Now there are fifteen outside.
If only I could ride the bike, I could cycle out of here. If only I could walk, if only I could run, if only I could just sprint through Them… but I can’t. If it wasn’t for this leg, if I’d not slipped on that staircase, then I’d be in some bunker somewhere eating military rations, not constantly worrying every time one of those things turns its head towards the house.
I don’t think I’ll ever escape
Day 19
A few more zombies, a few less. What does it matter?
Day 20
A lot more. Too many to count, going by in a slow and steady stream. There must be hundreds, and thousands more that I can't see. I can’t move faster than Them. I can’t sail a boat. I don’t even know how to start the engine of one. I can’t use my arms to fight unless I drop my crutches, and that would make me a stationary target. I don’t have a map. I’m running out of food. I don’t have any proper weapons. I can’t carry more than a couple of days’ worth of supplies.
Even if I get to the river, and let it carry me out to sea, then what? The ocean is a massive place. Really, and I mean really, what are the chances I’ll be rescued?
The water pressure’s dropped again.
Day 21
There’s no chance to leave. Not now. There are hundreds of Them outside. I daren’t even light the fire, just in case They see the flames through the curtains. I should have sealed up those windows properly. Where are They going? Why are They going there?
I’m stuck here, then. Leaving would be suicide.
Day 22
The horde keeps coming. How many are there? Thousands? Tens of Thousands? Is the same scene being played out across London? Hour upon hour, day after day, the noise isn’t loud, just persistent and pervasive, an unceasing thudding and hissing and scraping and rattling and cracking, as this never ending army of golems marches on, oblivious to the shattered glass on the street, heedless of obstacles, ignorant of fatigue. Will it ever stop?
Day 23
I’m down to twenty little blue pills, now. Would that be enough, if I took them all at once?
Day 24
11:13
The water’s stopped.
14:00
Nothing I can do about it. Nothing. The water’s stopped, and the plug in the bath didn’t fit properly, and I didn’t realise. That water was my margin, the only thing keeping me alive. If I can’t go outside, if I have no water… I needed that water.
You can last for three weeks without food, maybe longer. But water? Three days. Three days without water and I’ll be dead.
18:00
I’ve come to sit on the stairs. For me this counts as a holiday. There are no windows, so there’s no chance the undead can see me, and just as important, no way I can see Them. I’ve just over fifty litres of water. Not as much as I’d planned for, not nearly as much. It was stupidity. It was laziness.
I’d emptied the bath. I should have filled both of them, but I didn’t. I thought one would be enough; one bath for water storage, the other for washing clothes. One bath for drinking water should have been enough.
I turned on the tap, letting it fill from the hot water tank, in turn the tank would refill from the mains. Except the plug in the bath didn’t fit properly. As quickly as it was filling the bath, the water was trickling down the plughole. All I managed to do was drain the water tank. I kept sticking my head into the bathroom, checking whether it was full, but my attention was on breaking up wood for the fire.
I didn’t notice until I went into the kitchen to get a drink. When nothing came out of the tap, I first went to check the taps in the kitchen next door. By the time I thought to check my supply in the bath, all the water had drained.
I’m left with about fifty litres, call it forty-five after I’ve boiled it. If I don’t wash, then I can get by on about a litre a day, but since I’ve only about twenty days’ worth of food, I don’t suppose it really matters that much. As soon as I can, I have to leave.
19:30
I’m savouring a cup of tea, carefully tasting every last drop, trying to preserve the memory of it. It’s going to be a long time before anyone brings any more of it to this island.
That got me thinking about the things I’ll miss the most. Things like steak, conversation, hot showers, those will come back. Not any time soon, sure, but they will come back. Other things, like books, movies, and new clothes, they’ll take longer and when they return they’ll be different. Books will be shorter or perhaps only printed online. Perhaps there will be no new films, just recordings of plays, broadcast in theatres during the harvest when the actors are too busy reaping crops to learn their lines. Clothes will be duller, more functional and maybe all made of wool, but they will come back.
But tea? How long before a community in India or China has enough food it can start growing tea again? How long after that before it can export it to the other side of the world? The same with coffee and chocolate. Maybe there are plants somewhere in the UK, maybe at Kew or maybe some hobbyist was growing some in their greenhouse, but what are the odds those plants survived?
Tea, coffee, chocolate, there’s probably enough boxed and sitting in warehouses around the world to keep the survivors stocked until the stuff spoils, but how soon
will that be? Ten years? Five? For chocolate it must be less, maybe a year. One year until there’s no more chocolate. Not in my lifetime, anyway. And where exactly are these warehouses?
Steak. I could really go for a steak about now, but how many cattle will survive? The evacuation plan assumed there was enough breeding stock on the islands to restock after the immediate crisis was over, but if the evacuation failed what chances are there that any cattle are left? I’ve seen footage of zombies attacking livestock, but I’ve also seen footage where They left the animals alone. There seemed to be no pattern to it and the only theory I have is that the undead will attack anything that’s between Them and their real prey. It’s a weak theory and I’m not sure how relevant it is because I don’t think the cattle will be able to survive without humans, and no humans who survived would be able to resist eating any cattle they found.
Fusion power will never happen now. Nuclear power will become a thing of the past. Air travel too. If we’re lucky we’re going back to the age of steam.
On the bright side, no more laundry for a while.
Day 25
10:00, 6th April.
I could probably collect rainwater through a hole in the roof, but how many calories would I use up creating it? Too many, I think. I’ve got the bike downstairs ready to go. The day-pack is next to it. I’ll keep the day’s ration of boiled water on me at all times, so I’m ready to go the moment there is a let up outside.
