by Frank Tayell
15:00
It’s an oddly disquieting experience being surrounded by coffins inside and the undead outside. It’s made worse when one is, well, I’d not say trapped, I’ve been trapped before and this is nothing like that, I’m just detained here a little longer than I’d like.
The funeral home is at the southern end of Plumstead, near Shooters Hill. It’s a 1950s building at the end of a terrace of shops, most of which were boarded up long before the outbreak. The staff car park and entrance are at the back. The customer entrance is round the front leading into a small, bleak waiting room and a frankly tasteless showroom. Not customer, sorry, the bereaved. The basement is, I assume, where they prepare the bodies. Maybe it’s not, but access is from a very sturdy, very closed door. There’s no sound from down there and I’m not surprised, but even so, there’s no way I’m going to unlock that door.
I took my time coming over here, not that there’s any way of travelling these days except cautiously. I’d hoped to find some quieter route, some street that seemed empty, but no such luck. There weren’t too many zombies out there, but enough that I had no choice but to kill two. Both with swings to the head, both without sustaining any damage to the pike. Neither time did I feel anything other than irritation that the task slowed me down.
I came in through the back door, so I didn’t see the pack in the street at the front of the building. Pack, yes, that’s about right. I didn’t notice the pack until after I’d found the address book, in the drawer of the desk in the upstairs office. By the state of the small break room, someone had already been scavenging here. Everything edible had gone, no tea, no coffee, no biscuits, no sugar, nothing. The cupboards were open, even the cutlery had been removed from the drawers. Whoever was here before me made a far more thorough search of the place than I usually do.
It was as I was going back through the office, looking at it now with the eye of a looter, that I thought to check the small cupboard under the desk. It was, I thought, the right sort of spot for the Senior Funeral Director, or whatever his title might be, to keep his secret stash. No such luck. If there was anything ever there, it’s long gone. It was whilst I was standing there that I happened to look out the window.
The undead aren’t outside the funeral home, though there are a few idling within a few metres of the front door. There’s another forty or so between here and the main pack, of about a hundred strong, gathered around a large office building at the end of the street.
Across two of the windows at the front is a banner with one word, ‘Help’.
16:00
The address book lists churches but not by denomination. Is there a way to tell just by the name? I mean do Anglican churches use some saints, Catholics the others? The depth of my ignorance surprises me sometimes. There are two relatively close to one another, about a mile south of the Emberys’ home. Since I doubt there’d be two of the same flavour next to each other, that seems like a good place to look.
That just leaves the question of the building up the street. Are there still any survivors there? By now they could easily have run out of food and water, or decided not to wait until that happened and already left. No. The waves of zombies travelling through the city would have dragged the undead outside the building with Them. This pack must have gathered there in the last few days. It could be that the undead are drawn to that building not by a human sound, but by something automatic, but surely even batteries would have run out by now. But what can I do about it?
All I can think of is getting Them to chase me. If I’m going to risk that then I need to categorically know that there is someone alive inside there. I’ve brought two days’ worth of supplies with me. If there’s no sign of life by mid-morning tomorrow then I’ll head back.
I’ve broken the mirror that was hanging in the toilet, and will use a shard of that to try and signal. Here goes.
19:00
Ah, great. Superb. There are people in there.
The flashing mirror got no response. I figured I’d take it a step further and since it was getting dark, tried flashing the light on off, on off, on off, pause. On off , on off, pause. On off, pause and so on. I have a response. Someone is alive inside there and what’s more, they know Morse code.
For the second time in as many months, I wish that I did. I repeated their sequence back at them until they (hopefully) understood I didn’t know what they were saying.
So, what do I do now?
20:30.
No further response. I need to come up with a plan to help them escape.
Day 68, Shooters Hill, London
05:00
I can’t think of a way to communicate with the survivors in that building without the undead knowing I’m here. But I can’t just leave them be. Not if I want to keep my membership of the human race. Not after Sam. Not after thinking I was truly alone.
17:00, Woolwich, London.
I’m back at the Emberys’ house. I’m safe. Whoever those survivors are, wherever they are, they’ve escaped, and I helped.
My first idea was to try one of the cars, to set off the alarm, or rig a horn to go off, but of the three I tried, the batteries were flat. In the end I went back to the funeral home, threw a chair out of the window, and then started hurling down the computer, the desk tidy, the paperweights and anything else I could grab until I was sure that the pack was heading towards me. Then I ran, but I didn’t run far.
I wanted to know that the zombies had moved from the office building to gather around the funeral home, but I also wanted to make sure They weren’t following me. The last thing I wanted was to end up under siege at the Emberys’. When I was sure that They hadn’t followed, I started retracing my steps. I was about two hundred yards away when I heard the shouting, about a hundred and fifty yards when I heard an engine start.
By the time I got close enough to see the street, the vehicle had gone. So too had whoever was inside, leaving behind nothing but a few corpses and a dozen twitching bodies that had been run over in the escape.
Maybe they left details of where they were going in that building. I’m not going to check. I saw the undead which had trapped them heading east, following the sound of that vehicle, and now too many zombies lie between me and wherever they’ve gone.
Day 69, Woolwich, London
I couldn't sleep last night. I’m not the only survivor. I don’t think I wrote it down or even said it out loud, but I thought I was the only one. I think I began to believe it.
There are other people out there. I didn’t see them, but they are there. That was my first real contact since Sam, and it was far more real. They are alive because of me. What counts, what’s important, the only thing that really matters, is that if they survived then there will be others.
I feel like Robinson Crusoe, knowing that King and Empire is out there. Somewhere, across the impossibly wide ocean, as distant as the stars, yet indisputably still there. Yesterday was like seeing the masts of a ship against the horizon. Impossibly distant and in no way a rescue, but evidence that there is a wider world still out there, that life can go on and that one day rescue may come.
Who wrote Robinson Crusoe? I thought it was Stevenson, but he wrote Treasure Island, didn’t he? Was it Dumas or did he write Monte Cristo? I can’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t Stevenson. Maybe it wasn’t King and Empire. That’s one more book I must find.
Day 70, Woolwich, London
Before the outbreak, bikes were making a real come back in the UK. We had the state sponsored ones, of course, the designated train carriages, the cycle lanes, the recumbents and – this was always my absolute favourite – the parents driving around with boxes on the front for their kids, like miniature rickshaw cabs.
The Emberys’ children were far too old for that, but they do have panniers, one, I think, was designed to carry a suit, but it fits on the bike and I’m asking for nothing more. The tyres are pumped up, the brakes work, the bags are full. Water, food, a change of socks, a
few tools, some rope (washing line, actually), the A-Z, the flashlight, spare batteries, D-lock (in lieu of any chain for securing the doors to wherever I choose to lay my head), the last of the vitamin tablets, aspirin and paracetamol, (I should try and find a pharmacy and something stronger), the address book from the funeral home, and since I’ve carried them this far, the laptop and the hard drive. What am I missing? It’s a heavy enough load as it is.
I’ve checked and double-checked and don’t think I’m leaving anything behind that I’ll regret.
15:30
A spare tyre! I can probably get a few miles on a flat one, but if I do get a flat in the middle of nowhere, I don’t fancy walking. I’ve strapped two to the back of the bike, they’re all the thin narrow racing type, but that’s better than nothing. I suppose if I find thicker tyres I’ll need thicker wheels too. What about gears and the chain, will I need to replace those as well? Perhaps it would be easier to look for a whole new bike. No. I’m ready to go, no more stalling.
16:00
I forgot the wok. That’s now tied on. I can’t guarantee finding an open fireplace the next time I fancy a cuppa. Spare matches, the grill tray and the second smallest saucepan and I’m starting to worry that I’m packing too much. I’ve added some spare brake cables to the packs, as well. I don’t have any idea how you attach them, but better to have them and try than miss them and end up on foot.
I’ve got four litres of water, enough I think for four days. I’m leaving the rest of the food, all sealed in plastic boxes, and a note on the door. It’s quite a large one that reads ‘SAFE!’ Maybe if I get back here I’ll find others at home. If. But I don't think I’ll be coming back.
I’ll head to the church and from there to a monastery. If I can’t find an address book, or if the churches are inaccessible then I’ll just keep going until I’m as far away from London as I can get.
Day 71, Woolwich, London
05:30
Off we go.
12:15, near Croydon, London.
It feels so good to be outside!
They say you never forget how to ride a bike. It would be better to say you never forget how to fall off a bike. Three wheels would be better. I’d be able to charge at Them like a knight of old, as it is I’ve almost fallen off trying to avoid Them. But the bike is fast, zombies are slow, and most importantly They don’t hear me coming.
I’ve stopped a couple of times this morning, whenever I think it’s safe, just to see if I am being followed, and there have been a few trailing behind me, but not many. I really think this is going to work.
There was a zombie at the end of the road near the house, a tall lanky one wearing a tattered trench coat ripped almost in two along the back. I thought I could get past before it noticed me, and I would have except that there were another two, hidden by a ragged hedge, that I hadn’t spotted. I swerved, lost my footing and almost fell off. They were on their feet, moving towards me, calling others with that wheezing alarm of theirs.
I was barely above walking speed when I came to the one in the trench coat. It grabbed at me, missing my arm by inches, its hand tangling in the bag I’d hung from the handlebars. I almost went over. With my good leg on the ground, one hand balancing the front, I kicked it squarely in the chest with my bad leg, the weight of the brace adding the extra heft needed to knock it to the ground, my bag still in its grip.
That’s the A-Z, a bottle of water and a day’s worth of food gone. I’ll find another map somewhere round here, then get an idea of where I am, but without the map I got lost in the side streets and couldn’t find the churches I was looking for. That’s no real setback, I’ve seen a dozen today, none where I felt I could stop, but I’ll find one sooner or later.
I’m still in London, I’m not sure exactly where, but about two miles from Croydon according to the road signs. A few streets back I caught sight of the towering office blocks. Even without the road signs I’d have known which way to look, the largest plume of smoke in south London is coming from there. Croydon is burning down again. The two tower blocks I could see were unaffected, but it can’t be long before that fire spreads and then, well, then it’d be a good idea not to be anywhere near here.
I’ve managed about ten miles so far today, not quite the forty I’d hoped for but better than I’ve managed in all the weeks I’ve been travelling. I’d forgotten how many hills there are in London. I’m trying to avoid the undead as much as possible and that’s adding something to the journey time, but with no specific place to go, why hurry? I’ve found roads blocked by trees, others by stalled cars, others crowded with the undead.
I have seen countless storm drains blocked, overflowing gutters, broken windows, and an abundance of wallflowers taking root in the Victorian red brick. I have seen birds, squirrels and even, I think, a cat, but no humans. No survivors. All I can see is desolation, all I can smell is decay, all I can hear is the creaking, cracking sigh of undead voices on the wind, yet all I feel is hope.
18:00, near Reigate, Surrey.
I'm at a garden centre, though after months of inattention most of the plants have died. A few trees and bushes in the larger pots in the outside area open to the sky have survived, and shoots are peeking through some of the cracks in the concrete, but it’s a pretty grim place. Someone has been here before, most of the sharper and heavier tools are gone, the break room and vending machine have been cleared out, but they had a selection of water butts, part of a display on water conservation, all outside, all open to the elements, all full.
The rear backs onto a railway line, it’s a pretty steep embankment, too steep for one of the undead to climb, I think. It’s too steep for me to climb without using my hands, and since They don’t have that level of coordination I don’t need to worry about any coming up that way whilst I sleep. I’m not taking any risks though, the front’s closed off and I’m hidden near the back. If I need to, I can push the fencing aside and the bank isn’t so steep that I won’t be able to get down to the train line without injury.
I did find a church and got a directory that lists (I think) all the institutions in the south of England. It’s a handwritten address book that doesn’t differentiate between churches and monasteries, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect to find a book titled ‘In the Event of the Apocalypse, Head Here’, not in a church at least.
It would have made a decent enough place to hide out for a few days. Possibly longer. Maybe months. It was all old heavy stone and thick oak doors, with tall windows that started well above head height. There was a house with an entrance into the church and a secluded garden with fruit trees and high walls. Land to grow, walls to keep you safe. It was almost perfect, but the pews weren’t empty.
There was no sign of struggle or violence, just row upon row of bodies. I'm guessing they'd taken some kind of poison, but who knows? From the level of decomposition, they died soon after the outbreak. I don’t know if this was the original congregation or some group that had banded together after the evacuation, I didn’t see any point in trying to find out.
I closed the doors and left them there. I don’t resent them, nor do I pity their final hours. It was their choice and it’s not for me to judge, but I think that priest in Colombia had the right of it, that what we should fear most in this terrible world is fear itself.
I’ve had to tighten the leg brace. The kick I gave that creature this morning didn’t seem to hurt in the slightest, but the constant peddling, even at my sedate pace, has loosened the straps. As for my leg itself, well, I’m not sure it has healed properly. Let me rephrase that, I know it’s not going to have healed properly. It aches incessantly with a dull heat that’s barely dented by paracetamol, but that’s all I’ve got. There’s no point dwelling on it. The water is almost boiling. Tonight I sleep, tomorrow I go on.
Day 72, near Alton, Surrey
18:00
I saw a sign post a few miles back. London is now forty miles away to northeast. The town of Alton is about two miles away to the so
utheast. I was aiming due south, towards the coast, but about three miles from the garden centre I saw a pack of Them hovering around a lorry.
My first instinct was to turn round and get out of there, so was my second, but there had to be someone inside that lorry, why else would the undead be gathered around it, banging and scraping at the metal? I had to do something to help. If I could.
The road I was on travelled along a hill whose crest was to my left, at the top of a field. To my right there was another field and beyond that a cluster of houses, and beyond that a railway and a commuter town. The lorry had swerved across the road at a junction where this road, a two-lane one, met a smaller one at a crossroads that narrowed to one lane as it led up and over the hill.
Even if I ignored the occupants of the lorry there was no way that I could cycle through the undead crowding around it. There were too many to fight, and too narrow a stretch of road between the lorry and the thick hedgerow. I looked over at the town for a moment, somewhere inside there would be food, but I could see scores of the undead scattered across the roads even from that distance. That only left getting to the top of the hill and following the old farm road down to wherever it led, and if I was doing that why shouldn’t I try and get the zombies to follow?
I pushed the bike up the side of the field, then along the ridge to the road and looked down on the junction. From there I had a better view. Both the cab and the lorry were on their sides. I couldn’t see inside the cab or make out what the cargo had been. Maybe it was food. It had to be valuable to take such a risk travelling on such narrow roads. If there were fewer of Them around the cab, then the driver could get out through the passenger side door, and if he or she were nimble enough, jump onto the back of the lorry and run along its edge and over and down into the field beyond. It was a reasonably decent escape route, by my reckoning, as long as the driver wasn’t injured, and if they were, there was nothing I could do about it. I counted forty zombies that I could see, who knows how many more there were on the far side of the vehicle.
