Surviving The Evacuation, Book 1: London

by Frank Tayell

  I raised my arms and started waving. They didn’t notice me, and that was annoying. As long as I was at the top of the hill, all I had to do was get on the bike and let gravity do the rest. I didn’t want to have to walk down towards the lorry only to have to run back up hill to escape, but after a few minutes I realised that was exactly what I had to do.

  I walked forward ten paces, raised my arms and waved. Nothing. I went another ten paces and waved again. Still nothing. I didn’t want to shout. I knew that would get their attention, but it would also alert any of the undead that were on my escape route. I have found that as long as there are only one or two I have no difficulty getting by Them. All I have to do is aim at one side of the road and the zombie will head towards me, then I wait until I’m within twenty feet of it before I swerve to the opposite side. On the few occasions there have been more and when I can’t avoid Them, it has only been my monumental luck that’s kept me safe.

  I was about fifty paces from the top of the hill when, finally, one spotted me. I waited as it turned and started moving towards me. I kept waiting whilst a second, then a third, began a slow march up the hill. I waited until about twenty of Them were approaching, then I trudged back up the hill. I didn’t move fast, not even fast by my standards, I kept turning around to check They were following. By the time I reached the hill’s crest, the nearest was where I’d been standing when it had spotted me, and there were none left around the lorry. I waited a few seconds more, hoping I would see the cab door open, see some sign of life from inside, but there was no movement. I got on the bike, turned in the saddle and then I waited some more.

  The one in the lead started to move, not faster but more frenetically, as if it was trying to speed up but the camber of the hill and its own dried up muscles prevented it. I took one more look at the lorry, raised my hand in a final farewell, and with the closest one no more than twenty paces away, I released the brake and kicked off from the ground. I didn’t even have to pedal.

  I was twenty metres down the road when the first one got to the top of the hill. When I next glanced behind, there were a dozen following me, but I was at least a hundred metres ahead. By the time I got to the junction three miles down the road, the zombies were no longer in sight.

  Maybe They didn’t all follow me and maybe when I disappeared over the top of the hill They turned back to the poor soul in the cab of that lorry, someone who was perhaps too scared to act quickly enough to get away. But I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell which sounds are real and which are imagined, at least when it comes to those sounds of the old world, but I think I heard a long blast of the horn. I think they seized the moment and got away and that was their final salute, a goodbye and thank you. I gave them a chance and I reckon anyone who's survived this long would recognise one and know when to take it.

  It was about an hour later that I had to take my second detour. I’d wanted to stick to the wider multi-lane roads, where it was easier to dodge the undead, and which would lead me to the coast in less than a day, but I found most of the larger roads are encased in metal fences, a remnant of the evacuation route.

  Even though the barriers had already been broken in a few places - which was how I’d crossed those roads when I’ve come to them - I didn’t like the way the place felt. It was like crossing a bridge over a deep, dark pit, with whatever was at the end waiting to jump out and pull me down.

  That’s why I’ve stuck to the old, winding, hedge enclosed roads, ones whose width had been determined long ago by the size of horse-drawn carts, where there often wasn’t enough space to try and outrun Them. Twice, I had to stop, dismount and dispatch zombies that blocked the road. Then I reached a point where a car had swerved and crashed head on into the hedge, leaving only a narrow two-foot gap between its bumper and the impenetrable hedge on the other side. A gap that was filled with two zombies who’d woken and were now heading towards me.

  I got off the bike, turned it to face the other way in case there were more and I needed to make a quick escape, then turned to face Them. One was smaller, maybe a teenager, the other, probably male, was much older. Their clothes were little more than rags leaving their dried out skin exposed to the elements. They were barely recognisable as having once been human.

  I took a step forward, braced my leg, and launched the pike forward in a scything motion, the blade cutting deep into the older zombie’s skull. I gave my wrist a now much practised twist, pulled it free and swung again, killing the other before the first body had fully collapsed.

  I took a moment to check there were no more, then levered the bodies out into the middle of the road. I cleaned the blade, and was about to remount the bike when I saw a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. Instinctively, and it had to be instinct because I would never knowingly have moved so fast, I swung the butt of my pike round towards it, hitting it in the chest, knocking it flying at least ten feet.

  A rabbit!

  I’d killed it, and not, I think, from a head wound. At this point, as it’s roasting on the fire, I don’t really care whether it’s infected or not. I thought about it a long while on my ride here, but I don’t think it is. Its blood looked normal enough when I skinned it, or did my best at skinning it. I think if the birds are unaffected then so too are the animals. I’m going to make sure it’s well cooked, though.

  The smell of roasting meat! Not just roasting meat, but meat I killed myself. That’s something I’ve never done before. It officially makes me a Hunter, very definitely with a capital ‘H’.

  I’ve got to get better at butchering, and find out what parts of the insides of animals you can eat, which you can’t and how to tell the difference. That’s another book to find.

  Not much eating on a single rabbit. Still, no complaints tonight.

  After killing the rabbit, I had to take one more diversion, this time around a blocked coach. It was stuck in the middle of the road, at a steep bend. When I stopped, I was close enough to read the garage’s name on the licence plate, more than close enough for the zombies in the backseat to see me.

  I could probably have squeezed past the coach, but I had no idea why it had stopped there or whether the doors at the front were open. As They started hammering on the window I turned and headed back the way I’d come.

  I guess it was inevitable. I’d been heading in a roughly southwesterly direction all day, and I’d been waking the undead up, getting their attention and They’d started following me. There were certainly more on the road this time, far too many to stop and deal with individually. Five times I was almost dragged off the bike, before I got onto a road I’d not travelled on before. Then I just pedalled and kept pedalling until I was alone once more.

  I’m thoroughly lost now, in an old barn at the edge of a field. Possibly in Surrey, possibly in Hampshire. I’ve my rabbit for dinner, enough water that I don’t need to find more tonight, and a strong door to keep me safe whilst I sleep. Who could ask for anything more?

  Day 73, Brazely Abbey, Hampshire

  I think I have found my sanctuary, Brazely Abbey. After an hour of cycling this morning with no greater aim than heading towards the coast I spotted a sign for Brazely. It’s a small hamlet in the Hampshire Downs consisting of five houses, a bus stop, a disused phone booth, and little more. Its name was one I remembered from the address book. It took another hour to find the Abbey, a secluded ruin hidden down an unpaved track, a good quarter mile from the road.

  It’s not at all what I thought an Abbey would look like. The old Abbey had been burnt down during the Reformation, but the land had been bought back, and according to the information board, they’ve been restoring it for the past fifty years. The old part, at least as far as I’m concerned, has only two important features, a stone wall that has survived centuries and a well. A well! Fresh, clean water!

  The ancient stone walls form two sides of a square. On the other sides are the newer buildings, a chapel, a dormitory, and a kitchen and shower room. It is the very epitome of t
he renouncing of worldly goods. Very medieval and almost perfect. Other than the well there are beehives and an orchard, with most of the clear land given over to growing vegetables.

  This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. There’s food in the storeroom, enough for at least a couple of weeks. Plenty of building materials too. Those must have been brought here after the outbreak. Someone has already blocked the windows and barricaded the gaps between the buildings. I think this is as good a place to live as I’ve found so far.

  Now. Time to wash. Then to eat.

  Day 75, Brazely Abbey, Hampshire

  Yesterday was spent filling in the gaps around the wall. Now I can sleep knowing I won’t wake to find the dormitory surrounded. That in itself has given me great peace of mind. It’s a beautiful spot here, tranquil and quiet. Attracted no doubt by the sound of my labours, twice I’ve heard Them coming, slouching through the woods, scattering leaf mould, breaking branches, disturbing the thousands of birds nesting in the trees. Twice I’ve dispatched Them, then continued with my work.

  What I didn’t notice until yesterday evening, when it was getting too dark to see, were the tyre tracks. Someone has been here, and as recently as last week. I’d assumed the building materials were here as part of the restoration work, but of course, the boarded up windows are signs of work being done since the outbreak. For some reason they left, I could say I hope they’re coming back, but I don’t know if I do. Who are these people? Are they the monks or locals? Will we get along? I know that sounds childish, but I really do feel like the kid at a new school, they were here first, after all.

  Will they like me? Will they let me stay? Will they blame me for the evacuation? I could lie. I could burn this journal, but it’s become part of me over these last few months, my only connection to the past and to the idea that there will be some kind of future.

  The truth of it is that I can leave here and find somewhere else before they come back, or I can set to and help make this place a safe haven, a community from which a new society can be formed. I’m tired of running. This is where I stand.

  Day 77, Brazely Abbey, Hampshire

  Today is the 28th May, the day I originally thought the cast should have come off. It seems like such a long time ago that I set that arbitrary milestone and started counting the days. At the time, the sole purpose of the adoption of such a distant goal was nothing more than to provide some kind of daily reassurance that there would be a tomorrow and a tomorrow after that. And now? It is seventy-seven days since the power went out in London. Seventy-seven days of this new era, seventy-seven days since my life truly changed beyond what it would have been had outbreak not occurred. I imagine I’ve become a different person, but have I really?

  I’ve spent the last few days working on the defences and I’ve begun to wonder whether those who were here so recently, who began the work on this place, whether they may not be coming back.

  As best as I can estimate, come harvest, there will be enough fruit and vegetables here for at least twelve people for perhaps six months. It’s a very rough estimate, but even so I’ve far more than I can possibly eat and no way to store any of it.

  With no freezers, no sugar to make jam, nor vinegar for pickling, the food here will rot on the trees and I will starve come the winter. To that end, tomorrow, I will go out once more. I need to find a way of becoming self-sufficient and if I find others on my way then so be it.

  Day 78, Grange Farm Estate, Hampshire

  I left at dawn, the clouds grew heavy by lunchtime. It started raining before dusk. It’s rain like I’ve never seen it before. The sky ahead was clear, but I felt the pressure changing. I turned around in my saddle and saw ominous black clouds galloping towards me.

  I’ve found refuge in ‘The Grange Farm Estate’. It’s a grand title for a collection of unprepossessing barns recently converted to holiday cottages. The path outside is under two inches of water. I’ll be stuck here tonight and will have to wait until mid-morning before this dries out. If it stops.

  Day 79, Grange Farm Estate, Hampshire

  Still raining. Still almost pitch black outside, but I’m sure it’s morning. I’ve not seen anything like this except on TV, and then only as a special effect.

  It’s impossible to know if the undead are out there, and that’s more terrifying than the idea of a storm that seems to be going on forever.

  There is no escape outside. The fields will have turned to mud and that mud will cover the roads. No more writing for a while. Must conserve the light’s batteries.

  Day 80, Grange Farm Estate, Hampshire

  I was getting bored looking at the same walls so I went to check the other cottages. The first was empty, much like this one. The second had two bodies in it. On the table was a note.

  “The vaccine was a lie. The evacuation was a lie. I think, deep down, I knew that from the start. Where was the food going to come from to feed everyone? I know they said that it would be a tough few years but we’d manage it, that ‘The Indomitable Island Spirit’ would prevail. That’s what they said. It was a lie. The numbers just didn’t add up. Food is energy, and it would take too much energy to move all those people. All those useless people with their suddenly antiquated skills were nothing but mouths to feed in a world of hunger.

  I worked for the police. I was a sergeant, stuck in an admin job, collating and cataloguing evidence. It wasn’t a bad life, now I look back on it, though I didn’t think so at the time. A pension, a salary, and I didn’t have to see anything that kept me up at night. No, it wasn’t a bad life at all.

  It was about three a.m. on the 21st of February, the night after we started getting word in from the US, I was told to lock up the evidence room and report upstairs. I got a set of riot gear and a lift to a big supermarket out near Balham. I was alone until about five a.m. when another van turned up and two constables got out. Neither had even finished their training but they were decked out like me, just a bunch of coppers, you see. The Thin Blue Line.

  Then the Army came. Three of them, armed like this was Afghanistan, acting like it too. I don’t know what they’d been told. They kept it between themselves.

  We turned people away all day, told them it’d be re-opening soon, that there’d be rationing, but that they’d get their food. Just like we’d been told to say. For now they should go home, watch the TV, listen to the radio and keep calm. ‘Keep calm’, wasn’t that ironic?

  But it did stay calm, at least for us. Over the Squaddie’s radio we kept hearing about disturbances and calls for reinforcements, but we were okay. People came and grumbled, but they left. They were annoyed, certainly, but I also think they were glad that someone seemed to be in control.

  It stayed calm right up until that night. That’s when the crowd came. I don’t know where they came from. Maybe they all had the same idea at the same time. At first I thought it might be from the estate near the station, but the clothes were wrong. About a hundred and fifty of them came marching into the car park, all demanding food.

  I tried to talk to them, tried to reason with them, tried to get them to go home. One of them just laughed at me. Then she spoke in this loud clear voice that carried far beyond the car park. She said she knew the soldiers wouldn’t fire. She said they weren’t allowed to, not in England. She said that meant it was just three of us cops and a hundred and fifty of them. They were taking the food and it’d be easier if we just got out of the way. She said they wouldn’t hurt us.

  That’s when her head exploded. I don’t know which of the soldiers fired that first shot, it doesn’t matter, I just dived to the ground as all three of them opened fire into the crowd. I lay there, waiting for it to stop, as this constant, endless staccato bam-bam-bam went on and on.

  When it finally stopped, when I dared open my eyes, there were at least thirty bodies lying there in the car park. The others had run. I could just make out the last one limping away.

  I stood up. I don’t know what I was going to do, whether I even kn
ew. Not all the people lying there had stopped moving. Some were sobbing, some crying for help, some just screaming unintelligibly.

  I started to walk towards the three soldiers. One of them, the one in charge though he wasn’t wearing any insignia, he was on the radio, one of the others, the youngest, still had his rifle raised, moving it from side to side as if he was looking for a new target. The third was sobbing. As I walked back towards them, he dropped the rifle pulled out his sidearm and shot himself in the head.

  That stopped me. I was still staring at his body when three lorries arrived. A squad of soldiers got out of the first and half of them headed towards us. They spoke in low tones to our two soldiers, took their weapons from them and escorted them back to the truck. Two of them picked up the one who’d committed suicide and took his body as well.

  That’s when I thought that actually it was okay, that they’d acted without orders, that they’d been arrested, and that this would go down as a horrible tragedy. I managed to hold onto that shred of sanity for another four seconds or so, until the next shot rang out.

  The other half of that group, the soldiers who’d not relieved the two who’d been with us, they were walking amongst the crowd of bodies, shooting them in the head. Wounded or dead, they each got a bullet.

  When it was over the one in charge walked over to the second lorry and slapped his hand on the side. Out came a dozen people. One of them I recognised, Chester Carson, a petty thief who’d been on his way to graduating as a full-time fence before he’d been arrested. They’d not charged him, that I knew, they were trying to get him to do a deal.