by Burke, Rowan
Eventually, my travels lead me to find shelter in The Still and West; a deserted pub further up the coastline and is where I’ve been ever since. The pub had been relatively untouched, still just looking like a pub in good shape but empty of punters, I guessed because it was so close to the coast that people in this area had the good sense to get the fuck out of here at the first sign of trouble. Luckily for me, it meant there was plenty of food and drink still inside, including a fantastic and most welcome selection of beers and other such alcoholic beverages, enough to last one person for a month at least so was perfect while I figured out what to do.
I didn’t want to stray too far from the coast in hope that someone at some point might come up with a cure, as at this stage I still couldn’t judge whether or not the loss of my foot had removed the infection all together, and if it hadn’t if my infection was irreversible. I’ve always been a firm believer in everything happening for a reason; the initial shattering of my foot made it hard to believe that at the time, but the break meant I was fully bandaged up with a tourniquet wrapped around my leg, just above the ankle; the original one had been there from the get go so had stopped the circulation to and from that part of leg. It was a blessing that I had smashed my ankle to pieces, a gift that I didn’t appreciate at the time. The same was for the loss of my foot, the amount of blood that hosed out of the bottom of my leg was agonising as it happened, yet had filtered out the blood affected by the zombie’s bite that the tourniquet had kept exclusively in that area, disallowing it to circulate up my leg and through the rest of my body. The infection may still be able to spread, I hadn’t had a transfusion or anything so even if there was just one infected cell it could have still caused me to turn eventually, but what seemed like at least three weeks in since I was bitten left me hopeful that I’d be fine.
The pub was pretty good as a fortress; I could bolt the main door closed, and all subsequent doors had the same strong, old styled security of iron bolts and locks that would be pretty tricky for the zombies to get the better of. The pub had a full glass conservatory that I could sit in and gaze out of across the sea, but it was on the first floor, so a good 8ft above a solid brick wall. With their advanced intellect and most likely evolved strength, I was fully aware that the initial obstacle of the locked doors wouldn’t take too long to break through, nor would it take them too long to figure out how to get up the wall and in through the conservatory should they suspect someone living to be inside, so I had to have my wits about me and not draw any attention to the fact that I or anyone else was in here.
I spent most days rationing the food, sipping on whiskey, sitting in the conservatory and looking across the water, reflecting on what had happened and hoping that the guys got out ok and were happy and safe somewhere now.
I reminisced about Lance, about how he always looked out for me and no matter what we always had each other’s backs. My brain skipped wildly through my favourite memories of our childhood, playing with Lego or G.I Joes together, or to our later years where we’d go out and get ourselves good and drunk which generally lead to us causing some kind of trouble.
After a while, guilt absorbed me, torturing my brain as I went over what happened again and again, wandering if there was something else I could have done to stop him getting bitten. Hindsight is considered a wonderful thing, but when the retrospect torments you on how you could have saved a loved one then it’s one of the worst things in the world. I couldn’t get the image of him in my arms out of my head; covered in blood and looking scared and defeated. But I focused on the smile her gave me with his eyes before he passed, the smile I instantly recognised, the smile I was accustomed to from all our years together. We had always been close, and although he lived on the other side of the world I still felt like I could talk to him at any time about anything; he was always there whenever I needed him, but now he was gone. I think how ironic it was that if I was in the situation and he was in New Zealand, should I have had the means to he would have been the first person I contacted for advice. But he couldn’t help me now, the same as I couldn’t help him. Funnily enough, should we have all been on the beach I had little doubt that he would have either taken the car himself, or had been that bit too quick or read me too well to allow me the split second head start I had against the others to get in the car. He would have either stopped me, or done it himself. Thinking about it, I most likely would have told him about Damian’s plan instead of Phil in the house, and knowing his short fuse the way I did I think things would have gone extremely differently. For better or for worse I didn’t know, but what I did know as that I would have given anything to have him back and for him to be safe, off the UK Island with the others.
I thought about Ashley too and hoped she was alright, I hoped the news had got to her that I hadn’t made it so she didn’t waste any more energy on hope. I knew she would be, but I really didn’t want her to be sad or distraught. The thought of her being upset made me shudder, as it would normally be me that made her feel better.
I made myself laugh rather cynically whilst thinking she better not fucking find a replacement for me for at least the next ten years or so anyway. Some people may have wished her the happiness of finding comfort in the form of a new lover; Fuck that, she was mine! The reality was that eventually she would move on, I knew that, and all my bitterness aside I would genuinely be happy for her. All I did hope for what that I would always have a special place in her heart, in her thoughts and in her prayers. I wanted her to live her life and enjoy it for what it was and not dwell on me or the past, but I was terrified that I would be forgotten; pushed into the shadows as a ghost of the past, a face no one could remember, nor did they care to.
The important thing was that she was safe, all my friends were safe, and all those people on the beach were safe. In fact, everyone that managed to escape the UK was safe as the Army were not permitting any infected people, turned or not, across the waters. Without boat or plane or helicopter, the infection was confined to inside the parameter coasts of Britain and the rest of the world could live on without threat.
So, an estimated three weeks after I had seen anyone else, I was sitting in the conservatory of the pub looking out across the sea. The morning sun was glistening in the water, bouncing off the ripples of the waves as they crashed against the harbor across the way. Accompanying my morning whiskey I tucked into a bowl of dry, milk-less cereal and I squinted my eyes as I noticed something off in the distance. My bowl escaped my hands, smashing into pieces as it hit the floor by my feet. I shuffled toward the window and pressed my face against the glass with a new found fear commandeering my stomach.
As I looked across the calm waves of the ocean I could see a figure moving in the water out towards the horizon. It was a zombie. And it was swimming.
