The Reanimated Dead: Into the Cotswolds
By Trevor Wakefield
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Places and buildings have been changed to fit in the story and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Massive thanks to my Wife for her patience, help and encouragement. To my son Dalton, you don’t have to be the best at what you do, just be the best you that you can be.
Chapter one
I took no notice at first, it just didn’t really click with me on a mental level, just slid by me in my post work chill out. I was driving home from my shift at the factory I worked at in Nailsworth in Gloucestershire. I had clocked out at 10pm sharp, no fucking about in my book shouting goodbyes and niceties etc., bollocks to that, I’m finished so I’m gone, work pays me to live I certainly don’t live to work like some of the sad fuckers there. To be fair it wasn’t a bad place to work but being home and doing something else, even if it was just sat in my shreddies, scratching my balls and watching tv was much more preferable.
Out on the main road there were blues and twos flashing and sounding off all over the place. To see emergency vehicles out and about currently on a Thursday night – Thursday is the new Friday after all - wasn’t that strange but the quantity and frequency of them was. As I said, I was on my way home, already tuned out and to be fair, unless it involved me, I gave no shit.
I pulled up on the paviour drive at home around five and twenty past ten. Ten twenty-five to normal people but my gramp always used to like saying it that way as it made people think for a moment, normally giving him time to come up with another quip. My home back then was on a new estate just off the Quedgeley bypass. It used to be a big RAF base and was now full of cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac of mind-numbingly boringly identical houses. Mine was a three story with a sizeable garage and front door entrance on the ground floor, living room, kitchen and toilet on the second and two bedrooms and a bathroom above that. The mortgage company still owned way more of it than I did but I was buying into the home owner dream I suppose.
I climbed out of my car, and when I say climbed, I do mean climbed. It was a Black TD5 Land rover 90, my pride and joy. Lifted, bigger tyres, winch and bumper and covered in accessories. It was soon to be covered in mud on Sunday too at a pay and play quarry with a bit of gentle green laning thrown in after. The quarry beforehand was so we took it out on the disused quarry rather than the multi-use byway later on, didn’t do to go upsetting the horse riders and ramblers, best to keep them onside.
I reached the front door then looking back at the 90 I had second thoughts about leaving it on the drive, what with all the emergency service activity about tonight it would be just my luck to wake up and find it trashed or bloody stolen. It wasn’t like this was a rough area. Far from it. Not like the estate I grew up on as a kid during the 80’s. Back then even the stray Dobermans walked around the estate in pairs for protection and my first part-time job as a kid was as a door gunner on a milk float.
I unlocked the front door, turned on the hallway light. The stairs were directly in front and to the left as I stood was the garage to house door. I unlocked it, opened the door and turned the fluorescent tube lights on. The lights made a buzz then flickered and popped into life and the garage came alive. Walls covered with mechanical tools, wood working and metal working tools, boxes, odds and sods and tons of camping and hobby gear from over the years and fads I followed. Never threw anything out though, bit of a hoarder in that sense. The up and over garage door was locked at each of its four corners from the inside, you couldn’t be too careful even in a new, relatively low crime neighbourhood.
I unlocked it, lifted the door up and over then jumped into the 90, started it up and carefully reversed it into the garage. Once it was in, I locked everything up, killed the lights and headed up the stairs to the first floor where the comfy lounge and kitchen were calling me. I flicked on one of the music channels and gave the volume a few more notches than usual and headed up again to the bathroom and bedroom. Washed the crap from the shift off and felt my body relax a few more notches, shorts and t-shirt on then back down to forage some food from the fridge. My feast for tonight was two quick cook fajitas and two cans of cold Guinness whilst watching a few re-runs of fools and horses. On opening my second can I poured a splash of port in with it, it would help me sleep and I didn’t have work again until 2pm. Whilst downing the beautiful drink I returned a few texts from earlier in the day I had ignored and checked Facebook. Facebook was a mixture of sod all going on and speculation of what all the fuss and emergency vehicles were all about. Bollocks to it, I downed the last of the Guinness and shut the laptop down. Bed before twelve for a change might do me some good. Certainly, couldn’t do any harm.
The petite brunette antipodean that is Natalie Imbruglia dancing provocatively around in a sparkly ¾ length dress, top hat and ox blood red Dr Martins fires a pump action shot gun! Cocks it one handed Hollywood style before losing off another shot shouting. ‘what the hell are you!?’ She shouts again only this time her voice is that of a frightened male. My eyes burst open. That wasn’t in my dream! I heard real shots. Bloody close real shots! Whipping off the duvet I sprang to the window, I never shut the curtains or window, never liked being too cooped up, so looked through the net curtain. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear running, shouting and panicked voices heading in my direction from the right.
The bloke shouting ran past my drive like Usain Bolt, clothes torn with his left jacket sleeve hanging around his wrist and sweating like a fat kid with no money in a cake shop. He stopped in the middle of the road and raised the shot gun to his shoulder, no off the hip action from this chap, he was aiming at something, he let go of another two shots, at what or who I still couldn’t see. He broke the gun ejecting the two spent shells and rummaged around in his jacket pocket presumably for more shells as another bloke just as ragged and sweaty ran up to him and got him running again.
I ummed and ahhed about calling the police for a moment before doing so. I couldn’t get through. I could see net curtains and blinds across the road twitching like they had an epileptic life of their own and just assumed that I wasn’t the only one calling them about this little matter to report it.
Oooooh. My bowels were starting to rumble good and proper, that jolt from the bed must have loosened something and now I was awake I may as well go and drop the kids off. A quick look down the stairs showed no paper through the letter box, though this was getting to be a regular occurrence at this time of the morning since we got a new paper boy. The last one got sacked for being caught smoking a joint whilst delivering his papers, at least the kid was on time even if he was off his tits most of the time! Alas, it was going to be a non-reading dump this morning.
Teeth, hair and face wash later and I’m sat writing my shopping and to do list at the dining table when there is the screech of brakes and several sickening thuds out the front of the house, the chair I was sat on went skidding back on the laminate flooring as I again leapt to a net curtain covered window to see what was going on. Outside was a red Ford Mondeo with two people on the floor in front of it. The plastic waste of space bumper that cars have nowadays was hanging on just, the bonnet was caved in and there were two crimson coloured starbursts on the windscreen where two heads had made contact heavily. I grabbed the cordless phone off the table and hit triple nine. Engaged again for fuck sake!
I hear an engine revving and a gearbox screaming, looking out again and I see the Mondeo re
versing rapidly up the street waving left and right as the driver tries to keep control of it in reverse. Back at the scene and one of the injured chaps is on his feet, staggers a few feet over to the other on the floor and drops to their knees. I’m gob smacked this guy can even stand never mind attempt to give CPR to his mate. Quickly I write down all the details I can remember of the Mondeo and its driver onto my shopping list for when I can eventually get through to the police. I look out again out of a morbid curiosity and the guy on the floor has been joined by about five or six others and it looks like they are all giving it the Vinny Jones but without the Bee Gees soundtrack. That was what I thought at least until one of the groups gets up and walks away with what looks like a string of sausages. ‘Fuck me! They’re fucking eating him!’ I was so shocked that I actually shouted it out and then laughed. This had to be some kind of wind up!
The others were still bent over him, casually tearing at him with their hands and teeth, eating him with the calmness of grazing cattle. I was rooted to the spot like my feet had become one with the laminate flooring and was holding me there, so I took it all in. My mind was like last night, it just wouldn’t process or even believe what my eyes were showing it in glorious 3D technicolour and 7.1 surround sound. Either my estate had forgot to tell me it was holding a cannibal’s day out or they were real honest to god Zombies!!!!
I found the remote and banged the TV onto BBC24. It was all over the news. Fuck, it was all over the world! I slapped my own face! I was awake. There was no Natalie Imbruglia cavorting in a skimpy dress, this was no dream. This was Romero for real!
Chapter 2
I dropped the remote onto the couch and ran to the landing, down the staircase to the front door, checked it was definitely locked and threw the top and bottom bolt for good measure, hell I even put the shitty little gold door chain or for all the fuck all extra help it would give! I stood looking out of the security door viewer for a bit. The cannibal good Samaritans had now moved on leaving just a torn, stained ball of clothes, empty human carcass and a pool of congealing blood.
Right! First bloody thing first! Cup of sweet tea! With tea in hand I sat surfing the news channels. Thankfully this is still the real world and not a Hollywood film. It appears people have cottoned on to the facts rather quickly and information is forthcoming fast. Nobody knows what has caused this, but they do know that bites kill and transform you. Transformation also happens after a non-bite death - again they don’t know why but they do know that head trauma (shooting, stabbing, crushing etc.) kills them as does decapitation but although it stops the body the head can still bite. Don’t approach and stay indoors is the advice of the hour.
All civilian flights both domestic and international are grounded, boats/shipping are docked, nothing is coming in or out of the UK. COBRA have convened and have ordered the channel tunnel closed. A few hours later we learned that closing it meant that Royal Engineers had sealed them with explosives.
Army, Navy and RAF units were mobilised we were being told. To where and for why we were not. For the moment I had seen and heard enough, time to get busy. Job one: water. Who knew when we would lose utilities, could be hours, days or weeks but I was going to take no chances? Before mains pressure was lost, I filled everything I could. Bath, pots, pans, bottles, buckets etc. with that done I was on to job two: food. Now that’s where a normal single bloke would be shut out of luck. Thing is, I was a sucker for the buy 2 get 1 free bollocks. I had tins everywhere in the kitchen. Tins of tuna, soup, hotdog sausages, bacon grill/spam, corned beef etc. etc. I had ready meals in the fridge and freezer which I would eat first as who knew when we would lose electricity. I had a small portable generator in the garage I could run it on if push came to shove, if I used it carefully with the fuel I had I could probably get another three-four days use out of the freezer, the only worry was the noise from it. Also, in the garage I had some, not a lot but some camping/hiking food packs for emergency or if I had to make a run for it.
Job three: weapons. This isn’t America. Guns are around but they certainly aren’t two a penny. I had an air rifle. An Air Arms TX200HC .22 spring powered rifle. It was full legal power you couldn’t get more powerful without needing a license, and it needed to be cocked and loaded for each shot. It wouldn’t kill a zombie but had great sights on it and could be used to quietly kill rabbits, birds and squirrels for food…….and cats and dogs, fuck it, I don’t care, I’ll live like a Korean for a bit if I must to survive. Hatchets, machete, sheath knives, crow bars? Got a ton of them. Archery kit? I stopped writing and headed down to the garage. Out of my camping drawers I got out my sheath knives, machetes, hatchets and folding saws, crow and pry bars from my toolbox and put them all to one side of the work bench. Behind the work bench were my two archery bags. I picked up the recurve bow bag and removed the stock and two arms. Clipped them on and fitted the string, put it to one side and then got the arrows out of the carry tube. Three practice sets of 32” long arrows with practice points. That was fine by me, if they could bury themselves 4” into a straw back stop at 50 yards then they would kill a zombie no problem. Hunting tips are there to cause wounding and blood loss to an animal, to slow it down and make it bleed out and die quicker. No good when a zombie doesn’t rely on blood to keep going. The crossbow bag came up next. It was already fully assembled with sight and six bolts on its integral holder. Two spares in the bag made eight bolts in total. Assuming I never met too many at once and could retrieve my bolts and arrows I should be ok for a small skirmish at least. Bottles of white spirit, thinners, brake cleaner etc. all came back up with me too. Up at the dining table I led out a selection of my weapons ready for use if I had to in the house.
Right, I thought to myself, recap of the situation at hand. I am in a three-story house with no ground floor windows, back garden is sealed with a good six-foot-tall strong close board fence all the way around. The garage main door is aluminium and secured at all four corners. Only entrance to the back garden is a door at the back of the garage and a metal staircase from the kitchen – kitchen has a small balcony with steps down to the patio. The front door I bolted earlier top and bottom is made of heavy wood, no glass and a mortice and Yale lock. I have water and more food than I realised, probably two – three weeks if the electricity stays on and I ration carefully. Keep noise to an absolute minimum, so tv and radio low, all windows and doors closed to compartmentalise any noise. On the living room window, I’ll fit another net curtain for daytime use and draw curtains and use thick blankets at night to stop light form tv or torch from escaping.
Think that’s about it. Just sit it out as long as possible and see how it goes. Wait at least a week or longer and then make some more informed plans. I felt strangely relaxed about it all, didn’t feel any panic or worry. Honestly, I felt more worry/ anxiety when I checked my bank account and I had less beer tokens than expected!
The TV for the rest of the day concentrated on the crisis in the UK and not the rest of the world which I was bloody glad about. We were an island. Fuck the rest of the world until we had sorted ourselves out.
The evening in my mid terrace three story makeshift zombie bunker passed quietly, the odd scream and car tearing by but that was about it, which made me think that many of my neighbours were doing the same as me. I had found some ear plugs earlier on in the garage in my search for weapons, but I was reluctant to use them for fear of not hearing someone or something coming into the house to rob me or eat me.
After a fitful sleep in bed, waking periodically and stealing looks out through the curtains I gave up and came downstairs, removed the blankets from the living room window and drew the curtains carefully so as not to give away any signs of movement. It had rained quite heavily during the night; the rain normally sends me to sleep but didn’t have that effect last night. What it did do was wash the congealed blood smear away from where the Mondeo victims remains were. His clothes and carcass were still there. The local foxes had obviously turned their noses up at what was le
ft. I wonder if he had been a hunt supporter would they have had just a nibble for the fuck of it.
I decided I would move my mattress from the bedroom to the living room, that way I could keep an eye on the news 24/7. Next job was placing two coloured buckets in the toilet. One black for solids and one yellow for urine. I didn’t want to wastewater or make any unnecessary noise flushing the toilet. Once used they would get emptied/buried in the back lawn. I had made up my mind to use the last of the bread I had before it went mouldy, so I had toast and crunchy peanut butter whilst watching the news.
Footage of five apache gunships clearing the streets in Westminster with their mini guns whistling away spitting a ravaging wall of lead down on the undead, with the odd hellfire missile thrown in for good measure kept playing over and over. Bodies, some looking dubious as to whether they were zombies, ripped to shreds by explosives and large calibre bullets fired at a frighteningly high cyclical rate. Army units following through mopping up with guns and flame throwers. So much for the Geneva convention on the use of such weapons now, I suppose someone decided zombies weren’t covered by it.
According to the news this was the first sortie by the apache’s/ army units so judging by what we could see they should make a significant dent or even a comeback soon. For the rest of the day there were no new developments until the evening when it was announced that not only had large parts of Bristol reported they were infection free but with army help they were regaining ground and kicking zombie ass. Fair bloody play to them, and all this because someone implemented a plan against a zombie invasion that Bristol had as an April fools’ stunt. Well it bloody worked, and no bugger was laughing about it now.
Eleven o’clock came and I was just about to climb into bed when channel 4 news just went black suddenly. I wasn’t sure if it was a power cut their end, a relay down or as a result of the outbreak but I couldn’t help wondering about Krishnan Guru-Murphy and John Snow – I’d miss his virtual reality graphics on the expanding zombie population.
The Reanimated Dead (Book 1): Into the Cotswolds Page 1