Left Behind: A Short Story

by Loscombe, James

  Could Michael and the girls really be dead? It seems like I would know if they were. That I would feel something. The logical part of my mind knows that’s nonsense though. They could have been dead for days and I would rather not know.

  I barely move all day. I don’t know if it is grief or acceptance. If I am going to give up, then this is as good a place as any to do it. Maybe one day someone else will come here needing a place to hide and find my body.

  When night comes I crawl back under the covers, close my eyes and hope that I don’t wake up. Without my husband and children my life has no purpose, so what’s the point of dragging myself through it?

  It is not long after dawn. There is a gnawing hunger in my belly. I grope for my bag, force down an energy bar and wish I’d saved some water. Now I’ll have to get more. While I’m at it I would prefer to eat something other than oats and grains. Although my mind is ready to die quickly and without a fuss, my body seems determined to keep going.

  Outside the sky is a milky pink colour. There are three zombies at the end of the street. I pick the opposite direction.

  It isn’t long before I find a shop where I can get everything I need. I sit on a bench and eat two bags of crisps and three chocolate bars.

  If I am staying in the city then I should find a more permanent place to live. Is this a good area? In the short term, while food is plentiful and zombies are relatively rare, it seems it. But what happens when things change? Would I be better off leaving London?

  I put my rubbish in the bin, although it will never be collected now. What I need is a map so I can get an idea where I am in the grand scheme of things.

  While I consider where to get a map, I walk. I pass a zombie that has been cut in two. It uses its arms to drag its filthy belly across the ground towards me. I stop and watch for a moment, wondering whether it feels pain. If I had a weapon then I might put it out of its misery. Then I turn and keep walking. I hear it drop to the ground as it gives up on me.

  It is mid-afternoon by the time I reach the library. I hadn’t planned to come here, but now it seems obvious. I walk up the steps and find the old building unlocked. I push the door open and enter cautiously.

  Light streams in through a high glass ceiling. Moats of dust swirl lazily in the air. I stand for a moment and let the calm wash over me. It brings back memories of childhood. My dad used to take me to our local library every Saturday morning to pick books for bedtime and listen to the story tellers.

  I walk to the helpdesk. There is a pile of newspapers on the floor. The top one has the headline: MISTERY VIRUS RESPONSIBLE FOR INCREASING VIOLENCE.

  They weren’t the last to be published. Those had headlines like: IT’S ZOMBIES, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! But this being a public building it would have been one of the first to evacuate.

  This is a distraction, but a welcome one. I am not in a rush so I might as well take my time.

  Past the desk the room splits into rows of shelves, each lined up with the middle like the spokes of a wheel. When I turn on the spot I can see that there is no one there. I only have to walk around the edge of the room to confirm there is no one hiding there either.

  The reference section is on the second floor. I take out the last edition of the Ordnance Survey which covers the area of London I think I’m in. I carry it to the reading tables, open it and start looking for the library.

  Twenty-minutes later I’m starting to wander if I picked up the wrong book when I see it. My heart drops into my stomach. This is the wrong map and I’ve found something I’d told myself I was no longer looking for.

  The Isle of Wight.

  It is clearly marked in the bottom left of the page. A little way out from the coast. You would need a boat to get there. I’m pretty sure they won’t be running the hovercraft anymore.

  I stare at it for a long time, not aware that I am thinking anything at all. The decision is made without my conscious input. Of course I am going to go there. How could I do anything else?

  Afterwards I find the correct map and work out the route I will take. It will be a long journey, but so be it. I would walk for a year if it meant seeing my family again.

  That night I hardly sleep. I find a room in a large town house and spend most of it pouring over the map. Eventually I do close my eyes and by the time I wake up it is the middle of the morning. By the time I’m ready to leave, half the day has gone. It means I have to adjust my plans and find a different place to stop for the night, but I refuse to let it become an excuse to put off leaving for another day.

  There seem to be more zombies on the street. I hide in shadowy doorways and scramble through blackened ruins to avoid them. Perhaps it only seems that there are more of them because I have a plan now. I can no longer take the path of least resistance. I don’t make as much progress as I would like and, even by my revised schedule, I am behind. I stop for the night in a pub cellar.

  Things do not improve much over the next few days but, I refuse to give up. I inch towards the city limits, determined that I will reach The Isle of Wight, no matter how long it takes.

  Five days into the journey I’m walking through a street lined with shops, wondering why anyone bothered to steal iPhones, when I hear engines. A moment later three cars overtake me. I wonder if I should run away.

  They leave the engines running and two men get out. At a distance they look big. One has a shaved head and arms as thick as my legs. The other is skinny with glasses. He looks like a middle manager for a particularly dull company.

  The middle manager takes the lead, fixing a smile to his face and stopping a few feet in front of me. He isn’t a middle manager, he’s a salesman. "Hi," he says. The big man stops just behind him.

  "Hello," I say.

  "I’m Tom, this is Bennett."

  I look from one to the other but say nothing. I have no intention of telling them my name.

  "It’s dangerous out here," Tom says. "Are you on your own?"

  "I’m meeting my husband," I say.

  "That so?" Tom says.

  I nod.

  "I don’t see him."

  "I’m not meeting him here."

  "Where then?"

  "Is there something I can help you with?" I say. A heavy feeling settles on my stomach. I want this over with.

  Tom laughs.

  "What’s so funny?"

  "You helping us," he says. "We wanted to see if we could help you."

  That seems unlikely but I nod and smile.

  "We could drive you to meet your husband."

  "I’m not sure he’d like me arriving in a car full of men."

  "Jealous sort?"

  "Very."

  If they want me in their car, they’ll have to force me, and I don’t intend to make it easy for them.

  "Listen," Tom says. He takes a step closer. I try to work out how many I can let him take before I have to do something. "I’m serious. It’s not safe here. You could get hurt."

  "I can look after myself," I say and realise that it’s true. I’ve been on my own for weeks now.

  He smiles at me like I’m a child, but I’m not anymore. "You’ve been lucky so far. Let us take care of you."

  Although I’m not certain, I’m pretty sure I know what he’s got in mind. For a moment I imagine letting them take me. The old me would have. The new me wonders if they are holding other women and whether I could help them. I shake the thought away. I’m no longer a child, but I’m still not a hero.

  Tom takes another step forward but before he comes to a stop I begin to move. It catches him off guard and he stumbles. The other man has quicker reactions but he’s further away. Tom stretches out an arm, but he misses. I turn and run.

  "Stop her!" Tom shouts.

  There are footsteps behind me, and cars being put into gear. I don’t look back. I run towards the nearest side street, which I hope is too narrow for the cars to get through.

  It isn’t likely I’ll be able to outrun them, so I try to think of something else I can
do. The footsteps are already nearer. I can hear the panting breath of Bennett. Then I also hear the low, throaty moan of zombies.

  They are ahead of me. Wherever the alleyway leads, there will be zombies waiting.

  An idea begins to form.

  Tom and his friends don’t strike me as the kind to run and hide.

  My footsteps echo loudly in the narrow street. I try not to think about the fact that I am purposefully running towards an unknown number of zombies.

  As I near the end of the street I glance back. Bennett and Tom are behind me. The other end of the alleyway has been blocked by a car and there are more men getting out.

  I turn back and leave the alleyway like a bullet from a shotgun. The zombies move towards me, but I don’t stop running. I collide with one of them and send it spinning away. It hits another and a few of them stumble and fall. I hit more as I run, not stopping. Doing my best not to slow down. There is no time to wonder what is happening to the men. All I can do is focus on getting to the other end of the courtyard.

  It seems to take no time at all. I run into the side of a building and stop. Wait for one of the zombies to grab me, but they don’t.

  Cautiously I turn and look back. Tom and Bennett emerge from the alleyway. A hundred zombies stand between us. I see that it doesn’t matter whether they are the sort of men to stand and fight or run and hide. They are trapped.

  There is another alleyway. I have no interest in watching zombies slaughter anyone. I move quietly away from them. I do my best not to hear the screaming but can’t avoid it. I know that I am leaving those men to die, and I feel nothing.

  It takes a week to get out of London. I feel a tremendous relief to put it behind me. On the open road it is easier to avoid zombies. It is only two more weeks before I can smell the sea air and see gulls floating in the currents above me.

  The day before I reach the coast, I spend the night in a boarded-up bed and breakfast. I take fresh clothes from a pleasantly un-ransacked sports shop and do my best to wash with bottled water. That night I can’t sleep. There are too many things to think about.

  It isn’t until I promise myself that if they aren’t there I will leave. That I won’t stop searching until I know one way or another what happened to them. With that thought I can close my eyes and slip into a pleasant dream where I am holding my daughters again.

  About James

  James Loscombe is a father of two boys living in Cirencester, England with his wife Tamzin. He has been writing since he was old enough to sit down with a pen and paper and has published under a variety of pen names. To keep in touch or send feedback, please go to http://jloscombe.com/contact/

  If you would like to read more by James then check out http://jloscombe.com/books/ where you will find a complete list of releases.

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