Breaking News: An Autozombiography

by N. J. Hallard

  ‘It was rough in the town; I didn’t see any survivors at all after the plane left again. I holed up in an empty railway carriage, until I plucked up the courage to fight my way out and pinched another boat. I headed down to where I thought the main ferry port was, but I ran out of petrol though, and I hiked the rest of the way along the coast. There was still a government office open in a sealed compound on the docks, next to a huge tanker which had moored there. We stood there in the rain for three days with the military patrolling us at gunpoint. If you looked ill, they’d shoot you and drag you to the edge of the quay. Eventually an Englishman appeared on the ship gangway, who hand-picked a crew of one hundred. It was like a chain gang, but at least I was going somewhere. He’d asked for only British people first, so I suppose I thought I was coming back here. I just wanted to get somewhere else at the time though.

  ‘If I thought it was rough in Thailand it was rougher on the ship. Any sign of illness - which basically meant any sign of slacking off – and you’d be decapitated and tipped over board, and your head sewn onto a bit of rope around the funnel, slowly cooking along with all the others. There were forty-two of us out of the original hundred left by the time we docked in Portsmouth. The captain, Captain Hammond was a fucking madman, but I got to know him well. He decided I’d be useful when we went through the Malacca Straits and ran into pirates who thought we were carrying fuel. They shot at us with a grenade launcher, but the Captain had mounted some old Gatling guns on the top decks which he ordered me to use. I didn’t argue, they were awesome, but didn’t half make you shake. The captain strutted around chucking grenades over into the sea, and the pirates soon went away again.

  ‘We ran out of fuel and had to barter for more at Suez, in another fortified compound. We had to stop there for a month. Eventually he won half of their main stores of fuel in a poker game, and said he’d buy up the rest as a goodwill gesture. We all boarded again, and he sent two of his men on shore to settle up - I think they accepted gold bars. Anyway, the captain just sailed off, leaving his mates there and getting us to mount the guns again, firing randomly into the dockside - I made sure I missed. Absolute madman – after that he gave me one of the positions on the bridge that had just become open. I just hoped we wouldn’t have to stop for fuel again.’

  He went to put his clean bowl down, but Dawn took it off him. Jerry appeared with a few glasses of dark foamy broth, and handed Mike and I one.

  ‘New batch. Bit strong,’ Jerry wheezed. I could see his eyes were watering. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’ He said. I noticed the eye-watering wasn’t letting him stop quaffing. It smelt like nail varnish.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jerry,’ Mike wiped his mouth, wincing. ‘I can feel the hairs sprouting out of my chest as I speak. Okay, here’s where it gets really grim though. Six people fell ill after Suez, so the captain sealed off a whole bit of the ship, trapping eleven healthy people in there with them, who were just looking after the ill ones really. We could hear them banging on the doors at night, shouting for us to let them out. No-one did let them out though - I kept thinking about what the bloke said on the seaplane in Thailand and kept quiet. After a few days the shouting stopped – but the banging never did.

  About ten people shuddered in unison.

  ‘It was hot in the Mediterranean, just as hot as it was much further south. We saw lots of wrecked ships, too, sometimes crawling with corpses. They never drown, either. Anyway eventually I recognised the Rock of Gibraltar and even saw the Union Jack flying, but no-one was left there. We didn’t dock. One thing about Captain Hammond, was that he loved his food. He’d ‘miscounted’ some of the cargo when he’d got into Thailand on the day the virus really took hold. No-one noticed. There was loads of livestock on board, which got a bit chewy by the time we’d been sailing for so long, but we still ate well.

  ‘When we pulled into Portsmouth, we were left for a week in quarantine, and then Filthy Gordon came on deck. They’d squared up to each other – too much testosterone, you know? He asked Captain Hammond whether he knew if anyone on board was infected, and he said there wasn’t, but when two of Filthy Gordon’s men opened up the doors to the end of the ship they got bitten by the phee dip that he’d sealed in there.

  ‘Filthy Gordon put a bullet right into Captain Hammond’s eye, and then he shot his two men. That’s when I first met Filthy Gordon. It’s a shame, really, because they would have got on with each other like a house on fire. I worked in the docks for a bit, with a room on Gordon’s liner, glad to be home amongst the rain and the gloom and the piss, you know? But the place had changed…’ People laughed.

  ‘I knew I’d come back to Worthing at some point, I mean it’s only sixty miles. But the snow, as well as their stories of what England was like outside the camp put me right off the idea. They said that Portsmouth town centre was piled high with stripped skeletons, and if the ones with any flesh left didn’t get you, the rats would. With nothing but marine diesel, they said a group of the men went out of the camp trying to find petrol from a car. They didn’t get far, as two of them suffocated from inhaling flies – literally their mouths filled in seconds, and the others had to retreat.

  ‘We’d often get people passing through, and some of them told us of the other camps that survivors had set up. Most of the stories were ones where the camps had been lost to the virus, where they hadn’t made it more than a month or two. They said any camp with a doctor in it was doomed, as they just did what they thought best and began on a smaller scale what the rest of the country had done the weeks before: tending to the sick, instead of taking off their heads. Some of the stories were about successes though, and near-misses. There’s a camp at Tintagel Castle…’

  ‘Where?’ Al asked.

  ‘Tintagel,’ I said. ‘It’s in Cornwall, sticking out into the sea on a little bit of rock. I went there when I was a kid – it’s supposed to be where King Arthur had his pad. Sorry Mike, didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  ‘Yeah, a camp at Tintagel. A chapter of the Hell’s Angels took it over, and took in as many survivors as they could; caring for them, protecting them, feeding them. But if you lied about being infected they’d make you kill the people you’d arrived with, before chucking you off the cliffs. Not many people lied. Also, there was one camp in the caves at Cheddar Gorge where a man killed everyone who believed that a new illness that had broken out in their camp wasn’t the virus that started it all. He even killed the ones that weren’t sick, even killed his wife.’

  The children were goggle-eyed by this point, and I must admit Mike had got better at telling stories. Lou said nothing, and just stared into the fire.

  ‘Anyway, there were other stories, too; far too many to go through now. Filthy Gordon collected information on all the camps they heard from, and had a map set up. He’d put a pin in each, and could reel off a story for every one. The country was dotted with them. When he first heard that I was trying to head back to Worthing he told me about a man with a red beard and two beagles who set up camp with his wife on Cissbury Ring, who’d kill you if you didn’t sign his contract.’

  ‘Well, that’s not strictly true,’ I said.

  ‘One of those beagles is mine,’ Al snorted.

  ‘Well, half of its bullshit anyway. It’s like these survival tales have become new folk stories, I suppose,’ Mike stretched out again. ‘To keep the kids quiet, you know. Bullshit or not though, they said you had saved a hundred men women and children, felled a thousand zombies and a thousand trees, and then built a pub because you needed the refreshment!’ He beamed. ‘The Cissbury Chapter’s reputation, as I say, precedes you.’

  I didn’t know where to put myself.

  ‘That brings me onto my next… well, duty I suppose. When I finally got ready to make the journey back to Sussex, I was given these, one for every camp I would meet on the way.’ He pulled a flattened scroll of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘A man dropped them off in Portsmouth one night in the winter. A representative of someone important
.’

  ‘No.’ I said, agog. ‘What do you reckon, The Queen, the government or the church?’

  ‘He didn’t say who he represented, apparently, but you should read it. I’ll bet a tenner Liz got whisked off quick-sharpish when they started puking in the Palace. He didn’t have white gloves and a top hat on or anything,’ Mike laughed. ‘He came in an ancient Land Rover with three soldiers. They stayed for a night, and he explained to Filthy Gordon that they were establishing contact with the surviving citizens of England.

  ‘Get this - there were many survivors in Scotland who had been cut off, where the disease had spread more slowly, and they easily slipped into ancient ways of governing themselves. They had all politely declined the representative’s offer, but said if they could help the English in any way they’d be delighted. Gordon loved that - Wales was pretty much the same, apparently. Anyway, the flunky had travelled the country, stopping at obvious centres of activity, areas of life. Walled towns, ports, that sort of thing, you know.

  ‘He was looking for people who’d made maps just like Gordon’s. He took careful notes, and then filled out these scrolls, which he left with instructions to distribute them as best he could. Oh, and a map each. That was it. He wanted a representative of Cissbury Ring to have one.’ He handed it to me.

  ‘It’s like an ambassador. Fuck. Perhaps we should decide who’s the leader… you know, who the representative is. We’ve never decided,’ I said to Mike.

  ‘Aren’t you the founding member of the Group of Four?’ Mike asked me.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I replied, ‘but its like Al says, one of the beagles is his. Everyone’s done something, I mean it’s not like I did anything special. Anyone would have done what we’ve done, wouldn’t they? Surely?’

  No-one said anything for a while. Lou was smiling at me. Al spoke first.

  ‘I’ve always said I’m in no doubt I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘I don’t answer to anyone else up here do I?’ Jay shrugged. ‘We’re all survivors up here, but it’s your camp.’

  ‘Dawn and I, well, you know how grateful we are, don’t you?’ David had his arm round Dawn. ‘Credit where it’s due and all that.’

  ‘You have looked after my children; your mother has been like a mother to my children too. I am indebted to you and I am also proud of what you have done,’ Dal frowned, ‘and so you should be too.’

  ‘He is the Messiah!’ shouted Jerry in his best Monty Python voice.

  Raucous laughter joined the murmurs of agreement from those that had gathered by the fire. I was proud, but I was more curious about the scroll.

  ‘Okay then, does that mean I get to read this thing now?’ I asked, pulling at the red ribbon.

  ‘Read it!’ Jerry hollered, egging the children on to make a noise too.

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ I was trying to sound relaxed. ‘It says “A special summons to an honourable member of the Cissbury Ring encampment, one of the sixty-five hundredths of Sussex”…’

  ‘That’s some old-school shit,’ Al said.

  ‘“…to a Council of the scattered fragments of our island, on Midsummer’s Day this year, for one week at the Windsor Encampment at Windsor Great Park.” that’s right by my old university,’ I said. ‘Lou and I got lost there once, when it was dark, do you remember sweetpea? I got freaked out and tried to climb a tree, but Lou had hauled me down and made me carry on until we could see the road.’ Everyone laughed. Sometimes I wondered why she loved me so much.

  ‘“You will not be granted entry without this missive and three copies of your local charter,’ I read, ‘two duplicates and the original, all signatures included. Make a third copy to stay within your camp. If you have a verbal charter, commit it to paper along with the signatures of all present.” I wonder if Bob’s got one at Bramber?’ I asked.

  ‘Bramber Castle?’ Mike waved another scroll at me. He had four more.

  ‘I thought you were stopping?’ Lou asked.

  ‘Oh, I will for a day. I’ve got to find Hanna though,’ he said. ‘I promised her I’d come back to her, before I went.’

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Now? I don’t know, but I know she was in Brighton, staying with her parents when it broke out.’ he said. ‘It was the holidays at university.’

  ‘Oh. Do you think she’s alive, Mike?’

  ‘I’ve got to find out. I’m going in a straight line, that way,’ he pointed, squinting. ‘I’ve got to get there before next week.’

  ‘Why, what’s next week?’ I asked, dumbly.

  ‘Midsummer’s Day.’ He grinned.

  I was getting increasingly nervous – I really wasn’t expecting to do much more travelling in my life, before Mike arrived with that scroll. Dawn spent a lot of time with me making me ride on the back of her horse, all over the Downs. She said it was a patient, strong horse which could easily take us the long but relatively safe route recommended on the map Mike had shown us. Cleared or regularly patrolled sections of track which linked known encampments were marked in blue architects’ pencil. Red areas were no-go zones, mainly correlating with the densest pre-infection population. We transferred some of the information from Mike’s map to a few we’d collected in the library, including an old map of the south of England Jinny had brought with her. It had some really detailed local tracks across the Downs, so we thought it might come in useful further afield too.

  Our best route took the South Downs Way west from Cissbury to a place called Lynch Down south of Midhurst, where we could take the old Roman Roads pretty much all the way into Windsor Great Park. It was a bit of a dog-leg but it beat trying to take a more direct asphalt route, and I certainly agreed with the notion of avoiding towns.

  As well as a few sacks of quicklime for bartering with I decided to take something with me which might go down quite well – providing they had a generator. Jay lent me his newly sharpened sword, and his scabbard. Patveer lent me his sheepskin - the biggest one yet - and told me not to be cold in the night. Dawn thought we’d be travelling for at least one night, so I packed some smoked ham and butter, and Jerry gave us a pitcher of his latest fire-water. My dad thumped me on the shoulder and wished me all the best. My mum had simply started fretting about anything from underpants to water. I grabbed some bread too, and Jay wrote out three copies of our charter which Lou and Jenna took round for everyone to sign, and lots of people wished me luck.

  Al appeared with something dark red draped over his arm. It was his zombie protection suit, and when it was laid out you could see the perfectly stitched patchwork of different material. Around the elbow and knee joints was softer, suppler hide from the bellies of deer, stretched over metal reinforcements which Al had hammered into shape. The main body of the suit was made from thick cow hide, stained a marbled red-black by red onion skins Al had been collecting from the compost heap. A high collar was an addition to the original pattern stolen from the motorcycle suit which covered my throat and halfway up the back of my head. It was stiff, but surprisingly comfortable when I tried it on, and Al said it should loosen up quickly with use. It had been studded with inset flint arrowheads, to strip the teeth from the rotten gums of any stinkers fixated on my neck. He’d got two zips from ruined trousers, which meant I could wear them with any shoes, but Al had also re-upholstered a pair of steel-toed safety shoes he’d found in the same red-black skin. Also inset into the top of the forearms and the shoulder blades, and in a spine effect down the back, were sharpened strips of corrugated iron, stitched and riveted in at a vicious angle. The sewn-in chemical gauntlets were fingerless to allow me to operate the longbow, which was strapped across my back by part of the inbuilt quiver belt. Below the knees was completely solid, with a re-shaped length of drainpipe inbuilt into the material, and a chest-plate made from a cast-iron omelette pan. It looked great, even on me, and Jay laughed when I held my longbow that I looked like a Marvel baddie.

  ‘The Bearded Bowman,’ he giggled.

 
Soon – sooner than I’d hoped - it was time to leave. Lou and I tried for a baby for a bit before I really had to go – Al had put in a handy access panel under the steel codpiece. Dawn was getting impatient though, and pointed out that I had been the one that wanted to strike camp before night fell.

  Lou and my mum were both crying when I left, and Dal rode with us for at least fifteen miles up until the point where we left the South Downs Way. The Roman road Mike’s map suggested stretched out like an arrow in front of us, overgrown in places but passable. We crossed the A272 and the A3, riding past Alton and Basingstoke, through pillowed fields and over teeming hedgerows towards Silchester. We stopped to water the horse three times, and thought we should ride through the night and stop first thing in the morning instead of trying to set up a camp in the dark. The steed was doing well, and was happy to stretch its legs. There was no need to ride through the night as it happened - we were drawn to the smoke of a large encampment as sun set. We trotted down the track towards the camp, lined with flaming torches chained to tree stumps. From the dim glow of its fire we could see it was on flat ground, with high fencing following the surrounds of what we were told by its residents that evening was a Roman town. It made sense – it was at the end of a Roman road. Siclhester was a busy camp, with strict rules, and had great gates that lowered like drawbridges. The quartermaster helped us find a spot to tie the horse and told us they knew about the Council meeting, and they had been working with “the Queen’s men” as he put it.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Dawn asked.

  ‘Clearing the forest, yonder.’ He pointed at one of the four gates that opened out onto straight, green lanes leading away from the camp. ‘We been marking the way through to the Windsor Camp.’

  ‘How far is it?’ I asked.