The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped

by Rob Cockerill

  We couldn’t keep up as we attempted to give chase and, now armed with the makeshift weapons pulled from our rucksacks, pick them off. Surrounded, Jane soon succumbed. Injured, shocked and confronted in every direction, she appeared too terrified to resist and merely cowered in the foetal position against the wall of the pub’s beer garden. Submissively shredded in seconds, right before our eyes.

  We spent the next few hours not just grieving and reconciling that trauma, but trying to find a safe and strategic route back from the brink. By the time of Jane’s demise we were just a few feet away, and soon had to retreat ourselves. Though Jane’s carcass became the focal point of most rampaging zombies, pockets of them still lined the street up ahead and more seemed to be pouring out from gardens, patios, parks and alleys. Bodies also lay strewn in the road, potentially an unwitting attack just waiting to happen.

  …

  Diverted once more via the play park, several hours later we arrived at Jenny’s father’s house unscathed, wounded only in spirit and mentality.

  We expected it to be empty, but Jenny has still found it hard to accept that her family are not here. We knew her father and young family were making a quick getaway at the onset of the outbreak, he had a grand plan that we were meant to be part of but never found out about. The spread of the infection simply moved too fast and caught us all by surprise – we thought we had more time. Didn’t we all? They packed up and left, leaving only a note behind for us to make sense of.

  What it can’t tell us is whether they made it – we still don’t know. That’s one of many questions we aim to answer out on the road. For now, we have to live in hope.

  22nd February 2016

  What would you do in the event of a zombie apocalypse? Flee the country and find somewhere remote and safe from harm? You could try, but you’re unlikely to make it, so many have tried and failed. That’s what we heard, anyway. In fact, some must have tried to flee down here to Cornwall, but succeeded only in spreading the contagion. The biters spread too fast, too damn fast to do anything about it. No-one knows how they covered up to 200 miles in that time, during which the nearest airports had shut-up shop anyway, but they did.

  So would you head out into the open and live life our on the road? Or take your chances at home and reinforced your surroundings? Maybe even the office, perhaps? Either option is exactly what it says on the tin – taking your chances. There’s no safety anymore, not really. There might be safety in numbers, but there’s still no guarantee. Jane’s savage death yesterday reminded us of that.

  A number of people we knew decided to take a gamble out on the road, by car or by foot. They decided it was better to keep moving and not become a sitting target. A moving target is a harder target, they said. But is it a more vulnerable one too? We’ve experienced both takes on it. While Jenny and I have been mobile and survived without a single scratch, we’ve witnessed first-hand the torturous mutilations of both Jake ‘Dog’ Penberthy and now, Jane.

  We are, however, firmly in the camp of taking our chances out on the road. We left our fortified apartment five days ago in search of the renowned, disused military base that sits atop the village’s valley hillside. It’s been a journey punctuated by many diversions and deathly encounters, and we currently find ourselves holed up in one of those detours, my father-in-law’s vacated house.

  Separating us from the pestilence right now is a four-foot high perimeter wall of granite construction, a hefty driveway gate complete with decorative wood cladding, a couple of idle family cars, and a robust lean-to garage and shed. The only thing missing is the MPV; a reminder of Jenny’s father and siblings fleeing the house to presumed safety.

  He had felt that if they stayed here too long they would become sitting ducks – sooner or later, one of the thousands of corpses stalking the village would find a way in. He recognised the need for greater shelter, for something more enduring, and wanted to move in the hope that there might be a means of communication somewhere that didn’t rely on mobile phones.

  That’s a feeling we share, that’s what this fear-filled do-or-die mission we’re on is all about, after all. I’m convinced that there has to be something better, something safer and more sustainable elsewhere. And from the brief note he left behind, I wonder if that isn’t the only idea we share.

  Jenny,

  Sorry, can’t wait any longer. Had to go.

  Not far, somewhere safe close to home.

  Will come back for you when I can, promise.

  Love Dad

  Stay safe J

  Jenny is not so sure, but I think we might be on the same wavelength with the military base. Even if I’m not 100% confident, I’m using it as some reassurance for her; we’ll all be reunited soon. They certainly seem to have left well-prepared. The food cupboards have been pretty much cleared out, the wardrobes look a little emptier, most of the duvets and blankets are gone, and we can tell that certain tools, gadgets and other useful items have been gathered up.

  Hopefully all of those survival items have come to good use so far. We need to believe that, if only for the children’s sake. They’re too young for this shit, this intolerable, brutal cruelty. We know they’ll be as prepared as anyone can be for this though.

  The only thing they may not have foreseen was this abrasive cold weather. But I don’t think anyone could have foreseen the current weather front. No-one knew what Mother Nature had in store. After all, she had seemingly unleashed this reign of terror on the population, so who knows what else we have to look forward to? Such temperatures, and such sustained cold, is almost unheard of.

  The rain has at least abated for a few days, and this is the warmest environment we’ve been in for several days now. The house is just inherently warmer than our apartment was, even without all of the efforts at insulation and reinforcement that have been made. The gas central heating is a far more efficient means of generating warmth and radiates throughout the house, while the plush thick carpets retain that heat for longer than our cold laminate flooring ever did.

  When you factor in the added layer of reinforcement that Jenny’s father had clearly made to the doors and windows, and that we have since beefed up ourselves out of paranoia, the house is a picture of warmth and security. The upstairs rooms also give us a fair clearer view of the village, to both the front and rear of the house. It’s that view that has enabled us to make an informed decision on our current actions – given the state of zombie activity outside right now, we’re going to remain trapped for at least another 24 hours.

  23rd February 2016

  Safety, during days like these, is a foreign concept. Something that had so often been taken for granted before is now a rarity. It comes only in small doses and usually in the fortified sanctity of one’s own surroundings. For Jenny and I, it’s not even that – we’re not in our own home anymore, we’re in the abandoned shell of her father’s house. But it does feel safe, it has that rarity about it.

  In fact, I can still remember how safe I felt this morning; safer than at any time during this apocalypse. Quiet. Still. I gradually opened my eyes and, sifting through the milky haze of morning, fixed my eyes on the stars above. Morning was not quite yet breaking, but I still had that semi-conscious comfort that you get when first awake; feeling warm and snug, protected almost, knowing that it's time to get up yet just seconds away from falling willingly back into the clutches of sleep. That feeling simply does not mesh with the zombie apocalypse.

  We had fallen asleep on the floor in the converted loft space, the highest point in the house, with only sleeping bags, two pillows and a light patchwork quilt for luxury. The room’s double guest bed simply didn’t seem appropriate during such times. Sight nearing 100%, the stars seemingly shined even brighter through the skylight window, and the feeling of security was suddenly shattered as I remembered where we were – and why.

  Deciding to spend the night at the highest point in the house, potentially with nowhere to go if the house was compromised, was hardl
y the best idea and went against all of my instincts. Yet it also felt somehow safer, so much more assured and removed from the shit outside. Maybe that’s why some people love loft conversions so much – the subconscious escapism from the world around them. All I know is, it instilled a confidence that we have not experienced since 16th January, when the world fell to a blood-spattered end.

  Jenny’s breathing beside me was calm and at peace, and I could tell she had that same sense of security within. The comfort, however, has given me the time and mental space to do a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking how false that comfort is, how removed it is from the reality out there and how we can’t indulge in it.

  We need to be smarter out there. We're prepared in almost every respect, but we're not being streetwise. We left our apartment almost a week ago with rations, with clothing, with the practicalities – but not with options. We safeguarded the apartment for a potential return, but we didn't have any other back-up plans. We left ourselves vulnerable, open to the kind of changing plans that leave you wound up dead one way or another.

  We need to get ahead of the game. We need to think things through more. It's been at the back of my mind for a while – since the first night at the church – but there's been too much bloodshed and distraction taking over. I was so pent up with my frustrations and desire to leave that bloody church that I couldn't realise the thoughts that were gnawing away at me, waiting to come to the forefront.

  If a moving target really is a harder one to attack, then I intend for us to be the most elusive target possible. We need to have detours thought through, and distractions planned for the undead that allow us to proceed on our path unfettered. We need to be more confident in both our weapons of choice and our own abilities. We need to play dirty. We need to always be one step ahead.

  The power is still on, the water is still running fresh and bountiful, and we are blessed with the kind of food supply that I know countless others across the county, indeed the country, will not have. We have cabled Internet access again while here and a sense of freedom that we have not had for weeks. This house has given us more space and better vantage points with which to assess the scene outside. But those same vantage points, and the dawn of each new day, reminds us that our third attempt at leaving our safe surroundings lies ahead.

  We must not kid ourselves; we are trapped here like an alcoholic trapped in the deepest depths of addiction. We cannot break the cycle alone; we cannot change what has happened and who or what has been lost along the way; and we must not allow the situation to consume us completely. We have to do what we can to make a change – and that means breaking out of this imprisonment and making something happen.

  If we’re going to do that, without picking up the single bite or scratch that could be enough to infect us, we’ve got to do it properly. And that means boxing clever. I know now what must be done.

  24th February 2016

  The last hour has seen us have our first alcoholic drink since the outbreak began – hard, neat shots of vodka to combat the shock. Today we tried to leave the house, and spectacularly failed.

  There’s about a 20-strong mosh pit of angry cadavers now piling pressure on the gated driveway, and it’s only a matter of time until they force their way through.

  Twice before we have attempted to leave the ‘sanctuary’ of our surroundings – then the apartment and church – in our quest to escape the loneliness and unrelenting bloodshed that 2016 has become, and twice we have failed to breach the onrushing swarm of the undead. Getting out into the open was one thing, but actually getting more than 30 feet into a journey of human desolation was another.

  Today was our third failure, achieved before we had even really started. Sensing an opening further down the road ahead, the first we’ve seen in days, we grabbed our bags and broke cover at mid-morning. And we were better prepared this time. Our bags were replenished with food and water, and we were packing more robust knives than before. I had a handful of percussion caps taken from a redundant cap gun we found in one of the children’s bedrooms, a rape alarm found in another bedroom, and the remote locking keys to one of the cars on the drive, all primed to create very audible distractions when needed.

  But it still wasn’t enough. We need a bigger distraction. We also couldn’t account for a mega blind spot no more than 30 feet from the house where, unbeknown to us, a mini-pack of eight salivating, blood-dripping corpses were huddled in wait. Sighted, our presence exposed instantly, we became the object of their every bloodlust and yearning. Dormant corpses stirred in all directions, others emerged from garden hedgerows, and the sight of a diminutive little corpse in the far distance clutching a downtrodden teddy bear was the final deterrent. We sprinted back to the house, slalomed through the gate and reapplied the defences as we retreated.

  Here we are again, trapped and surrounded by chilling corpse freaks of all ages, all craving and slavering for our bodies; they’re salivating over our skin, frenzied for our flesh, and thirsty for our natural juices. They’re angry, insatiable and apathetic for their destruction of our souls.

  The constant reversion to imprisonment is crushing, the dashed hope breeds despondence, the near misses evoke undeniable fear, and the sight of child cadavers breaks your spirit. We have never cried so much, so uncontrollably. It’s intolerably shit, insufferably lonely, and all encompassing. Worst of all, it was only ever just around the corner. How did it come to this?

  Curtains drawn, barricades renewed, weapons to hand and senses sharpened, we sit here to yet again wait it out.

  25th February 2016

  Jenny and I have been together for nearly eight years and this is, unsurprisingly, the biggest test of our relationship. We’re married, we’ve lived together for six of those years, and we’ve been through just about everything there is to go through as a couple, and yet this is another challenge altogether.

  Jenny rescued me all those years ago, from the depths of despair. I had not long lost my father and, having lost my mother some five years before that, I found myself essentially orphaned in my early twenties. I was drinking to forget, and heavily, for months on end. When I met Jenny, she gave me a reason to believe again – she gave me hope. She made me better in so many ways and I said as much on our wedding day, years later – that she had not only saved me but continued to make me a better person. The same is true today; she gives me hope despite the never-ending chaos and carnage all around us.

  But she needs some hope herself right now. She has always been a strong-willed, independent person; kind, caring and of ever-increasing moral fibre through the years. This end of days scenario and everything it brings is severely testing that moral compass. It’s testing everything she believes in. The imprisonment by corpses goes against her independence, challenging her strong-willed nature like fire meeting fire. Every failed attempt to leave our incarceration adds another layer of fear and frustration.

  Jenny is desperate to be reunited with her family, yet increasingly reluctant to head out onto the road again. The safety net that this house affords is softening her mindset. At the same time, it’s adding to the adsorption, the intensity.

  We’ve never faced such intensity, nor such tests of character. I think that could go overlooked amidst all of the other, life-threatening challenges we face. It’s difficult to describe the intensity created by the situation, the constant fear-laden entrapment. It’s almost a paradox; the apocalypse only welds you even stronger together, and yet welds you so tight you could snap in two. That’s the intensity of the hiding, of the imprisonment, of the undead beating at the door for days on end – and of being involuntarily inseparable.

  We have no space, no time apart. We are under each other’s feet, 100% of the time. There is no reprieve – no popping out to the shops for five minutes or walking the dog, no day out with friends or chores to do in the garden, not even the option to listen to music as loudly as possible and drown out the world around us. There’s no separation whatsoever. And there are vic
ious animals roaming the streets, slowly and enduringly, every minute of every hour of every day.

  The sight of those rapacious corpses close up, particularly those we faced yesterday, weighs heavy on Jenny and eats away at her. I need to give her hope again – it’s my job, my raison d’être now. I need to reunite her with her family, find a better way of life and protect her from all of this torture we’re exposed to. I need to dissolve the distress and resentment that’s growing inside her.

  That’s why I’m going to do what I’m going to do tonight. Jenny will not forgive me for it, I know that. She will struggle to find agreement with my actions. But I’m confident in both the act and the long-term effects…

  26th February 2016

  One more day – just one more day left to go. In just over 12 hours time, we will grab our belongings and leave this house for good.

  Four feet wide and a hearty six miles to the next excuse for a village, the old tram trail is likely crawling with infected wanderers, but it will also be our route out of here – a path to freedom. Carved into the hillside, and quite often a muddied dirt track used by horse riders, dog walkers and would-be runners alike, the trail will be a fertile hunting ground for a slaughter at the haggard hands of the undead. Yet it might be our best hope of moving on out of town to sustained safety.