That’s kind of how we feel at the moment too – empty shells. Our third day of howling wind and rain lashing the base has left us enduring a dreary, macabre kind of duvet day up in the observatory room. Slowly sipping copious cups of tea or cup-a-soups, we’ve been staring out across the site for signs of life that don’t exist. We’ve seen nothing of note, and certainly no sign of whoever it was that slayed those cadavers several days ago now. Bleaker still, there’s as yet no sign of Jenny’s family either. And as I write this, reader, there’s apparently no sign of this weather front easing up.
15th March 2016
The inclement conditions still refuse to give in and we have little to report today as a result.
Having spent most of yesterday wrapped up both in duvets and thoughts of our abandoned apartment, today we found ourselves contemplating the fates of others in the village, and what might have been. The church conclave, for example, have occupied our minds a great deal today. Are they still there, quietly and pretty passively whiling the hours away? Or have they summoned up some greater aspiration and decided to move on? If so, where? We can’t help thinking that they were so blind to the horrors outside, so sheltered from the true devastation and mutilation all around us, that they would not last five minutes out in the open.
Particular thought has been with the family of the Parish councillor, Jane. They knew little of her aims to leave the church with us in search of supplies and will likely have had to come to terms with the fact that she is not coming back. Like so many others in this brave, bloody new world, they never got to say goodbye. The only consolation is, they never had to see her die, either. We just hope they never have to come face-to-face again – not now.
And what of the rest of the village? Who keeps ringing the bell at the school so methodically and yet, infrequently? What of the many pubs and guest houses that Porthreth once had to offer – were they still taking people in at the dawn of the apocalypse? Are there any signs of life at the surf club on the beach, surely one of the more naturally secure structures? Has anyone thought to make home in the many luxury log cabin resorts that sit beautifully in the north hillside?
These are all just some of the questions we’ve talked out today, while hunched up in our scruffs idly surveying the perimeter fence from the relative comfort of our vantage point 30 feet away. It doesn’t make for pleasant thought, but it’s a welcome reprieve from replaying the bodies I have slain over and over in my mind. I still can’t shake those haunting faces from my consciousness.
Amidst all of that, we have seen two very minor but notable ‘incidents’ that briefly caught our attention this morning. Firstly, there was a definite disturbance in the woodland about 50 feet in front of us. It would have been easy to overlook it with this violent wind sweeping up over the cliffs and tearing through the hillside before us, but Jenny just happened to be scanning the site with binoculars when it occurred. She described it as forceful movement through the trees and, having passed me the eyewear, I just caught the tail-end of a disturbance. What it was, however, remains a mystery.
Secondly, and it was mere moments later, a plume of smoke rose up through the valley, far into the distance. Bellowing black smoke, it was clear to see for a good half-hour before dissipating on the wind. Where or what it came from, we have no idea – but it was powerful enough to project up over the thick woodland probably a mile away on the horizon.
Were the two linked? Who can say? We can’t imagine so, given the short amount of time and large distance between them. All we need now is for the school bells to ring again to compound our abject wondering. We kept a keen vigil over the panorama ahead of us for hours, save for a 30-minute break while Jenny felt a little flush and unwell, but we saw nothing further this afternoon.
All of these little moments, these little interludes in the otherwise intolerable cruelty of survival, have rattled our cages a little, I must admit. We don’t know who’s out there, alive or dead. We don’t know what anyone’s motive is. And we don’t really know how we would deal with something if it did happen. It all just adds to the uncertainty of this forlorn, fragile existence.
17th March 2016
Dear diary
Jenny is pregnant, we think. I needed a couple of days to get my head around it. It's mind-blowing, on so many levels.
We're euphoric, metaphorically speaking of course – I'm not sure anyone can be audibly euphoric during the apocalypse – and completely over the moon with happiness. This is something we had always wanted, always been heading toward at some point and deep down, probably at some juncture in 2016.
But we didn't know that the world as we knew it would be so utterly compromised and destroyed this year. We didn't know that we would be surviving 2016. And I'm not sure whether either of us is confident we can do this and successfully see it through. It’s no world to bring a child up in. We've been struggling to flush a toilet or allow the ping of a microwave to ring out, let alone bring a whole new, helpless and innocent life into the world.
I've always said that having a baby, raising a child that you love so endlessly and unconditionally, is something that adds a world of vulnerability to you as a person. How can it not? Everything that child does or is exposed to renders you vulnerable to emotion. From cuts and grazes to disabilities and diseases, you will need to forever be strong enough to cope with what life throws at you all. That's parenthood. It is incredible, I imagine, but it isn’t easy.
Now, at a time when we are so vulnerable that our lives literally depend on it, we are adding that heavy layer of bittersweet fragility to our survival. We're laying ourselves even more bare than we already are right now – and we're potentially penning our own death sentences in the process. That's the gritty, maudlin, horribly realistic side of it that half of me is wrestling with. I also have so many concerns or questions. Is our baby healthy? Is our baby infected, by nature? Are we all infected on some level – is this outbreak airborne or transmitted by biting?
The other half of me is over the moon and full of very different questions. Is it a boy or a girl in there? How will we be as parents? Will I be a good Dad? Am I ready? Is Jenny ready? What kind of future can we build for our son or daughter, protected from this intrepid, uncertain world?
I can’t wait to be a father and yet, it terrifies me. I know Jenny feels the same. The only difference is, I think she has known or at least suspected for a few days longer and so, has had a little more time to adjust. No wonder she has been acting so emotionally-stirred over the last few days, no wonder she has been questioning our long-term survival up here – it all makes sense now. The body moves in mysterious ways.
The sickness too, that was the giveaway apparently. I’m not sure it could ever be medically proven, but Jenny is adamant she can feel some kind of changes within her body. She can’t put her finger on it or begin to describe it; it’s something chemical, something biological or even physiological. It’s a female thing, Jenny says. She first felt it a few days ago and, what we now know to be morning sickness began to confirm it for her. We’d need a pregnancy test to be sure. What chance we have of getting one of those during a zombie apocalypse, I just don’t know.
What I do know is, things suddenly feel different. Perspective has changed, somehow, almost instantly. And it’s been the first day of sunshine for a week. Actual spring sunshine is radiating out across the base, across the whole valley, providing the perfect vista upon which to gaze and get lost in all kinds of thought. Considering the news we think we have been given today, it’s almost poetic.
Or is it bittersweet? The next eight months – and beyond – will begin to answer that question. I’m still not entirely sure how to feel, but my gut instinct is one of elation.
18th March 2016
We’re still digesting it all, the whole glorious revelation that is Jenny’s pregnancy. It’s literally the best thing to have happened to either of us, and yet we can’t help but be troubled by the negatives right now.
There would
n’t even be negatives in any normal situation. But this isn’t any normal situation. This isn’t the 2016 we all thought it would be. It’s a savage, unjust and wholly petrifying new world out there, where every sound induces fear and almost every action has a bloody, fatal reaction.
Since 17th January, 2016 has descended into a world of chaos, carnage and decay. Flesh-hungry corpses rampage, ruling without reason nor notion; they have only unquenchable appetites to satisfy. Two months on, much of the surviving world is living in the dark, oppressed by a marauding army of the undead and in stasis, permanently trapped just as we are here high atop the hillside in Porthreth. Whole countries, perhaps even continents, have been overrun.
What kind of world is that to bring a child into and subject it to? True, it would not know any different. But we would. We know it’s shit and we know we want more for him or her. We want the very best for them, the biggest hopes and dreams, a loving, fun-filled childhood that knows no bounds. A rich experience of every sight, sound, taste and texture. But today’s existence doesn’t afford those opportunities – and we have no idea if it ever will again.
On that note, I’m going to call it a day. I can’t keep going over the same ground, not today. It’s not good for either of our mental states, and that isn’t good for baby. We need to switch off and get some rest while we can – and hopefully some clear thought.
19th March 2016
We're surrounded. Just like that. The whole base, to all three sides is completely swaddled in the undead. Snapping, snarling and actively rotting before our eyes in a six feet deep formation along the full length of the perimeter fence, they’re angry and excited.
When we finally retired to bed last night, our heads full of dreams and anxieties of impending parenthood, the site was still, quiet. The stormy weather aside, it has been for days. A few corpses circled around, a few dozen more roamed around amidst the tree line, and of course our very own stalker walker surveyed the scene in the distance, but nothing new.
At first glance this morning though, there they were – hundreds of them desperate for flesh. They are hungered, almost indignant with bloodlust. We have not been outside for almost a week, yet it’s as if they know we are here and are fraught with anticipation.
Who or what the hell attracted them? Are there any sinister motivations at play? Though we may be safely sheltered here for now, we’re shitting ourselves. It’s carnage out there. It’s the most exposed we’ve been to the outbreak for a few weeks, since we were right out there in the thick of it in the woods.
After a few hours of getting my mentality in place, I managed to get outside and rebuild some of the defences damaged by the storms, but what use they will be we don't know. I've got huge concerns about the fence itself, too. We watched as it continued to take a battering in the wind; day after day of swirling, rip-roaring gusts shaking it to its foundations. I had salvaged a number of discarded wooden pallets from around the back of one of the four flare gas towers, and used them to shore up different sections of the fencing, but I'm not convinced by the arrangement. There’s considerable added pressure being put on that whole structure right now as gory corpses push and pull on the coarse metal lattice. It's just not looking as robust as it once was. Perhaps it never was that sturdy. Tightly packed, there must be at least 500 blood-curdled cadavers craving the destruction of that fence and clambering to get in.
I could feel their beady gaze undressing me, stripping me of my fleshy body right the way down to the clean bone. It sent shivers down my spine. It chilled me to the core. And I just couldn’t help thinking about the little baby that we need to protect and keep ourselves safe for. We both know that Jenny cannot take any more risks now than she has to, or already has done. We have to get through this, we have to make it work; nothing else will do. I retreated inside, and promptly set about re-securing the building – every door, every window, every possible opening or weak point.
20th March 2016
Today, I have been mostly thinking about my own parents. Perhaps it is the knowledge of impending parenthood sinking in, perhaps it is just simply the idle hours of entrapment that the apocalypse of 2016 affords, but I have not been able to stop thinking about surviving 2016 with them.
We’ve certainly had time to dwell. The site is still surrounded, with cadavers building upon layers of cadavers. We dread to think how many are out there right now, or how much longer the security of the military defences will hold true. I can’t help thinking the perimeter fence will cave in sooner or later. Unless there is a reprieve in corpse activity, I can’t see it lasting the night. If that goes, we really will be sitting and praying. The hundreds of vicious, violent zombies out there will lay siege to the remaining natural defences that separate us from them. At this rate, it’s just a matter of time.
In the absence of any maverick grand plan – yet – to create a diversion or clearing of corpses, we’re sat like paranoid androids constantly checking the internal reinforcements and staring out across the site from the observatory. We’ve checked the doors, windows, structural walls, anything that might be a weakness against the onrushing undead – and we’ve checked them over and over. If anything, our constant checking might bring about an unforced error. We need to throttle back.
But that means you retreat into submission and allow the deep thinking to ensue, against the increasingly intimidating backdrop of groaning and grinding. Which has led me to get lost in thought about my parents.
The combat and arduous, terrifying travails aside, they would have been good at this. My Dad in particular would have excelled at getting us through the sheer volume of time spent cooped up indoors, under each other’s feet. He would have been brilliant at the foraging and bodging through situations; he would have made ingenious makeshift defences and barricades, inventive means of distracting corpses, and would have been invaluable at general handiness around the place, wherever it was. All of the things that I think I have done a decent job of myself, the practical things, he would have done better.
Mum, meanwhile, would have been a complete picture of anxious mess, worrisome and overawed with fear. Yet, she also would have been unrivalled at culinary ingenuity. Mum would have made the impossible possible; with incomplete or incorrect ingredients, she would have still made a heart-warming ration to get us through another day. The same could be said of cleaning and washing – and comforting. I could certainly do with her comforting words and actions right now, and she would have been the perfect grandparent for our little one to be.
They’ve occupied my thoughts for most of the day, and I can’t help thinking its all part of the impending parenthood, and the shock of it all over the last few days. It’s hit me more than I ever imagined. But everything’s a complex web of emotions right now, parenthood or not. I’m just glad, in a completely bittersweet way of thinking, that my parents passed before this apocalypse was even close to beginning – and I know they are not out there amongst the hundreds of thousands of thoughtless, instinct-driven monsters that prey on our flesh today.
21st March 2016
So, a status update:
The power is, incredibly, still on. The water is still running fresh and, presumably, healthy; I hope so, we've been drinking plenty of it. There is also still cabled Internet access, hence the blogging, and power to the control room – even if I haven’t worked out how to get anything to function.
Walker activity has plateaued, though it hasn't weakened. There are still easily more than 500 corpses clambering at the fence out there, and potentially as many as 750 I reckon.
The fence is, remarkably, still intact. We still don't know how. The undead have dropped an aggression level it seems – perhaps with no sight of us for several days now the anticipation of a feast has died down a little – but they are still exerting quite a force on it and we're amazed it's held true for so long. It's literally keeping the wolf from the door right and now without it, our survival might be a different story.
We've doubled back
into the inner sanctum of the base. Granted, it does feel a little like burying ourselves deeper into a potential tomb, but it's the survival instincts kicking in again, the same survival instincts that served us so well in our humble apartment from the onset of this nightmare until relatively recently. We managed to ride out the worst of the pestilence, the brutal opening days and weeks of its impact – if we can do the same here we'll look back on this with some semblance of happiness. Besides, do we have much choice?
Whether we can withstand up to 750 or more pugnacious zombies, I don't know. I don't know if any of our defences will hold. They heavy steel doors should be more than a match for any pressure that undead might exert, but we've fortified them to the inside all the same. Heavy furnishings like bedsteads and wardrobes sit in front of the doors, providing the perfect obstacle to intrusion.
We've mapped every square inch of the building and, from memory, the surrounding base. There's just two aspects of this building that we're completely unsure of - what and where lies beyond two separate doors that fan out from the living quarters. Both are practically welded shut; we can find no keys for either and they're so inherently heavy and secure that there's just no way past them. The schematics that we have for the building illustrate some lengthy corridors with rooms attached, but do nothing more – no description of those rooms or what they might have in store, just listless lines on a set of blueprints.
The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped Page 12