The Pestilence: The Diary of the Trapped

by Rob Cockerill

  Other than that, the core of the building here is relatively secure and in good shape.

  To the rear of the building, really backing only onto the cliff top and a neighbouring farmer's cornfield, I've simply littered it with sprinklings of smashed glass. It's a bit of a clichéd trick from silver screen spy thrillers, but footfall unknowingly crunching on that glass will give us the heads up about any threat to the lesser known rear face - whether undead or otherwise. We have guns loaded and ready to be used on our side of that door, even if we've never before fired a weapon in anger. I still hope that we don’t have to chalk up that kind of achievement.

  22nd March 2016

  The entrapment is getting to Jenny all over again. I’m putting it down to the cacophony of emotions swirling deep within her at the moment, stirred up by the suspected pregnancy.

  A crack in the blinds in the library allowed a hundred splinters of sunlight to impress on the door beside us this morning, the gentle dawn light instigating a pause in our distracted reading and training both our attentions on the window behind us. It was a reminder of the hordes of snarling corpses that lie in wait outside, snapping on the air and salivating in anticipation of their next meal.

  We have perhaps not enjoyed such warmth and security as the base affords since the early days of the apocalypse, we had not slept a whole night through for even longer, and had not felt so safe for weeks. But the vista outside shakes Jenny to her core every time she sets eyes on it. As she pulled the heavy faux fur throw tighter around her huddled body and snuggled into its softness, she knew this was as got as it got right now. But she also felt that it couldn't last, she says.

  As I skulked around the room wondering how long we could justify staying here sheltered and assured, I began to question whether we really would ever need to leave at all. The spring frost had returned overnight, but we can’t feel any trace of it in here right now. Biters stalk the woodlands outside and hound the fence all around us, we know, yet in fleeting moments we can feel so removed from it all in here that it’s possible – just for split-seconds – to forget. We have fences that are holding, we have land to one day utilise, we have power and water, and we even have some light firearms. The installation gives us a welcome respite from the immediate dangers out there; could it also give us a home?

  Jenny is not convinced our futures do lie up at the base. Every time we scan the site from the observatory or catch a momentary glance through the blinds as we did this morning, another layer of doubt compounds her worst fears. "They said this wouldn't happen, they said rural places would be safe for months," she cried.

  "People. Studies. Reports. All these experts and think tanks, all of their research into disease control and zombie outbreaks said that the cities would go first – but the rural places would be safe. Well they were wrong, weren’t they? We're not safe. It took days for this shit to reach us, not weeks, not months, just days. So what hope is there? We don't have a hope."

  What could I say to that? I literally have nothing but blind faith and somewhat empty assurances. I just have to make sure that I convey genuine belief in them and see it through, if only for Jenny and the baby. We couldn't have predicted this, no-one could, not really. With increasing bacterial resistance, globalisation, and a whole load of other products of mankind’s development, the indelible truth was that an apocalypse of some kind was only ever around the corner – yet we still couldn’t have foreseen this. But we can survive it, one day and one dream at a time. We can make it work, and we are making it work. We've got to believe, all three of us.

  23rd March 2016

  This is no longer survival, this is about sustainability, long-term. That's our mantra anyway, even if I know deep down that surviving 2016 is as good as it gets. It’s a continuing train of thought, or conundrum, over the last few days and weeks. It’s also a belief that I’m using to get Jenny through.

  I’ve been working all night to get plans together for a fresh start up here. Jenny has been getting some much-needed sleep; I have been sketching out plans for a crop patch among the grassy knolls. She tosses and turns; I read books and research agriculture. She stirs and dreams of better days; I power nap and resume planning for those better days. While she sleeps, I scheme.

  It’s been a long night. We’re still safe inside the building’s inner sanctum, but it’s been a while since we took sleep shifts and I’d forgotten how unnerving the unrelenting moaning and groaning of a thousand cadavers can be. It’s cruel and oppressive in equal measure.

  We have to find a way of clearing the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses outside, and I have to step up and spare Jenny any more anguish and torment. The least risky means of doing that has to be to use the flare gun we found in one of the vehicles several weeks ago now. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner. I knew the rape alarm and handful of percussion caps we had left from a toy cap gun would not be enough to deter such a strong number of assailants. It simply wouldn’t have touched the sides. But when it came to me this morning to finally use the flare gun, after a whole night of brain-wracking, I was kicking myself that I hadn’t figured it out before now.

  It has to be the best solution, for now. I plan to fire it off to the east of the base as the undead look at it, further up the coast toward the hamlets of Porthtewyn and Porthperan. It still involves running the gauntlet of the perimeter fence, to a degree, but the inevitable distraction of the bright red flare should be more than enough to fire the fleshy lust of the aggressive corpses long enough for me to bolt out of sight. Hopefully once scores of them begin to follow their hungered contemplation of the flare, the rest will follow. I just hope we’re not luring them to another unlucky bunch of survivors somewhere in the distance.

  I’m going to wait until late this afternoon, perhaps nearer early evening. We’ll need the right light for the flare to have maximum impact and keep the gaze of the cadavers long enough to put enough distance between us, and simultaneously mask my presence a little. I’m thinking 6pm could be the optimum time.

  It will take several hours, perhaps all night, in fact. But once our surroundings are carcass-free, we can set about building all over again. I plan to pull a few intensive 20-hour days shoring up our defences, checking the fencing for weak spots or damage, and getting to grips with my long-hoped for trench plans. I’ll get Jenny to keep surveillance from inside the fence while I work furiously on the other side digging out a 5-feet deep trench and planting branch bayonets at intervals throughout, impaling cadavers as they fall into it. All of the dug-out earth will be mounded up against the bottom of the fence for added reinforcement, with any excess soil used to create my raised beds for crops.

  It certainly won’t be easy, and I’m absolutely shitting it at the thought of being on the opposite side of the fence to Jenny for long spells, but we have to get this done properly this time around. Sitting deep within the building clinging on to any shreds of security while hundreds of corpses are baying for blood just 30 feet or more away, as we have done for the last few days, is no way to live. We need to be more street-wise. We need to break the shackles of imprisonment and take back the middle ground, even just a little. I also plan to de-cap one or two of the nearest mine shifts if I can, creating a ready-made pit for meandering cadavers to simply stumble into and decompose some 300 feet down into the ground.

  Once secure, we can turn our attentions to our efforts to make the base work for us; making some use of those grassy knolls, building up more internal defences, constructing water butts and filtrations systems just in case the water stops flowing, and creating the raised beds for crop growth. The latter will mean I have to venture into the wilderness again, briefly, to penetrate the nearby farmer’s meadows and pillage maize kernels from the cornfield, cabbages from the patches, and any other discernible produce. If I have the time and momentum of courage, I may be able to search for something more than that. But I don’t intend to stray too far, nor leave Jenny holed up at the base’s observatory on her own for
too long.

  This is all in the name of sustainability, and we will make it work – not just for us, but our family. It’s going to be a crazy journey; first stop, my date with a flare gun. Wish me luck, reader.

  24th March 2016

  Sweaty palms, clammy chest, and with my own life literally in my hands, I ran the gauntlet of the airstrip to the far corner of the military base and dived down behind a large fuel storage tank. From there, I pressed hard on the trigger and fired the flare gun far up into the skies over Porthtewyn – and cowered in blind hope. My disguised position provided limited view of both the flare’s impact, and any oncoming threat that I might need to be aware of.

  Unsighted and with my back to all of the action, I had only the soundtrack of slogging, murmuring corpses to judge my actions by. Even as I ran for cover behind various objects and outbuildings and staked my very indirect way back to the base, I had little opportunity to assess the scene around me; my desired concealment wouldn’t allow it. Twenty minutes later and I still had no idea if our plan had been successful.

  But it worked! We are safe again, and secluded. As I write this there are but a handful of remaining cadavers encircling the base, comfortably kept from our space by the able and seemingly ever-reliable perimeter fence. Among them, lingers the ‘stalker walker’ that apparently refuses to leave our sides, like a loyal retriever unwilling to give up on its master. Hundreds of walkers – literally hundreds of them – followed the bold, shimmering red flare over the cliffs and into the distance. Quite how long they may have persisted in following that orb we do not know. They may only have trudged as far as Porthtewyn’s volleyed outskirts; but they are far from here. We live for a few more days in relative relief and tranquillity.

  Which allows us to remove some of those internal defences and hit the rest switch, getting back to a brighter, more bearable state of mind, if only for a little while. It also allows us to carry forward our plans for longer-term survival; plotting trenches and traps, reviewing our reinforcements, and strategising for sustainability. We’ve been busy doing just that overnight and this morning we emerged anew, ready to embark upon a new chapter of endurance up here.

  Though keen to keep Jenny even further from harm’s way, we both ventured outside before lunch to break up some of those discarded wooden pallets and begin to make the raised beds that we hope will provide us with food crops of some kind in the future. Shortly, I will set off on a two-fold ‘mission’ over the wall and into the neighbouring farmland; firstly to loot crop seeds and secondly to lure any residual corpses away from the site. My palms are already starting to dampen and perspire at the thought of heading out there on my own, into the unknown.

  25th March 2016

  According to the calendar pop-up on my laptop today, it would be Easter this weekend. It’s Friday, but there’s little good about it. Just over three months since the world quite literally came apart at the seams and sent pockets of the populace into hiding, and it’s a very macabre place to be.

  When it’s not fraught with fear and flesh-flying scenes, the scene outside is one of dread – a dank and dark existence. It’s a combination of horror-filled survival and all-encompassing entrapment. Easter had always been a time of reflection, a time to celebrate sacrifice, regrowth and new beginnings. We have the sacrifice, but now it’s more reanimation than regrowth. It’s increasingly darker days than new beginnings; the world around us is more revulsion than resplendence.

  How lucky we once were, only last year in fact, to be ‘celebrating’ Easter with hot cross buns, chocolate eggs, and family and friends alike. Twelve months on, and we’ll be happy to make it through another weekend together, unscathed. No hot cross buns, no bounding Easter bunnies to speak of, no chocolate to seek comfort in, and no family or friends in attendance. Right now we’re trapped in a very scary, very lonely new world.

  That’s been reaffirmed for me not once but twice in the last 24 hours. The dash for crops presented me with the first affirmation. It was desolate out there, completely vacuous. My heart was pounding so much it felt like it was going to burst right out of my chest, and yet there was nothing around me; nothing bust meadows and empty space. Even the walkers I had sought to distract up to the cliff edge and out of our way were desperately lagging behind, so much so that I had time enough to fill my backpack with a dozen corn on the cobs, even more maize kernels, a couple of cabbages and a hefty marrow before they had even reached the stone wall between us. The farmer’s fields proved a survivor’s riches.

  A little more content in the pace I had in my pocket, as well as the knives, I ran on toward the farmhouse and found it thankfully vacant, at least to my knowledge; I didn’t stray beyond the kitchen and again had enough minutes spare to loot a handful of jams, eggs ad dried foods. My backpack brimming and yet my confidence now less so, I turned on my heels and ran for the far corner of the cabbage patch, away from the slow-to-catch-up corpses that had proven such a lumbering enemy. A handful of carrots later and I had already negotiated the stone wall again and gave a cursory glance back to see the cadavers heading straight for the farmhouse, my escape successfully averted.

  Though it had been mere minutes, the loneliness felt decades old; for miles the scene was one of emptiness, nothing coming and nothing going. Just craggy cliff edges, wooded hillsides and a salty, blood-laden stench in the air.

  And then, as I turned to face the base we now called home, there it was. The menacing, seemingly cerebral corpse that has so stalked our survival for weeks. It stood right there in front of me, not thirty feet away and ominously between my now, and my safety. From solitude to shock in seconds, I hesitated and scrambled for thoughts. It stood too tantalisingly close to the pallet-born ledge that I had crafted to give me quick passage over the rear fence. It grew visibly angrier and voracious as the seconds passed by, facing me down and twitching all over as if it couldn’t hold back any longer. A savage, flesh-stripping attack had been a long time coming from this particular blood-thirsty beast and I quickly worked out that my only way past it would be the most primitive of diversions. I would have to run into space in the opposite direction and as it gave chase, turn on my heels again and damn near risk turning my ankle to sprint back to the ledge and over the fence.

  Fitness and agility – and vast open space – were on my side today, but they won’t always be. I know that. I may have outrun several unwieldy walkers and out-thought a more astute, aggressive other, but there’s only so much running you can do – especially with a babe in arms. And I won’t always be so fortunate either. This brave new world is no place for misguided confidence.

  I don’t think Jenny and I have ever hugged so tightly; she watched the whole drama with our haunting corpse play out from the observatory and confessed there was a moment she didn’t think I would make it. We embraced for 20 minutes, neither of us wanting to let go of the other. All the while, I felt the gaunt gaze of that insatiable cadaver piercing through the walls with renewed intent. True enough, as we turned to face the window, it stared back at us through the wiry mesh of the fence, pressed up against the surface and convulsing with an antagonistic hunger. Though reunited and relieved, we were met with a feeling entrapment and isolation all over again.

  25th March 2016

  Dear diary

  An impromptu miracle in the control centre has done little to ease our sense of foreboding in this ever-lonely, chilling world. Quite by chance, it seemed, fresh life was breathed into the site’s surveillance system when I was confusedly tapping away at various buttons and commands. Nothing has registered for weeks and weeks of us being here and then, in mere moments, the system swung into action.

  We would never have even known it existed, but the site seems to have a surveillance network throughout Porthreth village. It can’t have been known about, nor could it have been legal in a 21st century beset by civil rights, but right here from this disused military base someone, for some reason, was keeping tabs on the village at large.

  Fou
r cameras that would once have provided a snapshot of the community, now only tell a tale of quiet bleakness.

  · Cam1 – What appears to be a traffic camera positioned along the winding rural roads that comprise the entrance to the village.

  · Cam2 – Another traffic camera, positioned just past the school and towards our old apartment; it must be mounted atop a street light or something similar.

  · Cam3 – A camera that must be sited somewhere in the woodland. Not far from the road, it has a perfect view of the school and must be just far enough into the hillside to be discretely masked by the thick of the trees.

  · Cam4 – Located in The Square, probably in the pub car park and with a brilliant view of the heart of the village. It must be mounted high, such is its ability to just about zoom in on the beach via the harbour.

  Each has a compelling range and provides a perfect picture quality – but what they hell would they have been used for? Here and now, the cameras seem redundant, such is the lack of anything to observe. The eerie emptiness is chilling; the belying calm is nothing short of unnerving. The mass of zombies that once made the streets untenable, as we found to our own cost, now appear to have moved on, perhaps in the throngs of corpses that followed my flare like a flock of sheep. The roads look passable.