The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

We could do with some hope right now. We haven’t heard from anyone since this all began; the same four walls are becoming more than oppressive; Jenny is starting to feel unwell and having headaches that throb as much as yesterday’s downpours; the bitter cold is starting to win the tug of war with our heating; we have an increasing number of questions occupying our thoughts; and the flooding has quashed any wild ideas we may have had of leaving the building. We can’t even do the things we don’t really want to do.

  11th February 2016

  So, for the second time in the space of a week we were woken in the early hours by an almighty racket outside. At 2:40am we were jarred out of our light slumber by the sound of car alarms further down the street. There must have been three or four of them resonating simultaneously, and with no-one to disable them they kept on sounding for a good six hours or more – presumably until batteries flattened or they timed out or something.

  They must have been set off by a directionless walker ambling into them; either that or the storm winds. In the absence of anyone else to tell us so, that’s what we’ve decided it is now, a storm. It’s a bitterly cold wind tearing through the village, and it both feels and sounds like it’s gusting up to 60mph at times. The rain has at least dried up, for the most part, and by the looks of it a lot of the torrent running through the village has subsided, but it’s been replaced by the howling winds and icy chill. With so much saturated ground and standing water, there will surely be widespread ice I the coming days. For the fleet-footed, that might just present another opportunity to escape and outrun the undead – or it could see any opportunists sent slipping and sliding in their direction.

  Like the school bells or a simple knock at the door in the early hours, it’s amazing how much the brash car alarms could set our teeth on edge. We didn’t know what had hit us at first, with the initial few split-seconds spent establishing what the noise reverberating around us actually was. It brings out your primitive fears, like a clank in the middle of the night that leaves you fumbling for both your torch and courage, and breeds a strange edginess that makes me wonder how the hell we would ever cope with coming face-to-face with the corpses that lie in wait outside.

  Thankfully, that’s something we won’t have to find out for the next couple of days at least, as Jenny is still feeling so withdrawn and unwell. We’ve discussed the idea of leaving the apartment at some point, and what we might do or where we might go, but for now it’s not an option. Jenny’s been quite feverish this morning and generally drained, so she needs to just rest up for now.

  With Jenny laid up in bed for most of the day/night, I’m quite often here on my own patrolling the apartment with only my own often paranoid thoughts for company, and I’ve never felt so lonely and scared. How is it possible to feel so lonely and yet so suffocated all at once?

  12th February 2016

  Dear diary.

  We’ve now passed 25 days of this apocalypse and we've had a bit of a nothing day, what with Jenny convalescing in the other room and some unnervingly limited walker activity outside, so I thought this would be a good time for a recap.

  Though we collectively didn’t realise it, on 17th January 2016 a zombie apocalypse unfolded right here in the UK, the cause as yet unknown.

  Stories began to emerge of bizarre acts of terrorism, with victims bitten or ravaged in unprovoked assaults. These surreal rampages continued to proliferate at an alarming rate in the first 24 hours, with graphic, violent mutilations playing out before the world’s eyes on rolling news channels and social media. Every mutilated corpse came back to life – sometimes within mere hours – to carry out its own bloodlust and sate its desire for flesh. The ‘undead’ were taking over, and it soon became apparent that this was something that could not be combatted nor controlled. This was a zombie apocalypse.

  Government, military and authority collapsed. Civility disintegrated. Those that weren’t already infected went into hiding. Like my wife Jenny and I, those that are still living are trapped in their own personal hell, merely surviving 2016. Villages, towns, cities and communities across the UK are ‘living’ with the undead masses. And not just in the UK – reports in the first few days after the outbreak suggested this great pestilence had already fanned out across Europe and crossed the Atlantic to wreak havoc on the Americas. We can only assume its vociferous penetration did not stop there.

  After just 3-4 days the infected had reached us here in Porthreth, Cornwall; within 10 days the last of the news networks had gone offline; and by day 14 I had come face-to-face with a gnarling, sinew spluttering corpse myself. I was lucky, not only that it had taken me so long to come up against such an experience, but that there was double-glazed glass between us. That haggard, hungered face – as well the helpless sight of its quickly dismembered victim – has not left me since. It’s burned into my consciousness like words engraved on a plaque.

  Though given brief reprieves, Jenny and I are surrounded here in our small apartment by walkers at the window, smashed skulls on the drive, bodies strewn in the street, and an army of the undead still within earshot of a simple pin drop. Though ‘happy’ with the reinforcements we’ve made to our humble four walls, we know we’re far from safe. Nothing can prepare you for this. The undead stalk the streets everywhere. They’re dominating us – our way of life, our every thought, our very existence.

  We’ve had our own reminders of that in the last fortnight. There was the mutilation at the window before us; the subsequent bombardment of our apartment by an unrelenting horde of cadavers; the strange incident of the school bells ringing out loud in the early hours, drawing hundreds of walkers past the front of the building for reasons as yet unknown; and the unsettling uproar of car alarms exploding into action just a few days ago. All, however evil or innocent, sent shivers down our spines, strike fear into our hearts, and allow paranoia to sweep through our minds.

  On top of that, what seems like a ruthless cold front is permeating through the village like water seeping its way through the fractures of a fragmented surface. We have no idea how long it will last or what damage it will ultimately cause.

  Nearly a month on, we still have power and fresh running water here in Porthreth. We have adequate food and supplies, and we just about have our sanity. But this is the end of the world as we know it. The year has only just begun, but we’re trapped in 2016 with nowhere to go. Or are we?

  13th February 2016

  We had a momentary power cut last night, at 2:25am, and we wondered if that really was the beginning of the end. We’ve been so fortunate to have an unaffected electricity supply this whole time and, thankfully, it came back on within mere minutes last night. But it certainly made us think about just how worse this could get – and question whether we’re so right to stay here after all. If the power goes, what do these four walls leave us with? Certainly, not warmth.

  The cold continues to bite, piercing every nuance of the building and gradually making itself at home throughout our apartment, acquainting itself with our fabrics and furnishings bit by bit. I dread to think what it would be like out on the road in this wintriness.

  The extreme icy chill seems to have brought about a calming in walker activity, almost as though they can’t survive the cold without a ready source of flesh and blood to sustain them. Those that we can see appear to be either still or very slowly creeping and crawling across the ground, while the collective layer of moaning and groaning seems to have quietened too. They almost look like a child’s toy that’s limping on with fading batteries and slowly grinding to a halt.

  If that’s what the cold is doing to these voracious, single-minded animals, what might it do to us mortals used to our central heating and home comforts? Whilst we wouldn’t want to be out in the elements ourselves, we can’t help wondering if this could be our opportunity to act.

  With the threat level reduced for the time being, we’ve been able to peer out of that vantage point at the front window and survey the surroundings. We can see a couple of
overturned cars in the street, several more abandoned vehicles, various strands of debris, and countless slugs of waste, congealed blood and bodily remains – all tingling with a light layer of ice frosting. Dotted seemingly everywhere in-between are rotting, teeth-chattering corpses, all at innumerable stages of decay and decomposition. But, crucially, they appear to be relatively dormant, like primates in winter hibernation.

  It gives us confidence that we might be able to do something here. As a starting point, we’re thinking of taking down the reinforcements around the front door, and venturing upstairs to the other two apartments in this block. Atop the landing there’s a larger, panoramic window that will have a much better view both up and down the street outside. We’d be able to establish how bad the situation is out there, and how severe the threats to our safety are.

  Yet, despite our intrigue and longing for even the slightest change of air, my overriding fear compels me not to do it. I just can’t bring myself to take those defences down yet and brave it. Am I a coward? Am I sensible? What would you do, reader? Maybe I just need to let the idea sit with me for a few days and pluck up the rationale, or courage, or whatever the hell it will take to open that door. The problem is, we may not have days. We may have to take our chances now.

  Let’s weigh this up a moment. The building isn’t comprised, as far as we know. Beyond our front door there’s a small kind of lobby, with a heavy communal outer door that we firmly slammed shut and barricaded halfway up with sandbags. We haven’t heard that open or cave in, so we have no reason to think there are corpses outside our front door. But we might still be face-to-face with them if any are lingering around the front of the building. We might unwittingly draw them to the apartment, again – and I’m not sure I could cope with that intense imprisonment so soon after the last time.

  There’s also the danger that any of our neighbours are infected. Are they alive? Are they even in there? Only three out of the four apartments are regularly occupied, the other being a holiday home, and we haven’t heard a single thing from them since this all began three weeks ago. They may not have heard anything from us either; we’re all in hiding after all. But, like this whole apocalypse, it’s the great unknown. And, potentially, a huge danger. Are our immediate neighbours alive, or undead? We’re ‘gonna have to find out.

  14th February 2016

  The bells have been ringing at the school again. Yet again at 4am, and again for exactly 20 minutes – yet again, we didn’t act upon it, not immediately.

  Having all but decided we were going to go for it in the coming days, the bell ringing once more caught us completely by surprise. It somehow had the power to send shivers down our spines all over again. I guess we’re just always living on the edge these days.

  We have so many questions, so many fears. But we think this has told us three things:

  1. It’s methodical

  2. It’s clearly a living person, and with a purpose.

  3. We need to act fast and find out what it means.

  So we’re going to go for it. Jenny is just about well enough. The fever has passed and her cold seems to be shifting now. She’s still using painkillers to manage her headaches, but she’s otherwise good to go. We’re going to leave the apartment – first to venture upstairs and check out the neighbouring apartments, and secondly out on the streets to take our chances of long-term survival, and sanity.

  Why, you may ask. Why leave the apartment? Well, we're so safe here and yet, so exposed. Both have been proven. We're still alive and we've barely had to get our hands dirty in the last month, with our barricaded apartment proving impenetrable to even crowds of zombies. It has been our safe harbour, but it has also proved limiting.

  As long as we are located right here in the centre of the village, at sea level and on the main drag in and out of Porthreth, we will be exposed to constant zombie traffic, localised flooding, mounting questions, even our own mental fragilities. Our location means we can barely make a sound in our own home and the concentration that takes, 24/7, is unreal.

  Until you're in this situation, it's difficult to grasp how stifling it is to keep such a low profile. The lengths we have had to go to in order to hide and hush our very being are brilliantly resourceful but, in all honesty, not sustainable in the long-term.

  It’s not just the reinforcements we made and the different furnishings we used to soundproof the flat, it’s more than that. It’s hand washing our clothes because even the quietest of washing machines would give away our presence; it’s being mega careful when handling any cutlery or crockery for fear that even the slightest slip could result in a clanging sound; it’s shrouding the lights to keep them dim; it’s trying not to muffle the sound of the toilet flush with linen and other fabrics surround the unit; and trying not to boil the kettle too often, instead choosing to boil water on the hob during times of busier walker activity outside.

  That’s just scratching the surface of our attempts to maintain silence. It’s concentration sapping and at times thoroughly demoralising. On top of which, we just need air – both literally and metaphorically. Crazy as it sounds, we need that stinking, almost rotting ‘fresh’ air outside. A month of living in stale air and an atmosphere of tension is no good for anyone.

  We’ve also realised that the one thing we can think of that we're really lacking right now is medical goods. When we stockpiled food and water, we also stocked up on paracetemol, ibuprofen, rehydration sachets, vitamins and supplements, and other remedies for general ailments. But we didn't account for things like plasters, bandages, medical tape, sutures, slings, antiseptic wipes, lotions and other such supplies. I guess we never thought we would have any reason for them; we didn't anticipate leaving the house. Our only hope is to loot, starting with our neighbours’ belongings. It’s a horrible realisation, it’s one of the signs of civilisation breaking down right in front of you – right by you, in fact. But we might not survive without those essentials, and this is the world we find ourselves in now. This is the new norm.

  I know you may not forgive us for giving up what safety and security we have here, reader, but it will come at a cost eventually and sometimes you know deep down when you have to take that plunge and hope for something better. Maybe it’s gut instinct, maybe its anxiety, maybe it’s paranoia – either way, we’ve made our decision.

  So we've spent the morning preparing our bags, our weaponry, our supplies. We’ve been cooking off various rice or pulse-based meals and salads to take with us, all in portable little portions, as well as copious amounts of water and snacks, and generally trying to refine our on-the-road-profiles. We’ve chosen our most appropriate clothing for the journey – a surreal experience in itself – and as stupid as it sounds, even the clothing that makes us feel the most confident or ready to take on the world.

  How bizarre is that? For what we’re about to embark upon, you’ve got to feel comfortable and mobile. For me that means a tight black t-shirt and trusted, warm hoodie, a well-fitting pair of jeans and sturdy trainers. For Jenny it’s much the same – ripped jeans, trainers, a couple of top layers and her own snug hoodie, as well as hat and gloves. It’s function over form.

  The good thing is, we have time on our sides. The apartment is not compromised, neither of us is in some cliff-hanging life or death situation, and we are not yet actually being forced to leave the building in any way. This is as much on our terms as possible, and we have the luxury of choosing the optimum moment – that moment is this afternoon. Here we go….

  15th February 2016

  I have killed. I am now a killer. It wasn’t dignified and it sure as hell wasn’t the cleanest of kills that will have been made during this crisis. Awkward, forced, not at all satisfactory and almost succumbing to stage fright, it was a terrifying experience and far worse than I could ever have imagined.

  Coming face-to-face with the undead, in the flesh, is not what I thought it would be, far from it. You just can’t prepare yourself for it, no matter what you think and wh
at weapons you might be packing. But it was necessary and I am slowly coming to terms with that; after recovering all night and gradually getting my head around it, I am slowly starting to feel better about my first time.

  ..…

  At 2pm yesterday, we began to quietly dismantle the reinforcements that have kept our front door so secure. Almost rigid with fear, I slowly lowered the lever on the door – despite my fumbling grip – and with the other hand spun the key to unlock it, before taking sharp inhale of breath and a step into the unknown.

  Jenny was braced closed behind me, so much so that I could sense her holding her breath over my shoulder, and in one swift motion upon pulling back the door, we launched ourselves out into the communal hallway and immediately up the stairs to our left. In our haste we didn’t even stop to check out the heavily sandbagged outer door, we just ran. Once atop the unfettered stairs, we froze for a moment and reflected on our little achievement, unsure what the next few minutes might have in store for us.

  Fixing our gaze on the panoramic window offered by the landing, we took in the gloomy view before us and wised up to just how many dead bodies lay twitching and shaking in the street outside. There’s way more than we thought, it looks like nothing short of a massacre out there. They’re everywhere: in the street, hanging out of cars, laying in wait in gardens and garages, even lurking in hedgerows. We couldn’t even count how many there are out there. I’ve never felt so estranged from community, from life itself.

  To the left, toward the church and adjacent memorial hall, we could see throngs of corpses salivating for flesh and hounding the foreboding oak doors of the Lord’s building, which felt somehow symbolic. A 200 yard section of the street, however, looked quieter, passable even. In the opposite direction, toward the school and the wooded tramway that we hope to make our escape on, there was perhaps another 200 yard clearing in the street, maybe more. But before we could crane our necks further to establish the scene outside the school, the silence was punctured by a scratching and scraping at the door beside us. It was coming from apartment three. And that’s when it happened.