The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  2nd September 2017

  We've seen the ruins of so many engine houses and old mining sites that it's been quite reassuring over the last week. They embody Cornwall's glorious past; the idyllic, rustic landscape that our forefathers shaped and plundered, and so valiantly fought to preserve through the years.

  But it's weird seeing these quaint, historic ruins of Cornwall's past so intertwined with mankind's ruin today. So many thoughtful gazes into a sunny snapshot of an engine house amidst the rolling meadows, or silhouettes of engine houses across the evening panorama, are now tainted with the view of bloodied biters or shadows of the undead.

  I fear Prim will never recognise those incredible structures without the undead ambling into view. I fear she won't have the chance to learn about their history, their heritage. I fear she's not the only one that won't ever see these perfectly aged, ruined reminders of our past without the reminder of our entrapment of today.

  We are seldom able to cast our eyes across the beautiful unspoilt Cornish landscape anymore without the threat of the undead in the frame somewhere. There are so many very visceral reminders of our entrapment, of the imprisonment that befalls us almost everywhere we go. The pestilence adds to the sense of past, of the enigmatic loneliness and desolation that these ruins have always been able to conjure. Now, it’s more pervasive than ever before. There's an added moodiness to those panoramas, a sadness at the despondency they now symbolise.

  We have seen many more of them in the last few days as we sought to make our journey further west. From Carn Brea to Roseworthy to Hayle, we've come across some of the most stunning views of engine houses by the light of dusk or dawn that we're ever likely to see. We've been sidetracked all over the shop and I wondered at one point if we were really going to get anywhere of note at all. But finally, we managed to get ourselves back on track, with a heavy helping of luck and a little bit of teamwork on orientation. And yet, I have no idea where we are right now. We did have a rough bearing until about five hours ago, but we hit so many diversions and blocked roads we ended up well off the beaten path and down the kind of farming lanes that you just wouldn't go near in normal circumstances.

  We were on the A30 again earlier in the day, having made great progress coming out of the back end of Hayle and skirting past the likes of St Ives and St Erth. But as we continued on that famously long stretch of single carriageway, we only got as far as Canon’s Town before the road was jammed up in both directions with lines of abandoned cars and jack-knifed lorries for as far as the eye can see.

  At the last estimate, we were straddling the River Hayle and somewhere in the vicinity of a tiny drive-through town called Relubbus. We passed all manner of barns and orchards, farms and cottages, but with no idea where to actually go. Being Cornwall, there's typically been no road signs of any description for about 10 miles or so now – so we really couldn't even hazard a guess at where we are on this miserable, grey evening.

  We don’t even know what direction(s) we may have veered off in. So we’ve pitched up in the middle of nowhere, in very much a brownfield site, and locked the van up to brazen out the dark hours. We’re tired, it’s late and I don’t want the light of the laptop screen to draw any attention, so I’m shutting down for the evening. Good night.

  3rd September 2017

  Flashlight, two-man tent, nutrition bars, a 200g bar of milk chocolate, blanket, flask, small bottle of water, ordnance survey map, and a foil wrap. Those are the contents of the rucksack sat at my side right now, as I prepare to go out and recce out the surroundings for some semblance of direction to head in later today.

  It’s the middle of the night and we’ve essentially been grounded for 36 hours now. We’ve been parked up somewhere around the Relubbus area of the outskirts of Penzance, but with no idea what direction to take to move on from here. If we were in a boat, we’d be rudderless.

  And move on, we need to. We need to get some momentum back. We’re not even near anything kind of house, flat or outbuilding that we could call of our own for a night or two. We literally seem to be in the middle of nowhere right now – and that breeds vulnerability. We’re open to both attack and anxiety for the fear of attack. So, it’s 3am and with Jenny, Prim and Nic safely tucked up asleep in the van, I’m about to head out on a reconnaissance run to (hopefully) establish where we are exactly and what route we need to take to get back on track. More to the point, I also need to figure out what roads are currently passable and where not to go.

  The point is though, I feel ready for this. I feel like I have become a ‘reluctant hero’ of sorts, if I can really say that myself. And that’s down to Prim – and that’s why I’m writing this here. She did it to me – and she doesn’t even know it, and I’m not scared to admit it. I realised recently, but much more clearly in the last couple of hours leading to this, that I had always thought I could get out of a situation before. I always thought I could avoid conflict or a do-or-die decision before. I always thought that I wouldn’t need to throw myself under a bus to save Jenny – I would find another means of saving both of us. I thought I could use intelligence instead of brute force or heroism to resolve a situation.

  The onset of this apocalypse changed that mindset a lot. Like so many others, I fast realised that if I were to survive and ensure the survival of my loved ones, then I would need to fight. I would need to take on the bloodthirsty undead that hunt us down. I would need to put myself in that firing line and risk injury to do it. But Prim has changed everything, just by being here.

  Her birth changed my world, my outlook, and my inner character, I guess. It just took time to realise it. I knew from the moment she was in my arms that I would kill anyone that came to harm her, in any way. It must be a feeling that all parents have; I know that I would kill anyone for her. It’s such an intense, almost overwhelming emotion or instinct. But I know now, quite calmly and confidently, that I would take my life for Prim’s. I know that if it came to it I would throw myself under that bus for Prim and Jenny – no other way out. It’s a scary knowledge, but it must be part of what it is to be a parent.

  So I know I’m not the proper big hero, I know I’m not the hard man, but going into this little escapade I know that I’m no longer a reluctant fighter – I’m a braver, willing fighter and Prim did that to me.

  4th September 2017

  I didn't ever want Prim to know this, but I figure it's a great number of years before we’ll ever look back on this and – therefore – before she'll ever know, understand or fully grasp it. And I need to confess: I'm a killer.

  The JP of today – the husband and father, the son and brother-in-law, the survivor – is a killer. I have killed a man, more than one in fact. Technically, I have killed just one living being in cold blood, but the reason I'm cleansing myself of this here is, I can feel it happening again.

  I knocked a man out today. I really was in two minds whether to blind and gag or just slash him dead. The point is I almost killed him – worse than that, I didn't stop to ask questions. I acted first and left no chance to ask later. I had to learn to fight a long time ago, when this all began. It didn't come easy to me and it still doesn't, Prim. But I actually became a cold blooded killer, in my own realisation, when I point blank murdered that crackpot Ezrah in the woods outside the military base at Porthreth. That's where it began. We were threatened, cornered, and I instinctively did whatever it took to save us all (including you, unborn) before that threat was realised.

  I have seen so many people killed or left for dead, so many that I have killed myself whether directly in cold blood or inadvertently when I failed to save them or left them to take the ultimate one for the team. There was Andrew White, Jake 'Dog' Penberthy, Ezrah, and so many more along the way. Now I have bludgeoned another to unconsciousness, potentially left out cold to be found and ravaged unsuspecting by ambling zombies that bay for the merest hint of blood. What have I done? I'm beginning to wonder where it ends. Does it end? What is the end?

  We have s
ome direction now, after I was able to find some road signs and cross-check that against the map last night. It took hours of trekking through the dark of the night, stumbling over all kinds of obstacles and undergrowth and living on the edge of fear, knife close in hand the whole time. I must have picked off a dozen blind-sighted zombies and stealthily avoided another 20 en route to discovering that we were stranded somewhere between Relubbus and Higher Downs or Goldsithney. We should now be able to pick our way through the debris and rural countryside to pick up the main A394 trunk road to Penzance – assuming it is relatively clear.

  We have a path forward again; but I’m more concerned about my own personal direction of travel after leaving another person in my wake.

  8th September 2017

  Today is the first day in a long while, pretty much since Prim has been here, that I've felt really down again. The first day in ages where I just couldn't bring myself to think about it all anymore.

  The desolate, crushed landscape is so empty, so soul destroying. No signs of life, no civilisation, no buzz or movement. Even if the scenic view is hopeful, you can’t help but stare out to it in the knowledge that all life is gone. It made me wonder if we really will ever find normality again. Is this really the new norm? Will we ever get back to the civilisation, the life that we knew before? Can we ever turn the clock back to 17th January 2016?

  Prim, of course, snapped me out of in her own inimitable and unknowing way; her rolling around in the grass and straying a little beyond our radius of reach caught my attention and jolted me back into action again. Always cheekily pushing the boundaries a little, that’s her. She keeps me going right now. Even when you're already doing your utmost for Jenny and for Nic, Prim is that one more powerful force for keeping me on track and giving it my all.

  Though we spend our every day doing everything we can to keep her safe and well, it is perhaps actually Prim that has kept me alive and in the right path. Maybe it’s the beating that I gave out to that stranger in the last few days too, maybe that’s been weighing heavily on me. My conscience isn’t quite as clear as it once was. Coupled with the less than transparent look of life all around us, and today is a dark day.

  10th September 2017

  Prim’s really coming on with her walking now. Almost one month on since those first proper steps, and she is practically eating up the miles. What a difference she makes to my mood, just being herself.

  We must have taken a dozen or more wrong turns today. When I say wrong turns, I mean diversions from the beaten track – those tracks having been completely beaten and downtrodden by the undead. But we are at least back on track, to all intents and purposes.

  We have a good idea where we are and where that is in relation to our journey. We ended up at a place called Tremenere, at a clearly ransacked coffee house and garden centre of sorts. I assume it as actually billed more as sculpture gardens in days gone by, but our focus was more on having somewhere to park up and loot for goodies. It’s provided a great outdoor space for Prim to play in and roll and walk around. She’s enjoyed the freedom, even if she has never really understood that that freedom is at a premium these days.

  I wonder sometimes, actually I wonder a lot, whether we made the right call in leaving that formidable house in Troon to head back out in the road. We had fixtures and fittings, safety and warmth, food and running water – and we basically traded it all for confines and uncertainty, danger and cold, and a distinct lack of fresh water. Prim had a house of her own, a home of her own, and could have truly flourished there in time. Now, she is constantly on the run, from one cooped up episode in the van to another.

  But then I have to remind myself that surely it is better for Prim to meet her grandfather, her other aunties and uncle. In a world that's so futile and fragmented, it means so much more for Prim to have family, love and hope. I will fight for that. I'm a reluctant fighter but I'm her fighter, and I will devote my life to bringing her some semblance of hope and happiness. So many times I promised her that as I paced up and down the hallway in Troon in the dead of the night, singing lullabies and trying to soothe her back to sleep, while watching silhouettes of the undead outside on the curtains. I can’t let it fall by the wayside now. I won’t allow it to.

  The gardens here are in quite a state of disarray, overgrown and in all likelihood, I would imagine a shadow of their former well-kept self. We won’t stay here long, maybe a couple of days to live off the provisions that the café still affords and make the most of some outdoor space, and then we’ll continue onwards towards Penzance, the hub of the area. There has to be some hope, some life surviving there.

  14th September 2017

  Prim has been so 'fortunate' so far that she has always known the joys of electric, or power and light, of heat and warmth. Throughout the whole of the apocalypse, we have been lucky to have power in any building or base that we have made our own. Whether it was the mains or from a back-up generator, it's been there. We've enjoyed hot showers, cookers that prepare our meals, kettles that boil water for our tea, and snug warmth by the heater.

  Not once did we take it for granted. We have always found it so weird that there was power in the first place. We thought after only a couple of months of the Pestilence that the electric would have long since died away with the rest of civilisation. We thought it simply wouldn't be there without people to run power stations and monitor the grid. We had always been weirdly astonished, especially over 18 months into the apocalypse.

  But we have now hit a sticky patch; we have for the first time endured what we always thought – and yet somehow didn't truly believe – would happen. We are without power. We're at a random house in the outskirts of Penzance, equipped with all mod cons but bereft of that one key commodity – electric. I’d imagine it was one of those lush holiday apartment lets during the good days, completely equipped and about £2,000 per week for the privilege. The rich would happily pay that for a fortnight’s stay in beautiful West Cornwall. That all means nothing now; the apartment and all of its perks is nothing without power and as for Penzance itself, well, that’s a far cry.

  Penzance is overrun. It's gone. The whole town, the whole parish is rife with walkers. They're everywhere, gnashing and gnarling, pulsing and twitching, spitting and foaming at the mouth. Congealed, blood-infused saliva and mucus oozes out of their mouths and any available opening – ears, nose, throat, eye sockets. They are raging and rampant, they're just everywhere – every road and side street, every alley and blind turn. There was no escaping them when we passed through yesterday.

  Word got out in the earliest days of the apocalypse, during that first 48 hours back in mid-January 2016, that ships were leaving Penzance for the Isles of Scilly. The relatively small Scillonia ferry, usually used twice a day for tourist and light cargo, was apparently being loaded to the brim with fit and healthy people to ship over to the Isles for safety and security. It was only taking one cargo unit, filled with basic food commodities, and as many passengers as it could feasibly get across the 28-mile tide between the two shore lines. That was an estimated 400 people.

  Legend had it that there were chaotic scenes throughout the streets of Penzance. Fights broke out, shots were fired, and lives were lost as scuffles sent people off the quay and into the water below where they ultimately drowned during the melee. Staff were under strict instructions to rebuff anyone who showed even the slightest hint of a cough and cold, fever, sickness or injury. They couldn’t take any chances. Hence, tension and pandemonium broke loose and lives were lost right up until the moment the Scillonia cut ties and set off across the Atlantic.

  Penzance was left with only the sick and needy, at least that’s how the story goes. There were rumours that the Pestilence had in fact been brought to Cornwall by someone on a train down to Penzance, so it would stand to reason that the place was soon rife with the undead.

  Right now, the place is just completely overrun. It feels so raw in this area; it's like nothing has changed, it's exactly how
it was when the Pestilence began, so explosive and dangerous, so all-consuming and devastatingly dangerous. Even the slightest wrong move and a whole horde of contorting flesh hungry corpses would be on you, ripping you limb from limb in a brutal storm of bloodlust. It's so reminiscent of the early days of January-February 2017.

  Back then, we were so incredibly scared shitless of this thing, of the dead reanimating and coming back to life, and seeking you out with their heightened senses and intensely insatiable hunger. Over time and countless face-to-face run-ins with walkers, we had become more experienced around them; I wouldn't say more relaxed or confident, but more adept at fighting them. We're far from ever being a match for the undead, but we know which battles to pick these days.

  Yet in Penzance yesterday, it was like hitting a reset switch, as if all of that knowledge and experience of surviving had been stripped from us in one turn of a corner. We were all gobsmacked, and vulnerable. Mortified. I was literally shaking as I tried to clumsily find first gear in the van's gear mesh and get us out of there in a panicked mess. It was frenzied.

  There can't be any survivors in the town, it must have gone to hell very early on and claimed almost everyone around; all those that were caught unaware; all those that were still shell shocked by what was happening; and even those that were making a good fist of it but we're ultimately overpowered by the sheer number of undead that surrounded them. That must be why the place is teeming with salivating biters. We've been through so many towns, villages and little hamlets along the way, but this really is the closest thing to a ghost town we've experienced yet. No curtains twitching; no obvious signs of life or scavenging; no buildings or gardens particularly fortified; only the dead at every turn.