The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  And so we find ourselves about one mile the other side of Penzance, shacked up in a modern apartment which looks idyllic from the outside and in, but encapsulates the chaos surrounding it: no power, no real reinforcements of note, and no hope. Prim cannot understand why the lights do not work. She cannot begin to grasp that the oven doesn't work, or the kettle doesn't boil. She's somehow hugely frustrated that the radio will not turn on. And the one children's DVD in the rack will not play. And then there's the water – it's not hot, so she can't have a bath and a splash. It's a complete world of bewilderment for her, even for a child of the apocalypse.

  It's not much better for her auntie Nic, who is really struggling at the moment with no sign of her Dad or siblings. Jenny and I are not particularly enamoured with this place right now either, but we arrived here after a considerable struggle, and at the end of a long and fraught day. It seemed the best solution to put some distance between us and the biters, pull off the road, dim the lights and quietly slink into the darkened confines of this apartment block. Today, we couldn't bring ourselves to go through it all again, so we decided to stay put for 24 hours and re-group – it's been a tough week or more out on the road. We've been stuck here in this glorified glass box of a building, waiting it out and with too much time on our hands to ponder what the hell we’re going to do.

  We couldn't even just say 'screw it' and stay in bed and pretend that nothing was happening. We did that a few times before, when it got too bad, too depressing to take and you needed some 'time out' of the situation – we would just stay in bed and doze in and out of sleep and hope you didn't need to get up. In fact, I remember doing exactly that toward the end of March last year – I think I blogged about it – because I remember it would have been my Dad's birthday and I just didn't want to tackle this shitty world on that day.

  That sort of day would be perfect in a house with no power. But we left those days behind when we brought Prim into the world, and of course we have Nic in tow these days too so it really wouldn't be appropriate. And they both need us to be strong for them, even if it is just a façade.

  So we're huddling together and muddling through. We may not have power or hot water, but we do still have plenty of food provisions. We have duvets and blankets, and we have room enough for Prim to waddle around and practice her movement again. That alone is worth fighting our way through the death and desolation for.

  18th September 2017

  We found a note in Penzance, something that gives us some clarity, a lot of depression and, perhaps, just a small amount of hope.

  I had gone out on my own again, early morning, but this time for a bit of a recce more than anything else. Armed with an axe and light clothing, I went out jogging to see if there was anything or anywhere else left to explore in this famous old town. I was left disappointed and frustrated, until I discovered this note on an old town notice board on the promenade. I very nearly kept it to myself, but eventually thought better of it and took it back to the apartment for Jenny to see.

  The note was dated 15th June 2017, so just three months ago, and hinted at not only a sound view of the lay of the land, but fellow survivors in hiding somewhere. It said that most of north, east and mid Cornwall was lost, gone to the dogs, or 'forsaken' as it so eloquently put it. Bude, gone. Padstow, gone. St Austell, gone. Fowey, gone. Bodmin, gone. Roche, gone. Truro, well and truly gone. Everywhere in-between, gone. There's hope in a budding community in Cardinham Woods, just outside Bodmin, it said, but that's a long way from here these days.

  We drove past that old notice board and re-tacked the note on our way out of town, but it's left us with a lot of questions as we carry on our way around the west coast. Where are they? Is the note’s author potentially friend or foe? Do we even want to find out the answer to that question? And how have we managed to overlap, without seeing each other or scavenging each other's loot first?

  As we continue to drive on and find quiet moments of rest or sleep, we can’t help but think through those thoughts and inevitably over-analyse every aspect of the note and its contents – even the choice of wording and how sentences were structured. And the big question that’s simply inescapable once more for Jenny and I is, what world is Prim growing up into?

  22nd September 2017

  Today we had one of those rare stolen moments that you just don't get anymore. There we were, taking some long and winding roads out of Penzance that cut across Newlyn, Lamorna and back inland slightly towards Sennen Cove – still musing over that foreboding note in Penzance – when we were diverted off yet again past Drift Reservoir and on toward a tiny little village called Sancreed.

  I don't think there was really a lot going on there during the best of times, save for a strong community spirit, but there's even less about the place right now. In September 2017 it represents little more than an empty shell of a village common, a score of houses, and long since overgrown farmland. But we did happen across a cute little play park, tucked away behind the church and very much a chance find, thanks only to a quick call of nature for Jenny. Though overrun with thick, wavy grass and plentiful dandelions, it was pleasantly bereft of any unwanted attention and all ours for just a few minutes.

  Goalposts and picnic benches were not much use to Prim, but the swings and roundabout certainly were – and boy did she revel in the infant swings. She loved it. She completely and utterly loved it. Her face was all scrunched up with laughter and unadulterated joy – it was a complete picture. It's the sort of thing that you feel every baby should have experienced within their first six months of this world; a good old go on the swings at the park. That nervousness and trepidation, immediately giving way to all that fun and excitement for the joy of the swing; the elation of rushing through the air as if flying; the wind in your hair and the world at your feet, just for a few moments.

  What I wouldn't give to be able to do that all over again. It was incredible and I don't know if I will ever forget how happy she looked in those 27 minutes. I think even Nic found it relaxing, good for the soul perhaps, to just sit on the adult swings and glide for a while. She didn't get masses of momentum up, nor did she throw herself into it or have her phone buzzing with messages and social media notifications – she simply swung peacefully back and forth and seemed to drift into a restful state of deep thought. Who knows where her mind was at; her father and siblings, I shouldn't wonder.

  We pushed it, of course, staying far longer than the 10 minutes we had planned, but who wouldn't? It was an idyllic moment of cheer and clarity, and we didn't want it to end. But it had to, of course. You're never far from the slimy ectoskeleton of the undead anymore, and several soon loomed large on the Sancreed horizon. So we made good on our word, skipped contentedly out of the park with Prim, and jumped back into the van with happy thoughts for once.

  We moved slowly through Grumbla toward St Just for the night, but if we never happen to visit Sancreed again, we will always have that half hour on the swings.

  25th November 2017

  Three tents, two windbreaks and a gazebo...

  It's been months since we last logged in your learning journey, Prim, and it's probably because it's been one of the most enjoyable and rewarding parts of your life so far, I think.

  We've been here at a campsite just outside Sennen, West Cornwall for just over two months. In some respects, we ended up here quite by chance, having been diverted off course by what can only be described as a pack or a horde of zombies. With the exception of our time up at an old military base in Porthreth before you were born, I have seldom seen so many of the undead in one place, in one grouping or attack formation. They looked ravaged, hungered and hung out to dry out on the open roads. They looked as though they hadn't fed in months - and they looked as violent, barbaric and bloodthirsty as I have ever seen the undead. I had no choice but to turn around the van and get the hell off that road. And so, we saw the old, vintage Cornish signs for Sennen...

  In other respects it was planned. Once we saw the
signs for Sennen, I remembered an old campsite that we stayed at with friends a few times before the apocalypse. They were great adventures in the summer months, come rain or shine, in a modest but brilliantly secluded and underestimated little spot just inland from the coast path. Once on that coast path, a stunning two-mile trek across cliffs and dunes would take you to the idyllic Sennen Beach, one of the most beautiful spots in Cornwall.

  Given the camp's relative obscurity and solitude, I thought it might be worth taking a look and seeing if there was any shelter for us there. Luckily for us, there was. The pestilence struck in mid-January – so far out of season that there were clearly only a couple of tents and a handful of caravans here at the site. Once we'd carefully investigated and gutted each and everyone one of them, dispatched a few emaciated, unsuspecting biters, and half-inched two deluxe tents and a few windbreaks, we pitched ourselves up in a far corner of the overflow field.

  Though bordered to all four sides by high Cornish walls adorned with a mixture of wild grass and gorse bushes, the huge field boasts stunning views across the coast of Sennen and out to Lands End on one side, and of rolling moors and hillsides of West Cornwall to the other. It had always been an incredible panorama. From our position in the far corner of the field, close to the basic shower and toilet block, we also enjoy a long old approach from the field entrance and the reception building – so we have plenty of time to spot an oncoming assailant, alive or undead. For two months it has provided us with a glorious combination of sunsets and security.

  Our position is further fortified by the little camp that we have made for ourselves. Straddling what were once three camping pitches, we are effectively encased in a sort of semi-circle arrangement of tents and windbreaks. Our inner circle is comprised of three sizeable tents, all with their main doors facing inwards, into a sort of gazebo living space in the centre and a low-key fire pit (for warmth and comfort in the evenings). Two of the tents are luxury 4-6 man affairs, complete with loving areas and all manner of pockets and tent tidies sewn in. The other is still a sizeable three-man tent with porch, but used more for storage than anything else. We use the bigger tents as the bedrooms and living spaces, though during daylight we are often outdoors in the open, weather permitting.

  Beyond the tents, essentially separating us from the rest of the field are two windbreaks taken from the shop at reception, used to plug the notable gaps in our circular camp and provide some relief from the elements during windier days. We've also got the van parked side-on to one side of the camp for added shelter and security.

  We assembled a makeshift alarm system out of washing line and empty tin cans and glass jars too, capable of providing an impressive perimeter fence around our little set-up, but I've refrained from using it so far for fear of bringing too much doom and gloom to Prim's existence here. What we have right now is like a cross between the safety and relaxation of that time spent in Troon, and the open air and freedom of those brief days spent at Stithians reservoir. We’ve been safe and serene here for eight weeks or more, so we’re building a sense of freedom and confidence that we may not actually need to deploy an added ring of entrapment around you, Prim.

  Though we didn't imagine being here quite as long as we have been, we somehow knew that we would pitch up for a little while. Jenny and Nic have both grown a little weary of the search for their father, Jack. It's been relentless and unforgiving, and there's only so much they can take in a short timeframe. I know they think of their family every single day – I can always tell almost the exact moments they do get caught up drifting in thought. But they are also content here right now. There's that sense of freedom that we've rarely experienced elsewhere; we have freedom and fresh air, not just encampment within the same four walls.

  And those haunting frustrations aside, it feels as though we happened upon Sennen at a crucial time in your development, Prim. You have been walking, talking, eating, exploring and even kicking inflatable footballs around the field in this glorious Indian summer. You have such incredibly good footwork for a toddler – and at such a young age too! This outdoor space has allowed you to flourish and we felt we needed to stay together in one place and maximise this chapter in your story.

  There’s also a truly cheeky character emerging in our little Primrose, a benevolently mischievous little girl that wants to test the limits, push the boundaries and eek out a reaction from her parents. Rarely does that sassiness straddle the negative side of mischief – it’s generally always to poke fun and laughter. We may have the occasional meltdown to contend with, or some borderline challenging behaviour when the fun goes too far, but it’s always resolved with some loving snuggles and more often than not, it never even comes to that. It’s just a comedic, characterful side of you that fires that twinkle in your eyes.

  You have absolutely been in your element over the last 6-8 weeks, you positively came alive in the freedom; waddling and walking and dancing around in the wavy grass as though nothing was wrong with the world; kicking plastic footballs and playing catch with soft play balls; hopelessly throwing Frisbees into the windy arrival of November, never successfully but always with a blissfully unknowing smile on your face.

  If you read this one day Prim, then I want you to know that I will never forget those moments, that I will never forget how incredible you looked, how amazingly happy and free you looked, with a total innocence like I have never ever seen before. You give us energy, you give us hope, and you give us so much happiness, even during these darkest of days.

  30th November 2017

  It’s nearly December again – how did that happen? We are nearing the end of 2017. We are nearly two full years into the apocalypse.

  We are still here in Sennen. A lot has changed since November 2016, in some ways even more so since we arrived here in Sennen a few months ago – both with our plight and with Prim’s development. She really is such a character now!

  And she often wears a look of confusion at the moment, perplexed by the look that I'm increasingly wearing in my own face; I've started to amass quite the beard, and hair to match. My trusted wet shave razors are getting a little long in the tooth now, and often tug at my face instead of drawing clean lines across, while we haven't been around a stable power source for long enough to give the battery shaver a good charge.

  So for the first time in my life I'm sporting a decent covering of facial hair, and much longer hair to go with it too. I’ve never been one that's able to grow facial hair in the past, so a part of me is really enjoying it and I think Jenny is finding it novel too. But it must be weird for Prim, seeing but my whole face change almost beyond recognition.

  The campsite is also changing beyond recognition, even in the relatively short space of time that we have been here. The shop at reception is almost depleted of food options thanks to us, and the power is intermittent at best these days. It’s a far cry from when we first arrived here in the haze of late summer. Most strikingly, all of the fields and lawns are getting out of control with their growth as we move into the hardier days of winter. Grass is growing rapidly up around the edges of our tents and windbreaks, the bulk of the fields are becoming long and wavy grass plains that Prim can barely run around in much more, and the traditional Cornish walls are overflowing with a marriage of grass and gorse. I can’t seem to find a decent mower across the whole site, while we also don’t want to draw attention to our presence by striking up a loud beast of a mower anyway – so keeping the fields in check is almost impossible.

  Sadly, we could essentially be on the verge of leaving the place behind. Perhaps we outstayed our welcome anyway; you can never seem to stay in one place for too long these days. We’ve had an amazing time here, truly amazing, and if we do decide to move on then we do so enriched not only with supplies ranging from camping stoves and gas to food supplies and everyday essentials, but also a wealth of memories and happiness that Prim has made and lived. We will always be eternally thankful for that, every one of us.

  8th Decemb
er 2017

  Prim has just experienced her first ever lightning storm, and boy was it the most traumatic such experience that I've ever had. Not that Prim seemed to care too much. The intense thunder and lightning didn't seem to faze her; I think it was more our own fear and paranoia that began to freak her little mind out.

  It had been a reasonably fair winters day, relatively bright and one of those days where there doesn't appear to be any sunshine out but there is clearly some strong UV going on for the month of December. It was bloody 'close' as we used to say in summers gone by; at times it was just too sticky and stifling. Needless to say, the tents were like saunas. They barely need any kind of heat to establish before they are naturally uncomfortable, so this made them unbearable, especially considering the month we’re in.

  By about 4pm the storm clouds visibly began to roll in and with that latent heat still not lifting, we had a feeling we knew what we were in for. Just before 7pm it all kicked off with rains and gusty wind, which was then backed up by an ensemble of booming thunder claps. Then we realised we really didn't know what we were in for. And then the inevitable lightning came.

  It was incredible. Unrelenting. Unheard of in modern decades, I would say. I genuinely have never known storms like that in all my life. The thunder really did boom – it was this deep, dark, cathartic roar from the black skies above, over and over and over again. Each one seemed to stun and surprise you all over again, just 30 seconds after the last had already shaken you to your core. For about a 30-minute spell, the thunder seemed to get deeper and more encompassing with each clashing clap. That may not sound too long, but when you are sat there quaking at the mercy of this phenomenon as it whips you over and over again, half an hour feels like half a day.