by Frank Tayell
As for up here, it’s an unfurnished studio halfway through a rebuild. It’s completed beyond the stage when they’d leave behind the kind of tools that would make good weapons. All that’s left are paint pots, brushes and ladders. One of those would have been helpful a few hours ago.
I just re-read that. Weapons. How long since that was an everyday concern of a British citizen?
So, this is the 23rd April, day 42, and I’m not far from the broken remains of London Bridge. I have four days of food, about six litres of water. I’m in an unfinished flat with a hole in the floor. I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.
17:00
If ever there was a staircase that was dark and forbidding it’s the one that leads to the street. I went down far enough to make out a thin line of light surrounding the closed door before heading back up the stairs. The other flat on the lower floor, and the ones on the top floor, are in a similar state of refurbishment to the one I climbed into. I did find a hatch leading, I hope, to an attic crawl space that will, in turn, lead to the next property. Assuming the building follows a pattern, there’s a shop downstairs, next to a stairwell, next to a shop and so on, with four one-bedroom apartments split across two levels above each shop. If the undead are gathered around the gym downstairs, then there’s a chance the other side of this block will be clear. I’m going to rest up a bit longer, then go and get the ladder from downstairs, and then keep going up.
Day 43, Bermondsey, London
08:00
I got up to the attic last night, but there’s barely enough light to see, let alone write. Hell, there’s barely enough room to move. The only part of the floor they bothered to reinforce is the part they stuck the boilers on top of. Boilers that are empty and still wrapped in plastic. The rest of the floor is just thin plaster and ply-board, I spent most of the night staring into the dark, balanced precariously on a beam, trying not to move.
The ladder gave me enough height to open the hatch and get halfway through. Again I’d got the bags tied to a rope the other end of which I’d tied round my waist. All was fine until I tried to pull myself up. The rope snagged on the ladder, knocking it over and down the stairs. I’d hoped I could bring it with me, getting down without it's going to be a long hard drop. But as long as I don’t move, as long as I don’t roll over and fall through the ceiling, I can’t see any way They can reach me up here. And that’s the good news.
They must have heard that ladder falling. It echoed around the stairwell. The noise from outside increased and the banging at the street door started up again. I think it’s the street door, it sounds different to the noises I can hear from the gym, where I’m sure They are now upstairs. I could take a chance and risk going down to retrieve the ladder. I’ve thought about it, and reckon it’d take about five minutes. There would be no way of doing it quietly though, and if They break through, I really would be doomed. It’s not worth the risk, but more importantly it’s not worth the time. Time is water, and I’m running out.
There’s a thin brick wall between this property and the next. Hopefully it isn’t load bearing because today’s task is to make a hole large enough to clamber through. I think the hardest part will be finding somewhere I can put the bricks. Right. Break over. Back to work.
09:45
I’ve made a small hole in the wall, just large enough to see that next door is much the same as here. There’s an attic with an empty water boiler and little else. I’m taking a breather. It’s not the actual job in front of me that’s hard, it’s the hellish contortions required to balance my good leg on one beam whilst the bad leg hovers over the next ready to take some of my weight if the alternative is to fall through the ceiling, with the rest of my weight taken by my right arm. It doesn’t give me much leverage.
13:00
I’m through. It was thirsty work though. I’ve already drunk the best part of a litre today. I need to be stricter.
There’s an access hatch, locked from the other side. The lock doesn’t bother me. What does is the idea of dropping down, finding empty flats but no ladder. I’m going to knock a small hole in the ceiling of one of the flats and see what’s down there.
16:00
Both the flats are empty and unfurnished, but they have been painted. From the similarities in layout and colour scheme I think all the flats were being renovated by the same people. My hope is the next one will have been plumbed in.
I’ve started on the wall to the next building. If the first was Number 217, the second 215, I’m going to assume I’m now trying to break into Number 213. That’s a lucky number, right?
19:30
Dinner time. One energy bar and some apple-flavoured glucose-enhanced, vitamin enriched, mineral drenched goop. I’m pretty sure it was originally designed as baby food before someone realised you could get an even higher mark-up by labelling it as a fitness supplement. ‘N-ERvate’, it’s called, which has to be about the worst name going. There were only a few pouches of it in the office at the gym. It was probably a sample pack. Maybe there’s a warehouse full of vats of this stuff. Hope not, it tastes as terrible as the name suggests.
What I wouldn’t give for a steak. Or ribs. Or a jacket potato with cheese melted on top. No, mustn’t think like that. Back to the wall.
Day 44, Bermondsey, London
09:15
Lucky number 213 was finished but unfurnished. The boiler, once again, was empty. I’m not even sure it’s plumbed in. I didn’t bother going downstairs. Working on the next one. Number 211, I suppose. Is that lucky? I don’t think so. I dropped the large water bottle. It plummeted through the ceiling. Down to one and a half bottles of lemon-flavoured sports drink, one tin of beans and one energy bar.
17:00
Victory! Hallelujah! Rule Britannia in this Land of Hope and Glory! 211C is furnished and was, until a few months ago, lived in.
I made a small hole in the floor and checked out both flats before coming down, going so far as to put an extra hole into the bathroom ceiling just in case, but both are empty. I got down with only minimal jarring to the leg, broke the lock on the most promising door, and am now ensconced on the sofa with a bowl of cornflakes moistened with a tin of fruit salad. It wouldn’t win any awards on one of those television cooking shows, but it’s about the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m going to check out 211D in a moment. I suppose I could leave it until tomorrow. No, it’s still light enough to see, this is no time to rest on my laurels.
19:00
Oh fraptious day! Rice, homemade jam, olives, gherkins, and a few more tins of fruit. Sugar packets collected from the four corners of London and more herbs and spices than I’ve seen in one place, including on the stalls at a farmer’s market.
It’s enough, more than enough, that I can afford to lie low for a few days. I need some rest, after all. I deserve some. Hell, I’ve been stuck up in the Stygian gloom for long enough.
The jam’s pretty good, the label reads ‘Three Berry Jam, love mum’. Very good stuff. There’s no mention of which three berries. I think one’s got to be strawberry.
There isn’t much water. There was some in the toilet cistern, but only a trickle from the boiler. I’m boiling it all up now, using a broken chair for fuel and a wok as a fire pit. I wish I’d thought of this before, it’s so much more efficient than that little stove. I’ll add it to my kit. It’s heavy, sure, and unwieldy, but the grill tray fits snugly on top and the saucepan on top of that. It’s all very neat.
I’m taking an evening off. I’ve found extra batteries so I feel like I can squander some light.
I tried using just the one crutch, seeing if that would be enough to take my weight. Unfortunately not. I was overly optimistic, I suppose. The leg needs a few more weeks. As for the cast, that’s getting more ragged by the day. I’ve added a couple of layers of packing tape to hold it together for now. What I need is a brace of some sort, something sturdy made of metal, and then I need time to strengthen the muscles in my leg, bu
t not tonight.
Tomorrow I’ll check out the flats downstairs and based on what I find, I'll come up with a plan. I’ve enough food to stay here for a week, maybe longer, and still leave with as much as I can carry. The real limiting factor is water, but maybe I can solve that in the morning.
As to where next, having seen Them falling from the broken bridge into the Thames, the river is looking far less attractive. Certainly I wouldn’t risk swimming in it, but a boat should be safe, shouldn’t it? Humans float because of air in their lungs, right? And these things don’t breathe, right? Except I’m sure that noise They make is caused when air accordions in and out of their lungs, so can They float, or not?
The river is close. Travelling by boat would be safer than trying to make my way south. I don’t know that I want to try walking out of London, not with however many more zombies are out there now. Maybe if I can hold out long enough I’ll be able to ride a bike straight out of the city.
Where to? Lenham Hill? Maybe, if I can find out where that is. I’ll see if I can find a map around here.
Day 45, Bermondsey, London
07:00
Up early with the lark, although for me, getting up later than six a.m. counts as a lie in. I’m going to shop for my breakfast in the downstairs flats. Oh, where for art thou, bacon and eggs?
10:00
It was occupied. Only the one, I think.
14:15
They were both occupied. That explains the empty water tank. Both flats are clear now. I went as far as the street door, and listened, but nothing seems to have heard. Maybe their hearing has started to deteriorate.
The first one, he’d been a man once, somewhere in his twenties, though I’m basing that more on the DVD collection than on his appearance. He was in a chair when I walked in, only the back of his head visible. For a moment I thought he was alive. I actually said “hi,” but as he turned, I saw his face more clearly. It was drawn, pale, almost skeletal, his eyes seemed massive against the receding skin. On his arm there was a bandage, stained brown with dried blood.
My crutches went forward, I swung in, braced myself and brought the hammer down as it was trying to stand, crushing its skull in one blow.
He must have been infected, but managed to make it home. He sat down in his chair and waited to die. Did he know he was dying? Probably not. He probably thought he was the exception. It wasn’t much of a view, his last sight on Earth was of a dozen anonymous and empty windows.
In the second flat there were two women. Girls, really. I don’t know where they came from, why they were staying here in this dingy building. There’s a story, and maybe if I went through their things I could find it out. But to what end? To track down their parents to confirm their daughters are dead? Hardly.
I’d sat down, just to collect my thoughts and jot down a line or two. Writing in the journal helps to ground me, I suppose. It’s a reminder that everything in this nightmare is real. The noise I made killing that first zombie must have woken the others out of their hibernating trance. They started slapping and tearing at the door and it was clear from the noise there was more than one in there. It was the strangest most disturbing sound I’ve ever heard. The door was shaking in its frame. I pushed against it, trying to decide what to do. Could I just walk away? It wasn’t the idea of leaving them there, I’ve no qualms about that, but of leaving the food I’d found upstairs.
I spent too long thinking. The door gave, splitting around the hinges. I dropped the hammer as I grabbed at the wall. Off balance, trying to retain my footing, I stumbled as the first one fell through the doorway. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt too stained to make out the logo and a pair of thin cotton trousers torn at the knees. Two of her fingers and four of her toes were missing. I noted that later, all I saw as she came towards me was a gaping wound where her left cheek should be. I had the chisel, the one I use to break the locks, in my belt. I pulled it out and swung it sideways into her face. Call it luck but, in an eruption of pus and gore, it went straight through her eye socket into her skull.
I was off-balance already, barely standing up, as the body fell towards me. I tried to push it away and it was that effort that finally knocked me from my feet. I started scrabbling backwards, away from the second of the undead women, who was now through the door and coming towards me.
My hands were empty. With no weapon I had no hope. I couldn’t get to my feet, not without rolling onto my front and there was no way I’d turn my back on the death that was getting inexorably closer. I kept crabbing backwards into the first flat, and she kept following, her progress only delayed by the body of her twice dead friend lying there in the hallway. All the time my eyes were glancing around looking for an escape, looking for a weapon, looking for something, anything that might get me out of this. But my gaze was always drawn back to this spectre, wearing nothing but a loose nightgown, an old encrusted bandage on her arm, and an empty emotionless expression on her face.
I got to the coffee table, and managed to use it to pull myself to my knee, my right leg sticking out at an angle, screaming all the time, and all the time she was getting nearer, barely four steps away. I stumbled again as my leg buckled under the strain.
Three steps.
I searched around behind me with my hand, my eyes now fixed upon this approaching death.
Two steps.
My fingers found something.
One step.
I brought my arm round in a roundhouse swing, and with the object I’d found gripped tightly in my hand, there was enough force to knock her from her feet. After she hit the ground, there was barely a pause before she tried to get back up. I crawled forward, dragging my leg behind me, reaching her as she rolled over onto her front. I brought the weight down on the back of her knee, crushing the bone. In another second I’d pulled myself along another foot and brought it down on her spine.
With each upswing I pulled myself forward and brought the weight down, crushing bone and pulping flesh, and all the time her hands and feet were twitching, her jaw was snapping as she tried to get up, tried to turn, tried to bite and tear at me. I was sobbing, crying, screaming, and then I was at her head. I brought it down on her skull. Twice.
Only then did I look and see what was in my hands. It was a metal moneybox in the shape of a London bus.
Day 46, Bermondsey, London
11:00
I stripped off on the stairs. Even forgetting the potential for infection, those clothes are unwearable. I’ve washed all over with a bottle of peroxide I found in the upstairs flat. That should be strong enough to kill anything. It was all I could find.
Four flats, three infected, one survivor got away. It was the one whose mother sent the jam. That makes sense, why else leave all this food, unless you knew that They were in the flats beneath you. Someone got away. That thought is all that’s holding me together right now.
It was the sight of all those little jars of jam, all signed ‘love mum’. I don’t know if I could handle the idea that one of the zombies I’d just killed was their owner. I know it’s too late for a cure, but I wonder how many of Them, even if there was a cure, if They were brought back to us right now, how many of Them would want to?
12:30
I’ve new clothes once again. They’re the wrong size but who cares about that. A pair of scissors took care of most of my hair, and the rest, I guess the peroxide will turn it blond and that’ll be my new look for this new age. It’s not the same as having a long hot shower, but it has helped. I’d like, and been hoping, to say that I feel like a new person. Except I don’t.
My leg’s throbbing, it’s a dull persistent ache, and that’s after I’ve taken two of the painkillers. I guess it’s been like that for days, but it’s been considerate enough to wait until now to let me know. It’ll probably heal, probably badly. I doubt I’ll ever run again. No more guilt laden, morning-after jogging for me!
As for the cast, it’s covered in grime, I’m not even going to begin to describe it, but u
ntil I can find a replacement it has to stay on.
No flies. That’s interesting, isn’t it? There were no flies in the flats. If this was a movie, then when I went into that first flat, there should have been a swarm of insects around the body. There had been around the driver of the government car. What was it about this one that repelled the insects? Does it mean that They are not really decaying? That, as the fluids evaporate, They are becoming desiccated? I don’t want to think about that and what it means. Not now. Not today.
I went downstairs. I had to check the apartments for food so I could work out how long I can stay here, how long I can sleep for. There’s enough for a few weeks. Maybe longer. Enough that I don’t need to count too precisely.
I guess that’s to be expected. The people who left with the evacuation were the ones who had to, the ones who had no supplies left. They had been the people who queued for hand-outs at the supermarkets. The people who stayed, they were the ones who bought food in bulk for financial, cultural or dietary reasons, or because they simply hated shopping. There had been a lot, in both apartments, or a lot for an apartment this size, but the tenants had stayed here a long time before they became infected. A kilo of rice, seven tins of tuna, a couple of packs of crackers, some noodles, and an assortment of tins whose contents I’m going to have to guess on based on the pictures since the labels aren’t printed in English.
I can stay here a fortnight, if I can find the water to cook with. I’ve used up the last of what little was in the toilet cisterns for rinsing off after my peroxide sponge bath. That leaves two litres of Coke, one of lemonade, one of something pink which is either alcoholic or drain cleaner.
It rained last night. Not heavily. Just enough to splatter the windows. That’s going to be the long-term solution to the water situation. I just need to work out how to collect it. Not today. For now, I’m going to sleep.