Surviving The Evacuation, Book 1: London

by Frank Tayell

  Day 47, Bermondsey, London

  06:30

  Coke for breakfast, in lieu of coffee. Not quite the same. Ooh, I’ve an idea!

  07:10

  I boiled up some Coke to make cola flavoured coffee. Or is it coffee flavoured cola? I’m calling it colaffee and if I’m honest, I’d have to say it tastes better than that pink stuff.

  I’m feeling far more upbeat this morning. No. Not upbeat, just more accepting I suppose. Have decided to have a day off. Who needs water when you have colaffee?

  19:00

  Something has been nagging at me over the last few days, but I suppose I’ve not had the luxury to really think about it until now. I’m hoping putting it down on paper will help clarify my thoughts.

  It’s the driver. The one Jen sent, or at least the one I thought she sent. Did she actually send him? That’s what’s bugging me. I didn’t speak to her, and the only reason I thought he’d come at her behest was the text message I’d received, or, to be more precise, the one sent from her phone.

  She’d spent three weeks resolutely keeping me away from the evacuation, and for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, keeping me away from wherever she was. Jen and I are family. Or as close to family as I’ve got, so when she did send someone to collect me, why was it someone I didn’t know? When he didn’t return, why didn’t she follow up? And why was he on his own? She knew I couldn’t walk, and since it took two of them to get me up to the flat, how was one of them going to get me down? Why was there no wheelchair? Why was he fitting a silencer to a gun, one he didn’t keep on his person, where it would be ready to hand?

  Maybe there wasn’t a wheelchair to spare and it’s not like I’d need one on a car journey. Fine, I can accept that, but if she was in a position to send a car with its priceless fuel, surely she could certainly spare a couple of people. It wasn’t like human beings were in short supply.

  All right Mr Paranoid, what is it you’re suggesting? What is it that’s been eating away at you? Well, I’ll tell you. The silencer. Why would you fit one of those to a gun? Well, yes, obviously so that no one else would hear the shot, and yes, that could be an issue with the undead. Next to the sound of a car engine, however, the sound of a single shot fired at a zombie that was close enough to hit with a handgun isn’t a risk even worth thinking about. No, the only reason I can think why it would be in the glove box, at a time when even the police were armed, was if you didn’t want anyone to know you had it. The only reason you’d fit a silencer to a gun would be if you didn’t want other people, other living people, to hear the shot.

  Jen knew that my tenants had left, but that doesn’t mean she’d told anyone else. The Radio Free England people said that the government had fallen, but which government did it mean? Who were these men working for that she felt she couldn’t speak freely to me in their presence?

  But why does that matter? The evacuation clearly failed. Knowing who and why someone was sent to kill me doesn’t help in getting out of here, but perhaps it alters my destination.

  20:00

  In the last two weeks I’ve killed, if that’s the right word, five people. I’ve let loose, albeit unwittingly, thousands of the undead into south London, thus indirectly endangering and probably killing an unknown number of survivors. I’ve broken into four flats, one gym and one shop, looted, stolen, caused criminal damage, and I plan to cause more. I shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this, but I do.

  I was worried that some of the blood, or gore, or whatever that brownish ooze They have under the skin is, might have seeped under the cast and into some scratch or graze I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to write it down, in case the act itself in some way made it more real. Call it superstitious if you want, but look outside the window and tell me this isn’t a world made for superstition. Eight o’clock tonight was my cut off point. If I got this far then I knew I wasn’t infected. I’m not. I’m just lucky. I never believed in luck before and find it hard to do now.

  There’s hundreds milling around outside, heading vaguely westward, except by the door to the gym. There’s about a dozen by the front doors. I'm not sure how many are inside, but if I were to guess, based on the gym’s layout and the way the undead around the door are moving, I would say that there are maybe twenty in the building.

  Sometimes one of the undead slouching along the street will stop and join those trying to get inside. Sometimes one of those at the doors will be jostled or knocked far enough away that They drift off and rejoin the exodus. It’s like magnetism in a way, or gravity, there’s a certain distance from the gym at which the mass of the herd becomes more desirable than, well, than me.

  I have no idea what the significance of this is. Something to do with pack mentality or hive minds or scent or senses or I don’t know what. I think if I observe Them I’ll learn more about Them, but what more do I need to know?

  I didn’t have a plan if I really thought I was infected. I guess suicide would be an option, but I can’t really see the point, I’d be dead either way. I guess I’m just like that guy downstairs, thinking I’m somehow different.

  Day 48, Bermondsey, London

  09:00

  I’ve three to four weeks worth of food, but only a few days of fluids left, so I’ve come up to the attic to see how difficult it would be to knock a hole in the roof through which I can collect rainwater.

  Very, is the answer. There’s not enough room to stand up properly and other than the walls between each property, nothing with which to support myself as I stand. The beams are solid but narrow, and too far apart to have a crutch on one and my leg on the other. I’ve tried standing on one leg, whilst leaning on the wall, and balanced like that I can reach the roof, but it’s pretty solid. Given time I think I could break through, but I don’t know how long it would take and besides all that, it’s not raining.

  Instead, I’m going to break through to the next lot of flats and hope I find water in there.

  15:00

  Not a good day. I broke through to number 209. From the attic I could hear movement below. I made a small hole in the ceiling and peered down. I could see nothing. I moved over to where I thought the bathroom would be and made another hole. Still nothing. I crawled over to the other side of the attic and checked the other flat, but it too was empty. The noises, I thought, must be coming from the downstairs flats.

  If it, or They, were making that much noise then there had to be a reason, for instance that someone else was down there. That made me hesitate for a few moments until I realised that if I could hear it from up here then those outside would be able to hear it too.

  I was far more concerned about the noise than about the potential for companionship. I guess that’s something to do with Sam, or maybe it’s just that I’ve survived so long on my own that maybe I don’t need help from someone who’s managed to get themselves trapped in a clearly escapable flat. Either way, that noise had to stop. It was bad enough having Them in the gym at that end of the building. If the undead started congregating outside here as well, then I might end up truly stuck with no way out.

  I was better prepared this time. I was wearing extra layers, especially over the cast. The only part of my body not covered was around my eyes. I’d brought the ladder up to the attic with me, so getting down would only entail opening the hatch, lowering the ladder and carefully hopping down one rung at a time.

  I made too much noise. I should have wrapped the ladder in cloth or something, anything to stop it banging and clattering as I tried to manoeuvre it in such a small space. Eventually the ladder was in place, my good leg was on the top rung, my bad one hanging in mid-air. That’s when I noticed the heaving wheeze was getting closer. It wasn’t coming from inside the flat, it was outside in the hall, coming up the stairs. There was no time to go back up, I had to get down and face it.

  Foot down, drop. Foot down, drop. I was too slow. Twisting my head I saw it, and I know this was just a trick of the light, but I swear its eyes
were glowing with a predatory glee. It lunged. I waved the crutch at it, knocked it off balance, dropped down one more rung as it lunged again. This time I twisted on the ladder, balancing on my leg with one hand, lancing the crutch straight at its head. Its momentum and the power of the blow caused it to pivot, to fly off its feet and land on its back. But with all the cloth padding on the crutch, I’d done no damage. As soon as it was down, it was trying to get back up again. The only advantage I had right then, and I know this sounds utterly absurd, was that it couldn’t seem to work out whether to roll onto its right side or onto its left.

  I dropped down one more rung. Now I was three feet from the landing. I jumped the rest of the way, hopping and twisting to face it. Now that I was closer, it stopped trying to roll and started thrashing at me with its arms. I knocked them out of the way with the crutch, stepped forward and brought down the hammer. It died.

  I was breathing so hard it sounded like it was in stereo. Then I realised that it wasn’t me. There were two more coming up the stairs.

  A memory flashed across my mind, of those childhood summers when Jen and I would visit old medieval castles and be told that the spiral staircases were designed like that so the right-handed defenders could use their swords to full effect. All those interminable tours, with their tedious re-enactments came back to me as I stood at the top of the stairs and watched as the first zombie half-crawled, half-walked its way towards me. I pushed at it with the crutch, knocking it off balance and back into the creature behind it. I suppose if I had been facing living people wearing twice their body weight in metal armour this would have been a good strategy. As it was, I just had to wait whilst They disentangled themselves and climbed back up.

  I couldn’t reach the zombie whilst it was on the stairs, not with its arms flailing in front of it, I had to back up and wait until it was on the landing. Its hands got to the top step, and as it was straightening up, it tried to grab me. I pushed the crutch down on its shoulders, pinning it to the ground before killing it with one blow from the hammer. Then I pushed its body backwards toppling the third zombie over, knocking it down to the landing, giving myself another thirty seconds or so to catch my breath, before repeating the technique.

  Finally it was over. I waited, my body tense, in case there were more, but I could hear nothing beyond that eternal scuffling sound from outside.

  I had to check the flats. I mean, it was clear these were the former residents. They were just wearing normal clothes, not the kind you’d expect if they’d been outside and sought refuge here. But first I had to make sure my escape route was clear. I’d learnt my lesson, you see. I checked the ladder was secure, then pushed the two bodies to the top of the stairs. It wasn’t much of a barricade, but good enough to give me a little time whilst I went inside the flats. There was nothing there. No undead, no food, no water.

  I pushed the bodies to one side then went downstairs. One room was locked. From the stains, the other looked as if it was where at least one had turned. Finally I broke into the locked room, the one I thought the zombies had been trying to get inside.

  An empty pill bottle stood on the small bedside table next to an empty glass. There was a body lying on the bed. A letter was clutched in his hands.

  “To whom it may concern.

  My name is Tamotso Yoshida, from Kyoto, Japan. I came to England to continue my studies in Applied Fluid Dynamics at King’s College London. I am twenty-seven years old.

  I rented this flat through an agency provided by the university. Beyond an occasional nod of greeting, I did not know the other tenants. We met properly the first day of the curfew. I returned from the laboratory to discover them huddled around the front door. With no shops open they had no reason to go out, but they were too terrified to stay in their apartments.

  We didn’t bond. We weren’t friends. We never entirely trusted one another, but we agreed to stay together, to pool our resources, to help each other survive. We went to the university, broke into the coffee shop and stole all we could carry. It wasn’t much, but enough, we thought, for a month, by then the crisis would be over.

  We decided not to leave when we were ordered to. The conditions the evacuees would face wherever they ended up would, at best, be unsanitary, but it was more likely it would be lethal. There is no way that I can see how the government will ensure that no one who is infected will not be amongst those leaving. There simply are not the resources to examine everyone.

  It was this argument that persuaded the others to stay, but I do not accept responsibility for their decision. It was theirs alone. They wanted to stay. They felt safe here. It was their choice.

  We went out, always in pairs, in search of food. We broke into houses and shops and took whatever we could find. It was never more than we could carry. At first it was terrifying, then it was thrilling, but that faded as more and more of the undead appeared on the streets.

  When the electricity was cut off, we started to worry. When the water stopped flowing, Kashandra wanted to go outside, to get more supplies. I did not. I wanted to wait. We had enough to last for weeks. We voted. I lost.

  She left early on Saturday morning. There were no undead out there at the time. She was planning to check the shops in the next street, to confirm if they were empty or not. She left with Max.

  They were gone for three hours and returned empty handed and silent. I knew something was wrong. But they would not say any more than they had been unsuccessful.

  Kashandra developed a fever around two p.m. By three she was unconscious. At four she died, a minute later she came back and attacked Max. I ran from the room into here, where we’d stored our food. I closed the door in Talil’s face. He hammered at the door. I ignored him, ignored his screams as they killed him. Ignored him when he came back and began hammering at the door once more.

  Now the food is gone, and I am down to the last glass of water.

  This is not death. It is peace. Good bye.”

  16:30

  Who am I to judge him? Would I have done any differently? I’d like to think I’d have fought, but how long did I stay in my house, all locked up and safe? If I’d still had enough of those little blue pills when I was trapped in the gym, or when I thought I’d been infected, I might have made the same decision as him. No, it isn’t for me to judge him or anyone else.

  I’ve run out of water, and now all I have left is the last bottle of Coke. I’ve taken a look around, but there isn’t anything here, not even clean clothes. I’ve returned the letter and pulled the door to. Perhaps someone will come looking for him one day, but I doubt it.

  19:00

  The wall sealing the attic in Tomotso’s flat with the next one is much thicker, at least three bricks deep, with fresh looking cement. I just spent an hour working at it and only managed to remove two bricks. At this rate I’ll have died of dehydration before I break through, and then what? I can’t risk finding nothing on the other side. Instead, tomorrow, I’m going out the front door.

  I’ve brought everything useful, but which I can’t carry, up to the attic space, and I’m going to take the door key with me. It comes to at least three weeks worth of food. There’s no guarantee I’ll be able to get back in, but I like the idea of somewhere to fall back to.

  I can’t work out if I’ve had mostly good luck so far, or mostly bad.

  Day 49, Bermondsey, London

  16:00

  Either They are getting slower or I’m getting faster. I’m sure it’s the latter. I didn’t have to kill any of Them today. Then again, I’m only a few hundred yards from where I started and the day is far from over.

  They didn’t notice me at first. I had time to close the door to the flats and maybe, just maybe They didn’t spot where I was coming from. Maybe that flat will still be safe if I need to go back. Maybe the undead don’t care where I came from, maybe that would require more reasoning than They are capable of, but I only got twelve paces before I was spotted and the chase began.

  We can manag
e about the same speed, Them and me, and by the time I’d reached the junction at the end of the block, the zombies from the side of the building had spotted me. It became quickly apparent that I’d no chance outpacing Them.

  I know glancing behind is meant to slow you down, or maybe that’s only for sprinters, but I had to look. I wish I hadn’t. There were scores of gaping snarling mouths, pursuing me with one terrible purpose. I knew, out in the open, They would catch me. Without the time to select a refuge, I headed to this building site. It’s the was-soon-to-open-but-now-never-will Havingdon Estate. A mixture of prime retail and premium housing, in one of the most desirable, yada-yada. It was going to be just another generic block of flats with shops underneath. They got as far as putting in the concrete structure, the foundations, the lift-shafts, and four of the floors, but not the plumbing, walls, windows or doors.

  The padlock on the entrance had already been broken, a chain looped around the door kept it closed. Clearly someone else has been here, but whoever they are they’ve left no trace of where they went.

  I’m on the second floor of a small, low building off to one side of the main construction site. I can’t work out what, when finished, this building was meant to be, but it has become my fortress for the night, and it’s a good one! There was a scaffolding walkway between it and the next building and no other way to get up here. I’ve pulled the walkway back now. Even if the undead do get into the site I can pull the walkway across and over onto the other side, balance it on the fence, and sort of drop down onto the street below.

  Okay, it doesn’t sound like a great plan, not written down like that, but it is. What makes me certain, you see, are the scorch marks on the concrete, and this group of trunnions. They are called trunnions aren’t they, these metal hooks embedded in the concrete to which the walkway can be attached? No, maybe they’re called something else, I can’t remember.