It was the same on the next road and the one after that. Every street that led to the river was blocked and in front of the barricades there were the undead. They clustered in front of the barriers in greater numbers than I’d seen before, pawing at them, as if They were trying to get to what was on the other side.
When I realised that, my heart skipped a beat. Could there be survivors there? Could those who’d stayed behind to keep the city working during the evacuation be just a few feet away? I listened for any trace of life, but all I could hear was the whispering grind of metal on metal.
That’s when I started to worry. I knew there had been roadblocks on all the bridges, but those had consisted of nothing more than traffic cones and easily moved waist-high fencing, not this towering amalgam of steel and cement.
From what I’d seen it must extend across a good portion of the river. It was too big an enterprise for it to be done by some small group since the evacuation. It had to have been planned and organised. That meant the government and that meant Jen, and she’d not told me about it.
I was only a few hundred yards south of London Bridge, a distance of about three miles from my house, and it had taken me two days to travel it. I wasn’t going to turn back. I wanted to see the river. More than that, I had to see it.
I thought about climbing the barricades, but the undead had congregated at each likely spot I found. I thought I could manage two, possibly even three, but often there were eight or nine or even more.
Carefully and slowly, I inched my way along the roads parallel to the Thames. What I needed was either a building that fronted onto the river that I could access from this side and walk through, or one tall enough that, from its roof, I could at least see how far the barricades extended. Either way I needed to find it fast, I was beginning to tire and I needed somewhere I could safely rest. I was a few hundred metres south and east of Butlers Wharf when I saw three of the undead in the street in front of me. I ducked into the doorway of an accountant’s, levered the lock apart and closed the door quietly behind me.
There was a staircase leading from the reception area, so I headed up. The first floor was split into three conference rooms, all ready for use save for a thin layer of dust. It looked like no one had been there since before the outbreak. There was a second set of stairs, less well kept than the first, carpeted only as far as the landing at which point they bent out of sight from the hallway.
I went up again, driven by a desire to get high enough to see the river. It wasn't easy. The staircase was narrow and steep, but I felt compelled to go on.
At the top was an open plan area with cluttered desks. I ignored those and headed for the door marked ‘Access Only’. It was unlocked and led to a flat roof dotted with dead plants and faded plastic chairs.
Finally I saw the river, a hypnotic sliver of blue green. I can’t recall whether there were any boats on it because after that fraction of a glimpse my eyes were drawn away and down to the streets on the other side of the barricades where I saw the undead.
There were thousands. Tens of thousands. Maybe millions, maybe the entire population of the country north of the river. There were more than I could count, and all that was between Them and me was the haphazard barricade of concrete and steel.
That wasn’t the worst of it. You know the old nursery rhyme, ‘London Bridge is falling down’? They’d demolished the bridges, or tried to, but there was a narrow section of pavement still standing. It was perhaps three feet across with the balustrade intact on one side, and on the other, an overturned Army truck. Around that narrow gap the living dead were tumbling into the river, but through it hundreds were being funnelled across the bridge onto the already densely packed streets of the South Bank.
The noise I’d been hearing was the shuffling of thousands of feet pushing forward, of bones breaking as the zombies at the front were crushed, and the groaning of metal as the barricades strained to hold.
I can’t be sure whether the undead spotted me as I stood there or when I turned to flee, or even if They spotted me at all, but as I raced to the door the noise grew to a deafening moaning roar. Underlying it was a grating screech as the barriers began to move.
I practically fell down the stairs and ran outside, heedless of noise, of my leg, of anything, but I’d forgotten the three creatures I’d entered the building to avoid. They were waiting right outside the door. I swung the hammer at the closest but missed, my aim was spoiled by the weight of the crutch. I hobbled forward, futilely shoving at Them with the crutches. Then I gave up and limped away as fast as I could. They followed.
I ignored the pain in my leg. I didn’t even have the breath to spare to scream. When I glanced back, They were only a few paces behind and now there were four of Them, and behind those I could hear the grinding of metal as the gates of hell opened and the barricades finally gave way.
I tried to go faster. I just wanted to get away, but every road I went down seemed to be full of zombies, all, it seemed, heading towards me, with dozens more now following in my wake. I was tiring and They were getting closer.
I recognised the block I was heading down as the same one the gym was on. The entrance was around the corner. Could I get inside without Them seeing where I’d gone? Could I get inside before They caught me?
I turned the corner, reached the doorway, tore at the cord I’d tied so carefully that morning, slammed the door behind me, smacked the bolts into place, then leaned against it whilst looking around. How thick was that glass? I grabbed a bench and pushed it against the door. That’s when the first zombie arrived. It started slamming its fists down on the glass. The door moved. Another one arrived and started pushing at the door. I grabbed and shoved every piece of furniture I could find, trying to make a barricade of my own.
Then it got worse. The banging stopped. It wasn’t that They had given up, but that was when the first rush from the barricade went by. They simply swept the other zombies up into that slow malignant wave.
They’re not trying to get in, not any more, but as this huge mass of living death makes its ponderous way past, it shoves and bangs and batters at the doors and windows. I don’t know how long they will hold.
Day 37, Bermondsey, London
03:25
About an hour ago, one of the plate glass windows at the front cracked. I heard it fracture, and just, only just, managed to get a display rack in front of it before it broke. I’ve added some weights and one of the benches to my little barricade, and I don’t think the undead can get in, but They might be able to see through the gaps.
I’m sitting in the showers with the door closed and flashlight on. It’s the closest to pulling the blankets over my head I could manage. It sounds like the whole of Britain north of the river, all fifty million or so, are flooding south, but it can’t be. Surely it can’t. Can it? And all because of me. God, I pity Sam. I pity anyone south of the river right now, anyone who gets caught outside.
It would have happened anyway. It’s not my fault. The barricade just wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps They didn’t even see me. Probably it was just a coincidence. It’s not my fault. This is not something I’m going to feel guilty about.
07:30
It’s long past dawn, but there are so many of Them out there, that not even the thinnest glimmer of daylight can penetrate their ranks.
I’ve not really slept. There’s an upstairs here, but the staircase is on the other side of the lobby. Will They see me crossing the floor?
09:00
I’m upstairs in the manager’s office. I can’t tell if They spotted me or not. Every few seconds, an irregular pounding will come from below as one of Them pushes at the door. Whether it’s deliberate or not I can’t tell.
Fortunately there’s a window up here. It’s high up in the wall, near the ceiling, and from here I can see nothing except the sky, but just seeing sunlight again is soothing. Upstairs is far smaller than the ground floor, which itself isn’t exactly spacious, but it feels safer. They c
an’t get up here, not easily and I don’t think They’re really trying. No. I’m safe here. Safe, for now.
I don’t understand where these zombies came from. Clearly from north of the river, but where exactly? This is important. I mean really important, okay? It’s not just me trying to distract myself by thinking about something else. If all of those outside were Londoners, then why didn’t they leave when they were meant to? If these aren’t Londoners, then what is it that, after death, drew Them to the south?
I’m trying to remember what I saw, what I really saw, not what I think or dread I might have seen. Were there barricades on the north bank? Tower Bridge was up. I remember that, what about Southwark Bridge? I think it was destroyed, but… no, I can’t say. I couldn’t see the other side of the river, couldn’t say whether there were barricades there too. All I can remember, all I can see in my mind’s eye, is a sea of ghoulish faces glaring up at me.
I’ve seen this twice before, at the house. One day there would be just two or three then the next there would be dozens, then a few days later one or two again. I’d imagined that this was like a cloud moving across south London, growing as it collected more of Them in its wake, its speed and direction dictated by the obstacles in its path. Perhaps those surges were caused when other barricades, over other bridges, broke.
Alright, so maybe it doesn’t matter exactly where They came from. Whether it’s from London, the Midlands or even Scotland, it doesn’t really change anything, not now. Where They go, that is the more pressing question and one for which I have no answer.
As for what I can deduce, what I actually know from what little I’ve seen, if I disregard those assumptions that are driven by fear, then I can say that there must have been a major outbreak during the evacuation. I’d suspected, or rather I’d feared, as much.
I can picture those fenced in roads and motorways, they were meant to keep the infection out but all they did was ensure that the victims were trapped. Someone, who had been infected, who hoped to reach the muster point, who hoped the vaccine was a cure, died, turned, and came back. Perhaps not immediately. Perhaps the body lay there for a few hours. Perhaps it was reported to one of the officials. Perhaps it was even moved into one of the trucks, the death assumed to be from a heart attack or exhaustion or one of a hundred other innocuous complaints. Then the body rose up and attacked. Panic set in. People fled in both directions along the fenced in road, not heading for safety, not heading anywhere but away. But there were too many refugees. The road would have become clogged, and the ones at the back would be attacked, and they would die and some would turn immediately and slowly refugees would become the undead.
Those that still lived, with no other way of escape, would have torn down the fences. Infected and uninfected alike, would have fled out into the countryside. It can’t have been long before the undead reached the next reinforced road, and with hundreds or thousands of zombies now tearing at those fences, they too would give.
Perhaps that’s why the barricades were thrown up, a hasty defence to keep the river clear whilst those last core personnel attempted to leave. The military, the police, the hospital staff, the engineers, the politicians, Jen. Was this horde their downfall? Is this how the government fell? Are they now the dead walking the streets below? Is she one of Them?
11:00
What can I do about it? Nothing. If Jen’s out there, then she is. If she escaped then she did. I can’t do anything about that. I can’t do anything to help her. All I can do is try and help myself, and myself needs to get out of here.
It’s a small gym. Downstairs are exercise machines and weights along with changing and shower areas. Upstairs there’s a small storage area, this office, and a weird room with mats on the floor and mirrors around the edges. That gave me a shock when I opened it. I didn’t recognise myself at first, covered head to toe in dirt and grime. That door is now firmly closed. At the bottom of the stairs along with a water cooler, whose contents had mostly evaporated, was the vending machine, whose contents are now mostly stacked on the table.
It would have been nice if there was even one replacement water canister for the cooler but there isn’t. Judging by the stack of empty bottles by the back door they were overdue for a delivery. That’s the bad news. The vending machine was half full, its contents amounting to about ten days worth of protein bars and vitamin fortified glucose and electrolyte enriched re-hydration fluids, or, to give it its more familiar name, squash. Add to that the energy bars, glucose tablets and some much welcome paracetamol in the office drawer, the boxes of vitamin tablets and body building powder stuff in the supply room and I’m set for a few weeks. I get the feeling that whoever ran this place might have had a side line in supplements, there’s a few boxes here printed in Cyrillic, another two printed in (possibly) Chinese. Those I’ll leave alone.
The towels though, oh, so soft and clean. If only the showers were working, I think I’d almost risk going downstairs. Almost.
For now the front doors are holding, so I’m safe, but under siege.
14:00
With the desk by the window and a chair on top of it, I have a platform from which I can just make out the tops of their heads. The road’s not as densely packed as I thought. There are only hundreds out there, not thousands. I assumed there were more, it sounded like more, perhaps because They are moving so slowly.
I’ve blocked up the top of the stairwell. If the undead get in, then I’m stuck here. But if They do break through my barricade, there’s no way I’d make it downstairs to the back door. At least now I should be able to sleep in peace.
Day 38, Bermondsey, London
09:00
Another sleepless night, caused not from the noise, which I’m almost accustomed to, but the leg. With my eyes firmly shut, I dragged out a few of the mats from the mirror room to sleep on, using towels for pillows and blankets. It was comfortable enough, but my leg wouldn’t stop throbbing.
The exertion of the last few days has taken it out of me. Right now I can barely move, but even if I could there’s no way I could survive out there. Better to die here, of thirst.
If I’d ever had to think about what the end of the world was like I wouldn’t have imagined there would be so much boredom. All I have to read are a selection of industry magazines, sales catalogues and one novel titled ‘A Cornish Daughter’. It’s some kind of romantic period drama that’s as bad as the name suggests. When I get out of here I’m going to keep my eyes open for some Dickens.
Day 39, Bermondsey, London
08:00
My third day in the gym and I’ve been exploring my surroundings more carefully. I didn’t really examine the outside of the building, but it had at least four storeys, maybe as many as six. The gym takes up a small corner unit, which means on the other side of the wall, and above my head, are other properties. I think there used to be a staircase behind a section of plasterboard in the supply cupboard. I’m not sure, but it’s not like I’ve anything better to do than find out.
12:00
There was nothing behind the plaster except an empty cavity with pipes and ventilation for the showers. Going to try the walls and see if I can break through to next door.
Day 40, Bermondsey, London
08:00
It’s my fourth day here, and They are still outside, milling around, aimless, purposeless, not much different from me. That has got to change. The food I found will be gone in a week, which makes staying put suicidal, so too is going outside. I’ve broken through the plaster around the walls, but the brickwork is solid, the cement relatively new. If I had time I could break through, but to what? I can’t go out, I can’t go down, I can’t go sideways, that only leaves up.
15:30
It took two hours to build a scaffold out of the office furniture. It seems stable enough and from it I can reach the ceiling. Whatever is up there can't be any worse than what’s outside.
Day 41, Bermondsey, London
19:00
Thi
s is almost as much fun as looting. It’s exhausting but incredibly cathartic, taking my rage and frustration out on the building. I’ve got the plaster off and was going to rest until the morning, but what’s the point in waiting? It’s not like I’m going to be able to sleep, and this may take some time.
Day 42, Bermondsey, London
05:00
Due to sheer physical exhaustion, I had to give in to sleep for a few hours. Late last night I got a knife up between the floorboards, it went in up to the hilt so there’s no carpet there. I can’t hear any sounds above me, and with the racket I’ve been making, if there was a zombie up there it would have heard me.
I think the zombies outside the gym did. I think They’re pushing at the doors, actually trying to get in. I can’t see through the window from here to confirm it, and I’m not clearing the stairwell to check. I need to continue. I must keep going.
14:00
I’m upstairs, in the flat above the gym. I had to shift the barrier on the staircase so I could go down to the ground floor and grab one of the long weight bars. With that as a lever I dislodged two of the floorboards, making a space big enough to pull myself through. I pushed everything heavy I could find onto the stairwell, but I was too eager to get up and out of the gym. They saw me when I went downstairs. The sounds from the ground floor changed about half an hour after I climbed up here. I’m sure They are now in the building.
I had packed everything useful from the gym, the excess food and water, the supplements and a few spare towels, into a couple of plastic carriers. Those were tied onto one end of a rope made from strips of towel, with the other end attached to my belt. Then I hauled myself up through the gap. That took a lot more effort than I’d expected. The cumulative effect of days of using my arms, first when walking, then to make the hole, has taken its toll.