For my tenants, the muster point was a golf course near Farningham in Kent. That’s about twenty miles from here and further than any Londoner would usually walk in a month, let alone in a day. But what other choice did they have except to stay and starve in the dark.
The roads along the designated routes had been fenced in and split into lanes. The left lane was for cyclists, the second was for those on foot, the third was for the buses that would run up and down and collect those who couldn’t walk any further. All travel except on the designated fenced in routes was banned. Those found outside of the evacuation routes would be assumed to be infected and neutralised.
Once they arrived at the muster point, they would have had a physical examination to check for infection. If they passed, they’d be given the vaccine, if they didn’t, you can guess. Then they would board a train, bus, coach or flatbed to the coast before being distributed amongst the enclaves being built up on the islands and around fishing towns, ports, power stations, and oil refineries. For my tenants it meant a bus journey if they were lucky, a ride in the back of a container lorry if they weren’t. If there wasn’t sufficient transport, they faced an even longer walk, down to the enclave at Folkestone.
Evacuees could take with them only what they could carry but, as long as they could carry it, no restrictions were placed on their luggage. They were advised to bring blankets and clothing and enough food and water for the journey, but beyond that, nothing was as important as emptying the cities and beginning the slow process of rebuilding.
It was expected that thousands, possibly tens of thousands, would become infected, but these numbers would be manageable. The plan would reduce a worst-case scenario from an outbreak of millions that would destroy the country into one that would only require the destruction of a walled town.
It was a slapdash plan, a last resort plan, a great undertaking for that time of dire-most need. It was my plan. The germ of which came as I was wheeled from the hospital to the waiting car, then grew over the next day until I sent the forty-page outline to Jen. And that plan was almost implemented.
Almost. People didn’t wait until it was the turn for their sector. As soon as that announcement came, people started appearing in the streets. I watched them go by all day, some on their own, some in small groups, some on foot, some cycling, some pushing their gear on pushchairs, others with nothing bigger than a carrier bag. There were no cars, but even if someone had managed to hoard a few gallons of petrol they wouldn’t have been able to drive through the throng. That, I have to assume, is where the problems started.
There should, perhaps, be one or two zombies outside my window, and I shouldn’t be here to witness it. The routes and the staggered departures were all designed to get people out safely, without risk of infection. Instead they left before they were meant to, before they were expected to, and before the proper defence mechanisms were put in place. That is what I assume. The evidence of my own eyes tells me that what was meant to happen and what did, lie far apart.
Evacuees, Ha! Refugees would be closer to the mark, I don't think any of them truly realised what they were going to, or what they were leaving behind. Whether they were wearing designer hiking boots or plastic trainers from the supermarket they were going to spend the foreseeable future digging fields, breaking concrete or gutting fish. And they, out of all the billions on the planet, they’ll be the lucky ones.
Day 5, 73 days to go
00:15, 17th March.
It’s hard to sleep and I can’t concentrate to read. The emergency broadcast went off air for twenty minutes or so. I’m not sure what that means. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. I’m hiding in the bathroom, journal in one hand, pen in the other, the flashlight held between my teeth and the radio on the floor, volume on low. The door’s closed and I’ve wedged a towel against the gap at the bottom of the frame just for caution’s sake.
This is a pitiful way to live.
Today is the start of the fifth day without power, which makes it almost four weeks since New York. How long before undead muscles atrophy and their bodies succumb to decay? Longer than it will take mine. I’ve forty days of food, at best. That’s counting raw ingredients which I’ve no way of cooking, and it’s assuming none of it spoils.
12:00, 17th March.
I fell asleep last night counting calories. That’s a bad joke, I know, but at times like this are there any other kind? I need to focus more on my survival. That’s my new mantra.
Based on splitting the tins and the packets up into rough portion sizes, I’ve got about forty days’ worth of food. Well, thirty-nine now, I suppose. It might last longer since I’m not exactly exerting myself. It might be less, because some might spoil. Either way there’s a problem with the arithmetic. I’ve seventy-three days until the cast is due to come off. Then I’ve got to get the muscles back into working order. Call that another month, and that makes about one hundred days before I can walk close to normally. I’m going to starve long before then.
Jen didn’t leave any of the vaccine in her last care package. I guess she knew she’d be sending someone for me. I wonder if there’s any in the car.
19:00, 17th March.
I spent the afternoon investigating the two ground floor flats. My hope, my fantasy, was that one of those idiots had bought a box of freeze-dried ready meals and forgotten about it. No such luck.
They’re both two-room flats with separate bathrooms and decent-sized kitchens. If I’d had more money I could have squeezed in four studio apartments down there, still…
Getting down the stairs exhausted me. I had to rest at the bottom for a good twenty minutes before I was ready to continue.
The first stop was Grace’s flat. She was a golfer who didn’t quite make it, and earned her living working in the clubhouse at a course on the other side of London. The first thing I did was to check the windows were locked and the curtains were closed, then I went to the bathroom. I wanted to empty the water tank, since it’s not been used for over a week. I thought it a good idea to periodically freshen it up. That’s when I noticed there wasn’t a plug.
Either she’d lost it (how?) or taken it with her (why?) but all that was there was an empty chain, dangling forlornly against the water mark. I tried the shower, but the head was so caked in limescale, only the thinnest trickle of water came out. It’s baffling. Where did she wash? Why didn't she say something?
Her cupboards were pretty bare. I found a few more herbs to brighten up my boiled rice, and a few more sets of batteries, beyond that there was nothing I could see an immediate use for. What was even stranger was the complete absence of golf clubs. I mean, I asked her about that once, about a year after she’d moved in, she’d said that they were kept at the driving range, but I’m starting to wonder.
Juan’s was a little more promising. He was an aspiring actor who might have made it one day. His kitchen was worthy of the name, lots of flour, pulses, sugar, baking powder, spices, and the like. If I had an oven, I’d be fine.
And books! He had books. Lots and lots of books, none of which have anything to do with zombies! And yes, from where I sit that is worthy of an exclamation mark. From the way they were organised, he must have bought them as background reading to parts he was auditioning for. There are lots of travelogues and local and regional histories, true crime books and biographies of writers and actors. They’re the sort of diverting books I’d love to have read on the beach sometime. I brought up a selection, I’m sure I can imagine the beach.
The problem lay in getting my haul up the stairs. The real problem was getting me up the stairs, but I can see no easy solution to that. What I did realise is that it is a lot simpler if I only have myself to worry about, not my loot as well. I cut up one of Juan’s sheets into long strips (they seemed far cleaner than Grace’s), then twisted and tied them together into an impromptu rope. I doubt it would take my weight, but with one end tied around my belt the other around the bag I could make my way back upstairs and then pull
my haul up afterwards.
I didn’t bring much up, just the books, the batteries, a few different spices and the real find of the day, a tiny camping stove. No, that's far too glamorous a way to describe it. In one of Jessica’s books it’d be a proper camping stove, one with gas cylinders and an oven attachment (and it’d be found next to a stash of freeze-dried food with enough spare fuel to last the rest of the apocalypse). Really it’s nothing more than a small tripod upon which a saucepan can sit, and underneath there’s a little tray for fuel pellets. It’s basically the sort of thing you can build yourself with stuff lying around if you think of it, which, I’ll admit, I didn’t.
Now I can have tea, oh what joy! What true-blue Englishman wouldn’t rejoice at such a prospect? There was no sign of any fuel pellets though, so I’m making do with what I’ve got to hand, namely the wooden handles of my cutlery.
It takes an age though. I stuck the small saucepan on before I started writing this entry and the water still hasn’t boiled. Oh, how I’m looking forward to that first cup of tea!
All in all things are slightly better than this morning. If I can come up with a way of using the flour, I think I’ve about fifty days’ worth of food. Can you make cakes with just flour and water? I suppose I’ll find out. It’s far from a balanced diet, but it is calories.
How long does it take for scurvy to develop?
Day 6, 72 days to go
03:00, 18th March.
I can’t sleep. Of course I can’t sleep. What the hell did I think, that some moment of serene acceptance of my fate was going to come upon me after I’d had a cup of tea?
What if no one comes? There. I’ve written it down. I didn’t want to, out of some bloody stupid fear that writing it down would make it more real. Of course it doesn’t. The reality is that I’ve fifty days of food, which means sooner, not later, I’m going to have to go out into that living hell. I want to stomp and smash and swear and shout with the sheer unfairness of it all. But I can’t. They might hear me. Have you ever tried to vent your frustration by writing down swear words? Try it, it’s just not the same.
If I could walk properly I’d be fine. I’ve not seen any of Them move faster than a brisk walk, not outside and not on the footage I saw online. I saw those shots from the traffic cameras in Rio, you won’t have seen those I bet. Hours upon hours of nearly identical footage as millions slouched slowly by. The military summary, and you won’t have seen that either I’m guessing, reported their maximum speed at about five miles an hour and I can walk faster than that, any true Londoner can. Marching along, sidestepping traffic, tourists, and taxis whilst drinking a latte and making a phone call is practically in the citizenship test.
That’s without a broken leg. Even when the leg’s healed, I’m not going to manage more than three or four miles an hour at best. Probably less. Definitely less. If the cast is due off in seventy-two days then I’ll need physio for a few months just to build up the muscles again. At least for a few months, and how am I meant to survive that long? It just can’t be done. When hunger forces me out, how am I meant to outpace the undead? I’ll be slower than Them, and it’s not like They’re all going to be behind me. They’ll be in front, to the sides, in the buildings above me, even in the sewers for all I know.
If I’m being honest, and why the hell shouldn’t I be honest? Being forced out of here by hunger in fifty days is the best-case scenario. Forty-nine days and three hours now, since I’d be best heading out at first light. There are at least ten plumes of smoke in the sky. None are close enough that I can make out exactly where they are coming from, but that’s hardly reassuring. If it turns into another dry year, then how long before the whole city catches fire?
Then there’s the chance They spot me and start trying to get in. It’s easy enough for you to say “Make sure They don’t see you.” What about hear me? What about smell me? They might as well have those senses as well as sight. Besides, if the zombies can’t see me then neither can whoever Jen sends.
That is the problem, because, you see, I heard an engine. It definitely was an engine this time, and one that was quite close. It wasn’t moving fast, just steadily as if, and maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but as if someone inside was travelling slow enough to read the house numbers. Since I can’t see much from my window, just the street immediately below and a lot of roof tops beyond, I hurried downstairs to get a view from the other side of the house. Except, of course, for me hurrying means moving agonisingly slowly.
I could hear the car getting closer, heading this way down the street, down this street, a slow rumbling sound interspersed with an odd muffled thumping. I was saved! Except it was getting closer and I was still hobbling down the stairs. I limped faster, giving no heed to the racket I was making, nor about any extra injury to my leg, not caring about anything except getting to the window and seeing that car. Jessica’s room was closest, I hurried in and pulled back the curtain and stood there, peering out into the gloom, looking in the direction I was sure that it was coming from. Nothing. I twisted my head and there, I saw it. The most beautiful and terrible sight I’ve ever seen, red glowing lights slowly receding as the car drove away. It was an SUV of some kind and it was already a hundred yards down the street. It wasn’t moving fast, barely faster than walking speed, but that’s still faster than I can manage.
What to do? What could I do? I had to let them know I was here. I could be at the car in seconds. Minutes at most. I could go with them, I could escape, all I had to do was get outside and cross the few hundred yards that separated us. All I had to do… I tore my gaze from the car and looked down at the street below. There were dozens of zombies, more than I could easily count. The car was pulling Them along in its wake. The odd thumping sound was caused when it hit one of the undead. I’d not noticed, because I’d been looking for the car, but where there had been a handful of zombies a few days ago, now the street was packed.
Some reflexive self preservation mechanism kicked in and I dropped to the floor. I actually dropped. That was impressive, at least I’m impressed at the way my body reacted whilst my brain was busy being an idiot. The pain in my leg was immense, it sent needles of fire right up my spine, and I bit my tongue trying to stop myself from screaming out loud.
I’d only been at the window a few seconds and I can only hope that the noise and the lights were such a distraction that the undead didn’t see me. I retreated back upstairs as quietly as I could. I can’t hear the car any more. It’s disappeared off to the west somewhere. So close. So far.
I don’t think I was spotted, but I can’t be sure. It’s noisier outside now, that pervasive sound of shuffling has been joined by a banging clatter as They knock into cars, bins, and one another. I can’t hear any sound from the doors downstairs, but I don’t dare go and see. I don’t even dare look out the window. If They know I’m here, then what? I’ll be trapped, dead from starvation in under two months.
That was my rescue. I’m sure of it. Even if that car wasn’t sent by Jen, even if it only came along my road by accident, that was my chance to get out. Now I feel that I’m completely on my own.
06:00, 18th March.
Oh, and it looks like They are just as active at night as in the day. So that’s good.
16:00, 18th March.
This morning, I fell asleep reading a book. It’s called ‘Death Comes To Us All’ by an E.R.K. Daley. I’m sure that the title is a quote, but without the internet I couldn’t tell you whose. Probably it’s something Churchill said, either him or Shakespeare. Most quotes are. The book was written in the 1960s and is about a post-apocalyptic, dystopian society surviving in a tower block, and as the story progresses, in underground farms beneath it. Each chapter advances the story five years, and at the end, well, no, I won’t spoil it, you might want to read it someday.
It’s an interesting enough book, an allegorical take on isolationism, but what’s grabbed my attention are the ideas on farming. In the story, since the inhabitants are trapped ins
ide with no access to land, and with their only resource being the light constantly streaming through their windows, they turn to hydroponics. They make a good go of it too, but I think only because the author wanted generations who’d never been outside to grow old enough to rule.
What I’m wondering is how we’re going to manage farming in the days to come. It’s March now. Isn’t that when crops should be planted? Who exactly is going to do the planting?
My focus was on getting people out of the cities. Evacuees like my tenants, at least the ones who made it to an enclave would have found themselves crammed into a warehouse, church, community hall, pub, shop or whatever other space was available and not absolutely essential to our immediate survival. They could look for a hotel room, or even a spare room in someone’s house to stay in, but they wouldn’t find one. By the time they reached Folkestone they would have found those taken by the evacuees from the nearby villages and towns deemed too difficult to re-supply or defend.
Housing Officers were appointed from the ample stock of now redundant civil servants to ensure that every room was being used. Hotels, B&Bs, dining rooms, summer-houses, even garages, if it had a roof over it and plumbing within walking distance then someone could sleep there.
Families were to be kept together, and were to be billeted in the schools, this would allow some teaching to take place, but as the teachers were able-bodied adults more useful in other work, the lessons would be given by those too old to wield a shovel.
Sports centres would become hospitals staffed by evacuees, though they wouldn’t have the resources to provide anything other than the most rudimentary level of care. The largest of the restaurants were to become kitchens for the masses, at least for the first few weeks and months until the situation had stabilised. It was then hoped that each house, or group of families, could allocate a cook who would take on the responsibility for catering to the twenty or thirty people they lived with. People would have to improvise, everyone’s in the same situation, facing the same hardships and the same dangers and everyone would have to work together.