Surviving The Evacuation, Book 1: London

  13:10, 13th March.

  I thought I heard a car again. I’m sure it is a car, but there are so many houses for the sound to bounce off, it could be coming from anywhere within a half-mile radius of here. In the summer, if I left the balcony doors open at night, I could hear goods trains rattling by in the distance, and the railway has to be at least a half a mile away. Now those sounds are gone. There’s nothing but the quiet rustling of wind and the constant shuffling of feet along the road outside.

  I don’t know if the undead would be able to see me if I stood in front of the glass. How could They? But how can They be out there in the first place? I don’t want to risk it, nor do I want to lose the chance to see the world outside by blocking up the window, so I sit on the bed, waiting for my leg to cramp up.

  I tried the phone again, just in case, but there’s no answer. Maybe it’s broken. It must be broken, Jen would have noticed that her driver didn’t come back wouldn’t she? Of course she would. She’ll send someone else, but I’ve got to be patient. She’s got millions of evacuees to feed and house. She knows where I am. I’ve just got to be patient.

  My four tenants moved out with the first wave of evacuees. That was on the 6th March, a few hours after Jen had appeared on TV to announce the evacuation would start the next day and that the vaccine was ready, but would only be distributed to evacuees at the muster points. She’d visited me that morning with my last care package.

  I suppose I was so caught up in the excitement of new food and the sight of all those people going by outside that I didn’t notice my tenants were gone until the following morning. Traffic, trains, aeroplanes, kettles boiling, cups rattling, cupboard doors closing. All those little audible cues that you’ve woken to an ordinary world, they were all gone.

  It was about mid-morning before I decided to go downstairs and see whether I was alone. I think I knew. Yes, of course I knew, I just didn’t want to believe it. It took me an age to get down to the first floor. I can’t remember the last time I had to actually use my arms to lift anything close to my own weight. Probably not since school, and maybe not even then. I tried lowering my good leg first and taking the weight on the crutches, but the stairs are too steep and narrow for that. Instead it was crutches first then I had to contort my body into an L-shape at each step. It was agony. I almost gave up after the third step.

  The two first floor flats were empty, the keys left in the locks. There wasn’t even a note. I haven’t checked the ground floor flats. I did try calling out, but as it took almost all of my energy just to get down one flight of stairs, I didn’t bother going down any further. Besides, what would be the point? I’ve got food here and Jen will come back, or send another car. Probably, in all the confusion of the evacuation, she’s not realised that the car hasn’t returned, but soon she’ll ask someone and they’ll check and then they’ll send somebody. I’ve just got to stay quiet and listen and wait.

  14:40, 13th March.

  When Jen visited that last time, she didn’t stay long and her security people were clearly nervous, pushing her to hurry it up. It wasn’t that they actually said “Hand over the food, and let’s get out of here,” but you could tell they wanted to be elsewhere. One of them stuck to her side all the time, not that we needed privacy, our relationship was never in that particular place, but this guy walked in right behind her and stood staring at her the whole time she was here.

  This was after the Prime Minister’s disappearance. According to Jen, he’d had a breakdown and been temporarily replaced by Sir Michael Quigley, the Foreign Secretary. According to Sholto, the PM had been forcibly removed during what in other times would be described as a coup.

  She didn’t say where she was going, she didn’t say much at all, but as she was leaving she asked me to wish her luck. The only other time she’d said that to me was the night before the by-election. I was still furious with her for ditching me and our plans for the security of a government paycheck, but I wished her luck anyway. It’s what you do. So as she left, I said good luck, and tried to smile like I meant it.

  It’s the other one who’s down in the street, the one who first stood outside the door then went to stand by the car. I never spoke to him, never knew his name, never even got a good look at his face and he’s the one who died coming to rescue me.

  16:00, 13th March.

  There’s no power. There’s still water, but without electricity there’ll be no more hot showers. Fortunately that’s not a great hardship since it was a pain trying to wash in there. I had to sit down on a stool, and it’s such a small cubicle it meant leaving the door open, which, in turn, meant the carpet out here was getting ruined.

  I know, who cares about the carpet at a time like this? But it’s my carpet, my house, and as much as I hate it, my home. So I made do with a sponge bath, which at least had the merit of giving me something to do.

  No power for the kettle though and that’s a real blow. I’d begun to ritualise making tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil then waiting for the tea to brew meant a few minutes I could just ignore the problems of the world. I didn’t have any milk, not real milk anyway. Jen left some powdered milk, but I’d rather drink black tea than mix that stuff into a brew!

  No, there’s been no real milk since before I went into hospital. Of course, since the fridge no longer works there would be no way of keeping it fresh. No fridge. Not that there was anything much in there and what little there was had gone off whilst I was in hospital. I didn’t do much cooking. Sandwiches were about the extent of my culinary expertise, ready meals were for when I was feeling extravagant. Usually I ate out, never anywhere particularly grand, but it was better to spend a few extra quid each day than have all my clothes smell of cooking.

  No more fry-ups. I had an electric stove, a two-ring affair on top of the world’s smallest oven, but even if it was gas it wouldn’t matter, that was shut off the morning of the evacuation.

  Today’s lesson; you really can’t make tea with cold water. I knew, in the same way I know the sun’s a long way away, that tea has to be made with boiling water, but I’d never tried it before. I tried making coffee with cold water, but the granules didn't dissolve. Maybe they would with some other brand, but not with the stale jar I’ve got.

  No more bread maker. I used to set the timer so there would be a fresh loaf when I got home. Oh, the smell of fresh bread… I rarely ate more than a couple of slices; it was coming home to that smell that I liked. Oh, yes, fine, it was wasteful, didn’t I care about the starving children, etc. etc. Well I didn’t care. I don’t care. I think I did enough good in the world to deserve that small extravagance. I’ve still got the flour, about half a kilo, but like I said, it’s an electric oven.

  No films, TV or music, but I can live without those. I never had much time for television and definitely no time for the cinema. As for music, I rated it on its ability to block out the sound from outside, not on any artistic merit. I regret that now.

  There’s no heating. It’s a small room, but it’s a big draughty house and I’m well aware that I’m the only thing radiating heat in here. Technically it’s spring, but it still feels like winter. At least there’s been no snow since the end of January.

  They never said how long the water would be on for, but if the power’s out here, how long will it be before they redirect it from the pumping stations?

  Chin up, be positive, each day will be warmer than the last, and there’s the radio! It’s a wind-up thing with a solar panel on the top. It was another Christmas present from Jen, a private joke after I missed the opening segment on a talk show I was about to appear on. I thought they were talking about TB in badgers, but they’d moved onto the MMR jab, so when I started talking about culling… well, the station got a lot of calls that day.

  The solar panel bit never worked, and you have to wind the crank for an hour to give the radio’s battery thirty minutes’ worth of power. Usually it’s plugged into the mains, now keeping it running is my principal form of ex
ercise. Since the evacuation all they’ve broadcast is “Listen for Announcements” followed by the dreariest choral music ever recorded. I think it’s on an automated loop.

  Even before the evacuation it wasn’t much better. After the first twenty-four hours or so, the TV and radio went back to almost normal programming. They’d still have updates in the news bulletins, but by that stage I think all anyone cared about were those few words at the beginning “There are no reported outbreaks in the UK”, whether they believed them or not. For the rest of the time it was music on the radio and old sitcoms, war-time movies and sports on the TV.

  There was a lot of sport on television during the fortnight before the evacuation. They’d shut the stadiums, but the matches were being played anyway. With the pubs closed it kept people indoors. I watched about ten minutes of the West Ham versus Arsenal match, but without the sound of a crowd it just didn't work. I think it was the sight of those empty stands that really brought home how much our world had changed.

  There was some talk about showing the US president’s broadcast, just as a way of filling time. I’m glad they didn’t. It was timed to go out exactly a week after the outbreak in New York, over the emergency broadcast system, but by then I’m not sure how many people were left, or able, to watch. The official line over there was that the crisis was under control. The reality was that most of the US, like the rest of the world, had already collapsed. Millions had fled the cities to fight over what they perceived as defensible real estate, and the infection had gone with them.

  The president shouldn’t have given the broadcast. I’d have told him not to, or at least not to do it from the lawn of the White House, but someone persuaded him that it was utterly essential he do it, and do it there. It would, he’d been told, “calm the populace, encourage people to stay in their homes, and restore faith in both the administration and the government.”

  That’s why it had to be from the front lawn, so that everyone, politicians and public alike, could see that the Prez was still in Washington and look folks, he’s not worried! The speech itself was, well, it was nothing. It wasn’t spectacular, it wasn’t moving, it had none of the oratorical skill that had won him the presidency, it was just a string of words for him to say whilst the cameras focused on him and his entire West Wing staff arrayed in ranks behind and to the sides. It might have worked if the Marines hadn’t been placed in such a way as it looked like the staff were being held there at gun point, but probably even that wouldn’t have helped after what happened.

  He was right at the end of the speech and had just said “God bless you, and God—” when he saw her. He stopped right in the middle of the sentence and it sounded like he’d just sworn.

  The cameras stayed on him, after all they were being operated by professionals, so for a long few seconds there was just this image of the president staring slack jawed into the lens whilst off-screen you heard a scream. Then there was a flurry of gunshots, then more screaming, then more gunshots before the feed was cut. After a moment the picture returned to a studio where the presenter blithely continued with announcements about water purification and energy conservation, as if anyone who saw it could pretend that they didn’t know what had just happened.

  There was another camera, one belonging to a group of university students from Notre Dame. They’d been producing a documentary on the inner workings of government as part of a broadcast aimed at teenagers who’d be old enough to vote for the first time at the next election. They’d been with the politicians for months when New York happened and I suppose no one thought to take away their credentials. They just kept recording and uploading the raw footage, but not to the net. They knew that if it became public, they’d lose their access, so instead they sent it to the one person they thought it would be safe with, Sholto. He forwarded it to me along with a copy of the footage the networks broadcast. From the two sets of video, I’ve pieced together what happened.

  A staffer had been infected, died and turned in a bathroom just inside the security cordon. How? I don’t know. After the lockdown, and the Prez announced he was staying in Washington, the staff had been sleeping at their desks. During the broadcast, since everyone was outside and looking either at the president or at the cameras, and since the zombie was wearing a suit with a pass hanging round its neck, no one noticed it was undead until it lunged at the crowd.

  Of course, the Secret Service agents saw the threat before any of the rest of the crowd. They reacted with that precision and skill that only comes with decades of practice designed to take down the threat quickly. They aimed for the centre mass.

  It must have been hit at least thirty times. It spun. It fell. It got up. The agents changed their aim, and its head exploded. When the camera refocused on the podium, a mere fifteen seconds later according to my computer, the president had gone, his exit marking the end of the federal government.

  And now, though I watched that clip a dozen times before the power went out, I couldn’t tell you a single word the president said.

  18:00, 13th March.

  I’ve filled as many containers as I could find with water, just in case that gets turned off too. It’s not much of a reserve, but I just don't have much space up here. Getting into the kitchen was not fun. I really hate crutches. For millennia humans have been breaking their legs and after thousands of years of cumulative development we get… these.

  It took about five times longer than it normally would just to fill the kettle. I’ve also filled the saucepans, a measuring jug and a couple of vases I keep for when I’m showing new tenants around (yes, yes, I was that kind of landlord) and in total I have about twenty pints. I know because I used a measuring jug to fill everything. It took longer that way, but that’s about all the weight I could lift whilst bent precariously over the sink.

  Even if I did have more space here, I just don’t have anything to keep the water in. Most of my stuff, all the good stuff, the things I’d be worried would get stolen, some of it’s in the office and the rest is up at Jen’s parents’ place in Northumberland.

  Twenty pints. That’s about ten litres. I once read that they got by on a pint of water a day in the desert during the war. That gives me twenty days, if the water gets cut off.

  18:50, 13th March.

  To have a cup of tea or not, that is this evening’s question. In order to have one I’ll need to boil water. To do that I need a fire. Two of the flats downstairs have working chimneys (£50 a week extra in rent due to the ‘original Victorian features’ and they actually paid! What does that say about London?). There’s enough furniture and (Bradbury forgive me) books to get a blaze going, but what about the smoke?

  Jen left a few extra boxes of tea, which was very kind of her, but now I wish she’d brought more biscuits. I’d eaten the pack of bourbons in her last care package before I realised my tenants were gone. I think she brought the food from her flat. That would explain why the packages are mismatched. She used to like going to the supermarket to be seen shopping. The press liked photographing and printing her shopping basket. It was a way of boosting her name recognition, and proving to the electorate that she really did know the price of a pint of milk.

  Would a fire attract the undead? I don’t think so. I can count three plumes of smoke in the distance, but maybe those are too far away for the zombies outside to care about. I don’t really need a cup of tea. Not right now. It’s too great a risk.

  When I went down to look for my tenants, I didn’t spend too long investigating the rooms, but I did spot Jezzelle’s books. There were three long shelves running the length of the wall. The top two shelves were given over to romantic fantasy. Not what I’m in the mood for, at all! The final row was nothing but zombie fiction. I brought a couple up here. Why not? I thought there might be something useful in one of them, it wasn’t as if it could hurt.

  They had the zombie people on the TV. Experts they called them. They’d start the interview with something like “now we’re joined by John Smith, au
thor of ‘Twenty Ways to Survive a Zombie Attack’. John, welcome, now what should we be doing?”

  I can’t believe they actually broadcast things like that. I mean, I know it was only the media’s knees jerking in the only way they knew how, but did they really think this would do more good than harm? Or was it that they were stuck in that old mindset, that if they didn’t fill the airtime, viewers would switch to one of their competitors. Without any real experts to ask, who better than a bunch of fictionauts who’ve faced nothing more dangerous in their lives than a looming deadline? Of course, what made it worse is that anyone, author, scientist, retired four-star general, anyone who had even an ounce of sense had either fled to the hills or bunkered down, and was definitely not appearing on television.

  So they got the ones who really, genuinely had nothing useful to say. Like the one who said you should retreat to the top floor and break down the staircase, that way if the undead got into the house, you would be safe upstairs. Brilliant! How exactly do you then get out of the house when you run out of food and water? What if there’s a fire? This farrago only lasted for the few days before the press was nationalised, but still you’d think they could have come up with something more helpful to broadcast.

  Anyway, I digress. My conclusion is that I really hate zombie books. I didn’t read them properly – who’d want to, with the real undead right outside? – but I flicked through them again this afternoon to see if there was any practical advice I’d missed. A couple of them did offer step-by-step instructions on how to clean and maintain an M-16, but nothing about how long it takes water to stagnate. What was I expecting, though?

  The doc said I’d need a cast for three to four months. She also said I’d need to come back in a week for more x-rays and they’d see how it was healing, check the bones were properly aligned, make sure it was all knitting together properly. She said the cast she was putting on was temporary until… then she trailed off and looked around at the two soldiers. Maybe I’ll get a new one when I get out of here, but with all the evacuees I can only imagine what the medical facilities are going to be like.