I turned on the lights the first night, when I got tired of lying on the bed, but they attracted curious zombies, so I’ve sat in the dark since then. A few zombies wander in every so often – I’ve left the front door open, since one of them nearly broke it down when it heard someone at home and couldn’t get in – but they slip out once they’ve satisfied themselves that my brain’s of no use to them.
I check the TV every day but it produces nothing but static. The radio, on the other hand, is still going strong. I never used to listen to the radio – so twentieth century! – but Mum always had it playing in the background when she was cooking, ironing, etc.
There are far less channels than before. One for official state news, which plays all the time, run by whatever remains of our government and civil service, plus a few independents which broadcast sporadically.
The state reporters give the impression that the military have everything in hand, that they’re restoring order, people shouldn’t panic, it’s all going to work out fine. The independents give more of a sense of the chaos that the world is experiencing. Some of them are critical of the soldiers, claiming they’ve been opening fire wildly in certain areas, killing the living as well as the dead. A few drop dark hints that the military staged the zombie coup and are eliminating anyone they don’t approve of.
I don’t pay too much attention to the politics of specific broadcasters. I’m not interested in any particular pundit’s opinion. I just want to get to grips with as many cold, hard facts as I can. By switching between the various channels, and filtering out the positive spin of the state channel and the manic gloom of the independents, I fill in a lot of the blanks and get up to speed with what’s been going on in the world since my heart was ripped out all those months ago.
Zombies launched simultaneous attacks in most major cities. New York, Tokyo, Moscow, Sydney, Berlin, Johannesburg and scores more, torn apart by the living dead, ruined graveyards of the grand cities they used to be.
The undead spread swiftly. They were almost impossible to stop. Armies everywhere opposed them, but all it needed was for one zombie to infect a couple of soldiers, and soon they were fighting among themselves, forced to break ranks and retreat. Estimates of the numbers lost to the hordes of the walking dead vary wildly, but most reporters agree that it’s probably somewhere between four and five billion.
I have to repeat that slowly to myself the first time I hear it, and even then I can’t really comprehend it. Four or five billion, most of the world’s population, slaughtered or reduced to the status of reanimated corpses. How’s this planet ever supposed to recover from that?
Nobody knows where the zombies came from, how the disease manifested itself so swiftly, so globally. And, in truth, nobody’s overly concerned. Right now their first priority is survival.
When the attacks started, many small islands were spared. Survivors flocked to those on planes and boats. At first the residents accepted everyone. But then a few islands fell when boats docked or planes set down and zombies streamed out of them, having sneaked aboard. After that, the locals in other places began implementing security checks and setting up quarantine zones, opening fire on anyone who tried to bypass the process.
On the mainland continents, millions of people who can’t get to the islands have established fortresses wherever they can. In some cases they’ve barricaded themselves into apartment complexes, prisons, schools or shopping malls.
Even though their forces have been severely depleted, the armies of the world are the sole governors of society now. Most politicians were wiped out in the first wave of attacks, and those who survived no longer have any real clout. It’s martial law wherever you turn.
The troops in the UK have been busy reclaiming lost ground from the zombies. They’ve converted a series of towns and villages across the country into fortified barracks, building huge walls around them, including areas of open fields within the fortifications so that they can cultivate the land and live off what they grow.
The reporters on the state channel are proud of the army’s sterling work and every news bulletin includes reports from some of the reclaimed towns, focusing on the resilience of the people living and working there, their struggle to survive, the way they’re doing all that they can to rebuild normal lives for themselves.
The independents are more scathing. They say that residents are treated like cattle, forced to do whatever the soldiers tell them. If they resist, aerial units are sent to blow holes in their defences, to let zombies stream through freely.
I’m not convinced by the wilder reports, but in this zombie-plagued new world, who knows for sure? I keep an open mind, filing everything away.
The army’s ultimate aim is to push the zombies back, section them off, then wipe them out. But that will take time. At the moment they’re not equipped to engage in a full-on war with the undead. As stern generals keep explaining, their current focus must be on the three Rs — Reclaim, Recruit, Recover. Reclaim towns, recruit more survivors, recover their strength. Then they can let rip.
It’s terrifying at first, thinking of humanity reduced to this, living off scraps, penned into grimy hovels, under constant siege by their former colleagues and relatives, knowing that all it takes is a single breach – one lone zombie in the mix – for everything they’ve worked so hard for to come crashing down around them.
But after a while, I get used to it. This is the norm now. You can only be shocked by a thing for so long before it starts to lose its impact. Yeah, the world’s a dark, terrible place, and it’s horrible listening to stories of children eating their parents or mothers chowing down on their young. But, y’know, when all’s said and done, you’ve got to get on with things.
I only keep following the news after the first few days because of one particular story. The army has been making rescue attempts recently. Lots of people are trapped in cities, even after so many months, lying low at night, foraging for food and drink in the daytime while the zombies are at rest.
The military announce a city a few days ahead of a planned mission, telling the people who are listening to get ready. Then, on the morning of the rescue, they declare a meeting point and fly in at an appointed time, usually the middle of the day when the sun is at its strongest. They aren’t always able to rescue everyone who turns up, and sometimes zombies attack, cutting the evacuation short. But they’ve extracted hundreds of refugees and escorted them to secure settlements, and have vowed to carry on.
Things would be a lot easier if the phones worked, but as I found out early on when I tested ours, they’re even deader than the zombies. All of the landlines are down and all of the mobile networks too. The internet is screwed as well. The only way the army can contact trapped survivors is through the news on the radio, but that’s a one-way means of communication.
According to the reports, there have been a few rescues in London already. As the capital, it’s been granted priority status. They did trial runs in some of the smaller cities first, but now they’re hitting London regularly, a different part every time, so as to keep one step ahead of the zombies.
The walking dead aren’t as senseless as they appear. They seem to remember lots of functions, such as how to open doors or operate lifts. They’ve adapted — if they see a car passing a certain spot at a certain time more than once, they can anticipate its reappearance and lie in wait for it.
But they don’t seem to understand most of what is said to them. They react to certain tones of voice, recognising a variety of commands, the way a baby or a dog can. But they’re not able to listen to a broadcast and pitch up at a scheduled meeting place in advance.
If the living are to win this war, it will only be because they can out-think their opponents. In every other respect the zombies are a superior force, far greater in number, able to fight without tiring, not needing food or drink to continue. They don’t have any weapons, but their bodies are deadly enough, diseased missiles that are much more effective than a bomb dro
pped in the middle of a confined group of people.
There have been two missions to London while I’ve been listening, one in the north, one in the west. Both pick-up points were out of my way, so I stayed put and let them pass. But it’s only a matter of time before they come to the East End or the City, and I’m determined to go along when a rescue is announced.
There have been no reports of revitaliseds on any of the radio programmes. The world doesn’t seem to be aware of the existence of zombies like me. I’m not sure how the soldiers will react when I turn up, but I’ve got to try to tell them about the possible threat which revitaliseds pose.
I’ve been thinking about Rage a lot, the way he killed Dr Cerveris, his contempt for the living. If he survived and made it out of the complex, maybe he looks upon the zombies as his allies. It might amuse him to betray humanity. Perhaps there are others like him who’ve been mistreated by the living, wanting to get revenge and see them brought low.
I don’t know if the soldiers will give me a chance to explain, if they’ll offer me shelter in return for my help or shoot me the instant they set eyes on me. I suspect it might be the latter. But I’ve got to at least try to help, because I was one of the living once, and if I don’t cling to that memory and honour it, all that’s left for me is the monstrous, lonely, sub-existence of the dead.
TEN
The call finally comes late one evening. There’s going to be a mission to Central London in three days — to make it clear, the reporter says that today is Sunday and the rescue will take place sometime on Wednesday. She’s excited when she breaks the news. The other rescues in the capital have all been in the suburbs. This is the first time they’ve hit the centre. They think it might be the largest operation yet, so they’re going to be sending more helicopters and troops than normal. But she tells people not to worry, this is just the first mission of many, so if you can’t make it this time, stay low and wait for the next.
I head off first thing in the morning. It won’t take me three days to walk to the West End, but I want to allow myself plenty of time to overcome any unexpected obstacles along the way, explore the area, find a resting place, maybe meet up with some of the survivors and convince them of my good intentions so that they can act as middlemen between me and the soldiers.
I pause in the doorway of the flat and glance back one last time, nostalgic, remembering Mum and Dad, the bad times as well as the good. And, being honest, there were more bad days than good. Dad was always too free with his fists. Mum and I were constantly walking on eggshells, afraid we’d say the wrong thing and set him off.
But you know what? I’d take them all back in an instant if they were offered, even the days when he beat us and drew blood and kicked us like dogs. He was a nasty sod, there’s no denying that, but he was still my dad. I love him. I miss him. I can’t help myself.
‘I’ll come looking for you,’ I say aloud to the memories of the two people who mattered to me most. ‘If I survive, and you’re out there, I’ll try to find you, to let you know I made it through, to help you if I can.’
There’s no answer or sign that somewhere, somehow, they magically heard. Of course not. I’d have to be a right dozy cow to believe that they’re sitting up in a far-off compound, frowning at the ghostly echo of my voice, whispering with awe, ‘B? ’
‘You’re getting soft, girl,’ I mutter, then slam the door shut and head on down the stairs, whistling dreadfully — I can’t carry a tune these days, not now that my mouth is drier than a camel’s arse.
I wind my way through the streets, heading west. I’ve never walked this stretch of London before. We always got a bus or the Tube if we were going up the West End, or a cab on occasions when Dad was feeling flush.
I replace my clothes and jacket as soon as I can, for full protection from the sun. I’m still wearing the Australian hat. That should last me years if I don’t lose it. Well, would last me years if I lived that long, but I’ve probably only got about a year and a half, max. Which means this might well prove to be a lifelong hat.
The streets are quiet. I spot zombies in the shade of shops and houses, or resting in abandoned cars or buses. They stare at me hungrily as I amble past. I always make sure I turn so that they can see the hole in my chest. If it wasn’t so bright, they’d probably clamber out to make sure I wasn’t trying to fool them, but they’re reluctant to brave the glare of the day. They haven’t thought of wearing sunglasses. They ain’t bright sparks like me.
I’m excited to be on the move, to have a goal, even if it’s one that could result in my execution. I never did much when I was alive, just hung out with my mates (most or all of them are probably dead now, but I try not to brood about that) or festered in my room. It wasn’t a fascinating life by any standards. But it beat the hell out of being held prisoner underground, and the monotony of the last few weeks. I was going stir-crazy in that flat, but I only realise how bad things were now that I’ve left. You know you’ve been seriously climbing the walls if the thought of heading off on a suicide mission makes you feel happy!
I lose my way a couple of times, but don’t bother checking the A to Z. It’s a nice day, I’m enjoying the stroll, no zombies or hunters are hassling me, so what’s the rush?
I come to a railway station. Lots of eerie-looking train carriages, windows smashed in many, bloodstains splashed across the metal and glass in more places than I can count. On one carriage I spot a large red z with an arrow underneath, pointing west. It looks like it was freshly sprayed — there’s even a smell of paint in the air, or is that my imagination?
I swing a right past the station and follow the road round until I can cut through to Victoria Park. Mum used to bring me for walks up here at the weekend when I was younger. Dad came with us sometimes, but he’d always work himself up into a mood, muttering about all the foreigners on the loose.
He wouldn’t mind it now. There’s not a soul to be seen, black, brown or any other colour. Lots of corpses and bones but that’s all. I’ve got the entire park to myself.
Well . . . not quite. As I pad past the tennis courts and come to a few small ponds, I spot three skinny dogs lapping water from a pool.
I perk up when I clock the dogs and hurry towards them, calling out, ‘Hey! Doggies! Here!’ I make clicking sounds with my tongue.
The dogs react instantly, but not in the way I’d like. Without even looking at me, they take off, yapping fearfully. I race after them, shouting for them to come back, but they’re faster than me and disappear from sight moments later. I come to a stop and swear, then kick the ground with anger.
A little later, walking through the park, I regret swearing. I can’t blame the dogs for running. These past months must have been hellish for any animal trapped here. If zombies eat an animal’s brain as readily as a human’s, they’ll have gone for every pet in the city. To survive, you’d have to learn to be sneaky, to only come out in the daytime, to avoid all contact with the two-legged creatures which were once so nice to you. I think even Dr Dolittle would have trouble getting animals to trust him these days.
I spend an hour or more in the park. My skin’s itching from the sun, even protected by my heavy layers of clothes, but I press on, determined not to let that spoil the day for me. A pity there’s nobody selling ice cream. I could murder a 99, even though I’d have to spit out almost every mouthful because I can’t digest solids any more.
I keep hoping the dogs will show again, that they’ll realise I mean them no harm, that I only crave their friendship, not their brains — as hungry as I get, I wouldn’t kill a dog, any more than I’d kill a living person. I want them to slink forward, give me a closer once-over, learn to trust me. But no such luck. They’ve gone into hiding and I doubt they’ll come here again any time soon.
Eventually I take a road leading west. There are dead zombies hanging from the street lamps, rotting in the sun. Each has been shot through the head. Many have been disembowelled or cut up with knives. Flies buzz around the stin
king corpses. I pass them nervously, wondering if this was the work of hunters like Barnes and his posse.
I don’t like the way that the corpses have been strung up. As vicious as the living dead are, they’re not consciously evil, just slaves to their unnatural desires. I understand the need to kill the undead, but torturing and humiliating them serves no purpose. It’s not like other zombies are going to look at them and have a change of heart. Being a zombie isn’t a career choice. The reviveds don’t have any control over what they do.
I turn left, then right on to Bethnal Green Road. One of Mum’s best friends, Mary Byrne, lived around here. Her oldest son, Matt, was my age, and his brother Joe was just a bit younger. We used to play together when our mums hung out.
More zombies are strung up along the road ahead of me, but I’m not paying attention to them, trying to remember exactly where Mary lived. So it’s a real shock, as I’m walking along, when one of the corpses kicks out at my head and makes a choked noise.
‘Bloody hell!’ I yell, falling over and scrabbling away.
The zombie goes on kicking and mewling, and I realise I have nothing to fear. I get to my feet and study the writhing figure. It’s a man. He’s been stripped bare. His hands are tied behind his back and a noose around his neck connects to the lamp overhead. But the people who strung up the zombies left this one alive, either for sport or because they were scared off before they could finish the job.
The man’s flesh is a nasty red colour, where he’s been burnt by the sun. His eyes are sickly white orbs. He snarls angrily and kicks out furiously at the world. No telling how long he’s been up there, but by the state of his eyes, I’d say it’s been a good while.
I should press on but I can’t. This guy means nothing to me but I can’t leave him like this. I wouldn’t do this to anyone, even a savage killer, as he doubtless would become if given his freedom and a human target.