Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) Read online

  For a meagre ration of 200g of rice, a jar of bolognese sauce and two vitamin tablets, the Singh's had stood in line for four hours. According to the Vicar they had been the lucky ones. She'd gone to collect her ration after an extended morning service and hadn't arrived at the supermarket until midday. By two o'clock, when she'd been halfway along the queue, the food had run out. She'd said there would have been a riot if the soldiers hadn't been there.

  12:10. He shook his watch and glanced towards the door. The Vicar was notorious in the village for her inability to cook and the Singh's didn't keep much food in the flat, using most of the space as an annex for their repairs business, but they'd not touched his stack of tins. He'd gruffly told them to take what they needed. They'd tried to demure, but not for long. They were hungry. Mr Singh told him that they were thinking of leaving, all three of them, regardless of the travel restrictions. Mrs Singh had a brother who owned a house in North Wales which he never used. He was a scientist of some kind who spent his time living and working at a government lab. Mr Singh said the three of them were going to go there. He'd asked if George wanted to go with them.

  On his way back up the hill, his mind had been so consumed with whether or not he should take them up on their offer that he'd almost been shot. He'd been stunned to see that the group he'd first taken to be from the army was being led by Police Constable Elkombe, dressed in camouflage and carrying a rifle as if he was a soldier. George had not gone down to the village since.

  He looked at his watch. 12:15. The kitchen should now be filled with the sounds of slapdash washing up. He glanced over his shoulder, another five of the home's residents stood patiently waiting behind him.

  “Bit late, aren't they?” he said, just loudly enough for the other residents to hear, but not so loudly that they'd be forced to acknowledge his existence.

  “Hmm” Miss Conner muttered. The others stayed silent.

  “Janice been around this morning?” he asked. This time there was no reply.

  “Then perhaps one of us should go and check” George muttered acidly, stepping behind the counter and through the swing doors beyond. The kitchen was empty. He checked the ovens. They were cold. The unwashed dishes from breakfast were stacked haphazardly by the sink.

  Priorities, he thought. His biggest had to be Mrs O'Leary. Every morning over the past week he'd taken breakfast to her, helped her use the bed pan and given her as much of a wash as her rigid values would allow. Then he would let her sleep until he brought her lunch. Usually he found she was already awake, waiting for him. He didn't want her to panic, that wouldn't be fair. Nor did he want her to go hungry.

  The fridge was locked, so too were most of the cupboards. The ones that weren't held little more than tea, sugar and flour. He had a couple of tins of rice pudding in his box and half a pack of digestives. That would do, at least for now. When he left the kitchen the residents waiting outside looked at him expectantly.

  “No sign of anyone” he said, tersely. “Haven't even done the washing up. I think they've gone.” Then he turned and walked back to his room.

  His box was an ancient, pitted, wooden trunk, three feet wide, by two feet tall by and one and a half feet deep. He'd seen it in a junk shop on the weekend in Truro he and Dora had had in lieu of a Honeymoon. It had once belonged to a Napoleonic naval Captain who'd stored his souvenirs of war in it, at least that's what the shopkeeper had said whilst Dora was haggling over the price. Other than a few carrier bags, it was the only piece of luggage he'd brought with him when he'd arrived at the home.

  He hadn't kept much in there. The items of any real worth had been sold during that bleak year he'd been counting down till his sixty fifth birthday He had kept a few items, though, keepsakes and mementos of value only to himself. There were a few tarnished Roman coins he'd bought when they were trying out retirement hobbies during the period when it looked like Dora would recover. There was the wedding photograph of the two of them with her aunt and his uncle, the only family who would acknowledge them after they'd announced their engagement. Then there were Dora's journals, carefully wrapped in the silk scarf he'd bought on the holiday they'd taken after they found out they would never have children. He'd never read them, never opened them, not even during his darkest of times.

  When he'd arrived at the home he'd undergone a humiliating examination of his personal effects, each item, including the journals, laboriously examined out of a need “to maintain the safety and comfort of all our residents.” McGuffrey hadn't discovered that the box had a secret compartment hidden by a false bottom, though.

  The box was now filled with the food he'd bought from the village. He took out a tin of rice pudding, the half pack of digestives and two decently sized metal spoons he'd stolen from the cafe in the shopping centre. It wasn't much, he knew, but it was better than nothing.

  “Rice pudding for lunch. Very decadent, Mr Tull” Mrs O'Leary said, after he'd explained the situation. “So what are we to do, now?”

  “I'm not sure” he replied. She let her spoon clink meaningfully on the side of the tin and gave him a look that had silenced even the most unruly of classrooms during her nearly fifty years of teaching. “I suppose I should look for the staff” he said.

  “Or try McGuffrey up at his cottage” she suggested. “Then you're to report back here what you've found.”

  “Yes ma'am” he said with a smile.

  He checked the Sun Room first and then the conservatory. Then he wandered along the corridors that led to the resident's bedrooms and re-checked the dining hall and the kitchen. Some of the residents were still queuing for lunch, most were now walking the corridors on a similar quest to his own. Of the staff there was no sign. Finally he went to the reception area at the front of the building.

  He baulked at the idea of crossing the invisible line behind the desk that led to the staff area, a place residents were not allowed, ostensibly due to the presence of the pharmacy. Instead he walked over to the front doors and pushed. They were unlocked. He stepped outside.

  It was cold, with a thin fog blowing in off the sea. He thought about going back inside for his raincoat, but stopped when his eyes caught sight of McGuffrey's cottage on top of the cliffs.

  “The man must be there, where else is he going to go?” George muttered, slightly louder than he'd normally have dared. “And if he's not, then, well... Then...” he thought for a moment “Then I'll just go into town and report the lot of them!”

  It was only a short distance, but the hill was steep, the paving stones oddly spaced and slippery with the wintry coastal mist. He was breathing heavily as he climbed the path.

  “McGuffrey!” he half yelled, half wheezed when he reached the door. “McGuffrey!”

  There was no answer. He thought he saw a curtain twitch, but he couldn’t be sure. He walked a few metres back down the path to a small plinth by the road side and sat down. His joints ached. He didn't used to get so tired so quickly. It had been creeping up on him over the past few months. He had found it took him longer to get down to the village and even longer to get back up. He hadn't wanted to admit it to himself, since it would have ended his dream of one day leaving this place, but he was starting to feel old.

  He glanced back at the cottage and again he thought he saw a shadow pass across the window. He got up and walked back to the house and banged on the door until his knuckles were red and the paintwork was scuffed. There was no answer. He was certain now that he could hear an odd thumping and shuffling sound from inside. Slowly, stiffly, he walked around the property looking for an open window, but they were all closed, their net curtains drawn.

  As frustration replaced anger, he became slowly aware of how truly quiet the world was. There were no tractors in the fields, no vehicles on the roads, no planes overhead or even ships out at sea. As he slowly turned around on the spot, looking for any small sign of life, he was gripped by a strange fear borne of loneliness. All he wanted was to get away from this place.

  He want
ed to go back to his room, he wanted to close the door, lie down, sleep and wake up to find the world was back the way it should be. But that would never happen, could never happen, not now. And there was Mrs O'Leary to think of and what she'd think of him if he went back now with more questions and no answers.

  He turned to look down the hill to the picture-postcard hamlet that straddled the river. It was an odd little place. The same steep hills on either side that had kept away the property developers had also kept away the tourists. It was only in the last decade when the single track road had finally been replaced with a two lane carriageway that the village had bucked the recessionary trend and begun to prosper.

  He carefully walked back along the icy path. On the other side of the road lay the woods, through which a footpath ran, leading down to the vicarage and the ancient church that marked the beginning of the village. He knew he could make it down there, but getting back up would be difficult. Even if there was anyone with any petrol left still living there, he knew they wouldn't waste it on him. To his knowledge the only local who ever came up to the home, other than those who worked there, was the Vicar.

  He hadn't approved of the whole women-vicars business though, as he was never more than a weddings, funerals and marriages type of church-goer, he wasn't sure why. He liked the Reverend Stevens. She had made a point of visiting the home once a month despite the frosty reception she received from most of the residents. Even Mrs O'Leary liked the company, since the last diocesan merger meant her priest only made house-calls for the last rites. From where he was standing he could just see the vicar's driveway. It was empty, her Land Rover gone. The car could be parked somewhere else, of course, and he couldn't quite see the electrical shop from where he stood, but George was sure that she and the Singh's had left.

  He looked back at the cottage. Perhaps he could break down the door, drag McGuffrey out and force him to come back to work. A bitter chuckle escaped from his lips. If he was getting out of breath walking a few hundred yards up the hill, then breaking down doors was beyond him. Besides, as Mrs O'Leary had loudly pointed out when the roads were closed during the heavy snow the previous year and McGuffrey had been forced into the kitchen, “the man could burn water and sour toast”. Dispirited by how little he'd accomplished, he walked back to the home.

  He stopped in the reception hall. There were rigorous strictures against residents straying across into the staff area, but what did they matter if McGuffrey wasn't going to come out of his house? He stepped around the reception desk and through the door to the nurses' station. The room contained a desk against the long wall, filling cabinets along the short, a few chairs and little else except the closed door that he assumed led to the offices, pharmacy and the staff break room. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  Conscious of the rules he was breaking, he walked slowly down the corridor, opening each door in turn. The staff bathrooms were clean, smelling faintly of a more aromatic disinfectant than the cheaper brand George was familiar with from the residents' side of the building. The staff break room was a mess, but in such a way that he thought it might always have looked that way.

  The pharmacy had been ransacked. He could find no painkillers or sleeping tablets. As to what else the staff had taken when they left, he was unsure. They had been selective, taking just over half of the medication stored in the large glass fronted cabinets. Raising his finger he methodically went through those that remained, but could find none of the pills that Mrs O'Leary was prescribed.

  The last room in the corridor had a brass plaque on the door “Mr RJ McGuffrey BA, BSc, Director of Care”. Inside, on an otherwise spotless desk he found a map and the letter.

  “Due to its relative isolation and low population density it has been decided to evacuate this area. Leaving no earlier than 6am on the 7th March and arriving no later than 9am on the 8th March, all residents within this zone should make their way to The Benwick Hill Outdoor Sports and Activity Centre, a mile to the west of Longfield Junction.”

  The letter was printed except for the place names, those were hand written.

  “At this muster point evacuees will be given a physical examination, assessed for suitability for vaccination and then transported to the Enclave being established in Cornwall.”

  Again the name was hand written.

  “Due to the need to keep roads clear for evacuation traffic, evacuees must depart on foot or by bicycle. You may bring with you as much as you can carry, but this should include any medicines you require and enough food and water for at least two days. In addition you should bring blankets, sleeping bags or other warm bedding as well as spare clothing as these items will not be provided during resettlement. Further advice and details of what to expect at the Enclave will be provided on the Emergency Broadcasts which you are strongly advised to watch or listen to.

  “A limited bus service will be provided to the muster point for those unable to make the journey themselves due to age, ill health or other significant factors. This service is available only if those factors were registered with the local authorities before the crisis and with your designated Resettlement Officer prior to the 4th March.

  “If you are a Designated Carer for one or more persons, then you must inform the Resettlement Officer on or prior to the 4th March as to how many dependants will require transportation. Please note that for this evacuation someone is deemed a Designated Carer if, and only if, they have been licensed by the local civil authority to claim the ration on another's behalf.

  “If you are unsure whether your property lies within the evacuation zone or if you have any further questions you should address them to your Resettlement Officer who will be located at your local Food Distribution Centre until the 5th March.

  Signed... ”

  George couldn't read the signature. Not that he tried too hard, his eyes were drawn to the date. It was dated the 2nd March, three days ago. He glanced at the map. It was a photocopy of a road map with a crudely drawn circle about ten miles in diameter that took in the home, the village, a dozen farms and a good portion of the sea. He looked at the envelope. There was no stamp. It must have been hand delivered.

  “They knew.” he said. “They bloody well knew” he shouted this time. “They left us. They cooked breakfast and went, stealing our pills on the way. Well I'll...” What? What would he do? What could he do?

  He picked up the phone on the desk and dialled 9 for an outside line and then 999. There was no answer. He dialled 9125, the number for the speaking clock. Nothing. He tried dialling his old office number at work, the customer service number printed on the box of bandages, the mobile phone number written down on a yellow post it note with a poorly drawn heart next to it. Nothing, not even a dial tone.

  “You don't think he's arranged for us to be evacuated?” George asked a half hour later when he was drinking tea with Mrs O'Leary in her room.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  “No” George admitted. “That's why the other staff left. They don't want to be the ones holding the baby. Probably they reckoned someone would show up here. Some patrol or, well, someone. Then whoever is here is going to be delegated in charge of us. So they all scarpered.”

  “It's McGuffrey.” Mrs O'Leary said flatly “He's the one responsible, not all these part timers who never bothered to learn our names.” She took another sip of tea “I bet he doesn’t fancy the idea of swapping his cottage for a cot in some warehouse.”

  “Doesn't want to go with us, can't go without us and can't show his face around here, neither, not now the pills are gone.”

  “Nonsense” she tutted, “of course he could. He could have been open and honest about it all from the start. We'd not have judged him any the worse for it. Not that that's saying much. All that can be expected of anyone is that they do the job that's in front of them. No more than that. Now drink your tea. It's getting cold. And then make me another cup. I’m enjoying the indulgence.”

  George stood up and walke
d over to the kettle. He'd liberated it from the staff break room, a far more salubrious place than the Sun Room. It was filled with comfortable arm chairs, a well stocked fridge and a mountain of biscuits and slightly stale cakes, which he suspected had been donated for the residents use.

  He was feeling calmer than he had after first reading the letter. It was the tea, not the drink itself, but being able to have as much of it as he wanted, when he wanted. It was a type of freedom, he supposed, one he'd given up when he chosen an existence in the home over a lonely suicide.

  “Yesterday was the fourth.” George said, after handing Mrs O'Leary a fresh cup.

  “You're thinking of going down to Lower Wentley? Yesterday was the deadline. Besides, how would you get there? You said even the Vicar's gone.”

  “Probably gone. Anyway, it's is only ten miles. I could walk it.” He said stubbornly.

  “Really?” she asked, taking a pointedly slow sip of tea. They sat in silence for a while.

  “If I went down to the village, maybe I could find a car...” George began.

  “And then you'd hotwire it, would you? Or would you just break into the houses till you found a key? And” she said raising an admonitory finger, “what then? They said no cars on the evacuation, didn't they?”

  “But if they stopped us, I'd explain” George said.

  “Us, is it? And what about the others?” Mrs O'Leary asked. “Our companions in misfortune?”

  “Who? The living dead? What of them?” George asked without thinking. Mrs O'Leary said nothing, she just gave him a stern look.

  “Right. Sorry. That was in bad taste.” George said.

  “The way I see it,” Mrs O'Leary said after setting the cup down with studied deliberation. “The government people, they know we're here. They know McGuffrey was collecting our ration, even if he was squirrelling it away for himself. If they know we're here, then they'll send someone. Now,” she added, forestalling his objection, “they may not, I agree, but there's a greater chance of that, than of you making it all the way to Lower Wentley on foot, or, for that matter, of stealing someone's car without getting shot by one of the patrols. No. We stay here. And as for our compatriots, well, you can't let them starve, now, can you?”