The evening followed soon after our return. I went back downstairs, the news still on. I sat down but immediately got straight back up, went to the kitchen, grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge, and sat back down. I threw one to Jon, and the world unraveled in front of us.
Then it happened—an urgent update. The view switched to London. It had spread.
An aerial view of London appeared on the screen. I don't know London very well at all, but I could see the London Eye close by. The screen said: Possible terrorist attack at St. Thomas's Hospital.
The hospital was an old building, grey and showing its age. I could see the things wandering around outside, lingering by the Thames. This was happening. I couldn't believe it. I finished my beer and went to get another.
As I sat back down, police were arriving at the hospital—dozens of police cars. Most of the officers went straight inside; many came running back out a few seconds later. You could see why they were running. A couple at first, but then more—dozens of them came out slowly, pursuing the officers.
An unlucky cyclist, oblivious to what was going on, reacted too late and ploughed straight into the waiting arms of the monsters. They pulled him from the bike, and the TV view pulled away before you could see his grisly end.
I put my beer down, unopened, and went upstairs to grab my laptop. I brought it down with me, logged in, and checked BBC News. Mainly, it focused on what was happening in London, but there was a small part about our area—no useful information on the movements of the creatures.
I went on Facebook. I was friends with a lot of the hospital staff. There were no updates from them beyond this morning, apart from one—a young nurse who had apparently got to the staff room and locked the door behind her. The update was five minutes ago. She was still there, trapped. I posted to her to go out through the ceiling. I have not received a response yet.
I felt slightly insane doing this next bit. I went online and started downloading how-to guides—anything I could think of: hot-wiring, lock-picking, basic first aid guides.
I went back upstairs, grabbed a couple of books, and threw them at Ty and Jon—The Zombie Survival Guide for Jon, World War Z for Ty. I took The SAS Survival Guide. We all started reading while downloading the guides online.
We sat there for a couple of hours reading. It was 9 o'clock. The view on the news had changed—apparently, the scenes on London streets were too gruesome to show.
I took a peek out the window. Nothing.
I really fancied a takeaway. We rang up the burger shop round the corner. It was open, and we ordered burger and chips—three times—to pick up.
I drew the short straw.
I went out the back door. To get to our back door, you had to go through the garden, a wood-panel door, negotiate a tiny alley filled with dustbins, and then another sturdy wooden door.
I opened this last door slowly, took a look—nothing.
I hit Call on my phone. Jon would hear everything that was going on. It took me two minutes to get to the shop. Our order was ready. I paid and left without a word.
I got back inside, and we sat down to eat.
I got a phone call from Toby. He lived just round the corner in a flat on the third floor. We talked briefly—neither of us seemed to want to panic the other—so we agreed to sit tight for now and talk again tomorrow. His girlfriend and flatmate were with him.
The 10 o'clock local news showed the things still on course to our area—just half a mile up the road. A lot of experts came on TV blaming everything from a terrorist attack to a virus. One nutjob blamed the lunar cycle. Another blamed homosexuality. There are some stupid people in the world.
It's midnight. I volunteered to stay up and keep an ear out, just in case something decided to knock on our door. I have dimmed the windows further by placing more curtains on top of the ones already up so I can have the TV on with low sound.
London looks to be overrun.
Earlier, I saw them spill into the underground—Waterloo line. The thought of being trapped down there with those things was horrifying.
It's 2 a.m. It has spread further. It seems that some of those who were bitten in the underground made it onto other trains, turned, bit more people, and they fled onto more trains.
London's wide transport system was spreading the monsters everywhere.
Leeds, Manchester, and Birmingham have confirmed occurrences. Glasgow is a possibility.
I'm sitting by the window, holding the curtain back a little bit, gazing into the street. Not that I have much of a view—just the terraced houses on the other side. I have not seen any of the monsters yet.
3 a.m. Jon is taking over so I can get some sleep. Ty will take over from him at 4.
It's 6 a.m.
Britain has declared a state of emergency. Borders have been closed, and a nationwide curfew of 6 p.m. has been declared. Anyone out after that time will be arrested. The military has entered London to deal with the things—the news has been censored from showing this.
The area is oddly quiet. No one is out on the streets.
Jon suggested we have a look. I thought he was mad, but he produced a small remote-controlled helicopter—something he had bought from the local men's gadget shop. The copter had a small camera capable of taking one minute of continuous footage or 300 still photos.
The range was about 200 meters and ten minutes of continuous flight.
We headed out into the back garden. I got the copter camera linked up with my laptop and saw the grass. Jon piloted the copter up. We decided to keep it low—at eight feet. We wanted to get a good view of the area.
It disappeared over the fence and turned the corner. It had only made it just past the takeaway before the signal started to get weak. We decided to bring the copter back to the garden and have it fly as high as possible above our heads.
Shit.
A little further on from the burger shop, the things were spilling into the town—hundreds of them. They split at the junction in three different directions.
They were 15 minutes away.
Jon brought back the copter, and we headed inside.
I looked at the food we had acquired yesterday—suddenly, it looked like nowhere near enough.
I grabbed a cricket bat. Jon had the same idea, grabbing another. We told Ty we were heading to the newsagents on the corner and told him to wait by the door to let us in.
We ran up the slight slope and headed into the small corner shop. Jon had brought two large travel bags with us—the last thing I wanted when running away was for a bag to split.
I hit the button on my phone.
We had five minutes. Then we got out. No excuses.
The store was open, but no one was in there. I checked underneath the counter—nothing.
I went straight for the tinned items, Jon for the drinks, and we soon had one bag filled. The second was filled with frozen ready meals. I took my sports bag off my back and returned to the counter, grabbing as many packs of cigarettes and tobacco as I could fit. Jon grabbed handfuls of junk food.
My phone started to vibrate—time's up.
We grabbed the bags and headed out.
We could see them in the distance. Instead of going back the way we came, we headed left out of the store so we were out of their view. We then turned off and headed back on the next road over.
Ty let us in. I looked around before I went in. Nothing saw us. We locked the door behind us.
I have removed all the light bulbs from the house. We have moved various large items downstairs, blocking the front door—cupboards, chairs, etc. The back door will be the emergency way out.
We have moved, with great difficulty, the fridge from downstairs, the microwave, and all supplies.
I have also looked into giving these things a name.
They always have a name—walkers, biters, geeks, grabbers, the infected.
I have decided on Vivens from the Latin words mortuus vivens, meaning Living Dead.
I have just looked out the window.
They're spilling down the street.
They're here.