We are up on the second floor now—me, Ty, and Jon. None of us are quite sure what to do. So many zombie movies are running through my head, but we have settled on one movie's idea—have a sit-down. The news is on again. I don't think I have ever watched this much news before. The last time I even bothered looking at BBC News was during the London riots.
I'm still downloading how-to guides at the moment—a guide to agriculture and caring for livestock. Why? God knows. I do not have the faintest idea what half of it means, but maybe it could come in handy. Jon has already opened a beer. It's only 8 in the morning, but I think we can excuse it. Even Ty, who rarely drinks and even then only a WKD, has had a Malibu and Coke. I have just settled for coffee.
London appears to be almost overrun with the things. The footage keeps panning back and forth, trying to record a section of the street that does not have a Viven, as I have taken to calling them. The other two think I'm stupid. Unfortunately, every time, the camera captures them chowing down on someone.
The view switches to a narrow street—the hundreds of Vivens literally being funneled up it as they pursue a group of survivors running for their lives. You would think this would be a time to stick together, but unfortunately, humans rarely do so when their ass is on the line. People are shoving, punching, and trampling each other to get away. I swear I saw one guy trip another, only for the fallen man to jump to his feet, chase down the man, and proceed to bash him over the head repeatedly with a plank of wood. The man then stood up and nonchalantly took off running to catch up with the main group.
The chopper focused in on the man lying on the street, then pulled back a bit. The creatures were only 30 meters away. The man just lay there. He rolled over and looked toward the dead. He tried to get to his feet but stumbled and fell, clutching his head. The view reverted back to the studio before you could see the man's demise. Another expert wanted to give his opinion on why granny had decided to get up, have a stroll, and then nibble on your elbow. I was only paying half attention, but I think I caught the words "Gypsy curse." I rolled my eyes, got up, and took a peek out the window.
We had the TV sound off and subtitles on, so I was not too worried about one of the things seeing me as long as I was careful. I pulled back the curtain a little and looked out. There were three of them that I could see—all male. Two were completely naked and middle-aged; the other was younger, late teens or early 20s—not much younger than me. Dopey emo, brown hair over his face, remnants of a black t-shirt that had been shredded, a portion of his abdomen missing, and faded jeans. They were all looking at the house opposite mine, where I saw a short, balding, fat man standing at the window, sipping coffee on the phone. I could catch the odd yelled word from across the street—something about the police. Idiot. He was attracting them to his doorstep.
As if on cue, they lumbered over to his front door and began to bang on it. This caused him to close his blinds. I hoped it would not be too late for his sake. But the last thing I expected was what happened next.
An old, beaten-up Land Rover pulled up, and three large men dressed in jeans and black jackets jumped out. Two went straight for the door, brandishing baseball bats. The Vivens turned with what almost looked like surprise on their faces—that their meal had come to them for a change. The looks didn't stay for long, as one of the men caved in the youngster's face with a baseball bat and then proceeded to make quick work of the other two. They left them there on the doorstep, only stopping to push something through the man's letterbox.
I called Ty and Jon over, and we watched as the men proceeded to make their way down all the houses, posting something through each letterbox.
"A bill?" Jon asked.
I laughed. "Either that, or the bailiffs really want us to pay that council tax before the world ends."
Our letterbox went as well. One of the men looked up at the window and saw us. He raised his bat and shouted, "Take back the streets!" Then the men jumped back into the car and drove off.
We moved away from the window. I sat back down, and Jon went downstairs to retrieve whatever had been posted through the letterbox. I could hear him swearing as he tripped over our makeshift barricade and again as he made his way back up. He stood in the doorway, reading a white A4 piece of paper. He finished and passed it to me.
It was a photocopied set of instructions listing various things—bites infect people, etc.—basically confirming most of the things about your stereotypical zombie. At the bottom, though, in large handwritten red letters, it said TAKE BACK THE STREETS, and underneath, a website address that simply said 12 p.m.
We looked at each other and checked the time—8:25.
We tried for the next few hours to take our minds off the end of the world by turning off the news and watching something else. No luck there. Every channel had news. We tried putting on an old Simpsons DVD but showed no interest and put the news back on. Eventually, at about 10 to 12, I typed in the address, and a plain black page appeared with a message stating Take back the streets and a countdown at about 8 minutes.
None of us said anything. We just waited for the timer to tick down.
It hit zero. The page refreshed, and a live video appeared.
Then the screen changed, and one of the men who had jumped out of the car earlier appeared, the English flag behind him. He was a tall man, just nudging over 6 foot, shaved head, in his early 30s, wearing a grey muscle shirt that tightly hugged what was obviously a mountain of muscle. I got a text from Toby asking if I was on the site, so I sent back simply, "Yeah," and returned my attention to the video. He just stood there for a few seconds as if trying to size us all up through what was obviously a cheap webcam. Then he spoke in a thick northern accent—Geordie, I think.
"My friends," he started, "look out of your windows, and what do you see? At the moment, you may see none or one or two of these zombies. Why is that? London is dying, places further north are burning and crumbling, yet here we are in relative safety. A major hospital just round the corner has a mass outbreak, and yet we only have a few dozen of these things spread out. Do you know why?"
He waited a few seconds as if waiting for someone to respond.
"I'll tell you why. We have been lucky. Those things at the hospital had a load of options on ways they could go, multiple junctions they could go down, thinning them out over a large area. Fields and parks they will wander around in for days. But our luck is ending. I'm going to show you something."
The man disappeared for a second, and the screen cut to a view of Tonbridge, a nearby town. I used to live there a few years ago. The scene was of utter chaos. The video was shot on a handheld camera, and the person holding it couldn't keep it steady—and you could see why. Hundreds of these things, similar in size to those we had seen in London, were making their way down the high street, making their way into shops, trying to get through car windows, ripping people apart on the pavement. Screaming, crying, moaning flooded the air, along with the cameraman muttering, "Oh fuck, oh fuck." And this wasn't all of the Viven's. The cameraman zoomed into the distance, and you could see more. This looked like thousands, slowly advancing down the street, engulfing everything in their way.
The view switched back to the man with the accent. "My name is Mark Styles, and this is what happened at 6 PM yesterday."
That was only 5 miles away from us, I thought. Mark continued. "And this is what is happening now. This was taken 1 hour ago."
The camera switched again to a view of the bypass up the road from the high street. The creatures were making their way across the bypass. There were so many that they were pressed against the guardrails. The cameraman ran to the left and zoomed in. You could see the other end of the raised bypass now, and there were more behind them. Those that did not get on the overpass simply walked or fell down the steep slopes at the side, hitting the trees, then at the bottom picked themselves up and proceeded to make their way across the four lanes of the motorway and up the other side. The number crossing the overpass did not compare to the amount on the motorway. The number was staggering.
The picture switched back to Mark. "The zombies have run out of prey in Tonbridge. They have skirted the outside of Southborough and are on course for Tunbridge Wells. We think within the next six hours, the main bulk of the horde will hit the outskirts of town. We can't hide anymore or wait for help to come, cross our fingers, and hope someone else will do it for us. It's time to stand up."
As he said this, I swear someone started to wave the flag behind him. God, we're not Americans.
"I won't let those things take our town! So everyone watching this, get your shit in gear, grow some balls, grab something hard and heavy, and meet me at the 'Welcome to Tunbridge Wells' sign. We will give them a welcome they will never forget and send their rotting arses back to the grave."
The video stopped and then, after a few seconds, started to repeat. A forum with answers to questions popped up soon after, with typical gun-ho "let's kick arse" responses, along with the "you are going to get yourself killed" responses. Another feed popped up showing the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells. I could see the "Welcome to Town" sign straight ahead. It was on a T-junction. To the left of the sign, behind a hedge, was a large wine and alcohol warehouse. Ahead was a row of shops, and to the right, a small fire station. Mark obviously already had a few people helping. The roads ahead and to the left had been barricaded with cars. The fire truck had been taken from the station and parked to the right of the front barricade. Judging by the large puddle, someone had already been playing with the hoses. Just behind the barricades, a man was taking the tops off bottles and dipping in rags—probably petrol or Molotovs. There was already a crowd of 20 to 30 people starting to gather, but I can't say I would trust my life to them. Shirts off, drinking a Stella, talking about how they had played Resident Evil—they knew what they were doing, blud.
I muted the page and looked at Ty and Jon. The next four hours were a mix of indecision and arguments. Toby called. I put him on loudspeaker. Jon and I both lit up a fag and continued. There were plenty of options—stay put, go fight, or pack up and leave for somewhere safer while the Viven's (Toby laughed when he heard that) were slowed down by the defenders. After a little while, a decision was reluctantly made. We would continue to watch the feed. If a significant number of people turned up to defend, we would go. If not, we would stay put for now.
I can hear shouts outside now. People are out in the street heading to the showdown. The street seems to be clear of the monsters, but that was only a few. We are dealing with thousands.
4:30 AM. I can't believe we are doing this. I zipped up my coat and grabbed a cricket bat. Jon followed me, also grabbing a bat. Ty would stay here. Toby met us outside. The corpses were still outside the other guy's door. Toby was taller and bulkier than both me and Jon—well over 6ft and a good 16 stone. I remember making fun of him when he was little for being short and tubby, but now it has evened out. He was dressed in his leather coat and jeans, carrying a machete. I called him an idiot when he got it—jokes on me now. Jon had a red hoodie and jeans as well. Me in—you guessed it—jeans, red high tops, black coat. It was not particularly cold, but it was thick on the arms, so if something tried to latch on, I should have a second or two to react.
It was a 2-mile walk to the meeting point, which was uneventful apart from having to step over the odd corpse.
5:30 AM. We arrived at the meeting point to a strange scene. The town has a population of 50,000 or so. It looked like we had got a few thousand people here at least. I could see the barricade ahead of us. There were one or two Viven's already that were quickly clubbed to death, but most of the people there seemed like they had turned up for a party, not to fight for survival. People were drunk and staggering around. There were coolers and even a damn BBQ. It was just a big rabble of people—no organization, no nothing. Just a bunch of drunks and weapons—like that has ever ended well for anyone.
We elected to stay near the back for the time being. A short man was passing items out. I wandered over to him and had a pair of black gloves thrust into my hand, and he walked off. I unwrapped them. They were black with raised reinforced plate parts. I'm not sure what they were made of—it wasn't leather but not fabric. Toby and Jon had also received a pair. We sat down and waited.