Breaking News: An Autozombiography (44 page)

‘
Oh, that’s alright dear, I don’t need to see no papers,’ she clucked. ‘You’ve a room made upstairs, have a word with Joe at the bar, he’ll see you right for a tipple, too. There’ll be no charge for either - how about that?’

‘
That’s kind, thank you,’ Dawn said, tugging me toward a smoky snug to one side.

‘
Don’t thank me; thank her up at the big house.’

It seemed that the ruddy faced types in the straw-laden hall behind us were just those who couldn’t get into the pub, or who had been kicked out. The place has heaving.

‘
What was the old crone saying?’ I hollered in Dawn’s ear.

‘
Don’t be rude!’ Dawn shouted.

‘
Sorry. It seemed quite appropriate.’

We fought our way to the bar, apparently ripped out in its entirety from a local pub. After about a twenty minute wait it was our turn, so I showed Joe the scroll and he nodded at us. Dawn had been excitedly reading the labels on the bottles, and wanted a Bacardi Breezer. I rather foolhardily asked for some of the local brew, which seemed to have both bird’s nest and egg shell in it. I haggled with a large man for some tobacco, and as he had no use for a sack of lime I ended up doing a fairly merciless caricature of the fat oaf on a square of cloth, which he didn’t find funny but his friends did. The bastard refused to pay up so his mates collected a whole pouch of tobacco, and one of them pressed a little green bud into the palm of my hand.

‘
Don’t let the governor catch you with that mate,’ he winked.

Joe brought another drink over to us when the queue at the bar was only three deep, and said Rose on the front desk would show us our room when we were ready. Dawn looked embarrassed, and Joe twisted a bar towel, looking anxious.

‘
Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to suggest… it’s just we’re packed tonight, see?’ He turned to me. ‘You the ‘elp?’ he asked gruffly.

‘
I’m sorry?’ I asked.

‘
Are you ‘er ‘elp?’ he quizzed. ‘The baroness?’’

‘
Who?’ I asked, genuinely stumped.

‘
He’s talking about me,’ Dawn said. ‘No, Joe, He’s the one that’s been invited to Windsor Great Park; I just rode him here. I wasn’t expecting to share a room, that’s all. We were hoping to camp tonight.’

‘
Oh, camping’s not clever ma’am. The forest’s not safe yet, there’s plenty of them abroad. They’re spread out, see? When it finally took hold in the Bracknell camp – we knew it would, there were hundreds of people camped up there, some said thousands – it got worse all round here, much worse. The forest’s no place to camp, if you’ll forgive my impertinence,’ he laughed awkwardly, and gave the towel another nervous twist.

‘
Not a problem, Joe and we’ll heed your advice with gusto,’ I said.

‘
Very good sir,’ he said, and limped off.

We finished our drinks slowly – I didn’t need another beer – and I puffed long and slow on a roll-up as Dawn played cat’s cradle with one of the barmaid’s grubby-faced daughters. We were shown our room, which was really only a wattle and daub partition on a long upper floor. There was one bed - a box with straw piled into it - so we sat on it and, and I rolled a joint as we talked into the night over the stifled giggling and not-so-stifled humping noises.

‘
Jerry would love that place,’ I nodded to downstairs. ‘He’d have a fit.’

‘
You should do them a new sign. Their one was rubbish.’ Dawn said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she asked me. ‘About me not wanting to share a bed? I don’t mind sharing, really I don’t, it’s just that David and I, well, he’d saved up to take me to a hotel, and it was my birthday the day after… the day after it broke out. I was supposed to be staying in a hotel with David.’

‘
Aw, bless you.’ I said. ‘No worries. I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as a hotel, anyway.’

She snorted into the dregs of her Breezer. I eventually stubbed my doobie out and closed my eyes. I heard her get out of her boots and under the furs on the bed. I left my boots and my superhero suit on, and pretty soon I was sleeping like a baby.

Morning came with the smell of wood smoke, eggs and bacon. Dawn was creeping out of the door as I woke.

‘
Just checking on the horse,’ she whispered, and creaked down the narrow stairs to the hallway below. I dozed a while on the bed, then stretched, and rolled onto the floor. I pushed open the tiny shutters and looked into the courtyard below, to the chickens and horses. Muddy cart-tracks collected the morning drizzle which clung to my beard. I could hear a hammer striking an anvil; I caught sight of an open-sided hut, and a man with a beard talking to Dawn, with cartwheels piled up around him. There was a tannery too, and the stench of boiled fat would occasionally hit my nostrils. First and foremost was the question of where the bacon and eggs were.

I collected my stuff, and gathered what little of Dawn’s she had left scattered about. I made my way down the stairs to the sound of snoring and farting from the other rooms. It was early. Rose from the barn - reception, I suppose you’d call it - appeared at the end of the stairs and ushered me into the bar. She sat me down and fussed, pouring me a cup of tea.

‘
Want something stronger?’ she asked.

‘
No, thank you, this is perfect,’ I replied, bleary-eyed. ‘Rose - where is that smell of bacon coming from?’

‘
Ooh, that’s Joe – he’s knocking out egg and bacon sandwiches for England this morning. He’s got the kitchens through there, and a little counter-top opening out onto the courtyard. Hang on, I’ll grab you a sampler.’

Before I could stop her – which I didn’t really try to – she had disappeared in a flurry of apron and the smell of cream. She soon returned with a plate, and I stared in disbelief.

‘
Two bacon, two egg, sausage – they’re my recipe – mushrooms, black pudding, bread and tomatoes, fried. That do you?’ Her smile looked like it would split her face.

‘
That’s amazing. What do I owe you?’ I asked.

‘
Don’t fancy a shag, do you dearie?’ She cocked her head.

‘
Er, no, thanks, Rose, I’m married. I really can’t accept this if you want to…’

‘
Oh, I’m just messing with you, you daft bastard. Rose’s got a wicked sense of humour, that’s all,’ she giggled. ‘No, you tuck in; I’ll frig myself off in the cowshed.’ I splattered tea onto the table as she disappeared with a demonic cackle. I didn’t need to be told to tuck in twice, and demolished my breakfast although I’m sorry to say the old dear did rather put me off my eggs. She wasn’t around when I finished, so I licked my plate clean (I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I couldn’t leave her a tip), pulled on Patveer’s sheepskin and walked into the grey morning.

Dawn beckoned me over to the wheelwright’s shack.

‘
This is him,’ she beamed at the bearded man. He was huge, and had to stoop to offer me a hand.

‘
Pleased to meet you,’ I said, shooting a glance at Dawn.

‘
This is John, the wheelwright,’ Dawn grinned at me.

‘
Pleased to meet you, too. Well he looks the part, in that get-up. It’s not that red though,’ he said, looking disappointingly at my beard, which I self-consciously stroked. ‘So you’ll be painting me a new sign?’ he asked me. Dawn made eyebrows at me as subtly as she could. I took my cue.

‘
Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I take it you’ve told my, er, my assistant what you need?’

‘
Yes, it’s all up here,’ Dawn tapped her head.

‘
Well I look forward to seeing it anyway. Nice to meet you, Dawn,’ he said.

‘
Nice to meet you too. Are we good to go?’ Dawn asked me. I thought we were, so she helped me up onto the horse to much hearty laughter from Huge John the Wheelwright.

‘
I really should learn how to do that by myself,’ I said in her ear.

‘
I know you should, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve shown you. We ready?’

She trotted up to the gate.

‘
Is this the right gate for Windsor Great Park?’ she called down to the master of one of the gate crews. He nodded, and waved for his men to lower it. I saw for the first time that they had dug a huge trench as a moat, the skeletal remains of a bright orange JCB digger amongst the mouldering corpses. No wonder they’d agreed to have a tannery in such a small camp – to disguise the stench of the dead. I thought about our overkill on the quicklime production front the year before and stroked my beard.

We thundered over fields and through woodland, past the forty-strong crew that the quartermaster had told us about, hacking back the forest’s advance onto the ancient road. Soon we were at the southernmost tip of Windsor Great Park, a huge forest of oaks which some Royal or other had put there just so he could hunt deer. I think it was the same chap who made the New Forest, too, but I’m not sure. Sometimes I still missed the internet.

We were guided by a horseman in a black velvet cloak to the edge of a taped-off but otherwise open area. I heard Dawn gasp when she saw the signs for the minefield. The guide led us onto a track marked out only by strips of yellow plastic tape on sticks, and dotted with the occasional hoof-print, through the minefield and up to a set of huge, ornate tents. On the way up to the first and smallest tent we caught sight of different uniforms from what seemed now like a different world. There were policemen, members of the Horse Guard and the odd normal soldier. There was even a Beefeater. They all had old-issue SA-80 machine guns.

‘
I bet they’ve all pledged allegiance to the Queen somewhere in their careers – now the old girl’s cashing it in.’ I said to Dawn quietly.

Our horse was led inside to be tethered by a waiting chap in white gloves, whilst another asked to see the scroll and the various copies of our charter. He asked if we understood that the wording of our own charter also must also apply to the ground we were about to step foot on, and we said we did. He called to another bloke who got a box and helped us down. I looked around the over-dressed field tent, with its paintings and vases and its carpet laying on what was, essentially a field. They’d even stretched to a chandelier, which I thought was pushing it a bit, not only because they had candles inside a canvas tent.

I was told that quarantine would last for three days, and that Midsummer Night was the day after that. Dawn said she’d be back in exactly five days, and said she wanted to try and get back to Silchester that nightfall. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me luck, and then she was gone. I stripped, had a very hot and quite public bath, and then settled back into three days of what must have been the most luxurious quarantine in world history, zombie virus outbreak or not.

I met people from all over the south of England in that tent. All were headed for Windsor Great Park in the middle of what was proving to be a hot, wet summer. It rained pretty much constantly, but we were confined to the tent anyway. We had beds, and everything was open-planned. There were soldiers inside, and there would be at least two of them posted at all times on both the entrance and the way through to the next tent, which we all eyed with curiosity. Most people came on horses of their own, but a few had made their way up the Thames and accepted one of the steady stream of horse-drawn carriages that waited patiently on the banks of the river, taking guests up to the Royal Park. Someone even arrived by hot air balloon, but he had crash-landed a mile away and they had to send out some horses and men to get him. Arthur, he was called, and had a huge red nose. He was obviously used to better than tents, and had stood scoffing at the chandeliers and tablecloths, shouting about when he would be let out, and that he felt like snot in a bloody giant hankie. He told me he lived in a stately home in Staffordshire, and that the hot air balloon was one of three.

‘
No, I’ve left it there. Got plenty. Thought I’d give you johnnies an entrance to remember,’ he guffawed.

Not everyone was such a twat; in fact most people were, like me, standing around gawping - pretty normal people, really. Well, as normal as English people get. There were hot baths running constantly behind more private curtains. They had a cooking section going all day and all night, which had a constant supply of roast beef, fresh horseradish and Yorkshire puddings like children’s heads. Thick, russet gravy of rosemary and redcurrant, legs of lamb and fluffy roast potatoes. They roasted a suckling pig three times each day and once in the night, as people could arrive at any time. They would pull a round table into the centre of the room and pile it with silver platters of roast chicken in lemon and thyme butter; goose with bacon-wrapped figs in brandy; steaming pies of steak, gravy and mushrooms or game and stuffing. There were whole steamed fish from the uncontaminated ponds and jugged smoked kippers from the pantry. Marzipan cakes, cream-filled biscuits, apple jelly and elderberry ice cream stood next to ice-cold jugs of cider, warm foaming ale and pitcher upon pitcher of wine.

I introduced myself to a lot of people, who like me were staggering about getting slowly drunker and fatter. Julia, a mum-of-four from Brighton, said she used to walk her dog on Cissbury Ring when she had to pick her nephew up. He went to school in Worthing, but she didn’t know where her family were now. She had lived the previous year in the system of underground caves and tunnels on Brighton Beach. She was pasty, and looked like she needed feeding. I met Colin, from Glastonbury, who had spent the day on Glastonbury Tor when the virus broke out. A dozen survivors had joined him, but by the time the zombies spread out that far, they could no longer climb the steep walls. Elijah from Southall who had successfully sealed off the tower block he worked in, saving hundreds of residents from the virus, had told me that London was now impenetrable. The Thames barrier, unmanned, had failed, sending spring tides and putrefying, bloated flesh-eating zombies flooding through the streets. The corpses had turned the Thames black, and people had fallen ill just by breathing the air outside. Greg from the Isle of Wight had holed up with forty others in the trees in Shanklin Chine (a chine, he told me, is a fissure of rock that nurtures sheltered, almost jungle-like vegetation usually stretching down to the sea). He was a keen rock climber, and had built a tree-top village with other survivors. Someone said the leader of the hundred-strong Eden Project survivors from Cornwall were here too. It was all getting a bit hectic, so I stood outside to smoke a joint, but a soldier ushered me back in. He stopped, sniffing the air.