Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) (2 page)

On Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays, George worked for four
hours a day in the back room of Mr Singh's electrical shop in the
village, learning how to fix computers and home appliances. He didn't
get paid, that would have invalidated his insurance, but he got fed.
They were proper meals too, not like the textureless tasteless mush
the home served up three times a day. It had taken months, but he'd
finally learnt enough to get an interview lined up at the
refurbishment company in the business park at Lower Wentley. If he
got the job he would earn enough to rent a place of his own. It would
only be something small, nothing like the house he and Dora had had,
probably one of the pokey little studio flats they were building out
by the train station. It would be small, but it would be his.

Then
there had been New York. The 20
^th
February. Dora's
birthday. He'd watched that on the TV in the shop with Mr Singh and
his wife. Everyone in the country had watched that, everyone except
the residents of the home. They'd not even known about it until he'd
got back. He'd told them or, rather, he'd tried to.

The
only television in the home, other than his, was in the Sun Room, a
dreary den of easy clean sofas and Formica tables. He'd raced in and
turned the set on. Old Mr Roberts had turned it off after a few
minutes, saying scenes like that “were an unwarranted
disturbance”. But it had been on long enough for everyone there
to see a blood stained creature, its back broken, its legs twisted,
tear a woman apart outside a shopping centre in Upstate New York.

When
George had started to protest at Roberts turning it off, McGuffrey
had just said “What does it matter? That's far away. Not our
concern, is it?” So George had retreated back to his room and
watched the reports as they came in. He stayed up all night, sitting
bare inches from the screen the volume on low, pausing only to walk
down the corridor to keep Mrs O'Leary informed.

That
night, he'd not slept. Early on the 21
^st
February he'd
opened his box and taken out the remains of his life savings. He'd
gone to the reception area and waited anxiously for the doors to be
unlocked. Then he'd walked down the drive to the footpath that led
through the woods and down to the village. He'd been waiting outside
when Pauline Fellows came to open the organic grocers. He'd spent
£150 on tins and packets of food. She wouldn't sell him any
more.

It
had taken him five trips to carry the food the hundred yards to the
flat Mr and Mrs Singh had over their shop. By the time he'd got his
last few bags, Pauline had thrown the closed sign over the door and
was emptying the shelves into the back of her car.

He
got back from his seventh trip to town at half past five, just as the
dinner bell was sounding. Exhausted, and with the doors to the home
about to close for the day, he'd deposited his haul in his room and
gone to the dining hall. He'd toyed dispiritedly with his lacklustre
shepherd's pie, then visited with Mrs O'Leary for half an hour before
heading back to his room and collapsing in front of the television.
He was just in time to hear the news that there were zombies in Paris
and that France was being torn apart by riots. They had nationalised
the press soon after that.

West
Ham scored. It was a marvellous goal. The striker tackled a
mid-fielder just outside the West Ham goal, ran with the ball all the
way up to the
half way line
and
then kicked it all the way down the pitch. The goalie didn’t
see it coming until too late. He dived. George wasn't sure that the
ball was going in, but, with less than an inch to spare, it slammed
into the bottom left corner of the net. That should have had
supporters from both sides leaping to their feet. It was the sort of
thing you paid the astronomical price of a season ticket for. But
there was no crowd, the stands were empty. The matches were played,
but no one was there to watch. He didn't even know who the players
were, it certainly wasn't the team they'd been fielding a month
before.

He
checked the time. 11:51. Stiffly, he got out of his chair and turned
set off. He'd like to see the final score, but the match would be
replayed later. He could watch it then. Or he could watch a different
game. Who won, who lost or even who played the game didn't matter,
not any more.

The
dining hall wasn't empty. Mr Pappadopolis, Mrs Ackroyd, Mr Carter and
Miss Conner were there. They were always the first in the queue
because they spent most of their waking hours playing an eternal game
of bridge at the long table by the never-opened French doors. As long
as they vacated the room just long enough for Janice to slop a mop
around the floor, their cards were never disturbed. By some unfair
rule of possession, they now got that table for breakfast, lunch and
dinner. They always started queuing as soon as they heard the clatter
of serving trays and the laying out of the plates.

George
nodded a polite greeting, even managing a slight smile but they
ignored him. They always did. That infuriated him. Was he the only
one who realised that the world had changed? Maybe they did realise,
maybe that was why they were clinging onto their routine. George
checked his watch 12:05, almost feeding time. It was odd though. He
couldn’t hear any sounds from the kitchen.

The
food in the storeroom was now supplemented by a ration from their
Local Food Distribution Centre, or, as he knew it better, the two
storey supermarket in the shopping centre at Lower Wentley, 10 miles
away. Everyone got a ration, and according to Mrs Singh it wasn't
very much.

Planning
on collecting the rest of his tins and packets from the Singh's, he'd
gone down to the village on the afternoon of the 24
^th
.
He'd had to sneak out of the home, as McGuffrey had issued a stern,
and for all bar George, unnecessary warning that no one should stray
further than the plinth at the bottom of the drive. When he'd arrived
the couple were sharing a meal with the Vicar.

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.