Blog of the Dead (Book 3): Lost (13 page)

Once the meat was on cooking I felt a pang of sadness at the absence of guitar music. It was times like these, sat around the campfire at the Martello tower in Folkestone that Stewart would have played and sang for us. And I realised that this was the first campfire we’d had since he died. The HZs were all gone but they took more than a few of our friends with them.

Clay was chatting away while we waited for our dinner to cook. I had to kick him just the once when he almost spilled the beans on the zombie attack earlier but then, with my head on Misfit’s shoulder, my thoughts drifted off. I watched Mark sitting across the fire from me. He was sat back a little, just the same way that Misfit used to sit back from the campfire a little when he was new to the group. Mark had a sketch pad open on his lap, and his eyes kept flicking in the direction of Charlotte. She caught him looking and I noticed her smile at him while she twiddled a long strand of hair around her forefinger. Mark returned the smile, holding it long after his eyes had settled back on his sketch pad.

I remembered what Mark had said as we made our way to the Co-op earlier, that he used the zombie apocalypse to inspire the narrative for his comic. That meant my family was in there as part of the narrative. I wondered if he’d let me read the part they starred in, the part where he put them down. But then I remembered what he’d said about his drawings being an illustrated diary. Diaries are private.

Would I let anyone read mine? No, I wouldn’t. That’s where I go to download my thoughts and feelings. And while the people I meet and share my time in the apocalypse with make it into my diary’s narrative, I wouldn’t want any of them to read it. I know I used to publish my diary on the internet but it’s a little different writing it down in a notebook. I don’t know why and it’s stupid really, but it just makes it more private, like I open up more in this notebook than I did in my blog. Well, that’s how it feels. When you know people will see something, you edit yourself just a little. But then, I never really considered that anyone would be reading my post apocalyptic blog, I guessed people were dead or too busy trying to survive. And if they were reading it, well, I wanted to share my experiences so that maybe it would help them to survive or to feel less alone. I was there and I was surviving alongside them, albeit miles apart. But this, this notebook, this is just for me.

I guessed Mark’s work had undergone a similar transition, going from webcomic with a large following to becoming something much more intimate and personal to him and not just his experiences but how his experiences affected him inside. But, that being said, I wanted to know. I wanted to see it for myself.

All I had to do is get hold of Mark’s comics.

January 6, 8am

Last night, as the others were peeling off to their bedrooms, Clay collared Misfit just as Misfit had been on a beeline across the living room towards me. Clay leaned in and said something close to Misfit’s ear. I was too far off to hear what was said, but Misfit shrugged and smiled awkwardly and went and laid out a quilt cover on the sofa.

Misfit gave me a resigned smile and a shrug before perching on the sofa, while Clay settled down on the inflatable bed alongside. Clay spoke in a quiet and clipped way and Misfit nodded along. I shrugged internally, turned and sloped off upstairs to my bedroom.

Alone in my room with my quilt pulled up to my chin, I could almost imagine that the whole apocalypse had never happened. I could imagine that I had never left for Uni, that I had never met Leanne and Richard and… Sam. I could imagine that I’d never met Kay or Charlotte, Stewart… Misfit. I tried to imagine that my mum and dad were asleep in the bedroom across the landing and that Jake was snuggled up under his Spider-Man quilt in the room next door. I tried to imagine peace. Normality. I tried to imagine that death didn’t stalk the streets outside. But as much as I tried, my thoughts kept drifting down the stairs to the living room and to Misfit.

January 7, 9pm

Earlier today, we were all sat around in the living room. There was a little chit chat about plans for the week’s scavenging, whether we’re going to be here long enough for the others to learn the area in terms of supermarkets etc. Small talk didn’t feature much in the apocalypse. There were no must-see TV programmes or latest movies to discuss. No celebrity gossip. No British Bakeoff. We would reminisce about pre-zom days sometimes, ‘Who used to watch…’ ‘Do you remember when…’ but usually these conversations would end up with us in a melancholy mood, like discussing old friends that had passed away. It can be good to remember – but painful too.

Mark remained quiet, the sketch pad on his knees separating him and us. I noticed him glancing up to Charlotte from time to time, just like he had done the other night around the fire. After a while, he placed his pencil behind his ear and raised the pad so that it covered his face, as though he was studying his work. He lowered the pad, glanced at Charlotte and then he tore a sheet of paper out and awkwardly offered it to her. She took it and sat staring at the sheet of paper for a moment, her face impassive. But then Charlotte’s face burst into a rosy cheeked smile.

‘I love it,’ she said. ‘I love it!’ she repeated, this time with a little squeal.

‘What, for fuck’s sake?’ said Kay.

Charlotte turned the sheet of paper around and held it up so the rest of us could see. Mark had drawn a portrait of Charlotte in pencil but it wasn’t zombie apocalypse Charlotte I was looking at now. Not as though there’s anything wrong with post-apocalypse Charlotte that a good meal and a hot shower and some soap couldn’t fix. She had a natural beauty that grime and filthy clothes couldn’t hide. But in Mark’s version of Charlotte, she was sitting in a lush meadow – no, not ‘sitting’, I’d say ‘reclining’ as though there was no danger of a rotting zombie coming stomping through the wild flowers and long grass at any moment. A crown of daisies had been woven into her long hair, hair that billowed in a gentle breeze. She looked almost Pre-Raphaelite with her porcelain skin and serene expression and the flowing white summer dress she wore. Idealised as it may be, the drawing was stunning.

‘Wow,’ I said.

‘It’s beautiful, thank you, Mark!’ squealed Charlotte, turning the picture back around so she could look at it again.

Mark’s cheeks grew a little red and he looked a bit sheepish but he smiled and said, ‘It’s OK. I should thank you. You inspired it.’

I noticed Charlotte blush a little as she sat and stared at the sketch.

January 8, 11pm

Charlotte and Mark ate their lunch together today. They sat apart from the rest of us, down the end of the garden. It was like they were on a first date or something. I watched them as they chatted together, Charlotte throwing her head back as she laughed along with him and twiddling her hair as she listened to him. He, in turn, sat gazing at her as she spoke. Charlotte’s always quite animated as she speaks, as though everything excites her. It was amusing to watch her bouncing up and down and waving her arms about from a distance. It was really rather cute, too, watching her and Mark get to know each other. I felt like some sort of scientist conducting an experiment by placing two people in a bell jar and watching them fall in love, the process speeded up in the confined setting.

January 10, 5pm

I hadn’t realised just how speeded up Charlotte and Mark’s relationship would be until yesterday when we were sat around the living room and I heard Mark, who was sat next to me on the sofa, whisper in Charlotte’s ear, ‘You know I love you don’t you?’ To which Charlotte, a little more subdued than usual, replied, ‘Yes, I know that’, before Mark was like, ‘But do you though? Do you know how much I love you?’ and Charlotte said, ‘I do’.

‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘Because I love you very much.’

‘I know.’

‘And how much do you love me?’

‘Very much.’

I won’t lie, I felt awkward, having to listen to that. I mean, bloody hell, I hadn’t expected the experiment to work that quickly. They’d not even known each other a week. Was it possible to fall in love that fast?

‘I love you,’ Mark said to Charlotte.

‘I love you too,’ she replied.

Jesus, I felt a little bit sick.

January 12, 10pm

Over the last couple days, we haven’t really done a lot. Kay has had chance to rest up and has now recovered fully from her infection. The bite on her neck has begun to heal nicely with all the swelling gone and a healthy scab peeling to reveal fresh pink skin beneath.

Oh and Charlotte has moved into Mark’s room. I’m worried. I’m worried that Charlotte is getting into this thing with Mark a bit too deep, a bit too fast, but my worries are also selfish; when we move on – and we will move on because whether I get any further information out of Mark about the day he put my parents down or not, we will continue on our way to Wales to find Zombie-Shelby – will Charlotte come with us, or will she want to stay with Mark? Could I leave without Charlotte, even if she wanted to stay with him? She might think she’s happy now, but would it last? But, of course, Mark could come with us, couldn’t he? I guess I’ll just wait and see what happens. I can’t say I really want the guy that put my family down tagging along with us. That’s understandable, isn’t it?

January 14, 11.30 pm

The following couple of days passed in a blur of scavenging, board games that I dug out of the games cupboard in the dining room, missed opportunities with Misfit, an inability to shake off Clay and the blossoming romance between Charlotte and Mark. I wondered if I should say something to Charlotte about my fear she was taking things too fast with Mark, but other than the fact it was hard to get her on her own without Mark these days, I worried that she wouldn’t appreciate the input. I mean, the messenger always gets shot, right? If I waded in with my thoughts that Mark was being too full-on with her, she might well get defensive and end up alienating herself from me and the others even more.

Kay, however, had none of my reservations and, in earshot of Mark, said to Charlotte, ‘For fuck’s sake, this is all a bit weird, isn’t it, all this lovey dovey stuff when you’ve only known each other five minutes? You don’t know anything about the bloke.’ And like I predicted, the pair of them retreated into their own little bubble even further.

On the occasion that they did join the rest of us, we had to listen to Mark asking Charlotte if she knew how much he loved her. On these occasions I would be very tempted to butt in and say, ‘Is the answer, “Very much”, Mark… is it? Is it, Mark? Is the answer, “Very much”?!’ But, instead, I would take a deep breath and smile. I mean, young love, it’s cute, right? It has a habit of becoming full on very fast, right? Just because I wasn’t getting any, didn’t mean I begrudge anyone else, right? Just because he killed my fucking family, didn’t mean I didn’t want Mark to be happy, right? Right?

January 15, 8am

I just asked Mark if I could look at his comics. He replied with a flat, ‘No’. Not totally unexpected. I said I just want to see the bit with my family and that I deserved to see what happened to them. Mark went white then red then said, ‘I said, no’ and he stomped off with his backpack clutched to his chest. But then Misfit sauntered up to me and asked if I’d like to go hunting with him and that distracted me completely.

Back when we lived in the camp in Folkestone – I talk like it was ages ago instead of just weeks ago. It just feels like years ago – whenever I asked to go hunting with him he’d always say no. He’d explain that I might disturb the animals because I’m not used to moving as quietly as a hunter needs to, and it was better he go alone. He used to invite me fishing, where there was no danger I could fuck anything up with my clumsy feet. Just not hunting. So when he asked me to go with him I was like, ‘Um, yeah. OK’, with a shrug and what I imagine was a confused, uncertain expression, as if I’d maybe misheard or misunderstood and I didn’t want to embarrass myself if I’d got his intentions wrong. But Misfit just went, ‘Cool’ and smiled a full smile. So I’m just jotting this down quick because he’s waiting for me downstairs. I’m pretty excited to be doing something new!

2pm

There was something weird about Misfit’s body language as we strode through the streets of Guildford on our way to Stoke Park. Before we left, we debated whether or not to drive and decided against it. The camper’s engine was noisy and could scare off livestock before we had even arrived, as well as draw a welcoming committee. I’d begun to notice for myself what others had been mentioning, that zombies were swarming a little more. As their food supply – us – dwindled, causing them to get weaker, I suppose they were compensating by forming larger groups. Strength in numbers. Was that some form of zombie evolution?

On the way to the park, I had to walk quickly to keep up with Misfit. He strode with purpose and kept his eyes straight ahead. He didn’t speak. I wondered if he’d regretted his decision to bring me along. Even when we spied small groups of zombies up ahead, he marched towards them, despatched them quickly and moved on. I followed suit.

I resisted the temptation to ask him if I’d done something wrong. I didn’t know how I’d handle it if he answered with a, ‘Yes’ and it would mean I’d have to confront whatever the problem was, maybe even have to admit some weakness or flaw – and who likes doing that? So instead, I racked my brain to figure out what I could have done.

Whenever I’ve upset someone, I’m much better if I can work it out for myself, then I can process where I went wrong and when the injured party finally brings it up, I can explain myself calmly instead of being all defensive. Not that I go around upsetting people, I’ve never been someone to do that. I’d rather upset myself than upset someone else. But we all get it wrong sometimes, right? I’m just no good if someone confronts me before I’ve figured it out. That’s when I’m likely to growl or even bite. Then I’ll go away and think about it until I realise, actually, they’re right, I messed up.