Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) (3 page)

As frustration replaced anger, he became slowly aware of how truly
quiet the world was. There were no tractors in the fields, no
vehicles on the roads, no planes overhead or even ships out at sea.
As he slowly turned around on the spot, looking for any small sign of
life, he was gripped by a strange fear borne of loneliness. All he
wanted was to get away from this place.

He wanted to go back to his room, he wanted to close the door, lie
down, sleep and wake up to find the world was back the way it should
be. But that would never happen, could never happen, not now. And
there was Mrs O'Leary to think of and what she'd think of him if he
went back now with more questions and no answers.

He turned to look down the hill to the picture-postcard hamlet that
straddled the river. It was an odd little place. The same steep hills
on either side that had kept away the property developers had also
kept away the tourists. It was only in the last decade when the
single track road had finally been replaced with a two lane
carriageway that the village had bucked the recessionary trend and
begun to prosper.

He carefully walked back along the icy path. On the other side of the
road lay the woods, through which a footpath ran, leading down to the
vicarage and the ancient church that marked the beginning of the
village. He knew he could make it down there, but getting back up
would be difficult. Even if there was anyone with any petrol left
still living there, he knew they wouldn't waste it on him. To his
knowledge the only local who ever came up to the home, other than
those who worked there, was the Vicar.

He
hadn't approved of the whole women-vicars business though, as he was
never more than a weddings, funerals and marriages type of
church-goer, he wasn't sure why. He liked the Reverend Stevens. She
had made a point of visiting the home once a month despite the frosty
reception she received from most of the residents.
Even
Mrs O'Leary liked the company, since the last diocesan merger meant
her priest only made house-calls for the last rites. From where he
was standing he could just see the vicar's driveway. It was empty,
her Land Rover gone. The car could be parked somewhere else, of
course, and he couldn't quite see the electrical shop from where he
stood, but George was sure that she and the Singh's had left.

He looked back at the cottage. Perhaps he could break down the door,
drag McGuffrey out and force him to come back to work. A bitter
chuckle escaped from his lips. If he was getting out of breath
walking a few hundred yards up the hill, then breaking down doors was
beyond him. Besides, as Mrs O'Leary had loudly pointed out when the
roads were closed during the heavy snow the previous year and
McGuffrey had been forced into the kitchen, “the man could burn
water and sour toast”. Dispirited by how little he'd
accomplished, he walked back to the home.

He stopped in the reception hall. There were rigorous strictures
against residents straying across into the staff area, but what did
they matter if McGuffrey wasn't going to come out of his house? He
stepped around the reception desk and through the door to the nurses'
station. The room contained a desk against the long wall, filling
cabinets along the short, a few chairs and little else except the
closed door that he assumed led to the offices, pharmacy and the
staff break room. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Conscious of the rules he was breaking, he walked slowly down the
corridor, opening each door in turn. The staff bathrooms were clean,
smelling faintly of a more aromatic disinfectant than the cheaper
brand George was familiar with from the residents' side of the
building. The staff break room was a mess, but in such a way that he
thought it might always have looked that way.

The pharmacy had been ransacked. He could find no painkillers or
sleeping tablets. As to what else the staff had taken when they left,
he was unsure. They had been selective, taking just over half of the
medication stored in the large glass fronted cabinets. Raising his
finger he methodically went through those that remained, but could
find none of the pills that Mrs O'Leary was prescribed.

The last room in the corridor had a brass plaque on the door “Mr
RJ McGuffrey BA, BSc, Director of Care”. Inside, on an
otherwise spotless desk he found a map and the letter.

“
Due
to its relative isolation and low population density it has been
decided to evacuate this area. Leaving no earlier than 6am on the 7
^th
March and arriving no later than 9am on the 8
^th
March, all residents within this zone should make their way to The
Benwick Hill Outdoor Sports and Activity Centre, a mile to the west
of Longfield Junction.”

The letter was printed except for the place names, those were hand
written.

“At this muster point evacuees will be given a physical
examination, assessed for suitability for vaccination and then
transported to the Enclave being established in Cornwall.”

Again the name was hand written.

“Due to the need to keep roads clear for evacuation traffic,
evacuees must depart on foot or by bicycle. You may bring with you as
much as you can carry, but this should include any medicines you
require and enough food and water for at least two days. In addition
you should bring blankets, sleeping bags or other warm bedding as
well as spare clothing as these items will not be provided during
resettlement. Further advice and details of what to expect at the
Enclave will be provided on the Emergency Broadcasts which you are
strongly advised to watch or listen to.

“
A
limited bus service will be provided to the muster point for those
unable to make the journey themselves due to age, ill health or other
significant factors. This service is available only if those factors
were registered with the local authorities before the crisis and with
your designated Resettlement Officer prior to the 4
^th
March.

“
If
you are a Designated Carer for one or more persons, then you must
inform the Resettlement Officer on or prior to the 4
^th
March as to how many dependants will require transportation. Please
note that for this evacuation someone is deemed a Designated Carer
if, and only if, they have been licensed by the local civil authority
to claim the ration on another's behalf.

“
If
you are unsure whether your property lies within the evacuation zone
or if you have any further questions you should address them to your
Resettlement Officer who will be located at your local Food
Distribution Centre until the 5
^th
March.

Signed... ”

George
couldn't read the signature. Not that he tried too hard, his eyes
were drawn to the date. It was dated the 2
^nd
March, three days ago. He glanced at the map. It was a photocopy of a
road map with a crudely drawn circle about ten miles in diameter that
took in the home, the village, a dozen farms and a good portion of
the sea. He looked at the envelope. There was no stamp. It must have
been hand delivered.

“They knew.” he said. “They bloody well knew”
he shouted this time. “They left us. They cooked breakfast and
went, stealing our pills on the way. Well I'll...” What? What
would he do? What could he do?

He picked up the phone on the desk and dialled 9 for an outside line
and then 999. There was no answer. He dialled 9125, the number for
the speaking clock. Nothing. He tried dialling his old office number
at work, the customer service number printed on the box of bandages,
the mobile phone number written down on a yellow post it note with a
poorly drawn heart next to it. Nothing, not even a dial tone.

“You don't think he's arranged for us to be evacuated?”
George asked a half hour later when he was drinking tea with Mrs
O'Leary in her room.

“Do you?” she asked.

“No” George admitted. “That's why the other staff
left. They don't want to be the ones holding the baby. Probably they
reckoned someone would show up here. Some patrol or, well, someone.
Then whoever is here is going to be delegated in charge of us. So
they all scarpered.”

“It's McGuffrey.” Mrs O'Leary said flatly “He's the
one responsible, not all these part timers who never bothered to
learn our names.” She took another sip of tea “I bet he
doesn’t fancy the idea of swapping his cottage for a cot in
some warehouse.”

“Doesn't want to go with us, can't go without us and can't show
his face around here, neither, not now the pills are gone.”

“Nonsense” she tutted, “of course he could. He
could have been open and honest about it all from the start. We'd not
have judged him any the worse for it. Not that that's saying much.
All that can be expected of anyone is that they do the job that's in
front of them. No more than that. Now drink your tea. It's getting
cold. And then make me another cup. I’m enjoying the
indulgence.”

George stood up and walked over to the kettle. He'd liberated it from
the staff break room, a far more salubrious place than the Sun Room.
It was filled with comfortable arm chairs, a well stocked fridge and
a mountain of biscuits and slightly stale cakes, which he suspected
had been donated for the residents use.

He was feeling calmer than he had after first reading the letter. It
was the tea, not the drink itself, but being able to have as much of
it as he wanted, when he wanted. It was a type of freedom, he
supposed, one he'd given up when he chosen an existence in the home
over a lonely suicide.

“Yesterday was the fourth.” George said, after handing
Mrs O'Leary a fresh cup.

“You're thinking of going down to Lower Wentley? Yesterday was
the deadline. Besides, how would you get there? You said even the
Vicar's gone.”

“Probably gone. Anyway, it's is only ten miles. I could walk
it.” He said stubbornly.

“Really?” she asked, taking a pointedly slow sip of tea.
They sat in silence for a while.

“If I went down to the village, maybe I could find a car...”
George began.

“And then you'd hotwire it, would you? Or would you just break
into the houses till you found a key? And” she said raising an
admonitory finger, “what then? They said no cars on the
evacuation, didn't they?”

“But if they stopped us, I'd explain” George said.

“Us, is it? And what about the others?” Mrs O'Leary
asked. “Our companions in misfortune?”

“Who? The living dead? What of them?” George asked
without thinking. Mrs O'Leary said nothing, she just gave him a stern
look.

“Right. Sorry. That was in bad taste.” George said.

“The way I see it,” Mrs O'Leary said after setting the
cup down with studied deliberation. “The government people,
they know we're here. They know McGuffrey was collecting our ration,
even if he was squirrelling it away for himself. If they know we're
here, then they'll send someone. Now,” she added, forestalling
his objection, “they may not, I agree, but there's a greater
chance of that, than of you making it all the way to Lower Wentley on
foot, or, for that matter, of stealing someone's car without getting
shot by one of the patrols. No. We stay here. And as for our
compatriots, well, you can't let them starve, now, can you?”

“I...” George was about to say he could, but then he saw
the look on her face. “Fine. I'll see what I can do.”

“Good lad. Nothing fancy. They don't deserve pheasant, just
warm up a few cans. And” she added as he got up to leave “be
a dear and make sure the doors and windows are all properly closed.
Just in case.”

“Well this isn't much.” Mrs Kennedy sniffed.

“It's what I could find” George said. “It was
either stew or a fry up.”

“I'd have liked a fry up” Mr Pappadopolis said, “haven't
had one in years.”

“Well, you'll like breakfast tomorrow then.” George said
as equably as he could manage.

“
But
it's Lasagne on Tuesdays” Miss Conner said, staring with
suspicion at the inexpertly chopped beef and carrots swimming in
thick gravy
.

“Well today isn't Tuesday and tonight it's stew. Beef, carrots,
onions, some peppers and tomatoes. Enough to keep you going.”

“Probably all night long” Mr Grayson snickered. And the
others, some with a furtive glance to make really sure that there
were no staff present, laughed too.

“Come on,” Mr Parker said, pushing his way to the front
of the crowd “out the way. Some of us are hungry.”

They didn't say thank you. But he did get a nod or two of
acknowledgement which in the rarefied atmosphere of the home was as
good as an honour from the Queen. George went back into the kitchen
to finish the washing up, leaving them to serve themselves. When he
returned to the cafeteria everyone was sitting down, eating and
making occasional small talk.

“Look” he began. He wasn't sure what he was going to say,
but all eyes were on him now “The thing is...”

“Spit it out, man” Mr Grayson said.

“They've gone. The staff. You've realised that, I suppose.
There's an evacuation. You might have heard about that on the news.”
He remembered who he was speaking to “No. OK. They're emptying
the cities and the towns inland, pulling everyone back to the coast.
London, Birmingham, Glasgow, here too.”

“But we're on the coast” Mr Roberts said in a tone that
suggested that this should settle the matter.

“So's Glasgow” Mr Carter chimed in “Or it's on the
Clyde, which is...”

“The letter” George interrupted loudly, before they
started a pointless debate “said they were evacuating the
village too, the areas indefensible. That's what it said. The
evacuation is meant to start on the seventh, but the staff have left
early, taking about half your medication with them.” There was
an uncomfortable stirring amongst the group at this news. “McGuffrey
is meant to have told a resettlement bod in Lower Wentley that we're
here, and then they're meant to send a bus for us. If he told them.”
George paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “The
evacuation muster point, that's where we have to get to, is in
Benwick, at that big sports centre there, the one with the go-kart
track. They'll be no buses, no cabs, no help. If you want to go, then
that's where you have to get to. It's about thirty miles. I'll leave
the letter here. You can look at it yourselves. Make up your own mind
what you want to do...”