Read Online The Undead. The First Seven Days by R R Haywood - Free Book Online
Authors: R R Haywood
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blow or the impact from hitting the ground.
I start to clamber through and my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again. I step down on the leg of the undead, which makes it easier to get out. I move away quickly, in case she gets back up.
The Micra keys do not have a clicker; it’s an old car and I have to put the key in the door. I put my bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. Soon the car is in gear and shoots forward and… stalls.
Shows how long it’s been since I last drove a car .
I try again, keeping my foot down on the clutch.
The car starts and I pull away. The seat is too far forward and I feel for the handle underneath me and push it back.
I drive away from the village, heading in the direction of my parents’ house. In the rear view mirror, I can see plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.
The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. There is no one to put the blaze out. No police will cordon off the area. No ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.
It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.
I have an uneventful drive to my parent’s village.
The car radio has buttons for preset radio stations. I press through all of them but hear nothing – only silence and the odd burst of static.
Don’t they have emergency broadcasts telling people to stay in their homes or wait for further instruction?
I use the tuner, going through the frequencies.
The radio locks onto any signal being broadcast, and, after a few minutes, the car is filled with the sound of a man speaking in calm and measured tones.
He repeats a message, over and over:
“ There are survivors, you are not alone.
Do not come to London, we are completely infested.
I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.
If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.
Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.
Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”
I keep listening to the deep voice which I find calming and re-assuring.
There is no sign of panic or distress in the clipped English accent.
I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of a well-kept older man; groomed and sophisticated.
I think of the Forts on the south, they are known as Palmerston’s Follies.
They were constructed in the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There are many of them along the coast: old style batteries that were used for huge cannon and mortar placements. They were positioned to repel ships but also built to withstand land forces. Some of them have fallen to ruin, but most have been preserved by historical societies. They are all surrounded by high walls and have underground rooms connected by tunnels. I have seen them many times but never paid much attention; they are just a part of the landscape, a forgotten history.
The most famous are the three or four big, round bastions in The Solent; the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering - used now as private hotels or left to decay.
I start to form a plan in my head.
If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the Forts and then try to find my sister. She lives in a posh apartment block, with secure entry.
It was Friday evening, yesterday, when it started, so she would most likely be out at a wine bar or social function – networking, as she calls it.
The message on the radio said that London was infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.
There is a small gathering of undead outside the shop near my parent’s house.
Unlike the previous village, this
I start to clamber through and my rucksack gets caught, so I go back in and take the rucksack off, throw it out and try again. I step down on the leg of the undead, which makes it easier to get out. I move away quickly, in case she gets back up.
The Micra keys do not have a clicker; it’s an old car and I have to put the key in the door. I put my bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. Soon the car is in gear and shoots forward and… stalls.
Shows how long it’s been since I last drove a car .
I try again, keeping my foot down on the clutch.
The car starts and I pull away. The seat is too far forward and I feel for the handle underneath me and push it back.
I drive away from the village, heading in the direction of my parents’ house. In the rear view mirror, I can see plumes of black smoke billowing up into the sky.
The fire will spread quickly in the warm dry weather, and I think of all the damage being caused. No fire engines will come racing to the rescue. There is no one to put the blaze out. No police will cordon off the area. No ambulances will ever arrive to treat the wounded and hurt.
It will just burn and burn until there is nothing left.
I have an uneventful drive to my parent’s village.
The car radio has buttons for preset radio stations. I press through all of them but hear nothing – only silence and the odd burst of static.
Don’t they have emergency broadcasts telling people to stay in their homes or wait for further instruction?
I use the tuner, going through the frequencies.
The radio locks onto any signal being broadcast, and, after a few minutes, the car is filled with the sound of a man speaking in calm and measured tones.
He repeats a message, over and over:
“ There are survivors, you are not alone.
Do not come to London, we are completely infested.
I repeat, DO NOT COME TO LONDON.
If you are in the South then we advise you head to the Victorian Forts on the South Coast.
Take whatever supplies you can carry: water, food, medicine and clothing.
Stay out of the cities and towns. Head to the Forts on the coast.”
I keep listening to the deep voice which I find calming and re-assuring.
There is no sign of panic or distress in the clipped English accent.
I try to picture the man recording the message and my mind creates an image of a well-kept older man; groomed and sophisticated.
I think of the Forts on the south, they are known as Palmerston’s Follies.
They were constructed in the 1800’s to fight off a French invasion that never happened. There are many of them along the coast: old style batteries that were used for huge cannon and mortar placements. They were positioned to repel ships but also built to withstand land forces. Some of them have fallen to ruin, but most have been preserved by historical societies. They are all surrounded by high walls and have underground rooms connected by tunnels. I have seen them many times but never paid much attention; they are just a part of the landscape, a forgotten history.
The most famous are the three or four big, round bastions in The Solent; the stretch of water that separates the mainland from the Isle of Wight. They are amazing feats of engineering - used now as private hotels or left to decay.
I start to form a plan in my head.
If I can get to my parents’ I could send them to the Forts and then try to find my sister. She lives in a posh apartment block, with secure entry.
It was Friday evening, yesterday, when it started, so she would most likely be out at a wine bar or social function – networking, as she calls it.
The message on the radio said that London was infested and not to go there, but I’m not leaving her. If there is a chance that she is holed up at home, then I have to try.
There is a small gathering of undead outside the shop near my parent’s house.
Unlike the previous village, this
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