Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London by Frank Tayell Page B
Authors: Frank Tayell
Tags: Zombies
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about that video was that these guys in the bunker had no idea that the rest of the world was watching. You could tell that from the conversations, from the bravado and banter that turned to bluster and threats, that they thought they were talking in private. I don't know how many rounds they fired in the end, or how many zombies they actually killed, but outside not one of them knew anyone who cared enough about them to call and let them know the world was watching.
Day 11, 67 days to go.
13:00, 23 rd March.
I need a plan. I need somewhere to head to and a way to get there. A goal, if you like, and one more purposeful than counting down the days until the cast should be coming off. Someone still may come for me, but with each passing day the chances of that recedes. If I am truly on my own then I need to start planning and act whilst I still have the luxury of time.
If this had happened at any other time, or if our apocalypse had manifested itself in any other way I'd have headed up to Northumberland. Jen's parent's place isn't really a farm, it's more of a manor. There's farmland attached, but that's all looked after by tenants. At last count t here was a dairy herd, six fields of potatoes and an organic farm tied up in an exclusivity deal to supply courgettes to one of the London department stores. It's not exactly the makings of a balanced and varied diet but it is food and the farmers there know how to grow it.
Her parents are real life aristocracy, the landed gentry, genuine minor nobility that can trace their stewardship back to the times they used to stand on the walls and square off against the Vikings at the gates. Not that there are walls now, that part, the crenelated castle part, that burnt down around the time of the Restoration, but the manor house that stands on the spot would be ideal to hold off the undead.
I suppose the question is whether the place would stand against the living as well. All over the world, there are, or were, millions of people looking for somewhere like that, somewhere that was obviously safe, and if I managed to get there would I find those people I knew still there? That's if I could get there.
The government car would be the how of getting there. If it still works, if the battery's not flat and there's enough petrol. If I can get enough speed to push through and out of London, if the roads north aren't blocked and if, when I get there, there's someone there I know, someone who will take me in, then I'd be safe.
Too many if's. I know the bridges over the river were closed during the crisis, but did they remove the roadblocks when they evacuated? Looking out at the street right now I don't think I could push through Them. No, I know I couldn't. There's too many. So the car's out, and without it there's no way I can limp to Northumberland. What then?
The government, the new government, was going to be based, nominally at least, on the Isle of Wight. Eventually any journey there would be by sea. One option, the obvious one, is to head south to either Portsmouth or Southampton, where a large coastal enclave was going to be created around the two ports and the New Forest.
How far is that? I wish I had a map. About eighty miles I think, but that's as the carrion crow flies. How far would I have to travel? That's a very different question and one that's impossible to answer. But let's say I’m lucky, and miraculously, somehow, don't have to take any detours, how long would it take? If I was healthy and fit, four days, since I wasn't close to fit before the outbreak I’d say without the cast, five. With the cast, ten days? Twenty? I really have no idea.
That's without detours or hiding up for days on end, or the time it would take scavenging for food. What chance is there, what real chance, that I would actually make it on foot?
But there's another way. The river. I've no idea how to sail a boat, but would I have to? If I could get on board one, couldn't I just ride it
Day 11, 67 days to go.
13:00, 23 rd March.
I need a plan. I need somewhere to head to and a way to get there. A goal, if you like, and one more purposeful than counting down the days until the cast should be coming off. Someone still may come for me, but with each passing day the chances of that recedes. If I am truly on my own then I need to start planning and act whilst I still have the luxury of time.
If this had happened at any other time, or if our apocalypse had manifested itself in any other way I'd have headed up to Northumberland. Jen's parent's place isn't really a farm, it's more of a manor. There's farmland attached, but that's all looked after by tenants. At last count t here was a dairy herd, six fields of potatoes and an organic farm tied up in an exclusivity deal to supply courgettes to one of the London department stores. It's not exactly the makings of a balanced and varied diet but it is food and the farmers there know how to grow it.
Her parents are real life aristocracy, the landed gentry, genuine minor nobility that can trace their stewardship back to the times they used to stand on the walls and square off against the Vikings at the gates. Not that there are walls now, that part, the crenelated castle part, that burnt down around the time of the Restoration, but the manor house that stands on the spot would be ideal to hold off the undead.
I suppose the question is whether the place would stand against the living as well. All over the world, there are, or were, millions of people looking for somewhere like that, somewhere that was obviously safe, and if I managed to get there would I find those people I knew still there? That's if I could get there.
The government car would be the how of getting there. If it still works, if the battery's not flat and there's enough petrol. If I can get enough speed to push through and out of London, if the roads north aren't blocked and if, when I get there, there's someone there I know, someone who will take me in, then I'd be safe.
Too many if's. I know the bridges over the river were closed during the crisis, but did they remove the roadblocks when they evacuated? Looking out at the street right now I don't think I could push through Them. No, I know I couldn't. There's too many. So the car's out, and without it there's no way I can limp to Northumberland. What then?
The government, the new government, was going to be based, nominally at least, on the Isle of Wight. Eventually any journey there would be by sea. One option, the obvious one, is to head south to either Portsmouth or Southampton, where a large coastal enclave was going to be created around the two ports and the New Forest.
How far is that? I wish I had a map. About eighty miles I think, but that's as the carrion crow flies. How far would I have to travel? That's a very different question and one that's impossible to answer. But let's say I’m lucky, and miraculously, somehow, don't have to take any detours, how long would it take? If I was healthy and fit, four days, since I wasn't close to fit before the outbreak I’d say without the cast, five. With the cast, ten days? Twenty? I really have no idea.
That's without detours or hiding up for days on end, or the time it would take scavenging for food. What chance is there, what real chance, that I would actually make it on foot?
But there's another way. The river. I've no idea how to sail a boat, but would I have to? If I could get on board one, couldn't I just ride it
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