The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

Where did I get to? Things have been happening so fast lately that I hardly know where I am.

 

With Dillon injured and unable to get up, the Seekers gathered around him to fight off the wave coming in through the empty windowframe. They just kept coming and coming.

I looked across the showroom floor, and there was Kirk, grinning cockily. Dale was crying out for help but Kirk was taking his time, walking around his friend to get a clean swipe at the shambler chewing on him.

Kirk never saw the pair moving up behind him. I shouted at him but he didn’t even glance in my direction, focussed on his target. One minute he was lifting a crescent wrench to take aim, and the next there were hands all over him, pulling him towards hungry mouths. Then there were so many people screaming that it was hard to hear anything.

They had hold of his arms and there was no-one close enough to help him. He couldn’t pull free on his own, not grabbed like that. There was snapping and a lot of blood, and then I didn’t watch any more. Conroy managed to get over to help Dale but they didn’t get to Kirk in time. I remember catching sight of his legs sticking out from the back room, one foot twitching.

 

The mess attracted the other shamblers in the room. Maybe it was the hot blood hitting the air and spreading all over the floor. Whatever the reason, we suddenly had a reprieve as the staggering attackers shifted towards him.

“We have to get out of here.” I’m not sure who said it. It might even have been me. There were no verbal answers, just a general air of agreement, this was not a place any of us wanted to be any more.

It was an effort to pull my attention around to what needed to be done. I took Sally and ran out to the yard, dodging the shamblers still making their way across the slick footing towards the violated showroom. We started one of our prepared trucks and she backed it up to the shattered window, blocking the portal. The others managed to get the gear thrown into the back while I struggled to start a second engine on my own. I nearly ran it into a wall, but the brakes bit in just in time.

There was no order to it. Just fill up the back of an offroader with whatever packs came to hand, move it out of the way, and do the same with the next one. We ran over the shamblers that got in the way, though that didn’t always stop them. My body didn’t know what to do first – it was a fight between a stomach that wanted to throw up, a heart that wanted out of my chest, and skin that was desperate to crawl off and hide.

Finally all the engines were started, the gear was all piled into vehicles, and we just had to get the injured in too. Dillon screamed when Thorpe picked him up, and again when he was laid on a back seat. Dale had to be helped into the back of another offroader. We were all covered in someone’s blood.

Finally everyone was in a vehicle – even Nugget with a wide-eyed Jones clutched to her chest – and we took off. Shamblers crunched under our tyres and we slid on the mess of blood and ice, but we were all determined to get the hell out of there in the pieces we had left.

 

We drove for a couple of hours after we saw the last of the zombies. I don’t know how we all stayed together – somehow I ended up in front and the others followed.

Zombies. That term doesn’t seem funny any more, not even a little bit.

We found ourselves in an industrial area and set about looking for a warehouse we could close up for the night. Something we could make secure, though I don’t think any of us will feel secure again. We found one eventually – big enough that we could all drive in and with roller doors we could close after us.

Then there were injuries to deal with. Most of us were torn or bitten somewhere. Masterson was hurt, so I helped him first; then he got to work on patching everyone else up. We barely had enough bandages to deal with it all.

I have four long scores down my upper arm where that shambler grabbed me that felt they were filled with hot lead. It was worse when it was washed with antiseptic – I thought my arm would burn right through and come off. When it was finished, I could barely see and was shaking all over. I can’t believe that Matt had this every day on the bulletwound in his leg.

And then there was Dillon. One leg was broken by the shelves that fell on him, snapped clean through, the doctor said. We scrounged around for something to splint his leg and tore up blankets to lash it all together. The Wolverines gave us a bottle of vodka and we got him drunk before Masterson set the leg. I held onto him and he screamed so loudly. At some point in it all he passed out; I didn’t even realise until someone told me that it was over and to put him down.

We’re all putting up with pain at the moment. I never thought I’d want two small pills so much in my life, just a little relief. The kid has it worse than any of us, and we haven’t tried to move him since his leg was set. He only cries when he thinks no-one will see.

I’ve spent as much time with him as I could. There’s so much to organise: going through what was grabbed in the flight from the car yard, checking the vehicles to see what damage has been done, checking on the injuries, trying to talk to the Wolverines. They’re in a mess, down to only three of their previous six. Jersey won’t talk to anyone except in snaps. Dale has lost a lot of blood; we’re not sure if he’ll pull through.

 

We’ve set a watch on the roof during the light hours, in case more shamblers turn up. Everyone’s too shell-shocked to talk much, and I’m a little afraid of what will be said once we get past that. I’m afraid of what I’ll say.

For now, all we can do is try to tend to our wounds and hope we avoid attention.

Tags: Dillon