Outbreak

Hi Fam! Thanks for adding me to the group chat, Auntie Sue. It’s so good to see from all your messages that everyone made it out of the city to safety. What a relief that this app is still working so we can keep in touch through this mad time!

Having said that, I have a feeling you may remove me from the group after this little confession.

But before that, I wanted to bring some good news. I drove to the edge of the city yesterday, and the army is there in force. I genuinely think they have this situation under control. I’m hopeful that they’ve stopped the nightmare from spreading any further.

But now for my confession. I’m afraid I may be a tiny bit to blame for what happened, but please hear me out before you disown me.

This will probably be the longest message any of you ever receive, but I need to go back to how it all started, for you to see how innocent I really am in all this. Let’s just say that when I got up last Saturday morning, my only plan was to walk into the city centre to buy some new jeans. I never imagined for one second I’d be responsible for unleashing a zombie outbreak.

Good, you haven’t removed me from the group yet, and I see most of you have read the first message. I’ll keep going then.

So, Saturday morning, I was walking into the city centre when I noticed this elderly man just ahead of me drop his wallet. I called out to him and ran to pick the wallet up, but by the time I had it in my hand, he’d boarded a number 11 bus, and it was already pulling away.

I could have just handed the wallet in somewhere — if only I had, maybe none of this would have happened — but I decided to play the good Samaritan and try to get it back to the old man.

Tracking him down was actually very easy. Inside the wallet, I found a business card for Allan Redgrave, Freelance Illustrator, which included an address only about two miles from where I was standing. The name matched that on several credit and debit cards in the wallet.

I didn’t wait for another bus, I just waked. It was a nice day and I wanted to get my steps up to 10,000.

Allan Redgrave’s house was a smart semi in Blakely Close. It’s one of those roads away from the city centre that feels very suburban. The houses all have neat front gardens and some boast mock Tudor ‘beams’ on the frontage.

I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I walked up the driveway to Mr Redgrave’s front door, his lost wallet clutched in my left hand. I knocked and waited. Then knocked again. Finally, a gruff voice demanded to know who I was. I explained about the wallet and my mission to return it, expecting the door to be flung wide. But, instead, after a pause and some grunting and shuffling as Mr Redgrave, I assume, searched for his wallet to make sure I was genuine, he said, his voice no less unwelcoming: ‘Just leave it on the doorstep.’

I said I wasn’t comfortable doing that, that I’d like to hand it to him, to be certain he was the owner. I wasn’t sure I’d even recognise him from the brief sighting I’d had earlier, but I had a vague impression of a mid-height man in his seventies with wispy grey hair, wearing a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers.

After another pause and some audible huffing and puffing, the door opened a crack, and a grumpy, suspicious face peered at me. I could just about see a glimpse of tweed and corduroy, and the hair was thinning and grey.

He held out a mottled hand and forced a smile that revealed discoloured teeth and inflamed purple gams.

Behind him in the house, someone moaned, and I heard banging as if the person was beating their fists against a door. Mr Redgrave looked flustered and demanded the wallet. The moaning came again, accompanied by more frenzied banging. I asked if everything was all right, but Mr Redgrave just made a swipe for the wallet, grabbing it from my hand and slamming the door.

I couldn’t help myself, I shouted that I thought he was extremely rude and ungrateful. And as I walked back towards the road, I decided I was going to call the police and report my concerns that someone was being abused and possibly held against their will at Mr Redgrave’s address. How else could the noises and his unacceptable behaviour be explained?

I was surprised at how quickly the police arrived. A male officer of around forty and a younger female officer climbed out of the car and approached me, where I was waiting at the end of Mr Redgrave’s front drive. I explained to them again what I had experienced and my concerns. They seemed grateful and asked me to stay back while they investigated.

I watched as they walked to the front door. The female officer knocked with authority and called, ‘Police!’ There was still a delay before the door was pulled partly open, revealing an even more agitated Mr Redgrave. He demanded to know what this was all about. I strained to hear what else was said and also to see if I could detect any moaning or banging from inside the house.

Finally, Mr Redgrave stepped aside, and the police entered the house. I noticed the door hadn’t closed completely and crept up the driveway to the porch, peering through the gap. As you know, it’s most unlike me to be this adventurous, and I wish I’d maintained my usual cautious approach to life on this occasion too. But something about the situation intrigued me, and I didn’t want to be left on the outskirts.

This is a rough recreation of the conversation I heard from the porch.

Female officer: ‘Is there someone else in the house, Sir?’

Mr Redgrave: ‘No, just me.’

A loud banging and a low, guttural moan issued from somewhere.

Mr Redgrave: ‘And my sick dog.’

Male officer: ‘Where is the dog now, Sir?’

Mr Redgrave:’ In the cellar.’

Male officer: ‘Is the animal in distress?'

More loud banging and a string of expletives erupted from, I assumed, whatever was locked in the cellar. Certainly not a dog.

Female officer: ‘Who is in the cellar, Sir?’

Mr Redgrave: ‘It’s my wife, but this isn’t what you think. Was it that busy body who brought back my wallet who called you? I thought he was going to do something stupid.’

Male officer: ‘We’re going to need you to open the cellar door, Sir.’

Mr Redgrave: ‘I can’t do that, Officer. It was hard enough getting her down there without her ripping my throat out.’

Female officer: ‘What exactly is wrong with your wife?’

Mr Redgrave: ‘I’m guessing she’s a zombie. I’m pretty sure she died after the thing bit her, before she came back like she is now and tried to eat me.’

Male officer: ‘You need to get the key to this door now.’

Mr Redgrave: ‘It was in a crate of bananas that we bought from the wholesaler in Birch Street. We both love bananas, so we thought it made sense to buy them in bulk. But the thing – it was a bit like a bat, but green – leapt out and attached itself to Mary’s throat not long after we got home. I was in shock. I just watched it tear a hole in her neck and start guzzling. By the time I came to my senses and managed to stab it with a carving knife, Mary was dead. But not for long.’

Male officer: ‘Unlock this door now, Sir.’

Mr Redgrave: ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

Throughout this exchange, I could hear the person in the cellar moaning, groaning and swearing, while beating on the door.

After a short pause, I heard the sound of a key in a lock and then…well, I can only describe it as mayhem. Screaming, grunting, slurping, furniture breaking, glass smashing.

I should have pulled the door closed and called for more help. But the inquisitive side of me needed to see what creature had executed such a horrifying attack. Shaking, I pushed the door open a little wider and peered into the hallway. I saw the female police officer first, lying a few feet from the door, stomach torn open, entrails everywhere. Her colleague was close by, still breathing, but his dead stare suggested not for much longer. His throat had been ripped out. Mr Redgrave was closest to the cellar door, slumped against a wall, an apron of blood covering his white shirt, pumping from his exposed jugular.

I felt faint. I’d never seen a dead body before, let alone three, all in such a violated state.

And then I saw it, the thing that had once been Mary Redgrave. It was crouched at the end of the hall, in the open kitchen doorway. It looked like a deranged demon, gore covering its face, feral eyes glaring straight at me. It suddenly leapt forward, charging down the hall on all fours, screeching like a bird of prey.

I bolted.

As you have probably worked out, I didn’t pull the door closed. I tried, but I was aware of it rebounding against its frame and opening behind me as I pelted down the short driveway to the road, screaming: ‘Zombie!’

It’s incredible how quickly things escalated. Well, I suppose it’s not so surprising when you consider that a victim of one of the infected only dies for about 10 minutes before becoming one of them. But you know all that.

I’ll never get over those things prowling through the streets of the city I grew up in, indiscriminately attacking and killing people, ripping into their flesh while they were still alive. I watched the horror unfold from my second-floor window until a few days ago, when I managed to get to my car and make my escape. By then, the army had moved in, and the zombies were being slaughtered in their thousands. Just like in the movies, it takes a shot to the head or a full decapitation.

I was screened at a road blockade as I left the city, as I’m sure you all were. It took me back to when I used to test myself for Covid. Oh, for those simpler times aye! We didn’t know how good we had it.

Anyway, thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I hope you can see from what I’ve shared that I really wasn’t to blame. I just wanted to be open with you all, as you are the people that mean the most to me in all the world.

Love you, Fam!

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Auntie Sue removed you from the group.