Breaking News: An Autozombiography (9 page)

‘
No more! Please.’ Lou was sobbing.

‘
You’re stressed, Sweetpea. We’ve got to get back - Al’s doing his best.’ I judged that it was not the time to suggest we turf Susie out onto the verge. Heading out of the city there was less activity, but we still had to fight our way onto the A27.

‘
I knew it!’ I squeaked - the Southwick Hill Tunnel was shut. The signs read “ROAD AHEAD CLOSED - ALL TRAFFIC USE A270 ½ MILE”, the point driven home with flashing orange lights. There were plenty of cars ahead, their windows popped and fuel tanks smoking, but hardly any were still being driven. Al picked a course as I surveyed the rolling downland. Bodies lay in the sun. Bodies stood in the sun.

‘
Look!’

The hills to the north were dotted with hundreds of figures facing the city and the sea. It looked like the
Dawn of the Dead
poster, and gave my skin goose bumps even in the car’s broiling heat. When we had turned off the dual carriageway and onto the detour road into Portslade Al slowed the car and pulled into a lay-by.

‘
I’m not going back into a town,’ he stated.

‘
Isn’t there the South Downs Way or something?’ I ventured.

‘
What, off-road it?’ Al asked, intrigued.

‘
I just want to get back home. I need a pee,’ Lou said.

‘
There’s a West Sussex map in there.’ Al pointed to the glove box at my knees.

‘
Remember we’ve got the GPS.’

‘
Thanks Sweetpea – I’ll have a look at the map first.’ I said, finding the right page. ‘Save the batteries and all that. I’m not oppressing you, am I?’ Lou smiled back weakly. The sun was beginning to sink, turning the Downs a fire-gold.

‘
Monarch’s Way.’ I said to myself, poring over the map.

‘
Where?’

‘
Monarch’s Way - look.’

I jabbed my finger on a point where suburban streets met the Downs about a mile to our west. A footpath led away from the houses, over the Southwick Hill (over the tunnel, in fact), and onto the rolling chalkland beyond. The route would take us in an arc over the South Downs Way, past the ruins of an old castle where I used to drop acid, over the river Adur and towards Cissbury Ring two or three miles north of our house. Lou and I would often walk with Floyd up to the ancient hill fort, with its flint mines and steep earth ramparts - modern man’s contribution was a golf course at its base. We knew the bit from Cissbury Ring to our house well enough, but getting there by car from where we were was another matter altogether.

‘
What’s the road like?’ Al questioned.

‘
It is off-road, there’s no denying it, although this says that dotted lines are a “Path, bridleway, byway open to all traffic, road used as a public path”. Then it turns into “Other minor road”, see?’

It was enough for Al. We pulled out of the lay-by and down into suburbia, looking for the edge of town and signs for a footpath, picking through the twisted wreckage of the day. It was uneasily calm there, a slight breeze pulling faint shouting and screaming to our ears along with the acrid smell of burning plastic and hair.

‘
What about Susie?’ Lou asked.

‘
Worthing will be quieter than Brighton.’ Al suggested.

‘
I think we should dump her here.’

‘
She’s my friend; how would you feel if someone was talking about me like that?’ Lou asked indignantly.

‘
Honestly? I’d want them to take your head off, to put you out of your misery,’ I was pleased to see Al was nodding agreement.

‘
Oh, thanks a lot. That’s charming,’ she said huffily. ‘Footpath!’ Lou had sharp eyes. A heavy stile marked the entrance - I don’t know what we’d been expecting, but it was so solid that we opted for destroying the rustic wooden fence next to it instead. After a few minute’s heaving and wobbling, even that was so well built we thought we’d have to go through the towns after all. Then we remembered the chain I’d salvaged, and after checking the coast was definitely clear I got out and looped it around two of the thick wooden posts whilst Al reversed the car so his tow bar was in position. When everything was in place I banged on the car’s roof. Al leaned out of his window.

‘
Don’t do that. I know she’s a bit battered chum, but love and respect for the motor and all that.’ He sat back in his seat and gunned the engine. After some slip, his tyres gripped and the car leapt away. The chain went taut and a four-foot length of fence whistled past my head before splintering onto the road. Al got out to survey the damage. After another two attempts a whole section of fence lay strewn across the road. One vertical post was still in the way, but I loosened it out of the ground like a tooth.

‘
Nice one,’ we both said simultaneously, and headed back to the car.

As we approached Lou asked if the gap we’d made in the fence was wide enough.

‘
It’ll have to be,’ Al said.

We nosed through and onto the field, fighting the resistance of the long grass underneath the car. Al scraped his paintwork against the stump of one of the posts to the sound of nails on a blackboard. We were into the open field but still had to break through a wire fence to actually get onto the footpath itself. Al accelerated over the grass towards a likely looking fence post, hitting it square-on and snapping it to the path, pulling down others along the line. After we ground to a shuddering halt I got out and guided Al over the wires tangling the ground so they didn’t snare the axles. The sun was low now, casting long shadows like fingers over the hills.

As we made our way up the hill with hazy meadowland on either side, Lou was eager to boot up the SatNav again to see if the tracks were marked - they were, and it would certainly help later, but it was slow going and soon our path was blocked again. The track was bumpy and Susie was moaning about her headache. I looked back at her, still in her bra; Lou had draped one of Dmitri’s muddy towels around her. I wondered if she’d thought that morning that by the early evening she’d be in her bra, wrapped in a dog’s rag in a strange man’s car. Probably not, but if you’d told her so, would her imagination have been able to find her a route from one to the other? Rape? House fire? Zombies?

When the rain hits the South Downs it finds a route on the chalk pathways and dirt tracks, gathering pace and carving out long trenches; fissures which will catch your feet and twist an ankle if you’re not looking. In a car, however, anything from bumpers to oil sumps would get ripped right out from under you. We had to stop the car when Al spotted such a crack in the ground up ahead - sure we were in a four wheel drive vehicle, but it was an estate and its length could easily ground it. The track was so narrow and the fissure placed just so, that it was impossible for the left-hand tyres to go anywhere else but into it. The low sun pierced the trees, casting in shadow the deep rut ahead. Perhaps, if the sun was still high, the shadows would not have highlighted it in such a way. Al stopped, peering over his bonnet, hoping he wouldn’t have to get out of the car.

‘
That’s shat in my hat,’ he moped.

‘
It’s cool, we can fill it in,’ I ventured.

We hadn’t seen a soul for half an hour or more, but I still checked before I got out. I peered suspiciously at the suburbs below, and once satisfied trotted back down to the wrecked fence. I pulled up one of the broken posts but it was still attached to the thick wire linking all the posts together, running behind a horseshoe-shaped nail which kept it firmly attached. I walked back up to the car and knocked on the boot like a door.

‘
You got a tool kit in here?’ I motioned to Al who was watching me in the driver’s mirror. He popped the boot and the dogs nearly bowled me over. They must have been relieved to get out of the car and stretch their legs, and they both started pounding up and down the dusty track. They would sometimes box like hares, standing on their back legs and trying to pin the other to the ground for a good ear-chewing.

I pulled a long crosshead screwdriver from Al’s meagre toolkit and went down to sit by the fence. I couldn’t get the fat head under the horseshoe-shaped nail to free the wire, which had obviously been hammered into place, so I found a fist-sized lump of flint and used the screwdriver like a chisel to gouge a notch under the nail. It loosened but was longer than I’d expected so I levered the screwdriver up and down, eventually pinging the nail into the dust. The wire sprang free and I stood up.

When I reached the others I dropped the post into the gap with the flattest side facing upwards, and a chalky cloud rose into the air and caught on the slightest of breezes. I jumped up and down on it before kneeling down to wheel level, motioning to Al as the car crawled over the fissure. I whistled at the dogs and, to my delight, Floyd thundered up to the car and through the open tailgate. Dmitri followed at his own pace, and when he finally decided to get in I shut the boot and hopped aboard.

‘
We need horses.’ I suggested.

‘
Susie’s going again.’ Lou said, opening Susie’s door and holding her head out as Al drove on. She puked long bales of black oil onto the bone-white chalk, and when Susie was dry-heaving Lou pulled her back in by her arm. I could see she was dribbling a bit, and her skin looked almost blue.

‘
Ah, all done,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you want to keep her so close? Shouldn’t we strap her to the roof or something?’ I was ignored, as if I was joking. The track had widened and Al was concentrating on climbing the hill, weaving in second gear like a tacking yacht over the minor bumps and around the deeper holes. Small stones would make constant popping sounds under the tyres, echoing round the metallic rims of the wheels as we approached the crest of the hill, the A27 looming into view below us. Looking down onto the road I had one of those moments when you can see for the first time the actual scale of something you’ve been trying to judge in your mind. If I closed my eyes when I had such a moment, it felt like I was falling, but falling over a distance of mere millimetres.

‘
Southwick Hill,’ I said. The road ran below us on both sides, impossibly disappearing under the sun-paled grass which stretched all around us and ahead as far as we could see. The tarmac looked so thin from up there; grey and impermanent, like it would get swallowed up by the green if it was to be given half a chance. There were no vehicles on either side in either lane; in the distance I could see a line of cones, but beyond that cars were scattered and flaming. Every so often I saw the bright orange puff of a petrol tank igniting. As we rounded the summit and started to roll down the other side I caught my breath.

‘
Look!’

Two British Army soldiers with camo helmets and green rifles were to one side of the track ahead, one bent double and vomiting as the other slapped his back. Al didn’t stop; instead we rolled past them, tyres pinging. I saw a tar-coloured mound glistening wetly at the feet of the sick soldier, and the one who was playing nurse looked up and waved us on. What would they do anyway - surely they were here to protect us citizens? We rumbled down the hill, allowing gravity to pick up our speed.

‘
I told you there was something going on in that tunnel,’ I said triumphantly, looking at the soldiers in my mirror. ‘Good job we hadn’t wrapped our T-shirts round our heads.’

‘
Whatever this thing is, it’s got to them too. They didn’t even have those big rubber suits with the space-helmets.’ Al said, looking at me, disappointed. ‘You know, like bio-hazard suits.’

‘
We’d be better off with chain-mail,’ I suggested. ‘I tell you what; doing anything in this heat would make me puke.’

We continued down the track and into the cool green of an old overgrown wood with a low chicken wire fence running through the undergrowth on each side, and chest-high barbed wire in front of that.

‘
Piss-flaps,’ Al sighed.

Another great dry crack split the chalky path ahead. I first checked for any movement in the trees; then got out to search in the dim light of the woods, occasional slivers of brilliant golden sunset blinding me. Al’s door slammed shut and soon I heard him snapping through the undergrowth nearby.

‘
A log should do it.’ I yelled.

I found a three-foot branch, a bit thicker than a car tyre. It was not light; therefore I assumed probably not rotten and would hopefully give good support to the car.

‘
Give us a hand.’

We lifted the log and carried it back to the track. Before it we could fit it into the hole in the ground we had to stamp off two or three branches, and Al put a splinter through the sole of his shoe with a pop and a hiss.

‘
Fuck it. These are original.’

Up until then they had been in ridiculously good condition for a pair of fifteen-year-old trainers. They were Nike Jordan No. 4’s and Al had lovingly cared for them, keen to keep in good shape what he rightly predicted would become a sought-after piece of fashion history - I liked the fact that had no problem wearing something so valuable nearly every day. He’d shown me some knackered ones on the Japanese eBay, and told me that the more wear and tear there is, the more they fetched.