The diary of Georgina Blake.
Do I keep a diary? I don’t know. I never have done before, but if there’s ever been a good time to start, then it’s now.
I guess I just want to organise my thoughts, to figure out where I am and how I got here. This is the only way I can think of to do that. I just want to chronologically work out how I got from my comfortable, “normal” life…to this. Whether this is a hobby that I’ll take up permanently or not, I don’t know. What I do know is that I need to do this, just to get all of these thoughts out of my head.
So, where to start?
How did this all begin? I can barely remember now. It was months and months ago that we first heard about the virus outbreak. “AM13” it was immediately called. Or Acetylcholine Malassimilation 1.3, if you want to be technical about it. Apparently it was discovered by a news researcher. Leah Watton was her name. Her face, plastered all over the news, is one of the only things I can remember clearly. It was the fact that she looked so afraid that got to me. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d seen, how much she’d really known…
We were initially told that the symptoms were “flu-like” and that if we were experiencing any of these signs we had to immediately go to one of the specialised medical facilities that had been set up. Did people go? I don’t know…well, I suppose not, considering what happened next.
Would I have gone? If I’d been infected? I’m honestly not sure.
We were eventually told that victims would rapidly progress from influenza symptoms to organ failure. Then death. Or…not so much death, but they’d become something else. Something scientifically impossible, yet somehow real.
It seems weird to write that word in the context of reality. Yet here I am, doing just that. How else can you describe people infecting others through biting? How else can you depict someone that can only be murdered by having their brains destroyed? How can you talk about people with greying skin, blackish blood, lost limbs, injuries all over their bodies that absolutely should have killed them, with only the desire to bite, eat, kill all while passing on this hellish virus, in any other way?
There isn’t any other word that suits.
Anyway, it wasn’t long before it was announced that we were all going to be quarantined in our homes whilst the Government “took care of the ever-increasing problem.” The “Lockdown,” it was called. It was supposed to be a fortnight. Two weeks and the world would be infection free.
Of course, it didn’t exactly work like that.
There were protocols all set in place—the plan seemed pretty solid on the surface, but as the days passed, it was clear that it was all going to hell. There were these zombies everywhere. More and more each day.
I thought we were done for. I couldn’t see any way out. I just waited…hoping someone else was taking care of the problem.
Then, my prayers were answered. The radio airwaves were hacked with one message, a plea to us all. “Everyone, please get to your local airport as quickly as possible. There you will be given further instructions and be taken to a safe destination.” Over and over again. I couldn’t believe it. It was all going to be okay!
Except, then I realised that I was going to have to get to the airport…through all of the zombies…by myself.
Luckily my neighbours—the ones who were left—decided to travel together. Not all of us survived the whole journey. I was one of the fortunate ones. I managed to make it without a scratch. A miracle, I suppose. I’m not exactly the sort of person that you’d expect to survive something like this.
As soon as we reached the airport, we were flown to an island—one that had never even heard of the AM13 virus, and that’s where we’ve remained ever since. It’s small, hot, and now very cramped. I don’t know where it is, who lived here before, or how it managed to avoid the virus completely, but it’s certainly a safe haven from infection…the very thing that we were all looking for!
I’m sure all the remaining survivors from home didn’t make it to the airport. I dread to think how many were killed, maimed, and bitten along the way. I also wonder if some people were simply left behind, if they didn’t make it on time, if they were too afraid, or trapped…they are just back there in the UK, surrounded by zombies, forgotten. The lives of these people that have been left behind must be a hellish nightmare—one that doesn’t bear thinking about! Assuming that there are some, of course…
I guess it seems like the ones who made it to the airport are the lucky ones.
Except, we aren’t really that lucky. Sure, there’s no virus here, but it’s a hellish, brutal life. The people running this camp don’t have any kind of compassion. That, teamed with meagre food rations, means it isn’t exactly running smoothly. It’s more like existing in the worst prison you can imagine—frightening, overwhelming, claustrophobic…
I think it’s safe to say that we all can’t wait until this is over.
There are endless rumours flying about the place. There’s a cure, we’re going home one day, the zombies are becoming extinct…who knows what’s true anymore.
I certainly don’t…