Entry 5

 

I left Snarford behind with a bad taste in my mouth and more rattling – but this time the rattling of the lorry was drowned out by the rattling in my head from the home brew.

 

I don’t know how much of this apocalypse I have spent with a hangover but it’s something I really should start avoiding.

 

With each passing mile, my hopes dwindled. It was already a pretty tenuous plan but the emptiness persisted. Humanity steadfastly refused to materialise.

 

I began to start wishing for zombies. That would be something at least.

 

During those first two weeks that I told you about, I had prepared fully for the onslaught of the walking dead. I had set up camp in Cleethorpes pier – in the chippy there. I figured it would be the perfect place to defend, with only one access point; an open promenade over which I could keep watch.

 

One day – a day I had already lost track of, the weekly reference so quickly muddled away –  I accepted that the shuffling brain-eaters were not going to show. I left the pier, with its hastily boarded-up windows, tripwires tied to empty cans, haphazard spikes and razor-wire. Those modifications and the scattered, grease-stained chip boxes would announce to anyone that happened across the place that I was there, and had survived for at least a time.

 

TVs don’t work, traffic lights don’t work. Guns, diesel pumps, house lights, vehicles and fryers work.

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I quite liked the pier. I had a place to sit and watch the estuary sludge by. The waves became a fascination – or fixation. Movement where nothing else moved but me. Sound in an otherwise silent world.

 

Maybe the waves drove me out. The constant reminder that there should be more than just me bumping about the place. A crashing call to go out and find more movement and sound.

 

Well, guess what waves… There’s nothing stirring out here but me.

 

The sunlight streaming into the cabin of the lorry stings my eyes. The sun is getting low in the sky.

 

I pull the truck off to the side of the A46, get out to stretch my legs and ponder where would be a good place to stop for the night, only to find that the side of the A46 I have happened to pull off to is the carpark of a pub.

 

After the wrestling match I had had with the home brew last night in Snarford, I really shouldn’t. I should really find a different place to stay. There are dozens of places. A smorgasbord of empty houses to chose from.

 

 

 

Entry 6

 

Beer pumps work.

 

Oh, my head…