Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) Read Free

no one was there to watch. He didn't even know who the players
were, it certainly wasn't the team they'd been fielding a month
before.
    He
checked the time. 11:51. Stiffly, he got out of his chair and turned
set off. He'd like to see the final score, but the match would be
replayed later. He could watch it then. Or he could watch a different
game. Who won, who lost or even who played the game didn't matter,
not any more.

    The
dining hall wasn't empty. Mr Pappadopolis, Mrs Ackroyd, Mr Carter and
Miss Conner were there. They were always the first in the queue
because they spent most of their waking hours playing an eternal game
of bridge at the long table by the never-opened French doors. As long
as they vacated the room just long enough for Janice to slop a mop
around the floor, their cards were never disturbed. By some unfair
rule of possession, they now got that table for breakfast, lunch and
dinner. They always started queuing as soon as they heard the clatter
of serving trays and the laying out of the plates.
    George
nodded a polite greeting, even managing a slight smile but they
ignored him. They always did. That infuriated him. Was he the only
one who realised that the world had changed? Maybe they did realise,
maybe that was why they were clinging onto their routine. George
checked his watch 12:05, almost feeding time. It was odd though. He
couldn’t hear any sounds from the kitchen.
    The
food in the storeroom was now supplemented by a ration from their
Local Food Distribution Centre, or, as he knew it better, the two
storey supermarket in the shopping centre at Lower Wentley, 10 miles
away. Everyone got a ration, and according to Mrs Singh it wasn't
very much.
    Planning
on collecting the rest of his tins and packets from the Singh's, he'd
gone down to the village on the afternoon of the 24 th .
He'd had to sneak out of the home, as McGuffrey had issued a stern,
and for all bar George, unnecessary warning that no one should stray
further than the plinth at the bottom of the drive. When he'd arrived
the couple were sharing a meal with the Vicar.
    For a
meagre ration of 200g of rice, a jar of bolognese sauce and two
vitamin tablets, the Singh's had stood in line for four hours.
According to the Vicar they had been the lucky ones. She'd gone to
collect her ration after an extended morning service and hadn't
arrived at the supermarket until midday. By two o'clock, when she'd
been halfway along the queue, the food had run out. She'd said there would have been a riot if the
soldiers hadn't been there.

    12:10.
He shook his watch and glanced towards the door. The Vicar was
notorious in the village for her inability to cook and the Singh's
didn't keep much food in the flat, using most of the space as an
annex for their repairs business, but they'd not touched his stack of
tins. He'd gruffly told them to take what they needed. They'd tried
to demure, but not for long. They were hungry. Mr Singh told him that
they were thinking of leaving, all three of them, regardless of the
travel restrictions. Mrs Singh had a brother who owned a house in
North Wales which he never used. He was a scientist of some kind who
spent his time living and working at a government lab. Mr Singh said
the three of them were going to go there. He'd asked if George wanted
to go with them.
    On
his way back up the hill, his mind
had been so consumed with whether or not he should take them up on
their offer that he'd almost been shot. He'd been stunned to see that
the group he'd first taken to be from the army was being led by
Police Constable Elkombe, dressed in camouflage and carrying a rifle
as if he was a soldier. George had not gone down to the village
since.

    He looked at his watch. 12:15. The kitchen should now be filled with
the sounds of slapdash washing up. He glanced over his shoulder,
another five of the home's residents stood patiently waiting behind
him.
    “Bit late, aren't they?” he said, just loudly enough for
the other residents to hear,