Read Surviving The Evacuation (Book 1): London for Free Online

of fictionauts who've faced nothing more dangerous in their lives than a looming deadline. Of course, what made it worse is that anyone, author, scientist, retired four star general, anyone who had even an ounce of sense had either fled to the hills or was bunkering down, and definitely not appearing on television.
    So they got the ones who really, genuinely had nothing useful to say. Like the one who said you should retreat to the top floor and break down the staircase, that way if the undead got into the house, you would be safe upstairs. Brilliant! How exactly do you then get out of the house when you run out of food and water? What if there's a fire? This farrago only lasted for the few days before the press was nationalised, but still you'd think they could have come up with something more helpful to broadcast.
    Anyway, I digress. My conclusion is that I really hate zombie books. I didn’t read them properly, who'd want to, with Them outside, but I flicked through them again this afternoon to see if there was any practical advice I'd missed. A couple of them did offer step by step instructions on how to clean and maintain an M16, but nothing about how long it takes water to stagnate. What was I expecting, though?
     
    The doc said I'd need a cast for three to four months. She also said I'd need to come back in a week for more x-rays and they'd see how it was healing, check the bones were properly aligned, make sure it was all knitting together properly. She said the cast she was putting on was temporary until... Then she trailed off and looked around at the two soldiers. Maybe I’ll get a new one when I get out of here, but with all the evacuee's I can only imagine what the medical facilities are going to be like.
    I've decided the cast should stay on for another eleven weeks, that’s seventy seven days. At which point, if I haven’t been able to get one of those fibre glass things the celeb's get, I’m going to rip the damn thing off and ceremonially burn it.
    For now I have running water, I’ll keep the containers filled, change the water every day, and worry about the rest when it stops running out of the pipes. It's getting dark now, too dark to write any more. I'll just sit up and wait for the stars. Seventy seven days to go.
     
    Day 2. 76 Days to go.
     
    10:00, 14 th March.
    I got up at dawn but was awake long before then. After thirty odd years of sleeping on my side, sleeping on my back doesn’t come easily. Every time I start drifting off to sleep I forget about the leg just long enough to try rolling over only to find this immovable mass anchoring me to the bed. That wakes me up and the process starts again. Besides, it impossible to sleep when you're just waiting to wake up and the water tank is gurgling a few inches from your head.
    That's right. The water tank. It supplies the hot water for the two flats with baths, or did anyway, the other two flats have electric power showers. The point is that there's a tank filled with water a few inches of ply-board away. When I realised that at around four am I felt relieved, calm even. Now, I’m fully aware that having ones spirits buoyed by such a small and trivial thing is indicative of how desperate the situation is but I don’t care. Right now I'll take any glimmer of hope I can find.
    I gave up on sleep at dawn. My morning ablutions took about an hour. I can't get the desk chair into the bathroom, so I've got to walk in backwards and try and support my weight with the crutches whilst lowering myself down onto the toilet... Well, OK, you don't need a picture. It takes a long time, that's my point. Breakfast didn’t. This morning was a tin of peaches and a long stare at my box of tea.
    I guess because of that, since about seven this morning I've been making lists. It's not something I usually waste time with, but what else is there to do? I started with a list of things I wished I had, like for instance a torch. What I'd really like is a helicopter and