This is the blog of Samie Sands, author of Lockdown. There will be many great books and projects reviewed here. For more, check out thelockdown.co.uk.

Thursday, 8 February 2018

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Forgotten Sample

Bang.
That noise.
Bang. Bang. So loud. It feels like it’s coming from inside my own head.
Bang.
I cover my ears with my hands, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying to block out the whole world for a moment. I just need to think.
I don’t know what to do about her, I really don’t. I can’t just do nothing. She isn’t right, however much I try to convince myself otherwise. I have to accept the truth. I have to admit that whatever is behind that door isn’t my cousin. Not anymore. But that doesn’t make this any easier.
When I found her, outside the door collapsed and covered in blood, I completely freaked out, what if she had this thing, the illness? I had to block out all my deep-rooted fears about catching the disease while I carried her in and cleaned her off. I didn’t have any choice, did I? There’s no one else left—as far as I’m aware, anyway. I don’t even know how she got here. Was she heading this way on purpose, coming to see me? Or was it simply a coincidence that it’s my door she passed out in front of?
I left her to sleep. She slept for days. She slept for so long I started to fear that I was too late, that she was already dead.
Then, there was movement.
I heard her get up out of the bed and move about the room. I waited. I didn’t talk for fear of what she might say, for fear of learning what had truly happened to her.
She switched. Day to day. Minute to minute. One moment she would be speaking, albeit very slurred and stilted words that I could never really understand. The next I’d just hear screaming and smashing, as things would be thrown around in a violent rage. It was terrifying.
Now, I’d give anything for that emotion. Now all I can hear is growling, moaning, shuffling.
And banging.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I fear she’s going to bring that flimsy door down soon, making my decision for me. I’m not ready for that, not yet. I’ve already lost too many people. She might be the only one I have left.
I already know that my parents are dead. The last time I spoke to my mother, I could hear my dad slowly dying in the background. He was coughing and spluttering the whole time, and growling in between. He was starting to sound just like all the others do—the infected on the outside. I could hear the trepidation in Mum’s voice, but she wouldn’t tell me any details. I’m sure she must have known that neither of them had much time left, but she was too proud to let me help.
I could have done it anyway, I suppose. When I tried to call over the next few days and got no answer, I could have hot footed over there and helped them both out, but I didn’t. I’m a coward—I always have been—but that doesn’t stop the guilt from eating me up. I was too afraid of finding them both hungry for my flesh. I was terrified of joining them in the undead army that’s growing steadily by the minute.
I think it’s safe to say that the Lockdown has failed.
The Lockdown. What an idea—quarantine everyone inside their own homes, gather all the
infected into a specialised medical facility to cure them, and then let life get back to normal.
That’s what we were led to believe was the plan. Unfortunately, it hasn’t seemed to work out that way at all. I don’t know what went wrong—how or why—but here we are. The number of infected roaming the streets is rising rapidly, and no one has any idea what’s going to happen next. There’s never any new information on the television or radio; the news reports are just repeats from before. There are definitely no signs of life returning to normality any time soon.
If I was still receiving food deliveries from the armed forces, I might feel a little bit better about the whole thing, but they petered out a while ago, just proving to me that this has gotten out of control. I’m rapidly losing confidence in any of us surviving this mess. I think the AM13 virus was ravaging far too out of control before the government even attempted to get a handle on it. I don’t think they ever stood a chance against it; they’d left it far too late.

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