Lyssa's Year

We were in the midst of a debate on when to send Bertha and the retrieval team out (when we think we can get a day or two of bad weather to help cover the noise and discourage the infected) when one of our scouts, sent out over a month ago, came hobbling back into town.

The guards brought him in and after a long drink he started babbling about how he’d found a military encampment and refugee camp at Wallop. They were on their way to see us and he’d been sent ahead to tell us about them first.

A lot of people cheered. I panicked. Noticably.

Call me paranoid but the idea of an armed convoy of military folk – who we haven’t really seen around since this all started – makes me worry. They’ll have supplies and weapons, but that gives them power over us more than it suggests that they might protect us.

We got him out of the way under the excuse that he deserved a proper meal and some rest after everything he did (why the hell did they keep him with them over a month?). Then I tried to make my panic infectious. In the end we stashed a bunch of supplies in numerous secret places around the village, along with weapons, ammunition, some of the fuel, as fast as we could with some trusted people.

Worst comes to the worst, at least we have something.

About two in the afternoon the army rolled in. Christ, they all look so young and they’re not in particularly good order. Their trucks are dented and show signs of fighting. Some have been painted up with slogans. One of their Landrovers (I’m sure it’s called something else) had its aerial stuck through a skull. Even their commanding officer was much younger than me.

They were all smiles, but they’re all pretty thin and sallow looking, not very well shaven. The story they’re telling us is that they’re here to help, to offer protection. They’ve got the weapons, the ammunition, the fuel stores. They say they’re in radio contact with other settlements and bases and that they’re unified between Tidworth, Winchester and Wallop – based out of Wallop. This rather begs the question as to what happened to our other two scouts.

They’ve offered to take guard duty tonight and seem impressed by how organised we’ve been and even our primitive earthworks. We’ve insisted, politely, that they share duty and just join our guys rather than taking over. They’ll just have to put up with our paranoia.

So, the solution to how to get around is… interesting. What they’ve put together is a modified tractor with two trailers behind it in a train. It’s not going to go fast, especially with the improvised dozer blade, fencing-cages and sound suppression that has been attached, but it is basically a rolling fortress. It’s only going to do about twenty miles-per-hour with the trailers hitched, so there’s no way it will outrun anything, even on foot, but with people defending it, it should be able to just plough on through.

Of course, as the person who scouted the damn place out they want me to go along and when I suggested they needed more things to defend ourselves with they showed me a compressed-air shotgun ‘cannon’ and a gas flamethrower they put together.

I still think it’s a bad idea, but if this big, ugly fucker works we can use it to get more food as well. Guess I’m stuck.

They gave it a name too.

Bertha.

Apparently we have a solution to how we can get to the turbines and panels now. It’ll be unveiled tomorrow and I hope it’s not a monstrously stupid idea. I still think we have other things to prioritise but if we can safely go and get these things then we can raid and retrieve stores in other areas that have been too dangerous to go to at the moment.

It still defies comprehension that so many infected are still around. You would think after four months they would have starved to death or otherwise killed themselves in their blind rages, yet we’re still fighting them off, almost nightly. I wish we could study them better, but its too dangerous and is there really any point?

I’m feeling more and more paranoid. So much that has been going on has made our situation more precarious and you have to wonder if there are other people out there like us, in similarly desperate situations. How far would we go to survive? How far would I go?

Would I kill someone? You bet I would. I have if you count the infected – and I do.

Would I steal? In gathering supplies we already have and continue to do so. What does property even mean now?

There’s little I wouldn’t do and we’ve had a relatively easy time of it, I think. People terrify me. Then we have issues with our own people. There’ll be more Darrens, and more dangerously naïve people.

I guess Darren’s had enough. He’s missing this morning and according to his rather earnest parents he took a lot of their food and water. He’s as good as dead. Good riddance, one less headache to worry about and the potato planting is keeping everyone’s attention, so he picked a good time to fuck off. I just hope he doesn’t make the wrong kind of friends out there and bring them back.

According to the farmers it’s potato-planting season and potatoes are something we’ve been able to come by. You can survive on them, so as long as we have potatoes we’re OK. They’re also something just about anyone can grow. We’re all mucking in to save the fuel again by planting by hand. We’re planting as much as we can afford to spare in the hopes that we can last out until it grows. The last of the lawns are dug up now and the whole village is a lot more brown than green, spring be damned.

Everyone’s grubby up to the elbows and soaked in sweat – it’s pretty warm at the moment. The only damper on things are the guards burning more bodies up on the hill and Darren still not pulling his weight.

If looks could kill…

Nobody has a good word to say about Darren, he’s the only thing on people’s minds and he’s dragging his feet and still causing more problems than he’s solving, even when he’s supervised and forced to work. We simply don’t have the time or capacity to teach him a lesson and make sure it sticks. He’ll either shape up, or he won’t, and I dread to think what will happen if he doesn’t.

The council posted up their judgement, handwritten, in the glass-cased sign outside the village hall. Darren’s on ‘shit duty’ for a week. He’ll be fetching water for people, mucking out sheds, fetching and carrying. He was none too happy, being a talentless gobshite he’d just been sort of hanging around up until now. Its kind of disturbing how quickly this new life situation has cemented a new conservative outlook in so many people. I suppose a society is only as liberal and free as it can afford to be.

We’ve still got Darren locked up and nobody who matters is any closer to figuring out what we should do with him. We’re not in a situation where we can just let it slide. Shit like the trick that he pulled could genuinely put lives at risk. Some of the armchair judges down the pubs are pontificating that he should be executed and we’re hoping they’ll cool off by the time judgement is reached. Realistically, what are our options though?

1. Imprison him – waste of resources and space.

2. Let him off – doesn’t accomplish anything or put others off playing up.

3. Fine – Nothing to fine him, money doesn’t mean anything.

4. Kill him – I don’t think we’re ready for that, at least not for being a prankster.

5. Exile – Same as killing him, in effect, plus if he does survive it could come back to haunt us.

6. Indentured servitude – Slavery? Really? That might be a good option, working off his debt doing things people don’t like.

If it were just me I think I’d let him off with a warning, this time, and threat of a serious punishment in the future.

Somebody thought it was an hilarious joke for April Fool’s Day to ring the alarm bell at just gone midnight. We all come charging out to help the guards, everyone terrified and dashing to and fro only to find nothing but a laughing teenager rolling about in the grass at the churchyard and calling everyone idiots.

The kid, Darren, was lucky to get away with being punched just the once before more level heads intervened. We’ve locked him up for his own safety for now, though we only got called ‘faggots’ for our trouble. This little cocksucker has thrown everyone else off kilter and now we have to deal with another problem and ‘for the lulz’ ain’t going to cut it.