by Frank Tayell
“And searchlights on the roof?” Scott asked as, beyond the vehicles, powerful beams moved across an empty road and the sloping hills on either side. One light froze. The other three tracked back to illuminate the same spot. Further back, with the vehicles between them, Scott couldn’t see what the lights were shining on, but the echoing report of a gunshot gave the answer.
“Zombie,” Amber said.
After a second of silence, Scott realised he was holding his breath. He breathed out. “Only one,” he said, and counted another second. “Yep. Only one. How many people did you see by the checkpoint?”
“About twenty,” Amber said. “Maybe a few less. At least ten, though.”
“Where did Salman go?”
“South,” Amber said, pointing towards the other side of the bridge. There were more lights there. Headlights and lamps, illuminating people, road vehicles, and an unmistakably familiar shape he couldn’t help but envy.
“That’s the helicopter,” he said.
“A helicopter,” Amber said.
“Nope. That’s the bird that set down in Creil,” Scott said. “Trust me.”
“If you’re sure,” Amber said. “We saw it before dark. It sort of flew overhead and guided us here.”
“It did? How long was it in the air?”
“I’m not sure,” Amber said. “Ten minutes. Twenty.”
“Its fuel stash can’t be far away,” Scott said. He sniffed. “Smell that? Something’s cooking.”
“I can’t smell smoke,” Amber said.
“A portable grill plugged into a car battery,” Scott said. “They’ve survived differently. Cars and fuel, lights and constant movement. It’s the opposite of Anglesey. I bet they have some good yarns to tell, but will they tell them to us?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Amber asked.
“I meant… never mind,” he said. They’d find out how friendly the Ukrainians were soon enough. “Someone turned the chiller up, didn’t they? It’s getting colder, despite the clouds. Before dark, did you see many dwellings? Houses? Did we go through a town? Wait, hang on, I just got what you said. The helicopter guided us here?”
“Sort of, yeah. In this direction. Once we were on that road back there, it was obvious what direction we had to come. When it got dark, we saw the lights ahead.”
“We’re not where we should be, then,” Scott said. “Or where we expected to be, so where are we?”
“We found them,” Amber said. “So, does it matter? Someone’s coming.”
A shaven-headed man ran over. He’d shaved his face too, and recently, though he was young enough that the effort was almost wasted. He stopped, snapped his heels together, and addressed Scott, though he was looking at Amber. “You’re Americans?” he asked, in accented English.
“Hi. I’m Amber, this is Scott.”
“Who are you, mate?” Scott asked.
“Lev Babko,” he said. “Please, come.”
“You’re from Ukraine?” Scott asked. He threw a glance back at the coach. Madame Bensayed gave a slow nod back. Was that one of approval, or concern?
“From Kremenchuk,” Lev said. “Please.” He gestured they should hurry.
“I’m too tired to run. Too old, too,” Scott said, but he picked up his pace as they crossed the bridge to join the group standing close to the helicopter.
Starwind had her arms folded, her back almost turned to her mother. Adrianna held a mug, and so did Sergeant Khan, though he held his one-handed, the other close to his rifle grip.
Other than Claire, Scott recognised Professor Fontayne and the Polish pilot who’d landed the helicopter in Creil. The other eight people were strangers, and none of them held a mug. None held a weapon, either, though all had guns slung, pistols holstered at their belts, and as many axes, knives, swords, spears, and clubs as anyone he’d seen on Anglesey.
“Good, the Americans are here. We have our witnesses,” a short man said. His English was perfect, his accent almost non-existent. Unlike those around him, who were dressed in a mix of hardwearing military and civilian gear, he wore a suit. It was patched and frayed, oft-repaired, but it was a suit, complete with tie, waistcoat, and cufflinks. His boots were the only concession to the rough realities of everyday life. He didn’t even appear to be armed, but the people around him carried enough for an army.
“I am Anatoly Vernadski,” he said. “Some call me general. Some call me administrator, as that is what I was before the… the…” He snapped his fingers as he searched for the word. “Before the horror. I administered a medical facility. No one calls me Tsar,” he said, which got a dutiful laugh from Lev, though not from anyone else. “And for the last four months, I have carried the title of President of the European Union. A burden I am now glad to relieve myself of, and here, in front of these witnesses, acknowledge Professor Victoria Fontayne as the true and lawfully elected President of Europe. I hope our ascendency to your organisation will be swift.”
Professor Fontayne gave a perfunctory smile in return.
“I’m from Australia,” Scott said. “Not America.”
“Australia?” Vernadski said, with apparent delight. “Then we have a truly global union. A new name will be required. A discussion for another day, perhaps? As I was saying to your sergeant, time is pressing. We will be maintaining radio silence until we are beyond Bienne. This… this…” He snapped his fingers together. “Your betrayal by your own people necessitates caution until we are in the mountains. We had similar troubles ourselves as we approached Russia. Lev can tell you about it.”
“Sir!” Lev barked, stepping forward. “It was as we approached—”
“Lev can tell you about it later,” Vernadski said.
“He would like you to stay here and guard this bridge,” the professor cut in.
The fog of sleep lifted further, and something Vernadski had said properly registered. The Ukrainian had referred to Salman as your sergeant. Salman must have introduced himself as the NCO to Scott’s officer. Which meant, if not responsibility for the decisions, responsibility for asking questions would lie with him. “And what do you want, Professor?” Scott asked.
The professor looked at Vernadski with resigned dismay. “The same. I am sorry.”
“We’re in Switzerland, right?” Scott said. “Aren’t there meant to be supplies here?”
“There are,” Vernadski said. “We, now, are outside the town of Laufen, sixty kilometres north of Lac de Bienne, and the town of Bienne. That is forty kilometres northwest of Bern. The supplies are there, in Bern. You saw the craters?”
“No,” Scott said.
“Yes,” Salman said.
“Neutron bombs were dropped along the border between France and Switzerland,” Vernadski said. “We don’t know why along the border.”
“How do you know they were neutron bombs?” Scott asked.
“They were witnessed,” Vernadski said. “It is how we know the supplies are in Bern. You are aware that the Swiss made provision for their people in case of nuclear war? Bomb shelters and supplies for every citizen. There is a warehouse in Bern where those supplies were kept for distribution to municipal shelters across… across…” He clicked his fingers. “Throughout the country.”
“How do you know the supplies are still there?” Scott asked.
“We sent scouts there,” Vernadski said. “Two months ago.”
“Two months is still a long time,” Scott said.
“The supplies are there, as are our scouts,” Vernadski said. “The scouts remained to protect the facility, but that is now surrounded by the undead.”
“You were in contact by radio?” Scott asked.
“We were,” Vernadski said. “But if hostile forces are eavesdropping, we must avoid such technology in the immediate future. We detected other signals as well. It is something we should discuss after we have liberated our supplies. I have positioned people on bridges approaching this corner of Switzerland, to keep the undead back while we deal with those aro
und the depot. Once we are resupplied, we will continue our journey. But now it has a different destination. Belfast.”
“You want to come to Ireland?” Scott asked.
“Have you seen a hundred million zombies?” Vernadski asked. “Whatever dangers are in Ireland, they are not so great as in France.”
“And you want us to hold this bridge?” Scott asked.
“With Lev and his platoon, yes,” Vernadski said.
“Against a hundred million zombies?” Scott asked.
“No,” the professor said. “Nearly a thousand people are missing. A hundred from Creil, over eight hundred from Ukraine, including two of our fuel tankers, and three of theirs. People will remain here, and at the other bridges, the other roads, waiting for them.”
“Understood,” Salman said. “How long do we hold the bridge for?”
“Until relieved,” Vernadski said.
“Where’s the horde?” Salman asked.
“Ten days away,” Vernadski said, then looked over at the pilot for confirmation. It was the first time he’d appeared uncertain of anything. The pilot nodded.
“Are they heading this way?” Scott asked.
“Most are, yes,” Vernadski said, confidence returning. “Some have dispersed throughout the countryside. France is no longer habitable. There is no turning back. Our only way forward is east, to Bern. After which, we have options.”
“Excuse us,” Salman said. He made his way through the small crowd. Scott and Amber followed, as did Starwind and Adrianna. Claire did, too, though she stopped ten paces away.
“Here,” Salman said. He handed his un-drunk cup to Scott.
“What is it?”
“Champagne, apparently,” Salman said.
“He wanted to celebrate the transfer of power to Professor Fontayne,” Starwind said. “He is strange. Even stranger than Sorcha Locke.”
“We can discuss personalities later,” Salman said. “Scott?”
“Do we have any choice?” Scott asked.
“He’s a foreign leader,” Salman said. “To him, we’re expendable troops. Adrianna?”
“We could drive to the Pyrenees,” she said.
“Do you want to?” Salman asked.
She shrugged. “Not all of my people do. They are tired.”
“Private?”
“Not everyone’s arrived yet,” Amber said. “There are people out on the road. We should wait for them. As long as we keep the minibus, we can leave whenever we like, right?”
“Scott?”
He sipped from the mug. “This is real champagne, is it? Tastes no different to any other fizzy wine, but I’m not sure there’s much to celebrate. We won’t drive far tonight, so let’s not try.”
“My mother,” Starwind began. “My mother… she trusts him. That isn’t always a good thing. But the professor trusts this man, too. I think… I think we would be better staying here for now.”
“Good, yes?” Lev asked.
“Very,” Scott said as he took another bite. The dumpling tasted of almonds, though he suspected that was a flavouring rather than a filling. As to what it was made of, he didn’t ask. It was hot. It was flavoursome. And it was a long time since breakfast. “Yes, very good.”
Lev grinned. The woman who’d actually prepared them, Olga, gave a tight nod, then turned her gaze back to Madame Bensayed who was methodically scrutinizing every minuscule bite.
What the dumplings contained were of far less interest to Scott than how they’d been made. He’d never seen that make of boxy car before, but the remaining half of the one remaining licence plate was printed in Cyrillic. The rear of the car had been converted into a mobile kitchen. Hotplates, kettles, even a microwave, occupied the space not taken up with neatly slung spatulas and spoons, saucepans and soup pots. Every implement and device had its own bracket, slot, or clasp, and all were custom made.
What intrigued him was how professional it was. Steel sheets had been added to the windows. Chainmail netting protected the upper half of the wheel arch. Wire-mesh covered the exhaust and front windscreen. But that it was a car, and not an armoured truck, told him other vehicles were tasked with protecting this mobile kitchen. It also suggested that, when their exodus had begun, cooking had been an afterthought, and this vehicle was the work of its chef rather than someone higher up the leadership food-chain.
During the drive from Creil, when he’d pictured the convoy, he’d imagined they’d switched from one vehicle to the next as each broke down, but this car had clearly been with them from the start. So had the truck that remained. An American model, but with Ukrainian insignia.
“Bien,” Madame Bensayed finally said. She tilted her head to one side in thought. “Bien,” she repeated and gave a minute nod and the briefest of approving smiles.
Olga relaxed.
“Good, then we work, yes?” Lev said. “We work. You two old people can rest. Recover.”
Madame Bensayed scowled. Olga muttered something in Ukrainian, and Scott did his best not to smile. But when Madame Bensayed stalked back to the minibus, and Olga and Lev went to help reinforce the bridge’s barricade, Scott was happy to play to his age, take another trio of dumplings from the pot, lean against the car’s warm side, and enjoy a moment of calm.
The helicopter had left. So had the coach and two of the Ukrainian APCs. With them had gone a good number of people. Eleven Ukrainians had been left behind, though so far he’d only met Lev and Olga. Madame Bensayed, Adrianna, and Anais had remained with Starwind, Salman, Amber, and himself. Eighteen people to hold the bridge.
That was nearly as interesting as the car-turned-mobile-kitchen. There’d been enough soldiers in the APCs for them to stay guarding the bridge with Lev. Why had the newcomers from France been asked to assist? He could think of a dozen plausible reasons, but the most likely was that Anatoly Vernadski didn’t want these representatives from Ireland knowing precisely where the warehouse in Bern was. Perhaps there was a more innocent explanation, and Lev seemed friendly, and talkative enough, to give it.
The calm was shattered by a gunshot, then a warning shout from Salman. Scott put the bowl down, and jogged along the bridge, towards the approaching danger. It would be a long night, a very long night, before they’d have the time to ask any more questions.
Day 259, 27th November
Chapter 5 - The Life of a Stream
Laufen, Switzerland
“Is that coffee?” Scott asked, taking the cup from Lev. “Smells just like I remember.”
“In Ireland, you have none?” Lev asked.
“Not sure about Ireland, but there wasn’t much in Wales,” Scott said. “That’s where we’ve been since late spring.”
“In one place?” Lev shook his head. “I miss that. And, ah… Private Amber Kessler, does she like coffee?” he asked, revealing the real motive behind the disjointed conversation.
“Why don’t you go ask her?” Scott said. He rolled the tepid liquid around his mouth, savouring the sour tang. It wasn’t as strong as he liked, or as hot, or of a volume nearly as big, but it tasted as good as he remembered.
Lev took his flask over to where Amber was levering an undead corpse into the ravine. Scott was the other half of the small team employed in the gruesome task until the young Ukrainian’s more than welcome interruption.
A heavy mist had preceded the dawn, so first light revealed little more than the night-time searchlights had shown. The four-lane bridge, sided with mesh-link, ran over a ravine, fifty metres below. Behind were hills criss-crossed with streams where he could just make out the shape of the water-collection party.
Amber took the cup from Lev, but only had time to share a handful of stilted words before Madame Bensayed hurried over. Gesturing as much as speaking in a language the young man didn’t understand, the older woman ushered Lev back to work. Scott smiled, finished his coffee, placed his cup clear of the dozens of corpses still littering the roadway, and ambled over to Amber.
“Coffee for breakfast,�
�� Scott said. “All I’m missing is some bacon, a couple of sausages, and a stack of toast.”
“Yoghurt and fresh fruit,” Amber said. “Pomelos, cherries, grapefruit. Even cranberries. Oh, I’d hike all day just for a fistful of cranberries. But coffee will do. Help me with this one?” She clipped her empty cup to her bag, picked up the long pole, and pushed it beneath the nearest corpse. The pole had, until a few hours before, been part of a bracket holding the mesh-link fence to the side of the bridge. That fencing was being added around and between the armoured cars, reinforcing their thin defences.
Scott shoved his own two-metre-long metal pole under the corpse. The zombie’s skin tore as easily as paper, and only the remains of its rotting clothing prevented a decaying soup of muscle and cartilage spilling onto the road. Together, leaving a dark stain on the already drenched asphalt, they rolled the body to the edge of the road and the beginning of the ravine.
“Have you learned anything interesting about the Ukrainians?” Scott asked.
“That Madame Bensayed is weird around them,” Amber said.
“She’s making sure they know she’s their boss,” Scott said. “They’re all young enough to have a mum-shaped hole in their lives, so she’s filling it. They’ll mind less listening to her, so when she listens to Salman, so will they, thus letting the sergeant take charge.”
“Oh, do you think that’s what it’s about?”
“Or she’s just being a busy-body for her own entertainment,” Scott said. “Everyone needs a hobby. On three. One. Two. Heave.”
With a clatter of falling rocks, and a softer splatter as snow and ice was dislodged, the body tumbled to the ice-covered ravine below.
“I think that’s a stream down there,” Amber said.
“Come the thaw, it’ll be a raging torrent,” Scott said.
“It will?”
“Clemmie had to write an essay as part of her application for the scholarship. She chose the lifecycle of a mountain-fed river, but instead of doing it over a year, she wrote it as if the river was a person. She told the story over eighty years of the life and death of a stream during a time of disrupted climate and decreasing rainfall and mountaintop-melt. We all became experts, mostly because she misread the deadline. Had to pull three all-nighters in a row, and I still had to dictate the last bit of my research via air-traffic control. Good thing for us that the woman on duty picked up my error on flow-rate. Got the volume wrong by a factor of ten, almost turned her dying river into a raging flood.”