Surviving the Evacuation, Book 16

by Frank Tayell

  “What about fuel?” Siobhan asked.

  “Only a few hundred litres,” Toussaint said. “We won’t fly far with that, but to fly anywhere, we’d need a second runway. That’s where we’ll look for fuel.”

  “And zombies?” Sholto asked.

  “We saw a few dozen,” Toussaint said. “Mostly in the tunnel.”

  “They said there’s a tunnel linking Eysturoy to Streymoy,” Siobhan said. “If they’re going to attack the hotel tonight, that’s how they’ll make their approach.”

  “Do you think they will attack?” Torres asked.

  “I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “I really don’t.”

  Chapter 14 - Memories of Malin Head

  Tórshavn, The Faroe Islands

  “We should go sleep on the boat,” Petrelli said, when Siobhan had finished summarising the meeting. “They could set fire to the hotel.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference,” Toussaint said. “We’d be as easy a target on the boat as here. And if we’re all on the boat, they don’t have to worry about a fire spreading to the rest of the town. But I don’t think they’ll attack tonight.”

  “How can you be so sure, Sarge?” Torres asked.

  “Because, if it were me, I’d launch the ambush tomorrow at the bridge. They’re expecting some of us there. Divide and conquer.”

  “But will they?” Reg asked.

  “It’s a possibility,” Siobhan said. “Thaddeus?”

  “The zombies you saw, how long ago had they been human?” Sholto asked.

  “In the tunnel? Some a few months, some a lot longer,” Toussaint said.

  “And in town?” Sholto asked.

  “Both of them were human a month ago. Maybe two months,” Reg said.

  “So how did they get infected?” Sholto asked. “Are they locals, part of the same group as are on that island? Or were they visitors like us? That sums up my read on this. We’ve still got more questions than answers.”

  “Tell us about Malin Head,” Gloria said.

  “We shouldn’t make assumptions about how significant an event that was to them,” Siobhan said. “Nor that those were the only people to reach Faroe from Ireland. I did look at the faces of the zombies by the bridge, but after they’d been shot with a high-powered rifle, after the arrows had been cut free, and after so many months, I don’t know that I’d recognise anyone.”

  “No assumptions, sure,” Toussaint said. “But you know about Malin Head.”

  “I was there,” Siobhan said. “Twice, in fact. The first time, it was being run by Mark. We grew up near one another, and because our parents lived near one another, we’d bump into each other around the holidays, and often enough during the months between. We even dated, in the way that children do. He… he was entitled, and didn’t realise it. Not nearly as clever as he thought he was, but he always assumed he was the smartest person in the room, from which he derived confidence which bled into arrogance.”

  “Professionally, did you ever…” Gloria began. “I mean, when you were a police officer, did you…” Again she stumbled as she searched for a diplomatic form of words.

  “He wasn’t a crook,” Siobhan said. “Not that I ever found out. No, he wasn’t a bad person, and we were friends. Over the years, there were a bundle of chance meetings and unexpected reunions, but the outbreak reset the clock. It changed everything and everyone, and it definitely changed him. When we got to Malin Head, we were desperate. We’d fought our way across Ireland the hard way. We were relieved just to find living people. And among them, in charge of them, was a man I knew. A man I… had cared for, I suppose. It made me blinkered, not quite blind, but willing to ignore the obvious until everything came to a head. The outbreak had changed him utterly.”

  “It changed everyone,” Gloria said.

  “Him more than most,” Siobhan said. “He’d grown from reading to theorising, but he only had the books in that small village to inform his new doctrine. Some were popular economics or other social sciences. The kind you’d find at an airport bookshop. To those were added theological criticism. Books where a single biblical line had been dissected over four hundred pages, always with the message that people were inherently sinful.”

  “Not the best books if you’re creating a new society,” Petrelli said.

  “And they were the only books he had,” Siobhan said. “Mark has all the qualities of a natural leader. He’s charming, handsome, confident. That doesn’t make him good at it. And there and then, in Malin Head, the world had come to an end. Mark began to believe that we were it, the very, utter last. And he felt pressure to do something about it. He came up with an inversion of Malthusianism.”

  “What’s that?” Petrelli asked.

  “The idea that there’s a maximum number of people the planet can support,” Siobhan said. “The failing in the idea is that it presupposed per-acre agricultural output would remain static. It didn’t take account of technological improvements. But Mark came to believe that, if there was a maximum number of people the planet could support, then there was also a minimum. We needed to repopulate. He added a few seventeenth-century theologians for heft, some scripture instead of history, and Dunbar to make it seem modern. We needed to breed. Aside from my own personal views on both his theory and how it might be put into practice, there were Kallie and Lena and Tamara to think about. There were the nuns and the others who died before we met up with Bill and Kim. We wanted no part of it, so we left.”

  “And he let you leave?” Gloria asked.

  “We left before anyone had a chance to try to stop us,” Siobhan said. “He was preaching it as a framework for a new society, a doctrine that could easily become a religion. Not everyone who stayed agreed with him, but enough did that I could tell things would take an ugly turn. So we left with everyone who wanted to go. A few months later, we met Bill and Kim, and we returned to Malin Head, hoping we could beg fuel from Mark, and that the news of Anglesey might dissuade him from doing anything foolish. Malin Head was deserted. They’d left.”

  “Did they have boats?” Toussaint asked.

  “They did. And experienced fishers. I assumed they’d attempted an Atlantic crossing. But they came here.”

  “And here they fought the locals,” Toussaint said.

  “From the sound of it,” Siobhan said. “That man we saw lost his leg, but if no one died, it sounds more like a confrontation than a battle. It was implied that Mark left.”

  “It would explain why the Faroese aren’t using radio,” Sholto said. “And thus why the Amundsen didn’t pick up any radio signals as it sailed north. They met other people, and concluded all strangers were dangerous.”

  “I’m not sure we can draw that conclusion,” Siobhan said. “It’s reasonable to say that Mark is the reason they are distrustful of people from Ireland. I don’t know if it explains everything else.”

  “Thaddeus?” Gloria prompted. “You met them, too. What do you think? How much danger are we in?”

  “Like I said, there are more questions than answers. Take the zombies. Is it that the locals don’t have the numbers to clear these two islands of the undead? Or do people come across to this island for loot and salvage? Do they come voluntarily, or are they exiled? Or are these zombies other people like us, people who were accidentally infected? Where did that sailing boat in Kollafjørđur come from? Each time I think the evidence adds up to us being able to trust them or not, another question comes along to overturn that decision. That said, if I were them, and if murder was an option I was even considering, I’d have acted more friendly, asked more questions. Maybe sent someone back with us to get a feel for numbers and equipment. No, I don’t think they’ll attack. The question is whether they’ll help us.”

  “How many do you think there are?” Petrelli asked.

  “Probably a few hundred,” Sholto said.

  “We could take the power station,” Petrelli said.

  All eyes went to Toussaint.

  “Not us al
one,” the sergeant said. “But with those now in Dundalk, yes. Having captured the installation, we’d have to hold it against an unfriendly local population. They have night vision and high-powered rifles. They know the terrain. They could take to the hills, ambush us, snipe at us, kill us one by one. The Ocean Queen would be a large target, hard to miss with a small motorboat loaded with fuel. No, we’re not starting a war. There’s nothing to gain, and everything to lose.”

  “I’ll call the admiral,” Siobhan said. “And spin this as potentially positive, but we’ve got to wait and see. Tomorrow, if this meeting doesn’t go well, we’ll have to write off Faroe, with all that means for our future.”

  “Then it’s time we had some genuinely good news,” Gloria said.

  “Yeah,” Gonzales said. “You didn’t ask what we found. Food.”

  “Seriously?” Sholto said. “And you’ve been keeping that back.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Gloria said. “Two tins of pineapple, some long-life fibre bars, half a pound of rice, a bottle of soy sauce, and another of vinegar. So, tonight, we’re having sweet and sour rice, flavoured with sardine.”

  “Sardines?” Reg asked. “Oh, I love those, on toast with a splash of tomato sauce.”

  “No. Sardine, singular,” Gloria said. “We only caught one, but it’ll add a bit of flavour. More importantly, and I saved the best until last, we found some tea. Earl Grey, and only four tea bags, but we liberated a teapot, so it should go around.”

  “Where was this?” Siobhan asked.

  “The houses on the hillside overlooking the harbour,” Gloria said.

  “Near the lighthouse,” Gonzales added. “There was more food left behind, but anything that was open, that hadn’t been sealed, it had spoiled.”

  “So they only properly emptied the stores,” Sholto said. “Another nugget of information that begs a million questions.”

  “And you can ask them while we eat,” Gloria said. “I set a table in the restaurant. We might as well do this properly.”

  “I’ll call the admiral, and be there in a moment,” Siobhan said. “One sardine? That should raise a few smiles among the hundreds listening in to the call.”

  Day 264, 2nd December

  Chapter 15 - The Light of a New Dawn

  Tórshavn, The Faroe Islands

  “Thaddeus! Wake up!” Gloria called out.

  Sholto stood before he’d opened his eyes. The blanket fell onto the chair in which he’d slept as he grabbed for his rifle. “Where are they coming from?”

  “No, it’s okay,” Gloria said. “It’s good news. Did you sleep in that chair all night?”

  “Not sure I slept much,” Sholto said. “What time is it?”

  “An hour before dawn, but there’s a light! The lighthouse is on.”

  Sholto blinked, processing what she was saying. “Show me.”

  Everyone else was already in the harbour-facing second-floor room. They couldn’t quite see the sea, nor the lighthouse itself, but they could see its broad and powerful beam.

  “They turned on the electricity,” Sholto said.

  “Not to the hotel,” Petrelli said.

  “Substations, breakers,” Sholto said, still waking up. “They didn’t kill us, and they turned the power on.”

  “It’s a good sign,” Siobhan said. “We should go back up to the bridge.”

  “Not all of us,” Sholto said. “Power to the lighthouse means power to appliances, to domestic heaters, to a hundred other devices that could short and start a fire.”

  “Sergeant, can you take care of that?” Siobhan asked. “The—”

  Dawn arrived all at once, an hour early, and with a sodium-yellow tinge.

  “Streetlights,” Petrelli said.

  “Sholto and I’ll go back up to the bridge,” Siobhan said. “Sergeant, any house, any building that has lights, find the breaker. If you see a fire extinguisher, bring it out onto the pavement, we may well need them. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  Ten minutes later, they were driving north, Sholto in the passenger seat, Siobhan behind the wheel. It was only as they left the town behind that sleepy confusion finally gave way to early morning realisation.

  “None of the houses had lights coming from them,” he said. “I think the locals pulled the breakers before abandoning the town.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Siobhan said. “It would be a sorry twist if we end up starting a fire so close to getting all that we could possibly want.”

  “The list of things I want still has coffee near the top,” Sholto said. “A pecan bear-claw right underneath. A newspaper right beneath that, but mostly because that’d mean sports pages, and so sports, and so something to go watch on Monday nights. How do you want to do this?”

  “When we get to the bridge? Let them do the talking,” Siobhan said. “Because I don’t know we have much to say beyond thank-you.”

  Judging by the dark road sign a mile from the edge of town, power had only been restored to Tórshavn. With the absence of rain, the car’s headlamps were more than enough to light their way, and no longer required when, as they approached Kollafjørđur, dawn finally broke.

  “The sailing boat’s gone,” Sholto said.

  Siobhan slowed. “No lights on anywhere in the village,” she said.

  “None that I can see,” he said. “But the car we left is still there.”

  “Why would they take it?” she said.

  “Why’d they take the boat?” he said.

  “One of many questions to ask them,” she said. “But not today. We’re entering the realms of international diplomacy. Did you have much experience with that?”

  “My focus was always on people who had a vote,” he said. “But I know enough to say little and ask for less.”

  When they reached the bridge, they found Gunnar Niclasen sitting on a folding chair, perched on top of the shipping containers. He’d clearly been waiting for them, and he appeared to be alone.

  Siobhan stopped the car on the approach road to the bridge, some fifty metres from it. She got out slowly, and Sholto did the same, both leaving their rifles in the vehicle.

  “Morning!” Sholto called, walking slowly to the bridge, but taking the time to look around. The bodies of the zombies were gone. There was no sign of Rigmor or Rannvieg, but he could imagine they, and perhaps others, were watching. Perhaps even recording so the encounter could be played back to the parliament.

  Gunnar raised a hand, but he waited until they were nearer before he spoke. “Good morning,” he finally said, the stiff wind dragging his words north.

  Siobhan and Sholto stepped forward another few paces until they were only fifteen metres from the razor wire around the containers blocking the bridge.

  “Good morning,” Gunnar said again.

  “The lighthouse came on this morning,” Sholto said.

  “Yes,” Gunnar said. “We disconnected most properties from the network, but there are some which we could not.”

  Silence stretched, and Sholto realised that the man was deploying the same strategy of saying little.

  “You’re allowing us to stay, then?” Sholto finally asked.

  “Indeed,” Gunnar said. He reached into his pocket, and took out a piece of paper. “The Løgting have issued a ruling that comes with conditions. First, we have some questions.”

  “What questions?” Siobhan asked.

  “When do you think your people will arrive?” Gunnar asked.

  “Sometime between seven and fourteen days from now,” Siobhan said.

  “And how many ships?”

  “Three large ships,” Siobhan said. “Perhaps more if we can salvage them from the European coast. Some smaller vessels, but I don’t know how many will be able to make the voyage north. They’re fishing boats and sailing boats. We can get a better estimate for you from their captains when we call in with the good news.”

  “Yes, you are in contact with them, aren’t you?” Gunnar said.

 
“What are the conditions?” Sholto asked.

  “You must stay in Tórshavn,” Gunnar said. “That is the only place on these islands to which power is restored. Unless it is to come here, to this bridge, you will stay in Tórshavn. Your ships may approach the harbour in Tórshavn, but everywhere else, there is a thirty-kilometre exclusion zone.”

  “What about fishing?” Siobhan asked.

  “You may fish to the south of Streymoy,” Gunnar said. “But you must not go ashore on any of the islands to the south of Streymoy. And no boats, of any kind, are to sail to within thirty kilometres of anywhere except Tórshavn.”

  “A thirty-kilometre coastal exclusion zone, got it,” Siobhan said. Sholto was about to speak, but she squeezed his arm before he could. “Anything else?”

  “You may use the homes in Tórshavn, but you will leave them clean. They are not to be damaged.”

  “Of course,” Siobhan said. “Is that all?”

  “You will not use any of the tunnels,” Gunnar said. “You will not venture into them. You will not explore them. Should you wish to speak to us, you will come here. Someone will always be here.”

  “Understood, no tunnels,” Siobhan said.

  “And you stay in Tórshavn,” he said again.

  “In Tórshavn. Got it,” she said. “What about the airport? We sent people there yesterday, through the tunnel, before we knew about these rules. We think we can repair the runway.”

  “You have planes?” he asked.

  “We did. One. We lost it in France. We could repair another, but it wouldn’t be much use without a working runway.”