by Frank Tayell
“A Bible?” Locke said as she closed the door. “I didn’t take you for a religious woman.”
Tuck opened the book at the beginning, skipping through passages until she found the lines she was looking for. She held the book open, tapping at a page.
“Swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation,” Locke read. “That is something we don’t have to worry about, surely? Or is that what you are worried about? That we’re creating new nations who will one day wage war against each other?”
Tuck turned to the historical index at the beginning, again tapping the page.
“The Book of Isaiah,” Locke said. “The eighth century, BC. I still don’t follow.”
Tuck put the Bible down, and returned her torch to the hook on the broad overhead beam. “When I was in hospital,” she signed, “there wasn’t much choice in reading material, but there was plenty of time to read. I’d never read the Bible before. A few passages stuck out, stuck in my memory. That one above all. Look at the date. Eight hundred years before the Common Era. Nearly three thousand years ago, a preacher gave a speech, picking his words as those the congregation would understand. Three thousand years ago, they wished for a time when there would be no more war.”
“And now it’s come?” Locke asked, after Tuck had patiently re-signed, and then written out, some of the more unusual words.
Tuck shook her head. “What’s the difference between violence and war?”
“Organisation? Matching clothing? Better movies?” Locke said. “Sorry, I know you’re being serious.”
“In London,” Tuck signed, “after McInery died, I thought it was over. The war, the violence, the apocalypse. I thought we’d rebuild. We didn’t know about the horde, or the cartel, or the troubles on Anglesey, or the weather. Now, on Faroe, we face a similar turning point. The dangers ahead of us are immense, but the war could be over.”
“After Denmark, you still think that?” Locke asked.
“Violence will continue, but the war could be over. This war. That last, nuclear war. It could be over, but not while those missiles sit aboard an operational submarine. Mister Mills must hand over command, or Leon must remove him. Even if that means death. It’s why I’m glad I don’t have to be there, where I’d have to choose sides, because there is only one side I could be on.”
“It might not come to violence,” Locke said. “Not this time.”
“And if the admiral had thought that, she would have sent someone else, or no one at all,” Tuck signed.
“But that’s not what’s troubling you,” Locke said. “Nor is it whether the unfulfilled hopes resting in the history of that passage will ever come true. You and I, we face the same problem: we have no purpose. Our war is over. You kept Jay safe. You kept the children safe. You kept the people of London alive. Not all of them, I agree, and therein lies your guilt. Mine comes from failing to stop Quigley and the cartel. But that failure is in the past. It is history. Unchangeable. Our war is over. Besides that I wouldn’t trust any plough made out of an assault rifle, neither of us wants to turn farmer. But we can’t spend the rest of our lives wallowing in regret.”
“I wasn’t wallowing,” Tuck signed.
“And nor will you,” Locke said. “No, you and I, we need a purpose. First, we’ll find a synagogue. Weren’t copies of the Torah transcribed from previous copies, letter by letter, line by line? We’ll find out whether that passage has been translated correctly. Of course, that would mean learning Hebrew, but it can’t be as difficult as sign language.”
“Which you still haven’t mastered,” Tuck signed.
“What was that? Ah. Right. Yes. Point taken. Then perhaps we should find a library with a book on biblical history. Or a different book entirely. In fact…” She stood and crossed to the narrow bookshelf. “Did I see a copy of… ah, yes. Monstrous Regiment, a book every soldier should read.” But before she could hand it to Tuck, there was a sodden thump from outside.
Locke crossed to the window, while Tuck went to the door.
“Zombie,” the soldier signed. “Only one. Fallen in the mud. Ready?”
Locke drew her bayonet. “Our war isn’t over yet, then. No, not quite yet.”
Day 276, 14th December
Chapter 6 - Counting Calories
The Faroe Islands
This morning, my breakfast was interrupted by a knock on the door. Annette jumped. I frowned. Kim laughed, and Daisy copied her while Annette glowered at them both.
“You better go see who it is, Bill,” Kim said.
It was the admiral. Her lips had a miniscule curl that, in the right light, might be mistaken for a smile.
“Do you want to come in?” I asked.
“Thank you, no,” she said. “I have to visit the Ocean Queen, but there’s news I thought you’d like to hear.”
“Good news?” I asked.
“The New World is turning south. They are abandoning all attempts at making landfall in Greenland and are turning towards Canada.”
“I don’t know if that’s good news,” I said.
“There is too much ice and wreckage in the water,” the admiral said. “We wanted to know if a ship could make landfall there, now we have proved it can’t. There will be no need for any further expeditions to the extreme north. The next expedition, to New England, creeps closer.”
“You mean to Boston?” I asked.
“One way or another, everything will soon be resolved,” she said. The wind blew a gust, catching the door, throwing it wide open. “I’ll get on, and let you do the same,” the admiral said. “And see you for the meeting after lunch?”
“Of course.”
“What did the admiral have to say?” Annette asked, the moment I’d closed the door.
“Sholto and Nilda have decided there’s far too much ice around Greenland,” I said. “The New World is heading south, towards Canada.”
“Oh. Is that all? Why did she come here to tell you?”
“Because sometimes it’s nice to hear good news,” Kim said. “Now get ready for school.”
“Again?”
“There’s the carol concert to practice,” Kim said. “Decorations have to be made, and George is doing a talk on bus tours later that I want to hear.”
“Seriously?” Annette asked. “Why?”
“Because I think it’ll be both useful and interesting,” Kim said.
“How can busses be useful now?” Annette said with rising indignation. “I can be left alone, you know. I don’t need babysitting.”
“I know,” Kim said. “But… but you remember how things were in Dundalk? We should enjoy this snippet of normality for as long as it lasts.”
Still grumbling, Annette went to find her bag while I hindered Daisy in arranging her crayons in the case she now took everywhere with her.
“What have you planned for the day?” Kim asked as we hustled the children outside.
“I’m counting calories in the gym,” I said.
“It’s not much, is it?” I said half an hour later, fumbling one-handed with the lid of the nearest box. Colm reached across, opening the box for me, revealing a meagre treasure inside. “And you’ve searched the entire town?” I asked.
“Every unoccupied house,” he said. “Every shop. Every office. Every restaurant. I went as far beyond the town as I think the Faroese would mind. This is all there is.”
“We must have got lucky with the houses near the lighthouse,” I said. “I wish I’d known before the wedding feast. Then again, there wasn’t much to share out, and this looks like less. How much does it come to?”
“Aisha is working it out,” Colm said, “But I’d call this one meal each, where most of the plate is filled with fish.”
“We’ll have to keep it for Christmas, I suppose,” I said. “We’ve the talent show filling time either side. But I was hoping we’d have enough for a meal at New Year’s.”
“Sorry, no,” Colm said. “We’ll
be able to raise a glass, though.”
“You found alcohol?”
“A bottle here and there, so it will be one glass each, and maybe a snifter of a second, but no more. The Faroese must have taken the rest, like the food.”
“That’s probably not a bad thing,” I said. “You’ve got a feel for the general mood, could we skip the Christmas meal?”
“No,” Colm said. “People know what we were doing, so they know food has been gathered. They’ll expect to eat it, and the longer we delay the meal the bigger it’ll grow in their imaginations. Considering how little there is, that’ll only lead to disappointment. An argument can be made for keeping it until Christmas, and people will accept that, but I wouldn’t withhold it for any longer or we’ll risk it being pinched. Is there any movement from the Faroese? Any chance we might get some supplies from them?”
“No movement, and few words,” I said. “They’ve thanked us for the invitation to the talent show, but in the same politely disinterested way they thanked us for the invitation to the wedding. They have turned down, for now, any expedition north, or elsewhere. They don’t want to make friends, and we’re running out of ways to ask. How much did people take for themselves?”
“Some, obviously,” Colm said. “Human nature being what it is. But knowing human nature like I do, no one had a bag when they went inside. Just weapons. Once a building was clear, we sent the boxes in. Individuals could have pocketed a little, but no more than those pockets could hold.”
“And stolen a box or twelve before they reached here?” I asked.
“I numbered all the crates,” Colm said. “Here, on the side. The dots and lines. Not quite braille, but it’s not really noticeable. An old trick I learned from an old crook I once knew.”
“My concern isn’t people taking a bit for themselves,” I said. “It’s someone setting up a black market.”
“Markus, you think?”
“Probably not him, but someone might. We’ve been thrashing out a new economic model. The fish-standard, George calls it. But it’s economics in reverse. Right now, we’re catching more fish than we can eat and store. But it’s the only thing of real worth. Even time, we’ve all got too much of it.”
“It’s a nice problem to have,” Colm said.
“Except it’s a situation that won’t continue. What about zombies? How many buildings were occupied?”
“None. There were a few dead creatures, killed months ago. Most of those were just north of Oyggjarvegur.”
“That’s the road we’ve declared the northern limit of our safe-zone, isn’t it?”
“Just north of the park, yes. I think something big happened there. Siobhan thinks it’s more likely to be a quarantine than a last stand, and I trust her opinion on that kind of thing.”
“But none of the undead were active?” I asked.
“Not in the town. Just that one to the west a couple of days ago. Since then, my patrols have only had shadows to jump at.”
“Good. I hope. I think. Did you collect any soap or toiletries?”
“We’ve got those in the church hall down the road,” Colm said. “There’s more than enough to go around.”
“We’ll have clean tables, even if there’s not much to put on them. Aisha’s going to sort out menus?”
“She’s got a kitchen team she trusts, and people trust her,” Colm said.
“Is it that they trust the Londoners more, or that they distrust each other so much?”
“That’s one of those questions that depends on the perspective of the observer,” Colm said. “How are the hydroponics?”
“The seedlings are mostly dying,” I said. “Those that didn’t die on the way over.”
“Pity,” he said in one of the greatest understatements in our new history.
By the time I stepped outside, the wind was taking a breather. The rain had tagged in and now drizzled vertically in a freezing-cold shower. For Faroe, that counts as a fine day so I took advantage of it, mooching along the puddled streets, mulling over the dilemma of our supplies. We’d found food in some houses in Torshavn. Not much, sure, but enough to prove there is more to be found in other houses, other settlements, and other islands in this volcanic archipelago. To gather it would only take a few days, including travel-time, and comes with only one risk. As for reward, if Torshavn is anything to go by, we’d gather enough for a few meals, but the risk isn’t in finding even less. The risk, the danger, is in the Faroese deciding we’ve broken our agreement, and switching off the power and water.
What would we do then? What could we do? Seize the power station? It would mean a fight. We’d win. But how many would die? On our side and theirs, and would the surviving Faroese retaliate? All for what, a few more mouthfuls of sugar?
During our trek through France, I often looked back on Anglesey as our dry run, a practice at creating a post-apocalyptic state, a lesson to be learned from so we didn’t repeat the same mistakes. Boy, was I wrong. We haven’t begun to make mistakes yet, as I found out when I reached the hotel.
A Marine guard was waiting for me when I entered. I was ushered up to the admiral’s office, and found Mirabelle already there.
“That was quick,” the admiral said.
“Was it? You were looking for me?” I asked.
“We sent Siobhan to find you,” the admiral said.
“I must have missed her,” I said. “I’ve just been speaking to Colm. From all the loot we’ve gathered, we can pull together one meal, but it’s not going to be a feast. What? Looking at your faces, I’m guessing that’s not our biggest problem.”
“It’s not,” the admiral said. “Mirabelle?”
She held out a tablet. “That’s Calais,” she said. “A satellite image of the harbour, taken two days ago.”
“That’s… that’s a tank,” I said.
“A Leclerc MBT,” the admiral said. “The same type used by the cartel.”
“Where in the harbour is that?” I asked, already searching for an alternative to the obvious explanation.
Mirabelle swiped her hand across the screen, reducing the zoom. “Within sight of the seawall.”
“Where’s the destroyer?”
“Beneath this cloud bank,” Mirabelle said. “Assuming it’s still there.”
“Okay,” I said, scanning the photograph. “It’s just one tank.”
“And a lot of cloud,” the admiral said.
“And this was taken two days ago?” I asked. “How come we didn’t know until now?”
“Because we weren’t looking,” Mirabelle said.
“Do we have other images?” I asked.
“A few, but none that offer any more information,” Mirabelle said. “You know how Ken wants to try in-orbit docking to refuel the satellites? How do you find your position in space? We needed some landmarks on Earth by which we could orientate ourselves. Calais seemed best.”
“Just show him,” the admiral said.
Mirabelle took the tablet back. “We were going through the old pictures we took of France. If we had two satellites over Calais, then we could combine those images with those we took when searching for you to help build the pattern-recognition database. That’s when we found this.”
“It’s… what is that?” I asked, peering at the familiar shape seen at an unfamiliar angle. “It’s yellow. That’s a… that’s a coach. It’s… is that a yellow minibus?”
“Didn’t you say that woman who you rescued from the watchtower had a yellow minibus?” the admiral asked.
“Adrianna, yes,” I said. “When was this taken?”
“The day after you left Creil,” the admiral said. “There is a coach in that picture, and there is another photograph which shows more vehicles.”
“But are the vehicles moving?” I asked.
“They were, yes,” the admiral said.
“You mean they left Creil the day after we rescued Adrianna,” I said. “That was their plan. This is their convoy. It has to be.”
“These photographs were taken to the east of Creil,” the admiral said. “They were heading east, not south.”
“Oh. Not to the Pyrenees?” I asked.
“No,” the admiral said. “Thank you, Mirabelle. Please keep this to yourself for now, and ask the others to do the same. We will inform everyone, but not until we’ve decided what it means.”
Mirabelle shrugged and left.
“Bill?” the admiral prompted. “You’re thinking of something. What?”
“East of Creil is the Alps, isn’t it? The Ukrainians said something about that being where they were heading. We need to ask Sorcha. Have we heard from her?”
“She and Tuck returned to the Courageous about an hour ago. They couldn’t find Ms O’Reardon.”
“Then I’ll want to give Sorcha a call and ask exactly what the Polish helicopter pilot said. That part of the conversation wasn’t in English. And due to the time for translation, and the haste with which she departed, it was only a few words said.”
“But some of those words were about the Alps?”
“They were,” I said. “And I think… I think Professor Fontayne said something about a ski resort accessible by a bridge. The impression I had was that both the Ukrainians and the French knew of this same place in the Alps, but that the French had been there and had ruled it out in favour of the Pyrenees even though the border with Spain was a far greater distance to travel.”
“I have a map here, if it would help you,” she said.
“I don’t think it would,” I said. “I don’t recall any place names. Maybe Sorcha can. Besides, the Alps are a large mountain range, and I don’t think it’s the first set of mountains you’d reach when heading east. But were they heading east? Could they have turned south?”
“I was hoping you would be able to tell me,” the admiral said. “If not, the only conclusion we can reach is that we can’t reach any conclusion with firm certainty.”