by Frank Tayell
“Are you sure they’re active?” Jay said. “Remember Denmark, all the dead zombies you saw there, Chester?”
“I’m sure, because it moved and I shot it,” Sholto said. He tapped his rifle. “But even a suppressed shot sounded like a hammer slamming an anvil.” He turned around and scanned the snowbound slopes. “But they can’t have heard it. They can’t have heard us. Not yet.”
“Back to the ship,” Chester said. “We can discuss the rest there.”
“I still say we should have gone ashore again,” Jay said.
“No, it was your mum’s call, and she made the right one,” Chester said. “Now eat your spinach before I do.”
“Why don’t you eat yours?” Jay said.
“I’ve traded my portion with your mum. I’m getting her beans.”
“Oh. I thought you said you didn’t like beans.”
“That’s why I’m having fish for lunch. But it doesn’t mean I won’t eat your spinach if you don’t snap to it.” He picked up the pile of leaflets Jay had grabbed from the tackle shop. They weren’t really maps at all. There was a guide to hiking trails, another to fishing spots, a third was a spotter’s guide to springtime birds. Each had a hand-sketched map on the back, and all focused on a short stretch of the Newfoundland shores of the Gulf of St Lawrence. He picked at his grilled fish as he lined the maps up, linking them as best he could.
“We still should have gone back ashore,” Jay said.
“We certainly could,” Chester said. “But I don’t know about should. We’ve got four hundred and ninety-four rounds left for the suppressed rifles.”
“And there were only twenty zombies,” Jay said.
“There’s something Bill says,” Chester said. “Where there’s one, there’s always more. And in this case, there’s that house where Sholto shot one.”
“Fine, let’s say there were forty,” Jay said. “Even a hundred. It’s still not that many when you have guns.”
“That launch isn’t large, but only those who could cram themselves aboard would be part of the attack. Call it six, with three magazines apiece. We’d have no barricades and no time to build them. But you know what worries me the most? It’s the snow. It was hellish in France, the snow. You can’t move normally, but your muscles don’t realise. You tell your legs to walk a step, but they only move an inch.”
“But we can’t keep on sailing forever,” Jay said. “I mean, I know that part of the reason for this voyage was proving we needed to look further south, but we should do more than go ashore once.”
“And we will,” Chester said. “That’s your mum’s whole point. There’s a battle ahead of us, so do we want it to be here, where we’re fighting for the chance to search a handful of homes that had little enough in them before the outbreak, or at a proper harbour? Speaking of which, where do you think that was?”
Jay forked another mouthful of spinach, then tapped the map. “Savage Cove,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, might have been.”
Jay held up a finger, swallowed, and tried again. “Flower’s Cove. Shoal Cove. Look, there’s even Deadman’s Cove.”
“No we’re definitely south of there,” Chester said.
“Yeah, but you know what’s missing? There’s no Pirate’s Cove. I mean, what were these people thinking? If you’re going to call somewhere a cove, surely that’s the first name that springs to mind.”
“Not if they were named back in the time when piracy was a real thing.”
“Yeah, then they should have…” Jay trailed off.
“What?” Chester asked.
“Hang on,” Jay said. He picked up a map, then grabbed another, quickly upsetting the order Chester had arrayed them in.
“What is it?”
“Just one second, okay?” Jay said. “Yeah. Look. Here. And here. And here.”
“What am I looking at?”
“No, here, the key, the legend. This dotted line is a ferry route. It’s on all of these maps. You know what that means?”
“There’s a ferry to Newfoundland?” Chester asked. “I’ll be honest, I assumed there would be.”
“Yeah, but now we know where it went,” Jay said. “And it’s not St John’s. It’s here, in the south. On the very southern tip. A place called…” He lifted up the map. “Port-Aux-Basques.”
“Let me see. Hmm. I best go tell our captain.”
“There’s a note at the back of this map,” Nilda said. “Here, where it talks about transport links. There’s a ferry to Port-Aux-Basques, and another to Argentia in the summer months. Argentia? Where’s that chart? Yes. Here it is. Argentia’s halfway along the southern coast of Newfoundland. No mention of St John’s, which is interesting. Surely there was a ferry there. I mean, yes, it’s far, far away from the Canadian mainland, but it’s a big city. Isn’t it?”
“Some of us had heard of it,” Chester said. “Which is my way of not saying yes or no.”
“Sorry, I mean if these maps don’t mention St John’s, how many other ferry ports don’t they mention?”
“Now there’s an interesting thought, but does it help us?”
“Not immediately,” Nilda said. “Hmm, it doesn’t say where on the mainland the ferry goes.”
“I bet we can find out when we get to the port. You don’t sound enthused.”
“No, this is good,” she said. “But there’s this place. I can’t tell if it’s an island or a peninsula, but it’s called Port au Port, and we’ll be passing right by it. With a name like that, it has to have harbours.”
“Where? Oh, that place. Let’s have a look.” He shuffled through the assorted pamphlets Jay had taken from the tackle shop. “I can tell you where the fishing spots are, and that’s all the mention it gets.”
“Port au Port, I like the name,” Nilda said. “And I like the geography. I think there’s only one road to the mainland. If we need to wall ourselves off, that could be a good spot.”
“And you’re worried about us losing some time? We can spare it. And it’s on the way to the ferry in Port-Aux-Basques, which is on the way to St John’s.”
“It’s the ammunition,” Nilda said. “We can afford one fight. Realistically, it might just be a fighting retreat. Port au Port, or Port-Aux-Basques, or Argentia, or St John’s. Which is the right one, because we can’t afford to make the wrong choice.”
283 - 21st December
Chapter 15 - Diana Fenton
The Gulf of St Lawrence
Chester stood the midnight watch alone. Nilda, tired, drained, had been prescribed sleep by Dr Harabi. Chester hadn’t minded the solitude, though he’d not enjoyed it, but he’d taken the opportunity to think. Not about the undead, or about Newfoundland, Canada, or Faroe, but about being married. So far, Jay’s prediction had been correct, it wasn’t much different to how life had been before.
At four a.m., he was relieved by Sergeant Toussaint. Not feeling tired, and not wanting to wake Nilda, he prowled the quiet, nearly empty ship. Everyone else was asleep. Or almost everyone. On the deck below the bridge, in the cabins decorated as offices, a soft glow spilled from the comms room.
“Thaddeus?” Chester said, stepping into the doorway of the cramped chamber. “You all right, mate?”
Sholto leaned back in his chair. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said.
“Odd place to spend the night,” Chester said. “You’ve not even got the heater on.”
“It’s broken,” Sholto said. “Hence the open door. I won’t get much heat from those corridors, but at least I’m getting some air.”
“So you’re listening to the radio?”
“Searching for a signal,” Sholto said. “I was thinking about those numbers you and Jay saw on that ship. I wondered if it might be someone’s record of their search through every frequency on every band. I copied these from Jay’s photographs,” he added, holding up a slip of paper with a dozen scrawled entries.
“T-105-6-M?” Chester said. “Well, 105.6 sounds like an FM frequency. Or mayb
e the M stands for medium wave. Or could it be Monday. The T is for tried. They tried that frequency on Monday.”
“Neat idea,” Sholto said. He picked up another slip of paper. “Where is it? Ah, here. TT-104-5-V.”
“So it’s not Monday, then,” Chester said.
“Wait, maybe it is. Not Monday, but Wednesday. It was a Canadian ship in Canadian waters, so maybe it’s the days of the week in French. M for Mercredi, V for Vendredi. That doesn’t explain what T or TT mean. I’ll have another look through Jay’s list, and maybe find a French dictionary. In the meantime, since I’m pretty sure the numbers are frequencies, I thought I’d try the radio.”
“Any joy?”
“Not exactly. I heard some beeping, but it’s faint.”
“Morse code?”
“Nope. You want to listen?” Sholto made a note of the frequency he’d reached, and found the band. He turned the volume down and pulled out the headphones’ cable. Soft beeps, one second apart, rose above the static coming from the speaker.
“It could mean anything,” Chester said. “But it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
Sholto leaned forward, and returned the dial to his last position.
“How much more is there to listen to?” Chester asked.
“Another half hour and I’ll be done.” He leaned forward, and changed the frequency.
“Did you speak to Bill? How’s Faroe?” Chester asked.
“There’s something wrong,” Sholto said. “Bill didn’t say as much, but it was obvious from what he wasn’t saying, and what he did say was bad enough. They’re grinding fish bones down to make meal.”
“For the calcium?” Chester asked.
“Yep. The admiral got around to setting up a lab. They ran some simple tests on that seaweed. It’s not the variety the Duponts thought. It’s not poisonous. It’s a source of fibre, but it’s barely got any vitamin-C. Those are the problems he’s telling me about. There are others, too, connected to the general mood, the general… gloom, I’d call it.”
“But no more car crashes?”
“People are staying indoors,” Sholto said. “You know that talent show they were putting together? People have stopped turning up to rehearse.” He flipped through a few more frequencies, then leaned back. “He thinks it’s because of Calais, but what can we do but keep sailing on?”
“True. Speaking of that, I’m going to head to the galley, see about some breakfast. You fancy taking a break?”
“I’ve started, so I’ll finish,” Sholto said, leaning forward again.
Chester nodded and left the cramped cabin. He’d reached the bulkhead door at the corridor’s end when he heard a clatter behind him.
“Chester!” Sholto called. “Come and listen!”
“Mayday, mayday… Fenton… Frobisher… Frobisher… Aux-Basques.”
The faint words battled their way through static, but they were audible, and it was a human voice.
“A woman. American,” Chester said. “Or Canadian, I guess. I could never tell the difference between the accents. Can you clear it up a bit?”
“I can’t, no,” Sholto said as the message repeated.
“Then I’m going to wake the chief,” Chester said.
Ten minutes later, the entire ship was up, and Chief Watts was bent over the small radio.
“Can you fix it?” Jay asked.
“It’s not broken,” the chief said. “I need to raise the gain.”
“How’d you do that?” Jay asked.
“Not by standing here, mashing my gums.”
“Let’s call it breakfast,” Nilda said. “I’m cooking. Beans, I think. Jay, c’mon. Everyone else, too. We’ll all get out of the chief’s way.”
Chester followed them down to the galley.
“It’s a recording, isn’t it?” Jay asked, as he and Chester began opening tins.
“I think so,” Chester said.
“But it might not be a ship,” Jay said. “Mayday’s what you say on a ship, but maybe that just means she’s a sailor. And Aux-Basques, that’s the port we’re going to. Maybe that’s where they are.”
Static blared from the ship-wide address speakers. After a second, the sound cleared, though the static didn’t entirely disappear, as the woman’s recorded words softly poured into the mess.
“Mayday, mayday. This is Diana Fenton aboard the Frobisher. Frobisher. The Frobisher. I’m stranded outside of Port-Aux-Basques. If you hear this, I’m sorry.”
The message began repeating. It played three times before the static dropped, and the chief’s voice came through clear. “This is the chief. That’s the end of the message.”
“That’s it?” Jay asked.
“Come on,” Nilda said. “One bowl each, before it coagulates.”
“But Mum, the message,” Jay said.
“Won’t have changed by the time we’ve all eaten.” She picked up a pair of bowls and took them out to the table closest to the galley. Nearly everyone was present, and the table still had more empty places than full.
The bowls were handed out, but the meal was only picked at while everyone talked over each other, taking apart the broadcast. They only fell silent when the chief entered.
“You all heard that?” he asked.
“We did, Chief,” Nilda said. “What can you tell us that we didn’t hear?”
“The signal is broadcasting from less than fifty miles away.”
“From Port-Aux-Basques,” Jay said. “That’s what she said.”
“It’s where the message was recorded,” the chief said. “Their ship might be adrift. If the strength of the signal changes, we’ll know.”
“And what else do we know now?” Nilda said. “It’s a woman called Diana Fenton, aboard a ship called the Frobisher, who was, and might still be, at Port-Aux-Basques. She’s Canadian, or American. Young, I think.”
“And she’s sorry,” Jay said.
“She’s a civilian,” Sholto said. “That’s not the correct procedure for a mayday, right, Chief?”
“I don’t know about civilian,” the chief said, “but she’s not a sailor. Not before the outbreak. She must have learned sailing since.”
“So it’s probably not a large vessel,” Sholto said. “Not if she learned how to operate it since February.”
“Eat up, everyone,” Nilda said, bringing the discussion to a close. “I’m sure no one is going back to sleep, so eat, then get ready. At first light, we’re going to find the Frobisher.”
Chapter 16 - The Frobisher
Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland
The mist turned to rain, the breeze rose to a gust, the waves grew into erratic hills, tumbling and crashing around the ship.
“We can’t get any nearer to shore!” Sholto yelled over the surging gale.
“It’s there!” Jay called, pointing. “That’s it. It has to be!”
“Get inside!” Chester barked. Abandoning the attempt to converse in the middle of a rising storm, he pushed Jay back through the door and onto the bridge.
“It’s there, Mum. I saw it,” Jay said.
“There is a boat there, run aground, beneath that hill,” Sholto said. “Red and white hull and deck, but I can’t see a name.”
“We’re in the right place, anyway,” Nilda said. “I’m pretty sure this is Port-Aux-Basques. The shape of the bay matches the map, and there’s that small island just over there. It can’t be more than fifty metres across. Which means that ship ran aground on a sandbar called Pike’s Arm, except it’s not a sandbar, is it? That’s a shallow hill covered in trees.” She slapped the map against her leg in frustration. “Chief, how safe are we here?”
“The water’s deep enough, but we’re in a tidal channel. Radiation’s low. Debris is a risk. I want to take us further in, or further out.”
“It’s a curving bay,” Nilda said. “More or less. And we saw rooftops on that bulbous peninsula to the west. The ferry must have docked somewhere on the other side of that small island.”
> “I saw zombies,” Jay said. “By the beached ship. Two of them. That means there’s someone inside.”
“Or there was,” Nilda said. “Fine. We’ll send the launch ashore to investigate the boat while we take The New World to the other side of that island. Chief, find me where the ferries dock.”
“I’ll take the boat ashore,” Sholto said.
“I’ll give you a hand with that,” Chester said.
“Cool,” Jay said. “I knew I’d get to set foot on Canada again.”
“Not this time, Jay,” Nilda said. “Chester, Thaddeus and…”
“Petrelli, Torres, and Jennings,” Sholto said quickly. “They’re best trained for this.”
“Good,” Nilda said. “See what’s on that ship, look for maps, for where it came from, then bring the launch across the harbour to us. Quick, before the storm gets any worse.”
But the storm only strengthened in the three minutes it took to grab their gear. The clock called it mid morning, but the sky was darker than sin as the launch made its slow journey towards the shore. Norm controlled the wheel, while Sholto commanded the searchlight, initially training it on the ship. As they drew nearer, he centred it on the two zombies. One stood, the other crouched, but both were near the shipwreck’s stern. Were there only two? There was something behind them. Shadows? Figures? Before Chester was sure what, the engine died.
“We can’t go closer!” Norm called, and Sholto turned the spotlight from the beached ship to the rocky shore.
“How deep’s the water?” Sholto asked.
“Five feet. Four feet,” Norm said with unusual uncertainty.
“Not so bad,” Sholto said. He unbuckled his holster, then emptied his ammunition pouch. “I’ll go first.”
“I think I should, sir,” Torres said.
“Nope,” Sholto said. “You could rescue me from the freezing water, but I don’t think I could repay that favour. I’ll go ashore, you keep that searchlight on the zombies.”