Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  “What about their routine?” Chester asked, peering under the table.

  “They didn’t venture far from the vehicles by day, though they were digging up some of the pasture to the west where they planned to put in a crop. At night, they’d climb up onto the gantries above.”

  “That zombie who fell from the gantry,” Chester said, “that must have been someone who was infected but didn’t turn immediately. I’d say that the brigadier was shot by someone he knew, someone sitting on the other side of this table. It might have been one of his own people, but then, why did the killer leave? And, more importantly, how did the others get infected? No, I think it was an outsider, but someone the general knew before the outbreak.”

  “It had to be a soldier, then,” Bran said, “because the Army was the brigadier’s entire life.” He went outside and counted the corpses. He’d assumed they were the undead killed by the brigadier. He moved from corpse to corpse until he was as sure as he could be.

  “I think they’re all here,” he said to Chester. “None of them were shot. They were all stabbed or bludgeoned. Only two were zombies. I don’t think any of the rest were infected before they were killed.”

  “I can’t see any weapons,” Chester said. “Did the general have any guns?”

  “They had a few rifles and sidearms,” Bran said, “but no ammunition except for the rounds I gave them. It was knives and spears, swords and axes, and whatever else they could make or find.” He walked back to the caravan, and looked briefly inside. “The brigadier’s belt is missing. It was brown leather from World War Two, a family heirloom with a gun to match, though that came from the regimental museum.”

  “There’s a few tools lying around,” Chester said. “Shovels and hammers that might have been used in a fight, but no swords. No knives. No spears. Whoever came here can’t have had much gear, and they took everything away with them.”

  “I’d say it was about a week ago,” Bran said. “Maybe a bit less. Four to seven days.”

  “I’d say the same,” Chester said.

  “That’s long enough for a survivor of this massacre to reach Anglesey,” Bran said. “None of them did, so none of them escaped. There’s nothing here, nothing that will help us or anyone else.” He looked up at the sign suspended under the bridge. “What kind of sick person does that?”

  “Change the sign, you mean?”

  “After killing all of these people, yes,” Bran said.

  “If I’m honest with you,” Chester said, “I can think of a few people I knew in my old life who’d do something like that. One person, at least.”

  Bran sighed. So could he.

  Three hills, two miles, and an hour later, they came to a fortified farm. Corrugated metal reinforced the thin fence. Rusting girders had been rammed into a ditch, held in place by poorly mixed concrete that spilled into the ruts on the ill-maintained track. Inside the ramshackle wall were a farmhouse, a long barn, two smaller outbuildings, and a water tower. It was the water tower they’d first noticed and used as a guide-marker to find their way to within a quarter-mile of the property.

  “No,” Bran said as he gave the farm a closer inspection with the binoculars. “Someone tried to fortify it, but was interrupted with the job only two-thirds done. The wall doesn’t extend to the western-side. There’s a zombie by the tractor that’s half out of the barn. Here.” He passed the binoculars to Chester.

  “Do you think someone tried to drive the tractor outside?” Chester asked. “More importantly, do you think whoever killed the brigadier made it this far?”

  “Maybe, but that zombie’s proof they’re not there now. We’re not going to make Wrexham before dark, so we’ll stay here tonight and set off before dawn.” He slung his rifle and unbuttoned his holster. “The rules of engagement have changed, but our weapons haven’t. A rifle shot might save a life, but it’ll only bring more of the undead. That goes for a revolver, too.” He drew his sidearm and then a long metal tube.

  “That’s a silencer,” Chester said.

  “It’s a suppressor,” Bran said. “You’ve seen one before?”

  “If you mean did I ever use one in my old life, no. It’s never a good idea to bring a weapon on a burglary because you might end up using it.”

  “Huh.” Bran wondered if that was meant to be a joke. If so, it was in poor taste. He let it go. “Mr Tull’s promised to make me a suppressor for the rifle. Not just for mine. It’s hard to run a lathe without electricity. Ordinarily, I’d not want to waste the ammunition for the pistol, but I’m tired. Stay behind me, and on my left hand side. Keep an eye on the rear.”

  They walked across the overgrown meadow, scattering pollen from the white and yellow flowers interspersed among the vivid green fronds. When they reached the track outside the farm, the sheet metal blocked everything except a narrow few feet of the yard.

  Bran whistled softly, and raised the pistol. “Watch our rear.”

  They heard the creature drag itself across the mud and gravel. The moment it staggered into view, Bran fired. It fell. After five minutes, the silence remained absolute and no more creatures had appeared.

  The barn was empty, as was the house. Empty of people and the undead, but they found a shotgun in the mud by a second, smaller gate just beyond the water tower. Bran picked it up, and broke it open. The shells inside had been spent.

  Inside the farmhouse, in the kitchen, they found food on the shelves.

  “Wholegrain pasta, basmati rice,” Chester said. “Chocolate blancmange. I was never a fan of blancmange, but it’s a while since I had chocolate.” He opened the cupboard below. “This is more like it. We’ve got tins of rice pudding, custard, tapioca. It’s all low sugar, but still, it’ll be a welcome change.”

  “The people who killed the brigadier didn’t make it this far, then,” Bran said. “Nor do I think whoever took refuge here will come back. No, this will make for a good safe house. Look for a shovel.”

  “A shovel? Why?” Chester asked.

  “To bury that zombie,” Bran said. “We want to make this place look hospitable.” He went to find some paint.

  It took longer to climb the ladder than to scrawl the words Safe House on the water tower. He’d found three flags in the barn, all Welsh dragons, and hung them from the railing running along the narrow platform. With the job done, Bran sat on the platform, his legs hanging over the fifty-foot drop, and watched the countryside. He’d always liked heights. Not planes, not helicopters; those made him feel apart from the world. A tall platform with a view of a wider horizon usually helped put life into a clearer perspective.

  He’d half-expected to find the brigadier and his people either dead or gone because the aqueduct was a thoroughly insecure location. That was why he’d suggested the mission to Deeside and Wrexham. He did want to set up some more safe houses, and there was a petroleum facility in Wrexham, but the government had probably requisitioned the fuel during the period between the outbreak and the evacuation. He’d used that as an excuse to get a ship to come close so he could collect the brigadier and his people. No, he’d half-expected them to be gone, and dreaded they’d be dead, but not murdered.

  Below, Chester had finished digging a grave. Bran scanned the horizon. On a hill to the southeast, figures shambled across the grassland, but they weren’t heading towards the farm. Not yet. He climbed down.

  “I’ve eaten worse,” Chester said.

  “Thanks,” Bran said.

  “I meant it as a compliment,” Chester said. “There was a week when we were down to ketchup packets, and there’ve been days when I look back on that with fondness.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you sure we can’t open one of those tins of custard?”

  “Better to leave it for someone whose need is greater,” Bran said.

  There was silence as Chester gave the next mouthful a thorough chewing. “I don’t think they were locals,” he said when enough of his mouth was free that there was space for words to come out.r />
  “The killers?”

  “I meant the people who fortified this farm,” Chester said. He waved his fork at the bags by the window. They had been packed when he and the soldier had arrived, though the contents now lay strewn about the coffee table and floor. “I recognise some of the labels,” Chester continued, “but the real clue is in how some of the gear still has the labels attached. It’s high-end stuff. Must have left here in a hurry if they didn’t have time to take it with them.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re from Yorkshire, aren’t you?” Chester asked.

  Bran nodded.

  “Is that why you don’t talk much? Or were you thinking about the brigadier? People came. They stole the supplies. That’s what life has become. We’re fighting over the scraps of the old world. Fighting to survive just another day. It’s not worth dwelling on.”

  “The eternal war,” Bran said. “That’s what it’s called, but if that’s all we do, we’ll survive today but die tomorrow.”

  “All right, so what was the general like?” Chester asked.

  Bran frowned. There was no simple answer to that question, and he didn’t know Chester well enough to give him a complex one. “I was meant to be on holiday,” he said instead.

  “When you first met the general?”

  “No, you’re right,” Bran said, “there’s no point dwelling on those deaths. I was meant to be on holiday when the outbreak happened. I was going to Australia. Scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef. Evening flights were cheaper than morning ones, that’s why I was still in England when the first outbreak hit the news.”

  “Do you wish you’d gone?” Chester asked.

  “To Australia?” Bran considered the question, and decided on an honest answer. “Sometimes. Some days. Days like today.”

  “A few hundred quid saved your life, then,” Chester said.

  “Did it?”

  “Yeah, there was a professor I met in London who said that, statistically, humanity was extinct, therefore those of us who were alive owed our existence to every misstep, mistake, and bad decision we’d ever made. That’s not quite how he put it, and thinking about it, I’m not quite sure that’s what he meant.”

  “There were many survivors in London?”

  “Not now,” Chester said. “They’re dead. They’re bound to be. It’s… no, that’s not something I want to dwell on.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we’ll run the safe houses to London one day,” Bran said.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Chester said. “It’s a dark place, absent of hope, of life. I’m never going back.”

  “Never say never,” Bran said.

  Chapter 5 - The Captain

  Rhosllannerchrugog, 3rd May, Day 53

  “Not a bad piece of paintwork, even if I say so myself,” Chester said, as Bran hung the sheet over the gate. On the sheet were the words Safe House. “I just hope those words are true.”

  “The farm was safe enough for us to spend a night,” Bran said. “That’s as much as we can promise.”

  “I was thinking more about the map inside,” Chester said. They’d sealed the remaining food in containers, and repacked the bags the previous occupants had left behind. On the kitchen counter, they’d left a hand-drawn map and a short note directing anyone who reached this far to come to Anglesey. “And I was thinking about the people who killed those friends of yours. If they find the map, they’ll come to Anglesey.”

  “They might,” Bran said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve come across a killer who survived the chaos of that first month. The day that I met Mary O’Leary and George Tull, I’d fallen into company with a group of mostly normal people and one psychopath. I should have recognised his true nature sooner, and I might have done if it wasn’t for the outbreak having changed us all. He would have killed George, Mary, and everyone else, not for their supplies, not for pleasure, but just because. But we can’t assume that everyone who might find the map is evil. No, if those killers come to Anglesey, let’s hope we identify them in time.”

  They walked across fields until they found a track. That led them to a road, and that brought them to the undead. Over forty creatures had gathered in a dip, and heard them approach. The zombies began to rise. Chester and Bran began to run, back into the grassland and up into the hills.

  After that, Bran plotted a route that avoided the roads. If it hadn’t been for the previous day’s grim discovery, he would have enjoyed it. Each year he took two holidays. He spent one week visiting his parents, and one week walking the hills and mountains. England, Wales, Scotland. Ireland a few times, the Appalachians twice, and the Great Dividing Range once. That trip to the Australian highlands had been where and when he’d got the invitation to go scuba diving. He’d almost not bought the ticket. After six months, he’d thought the invitation might have expired. It hadn’t. The moment the email came in, he’d booked the flight. His only hesitation had been at the price, which was far more than he could really afford. Not going, though, meant missing out on the true opportunity of anyone’s lifetime. He’d been a soldier long enough to know that when that particular opportunity came, it should never be passed up. Having bought the tickets, he’d spent a few glorious hours dreaming of beaches and air conditioning, of the Australian summer and blue drinks with umbrellas in them. Those dreams were dashed with the news of the outbreak.

  Of course, February wasn’t when he usually went hill walking. It was when he usually took his other holiday. His parents had returned to Poland when they’d retired. Sergeant Wojciech Emil Branofski, known as Web at school but Bran to his friends, was a dutiful son. Or he had been. His parents had died at Christmas. Bran had planned to visit their graves, but the last words his mother had spoke had rung in his ears.

  “Never give up on a chance of happiness,” she had said.

  Bran had booked the flight to Australia. A few hours after that, he’d seen the news, and reported to the nearest barracks. By nightfall, he was guarding a supermarket. Two days later, an airport. Three days after that, he was in command of twenty green recruits and two hundred innocent criminals.

  “Happiness is a long way off,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?” Chester asked.

  “Nothing,” Bran said. “Do you think that looks like a railway line?” He gestured ahead.

  “Could be,” Chester said. “There are too many trees to be sure.”

  “There’s no railway on the map,” Bran said. “Not around here. It might be a goods line, or it might be disused.”

  “Or we’re not where you think we are,” Chester said.

  “No, we are,” Bran said with absolute certainty. “It’s more likely to be a bad map. Out here, every railway will lead to Wrexham. I’d say it’s about five miles.”

  They followed the train line until they found both sets of tracks blocked with industrial boxcars. While there had to be locomotives in the distance, clustered around the rearmost boxcar were the undead.

  “I count seven,” Chester said, raising his machete. “Probably double that.”

  The nearest creature still wore a rucksack, the chest straps still tight. It lurched a step towards them, and was then knocked aside by a far taller zombie in a fluorescent jacket. As the zombie swung around, Bran saw the pack was ripped and shredded, its contents long gone.

  “Way more than double,” Chester said. He walked off the tracks to the edge of the embankment. “There’s at least a hundred. No, two hundred. No, too many to count. The train must have been full.”

  “Undead evacuees,” Bran said, backing away. “Quick now.”

  And they were back to run-walk-run across the meadows and fields.

  The sign read Rhosllannerchrugog.

  “How do you pronounce that?” Chester asked.

  “I don’t,” Bran said. “I’d call it Rhos.”

  “The railways around here are impassable,” Chester said. “There’re just too many undead, and there were too many close to that safe house. We’re not goi
ng to bring the petrol from Wrexham back to Anglesey this way. What was that place near Llandudno, the one by that road where all of those vehicles had crashed?”

  “Dwygyfylchi,” Bran said.

  “Another name I’m sure is just so the Welsh can make fun of the English,” Chester said. “Anyway, we’re not going to get a tanker down that road, so if roads are out, that only leaves the railways, and the one back there was worse than any I’ve seen in weeks.”

  “We’ll worry about it when we find the fuel,” Bran said. “If we find the fuel.”

  “I’d always worry about—”

  “There’s smoke,” Bran interrupted. He raised a hand, pointing towards the town. A thin plume of white-grey smoke arose above the treetops. “Looks like a campfire.”

  “Survivors?” Chester asked.

  “Probably.” Bran glanced at Chester, then down at himself. “Remember to smile,” he said. “We look threatening enough as it is.”

  Chester looked at his clothing, tattered and covered in mud and dried gore. “Right. Smile. I can manage that.”

  They stopped in the cover of trees on the western bank of a bridge. On the eastern bank was a restaurant. The sign proclaimed it to be The Worker’s Rest, and underneath, that it had first opened in 1757, though Bran doubted it had opened with that particular name. The remainder of the sign listed a string of rosettes and other awards that meant nothing to the soldier. That it still served beer had been relegated to a brief line at the very bottom promising ‘The Very Best Real Ales’.

  While a wall ringed the car park and restaurant, it was only three feet high. Nothing had been done to reinforce it, though a quartet of trestle tables had been stacked in the gate-less entrance. Another trestle table had been broken up and set ablaze.