Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  “What supplies?” Locke asked.

  “Don’t play games,” Paul said. “There’s no point, and no point in stalling. No one’s going to help you, no one’s going to hear you scream, and you will scream, believe me. Kempton built redoubts, yes? Refuges across the world.”

  “They were overrun,” Locke said. “Why do you think we left?”

  “Kempton planned for that, didn’t she?” Paul said. “She had caches of supplies all over the world. Rachel saw the purchase orders. She knows about the canning factory, so where is it? Where’s all the food, the weapons, the medicine? Your redoubt would have kept you safe for the first couple of months, right? What was the plan after that? To put it another way, where were you going?”

  “We weren’t going anywhere,” Locke said. “Just looking for somewhere safe.”

  “You’re lying,” Paul said. “That’s okay. Everyone lies at first.” He opened his bag and pulled out a pair of pliers. “I learned from the best,” he said. He gave another wide grin. “Do you like ’em? Every single tooth was pulled out by the root. Yeah, I learned from the best, I learned from personal experience precisely how much pain someone can take. I know just how much and for how long. Right now, you think that you can escape.” He put the pliers back, and took out a thick leather strap, ten inches long, weighted at one end. “I have to disabuse you of that. Then I’ll really start hurting you. I’ll make you understand what pain actually is. The incentive of making it stop will get you to tell the truth.” He ran the leather strap down her cheekbone. “Sorcha Locke. You were in a car crash ten years ago. You had plastic surgery, and Lisa Kempton paid for it. It was just after you were promoted. One of the perks was a car with a driver, but the driver had five too many the night before, hence the car crash and a need for a new face. Yes, Rachel did her research. She knows exactly who you are.”

  Locke jutted her head away from the strap. “There was a court case,” she said. “The car drove straight into an empty shop. It was all over the papers. That’s not research, that’s just reading the news.”

  Paul grinned. With his face in shadow, it looked like a hollow mask.

  “As for you,” he said, walking around to Sean. “Rachel doesn’t know anything about you. Fortunately, we’ve got plenty of time to get acquainted.”

  There was a soft whish as the leather strap sliced through the air, then a meaty slap as it hit Sean, but no sound from him. Paul hit Sean again. Again. Again. A rhythmic slap of leather hitting flesh filled the cabin.

  Locke closed her eyes, forcing herself to say nothing. Sean managed to stay quiet for over a minute. Finally, a soft grunt of pain escaped from his lips.

  “Ah, good, now we’re getting somewhere,” Paul said. He began beating Sean with renewed enthusiasm, but was stopped after ten blows when the door opened. A young man stood in the doorway, an older woman just behind him.

  “What’s this?” the man asked.

  “Nothing, Mr Bishop,” Paul said. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “You can’t torture them,” Bishop said.

  Those words ignited a flash of hope within Locke. The man wasn’t as young as she’d first thought. Perhaps thirty, though it was hard to tell. His clothing was plain, simple, and dirty. His hair was short. When she looked in his eyes, though, all hope faded. His eyes were wild, betraying a madness that was confirmed with his next words.

  “A confession gained under torture would be inadmissible in any court,” Bishop said.

  Paul sighed. “I told you, it doesn’t have to be. If you write the book of laws, then you get to decide what the rules are.”

  “In the extremes of pain, at the limits of endurance, a tortured soul would sell the world,” Bishop said. “We would be unable to believe their words as truth, and isn’t that why we are here, to learn the truth?”

  Paul growled. “Fine. Yes, fine. Go on, ask your questions.” He walked around the chair and raised the bloody leather strap to Locke’s face. “I can wait.” He walked over to a bunk bed, and sat down.

  “My name is John Bishop,” the man said. “This is Ms Frost.”

  Ms Frost was around forty-five, her hair done up in a tight bun, but with the same madness in her eyes that were in those of the man.

  “Water?” Locke croaked.

  “Ms Frost?” Bishop said.

  A bottle was held to Locke’s lips. This time it was water. “Sean?”

  The woman walked behind her. There was a short gasp of pain as Sean drank.

  “What’s going on?” Locke asked. “Where are we?”

  “I will ask the questions,” Bishop said. “The answers will illuminate the past, thus bringing light to our future. In that you are an instrument of divine intervention, a gift. The question is who gave you to us? Did you come from above, or from below? You will be judged upon what you say. Yet even if you were sent to us by that tormenting demon, your confession can save your soul, your salvation can become a beacon from which a new world will arise.”

  “You want us to confess?” Locke asked. “Confess to what?”

  “Speak, let your words be recorded in the ledger, then they will be weighed against your deeds,” Bishop said.

  “And then you’ll let us go?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” Bishop said. He glanced at Paul. “It is not us who will punish. It is not us who will judge. It is not us who will kill. That is left to a higher power. No, you shall be released, but your words shall determine the manner of your release, your honesty shall dictate your survival in this life and the next.”

  Locke was still no clearer on what their fate would be, but she now knew what would happen if she stayed silent. Their only hope, their only real hope, was in buying some time, and doing it without Sean’s blood.

  “Fine. I’ll talk,” she said. “I’ll tell you about Elysium.” So she talked. She talked about the redoubt in the southwestern corner of Ireland, though without mentioning any specifics of where it was. She talked about Quigley and the soldiers he’d sent, though not about when she had first met the politician. She talked of the people who were there, and how they had died, but without mentioning their names. As she spoke, Ms Frost scrawled note after note into her ledger.

  “That’s useless to us,” Paul said, finally growing irritated. “We don’t care about that.”

  “We care about the truth,” Bishop said. “The whole truth. We agreed to let you assist, Paul, but do not forget who is really in charge. Go on, Miss Locke.”

  “Stick to what happened before the outbreak,” Paul said. “Where’re the warehouses?”

  Locke began talking again, this time beginning with when she was first hired. She told them about when she first met Sean, when she first met Lisa Kempton. She dragged out every little detail until Paul grew bored again.

  “This is pointless,” Paul said. “She’s stalling.”

  “The truth can not be rushed,” Bishop said. “But it is late. We shall reconvene in the morning.” He leaned forward. “And then we shall test you on what you have told us. We shall test your memory. If it is found wanting, even in one word, you shall regret it.” He opened the door, and left. Ms Frost followed.

  Paul lingered for a moment, then picked up his bag. “You can’t get the help,” he said. “You really can’t.” He leaned forward and took the gold and blue scarf from around Locke’s neck. “I think I know someone who’d like this, but she wouldn’t like it so much if it was covered in blood. I’ll be back in five hours, and then it’s your turn. I’ll leave the light. Don’t want you to get too much sleep.”

  “Sean?” Locke asked, after Paul had left.

  Sean grunted in pain and anger. “Fine,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.”

  “We’re getting out of here,” Locke said. “We’re getting out, and getting away. We’re going to leave this benighted corner of the world and never return.”

  Sean grunted again.

  Locke braced her feet on the floor, rocked forward, pulling her feet out and her
hands up. As Paul had beaten Sean, and as her friend had rocked back and forth in the chair, the ropes had remained taut, but the arm of the chair had loosened. She strained, pulled, stretched. There was a sharp creak of wood, but not a crack.

  “Sean, lean forward,” Locke said. “Lean forward with all your weight.

  He did. She leaned back. The bolts pinning the chair to the floor creaked. She rocked forward as she pulled her arms up. The chair’s right arm cracked, coming free from the support.

  “Good job, Sean,” she said, sliding wrist and rope off the chair’s arm. “Sean?”

  A moment later she had her other hand free, and then her feet. As she stood, the two chairs, now unbalanced, toppled over.

  “Sean?” She hurried to him. His face was a bloody mess. His eyes half closed. His lip split and bleeding. “Sean?”

  “I’m fine,” he groaned. She undid the ropes, and went to the door, regretting not having checked for a sentinel-jailor before untying Sean. No one had come in when the chairs had fallen, and she could hear nothing outside but the soft chirrup of a grasshopper. Cautiously, she tried the handle. The door was unlocked. She opened it an inch. There was no one there.

  “Sloppy,” she murmured. “There’s no guard.” Sean groaned again as he pushed himself to his knees. Locke took the water bottle from by the sink where the middle-aged woman had left it. “Drink,” she said. “Drink. That’s it. Okay, listen, you’ve got two minutes, then we’re leaving.”

  She opened the cupboards under the sink, then the ones attached to the wall. The cupboards were empty. The pipes were plastic.

  “I think Rachel was telling the truth about needing help,” she said. “I don’t think there are many people she can call on. Paul, and these… I don’t know who or what that Bishop guy was.”

  “Religious,” Sean muttered.

  “It’s not any religion I know,” Locke said. “He’s not a diligent jailor, and nor is Paul. There’s nothing we can use as a weapon. It doesn’t matter. We’re not going to fight. We’re going to run, okay? We’ll keep going in a straight line until we get to a road. We’ll follow it back to the town, get to our boat, and we’ll get out of here. Okay, Sean, it’s time to go.” She helped him to his feet.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” she said, “but you will be as soon as we get away from Anglesey. First we have to get away from Paul and Bishop.”

  Outside were steps leading down to overgrown grass. There was a familiar scent in the air. It wasn’t the smell of fish, or unwashed bodies, or cooking fires fuelled by varnished furniture. It was something else, something with which she’d grown familiar during the weeks in Ireland. It was the smell of decay.

  Immediately in front of them, about two hundred metres distant, were lights. She counted five, but they were the only illumination except for the stars and moon.

  “This way,” she whispered, helping Sean away from the lights. At any moment, she expected a shout. With every footfall, she expected a shot. With every breath, she expected it to be her last. They staggered on.

  They’d had training, but not for this. Lisa Kempton had organised survival courses, firearms practice, and self-defence exercises. They’d had classes in navigation, vehicle repair, plumbing, wiring, cooking, and farming. They’d learned how to turn the land into something they could live off, but they’d not prepared for torture. Even so, Locke was surprised there wasn’t a guard. It confirmed her earlier suspicion, that Rachel really couldn’t find the help. That amused her, but she knew the smile that wanted to turn into a laugh was born of hysteria.

  Behind the cabin were dozens of others. She picked a route that kept the blocky chalets between themselves and the house. Get away, she thought, they just had to get away.

  The cabins ended in a scraggly hedge on the other side of which were caravans. They were in a campsite. She kept going, avoiding the path, until she found a line of razor wire between two caravans.

  “I can’t see how it’s attached,” she said.

  “Then leave me behind,” Sean said. “Go on. Go and get help.”

  “No,” Locke said. Memories of Elysium came back to her, of the deaths of all those she’d recruited. “I’m not leaving anyone behind, not again. Never again.” The razor wire was justly named, but it wasn’t deep. “I’ll be a minute.”

  She left Sean leaning against the caravan’s side and went to the nearest door. It was unlocked. She grabbed the mattress from the first bunk she saw. Outside, she laid the mattress on top of the wire. “After you,” she said, and helped Sean over. She followed, but paused on the other side, staring into the dark campsite. No alarm had sounded, and no pursuit had begun. Hardly believing their luck, they slipped into the night.

  “We’re heading east,” she said after twenty minutes, finally deciding they were far enough from the campsite that she could risk talking normally.

  “Are you sure?” Sean asked, he sounded better. Though she walked beside him, he no longer needed help staying upright.

  “Do you remember the celestial navigation course Lisa took us on?” she asked.

  “I remember being taken out to the desert for what was meant to be a meteor-shower party,” he said.

  “We’re heading east,” she said. “I’m certain to within sixty degrees.”

  “That’s the wrong way. Our boat’s near Holyhead, so we want to go west.”

  “Right now, I want to get away,” she said. “At best, we’ve got until dawn. When they find we’re gone, they’ll go to our boat, if they haven’t gone there already. It’s what I would have done. Move the boat in case people ask where we’ve gone. It’s not like Rachel would have been aware we didn’t know our neighbours. But if they have already moved the boat, they didn’t find the weapons hidden in the hold. Someone like Paul would have carried one to taunt us as well as to intimidate Bishop.”

  “Small mercies, right?” Sean said. “So if we’ve lost our boat, what’s the plan?”

  “I’m working on it,” Locke said and she still was when they came to an old stone bridge over a small stream. They climbed down, and drank water out of cupped hands.

  “Now I’m starting to feel more alive,” Sean said. “Do we have a plan?”

  “We could go to the authorities, such as they are,” Locke said, “but between Bishop, Rachel, and those mercenaries in her pub, there would be a fight. People would die, and I couldn’t guarantee we won’t be among them. At the end of it, we would be asked the same questions that Paul was asking. I don’t think they’d use the same methods, but nor do I think they’d let us escape so easily.”

  “Is there any alternative?” he asked.

  “Yes. We could take one of their fishing trawlers with as much diesel as we have time to grab.”

  “What about the submarine?”

  “We’ll take our chances,” she said.

  “And go where? Portugal?”

  “No,” she said. “We have to assume they faced the same fate as Elysium. We’ll do what we should have done months ago. We’ll return to the Shannon Estuary, and to The New World. We’ll cross the Atlantic.”

  “What if Captain Keynes has gone?” Sean asked.

  “We’ll manage,” she said. “We’ll find a way. Remember Leif Erikson. We’ll take our boat north to Greenland, and then to Newfoundland. We’ll hug the coast until it’s time to head inland.” Even as she said it, she knew how desperate it sounded, but these were desperate times.

  “Good enough.” Sean straightened and stretched. “Then if we’re going, let’s get gone. I’m ready. Do you think the ranch will still be there?”

  “Oh, it’ll be there,” she said. “The question is whether anyone else is.”

  They climbed up the bank, and back onto the road. Memories of her first visit to the United States came back to her. Except for a school trip to London, that was her first time overseas. It had been three months after she’d started working for Lisa Kempton’s company. Some papers
had to be taken from Dublin to Chicago, and they were too valuable to be entrusted to a courier. Her boss had given the task to her. That trip was the first time she’d met Lisa Kempton and Tamika Keynes, and it was the first time anyone had shot at her.

  She’d delivered the papers, and been told to wait. Kempton was in the building and came to speak to her. It transpired that the papers were highly confidential, containing a list of dozens of properties that the billionaire had purchased. They were meant to be delivered by Locke’s supervisor in person. The man had tickets for a cup final he didn’t want to miss. For palming the chore off on a junior employee, he was fired, and Locke was put up in a luxury suite in a five-star hotel. Years later, she learned that the room was bugged and that she was being kept under observation in case she tried to tell anyone what was in those papers. It hadn’t mattered. She’d not looked at the documents, nor had she called anyone except her mother, and only to brag about the splendours of the room.

  The next day, she’d joined Kempton and her bodyguard, Tamika Keynes, on a tour of a construction site. That was when they’d been shot at. Locke’s instinct was to push Kempton to the ground, covering her with her body while Keynes returned fire. The assailant had died. There was no report of the incident on the news, and Locke never learned what happened to their attacker. She didn’t ask, and she didn’t dig.

  Five years later, Locke walked into a meeting room and found the assailant sitting next to Kempton. The whole incident had been staged. It was an exercise in trust and she had passed. The fake attacker was Sean O’Brian, and he’d been appointed as Locke’s number-two. Their friendship had grown, and together they had joined Kempton’s inner circle. Together, they’d learned of project Prometheus, and of Archangel, the super-vaccine. Together they had learned of Kempton’s own plans to use both to change the world.

  She shook her head. Now wasn’t the time. They were far enough east of the campsite that it was time to head for the coast.

  “We’ll take the next turning we come to,” she said. “Maybe look for some bicycles if we find an empty house.”