Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  “The note’s here,” Greta said. “There’s a bag of supplies under this table. It’s untouched. When did Bran come here?”

  “During the summer, according to George,” Chester said. “I’m not sure precisely when.”

  “Four or five months? No one’s been here since.”

  “There was that bike by the signal box,” Chester said.

  “Exactly,” Greta said. “Whoever owned it must have been killed. Why else would they have abandoned their bicycle? Let’s find that safe house.”

  “You don’t— Sure,” Chester said. He wanted to look at the rest of the train, mostly because it would be a story to tell the children. It came of living in an ancient castle where the old crown jewels had become a children’s plaything. But Greta was right, no one had been in the train, and anyone who’d come this far would surely have been as curious as he. He followed her back outside. The wind was picking up.

  “Maybe Eamonn came a different way,” Chester said. “I mean, if it was me, picking a route that avoided the motorways, I’d go for the railways and the canals, but he might have stuck to the side roads.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” Greta said. “Do you know how many survivors have arrived on Anglesey since you and Nilda left there?”

  “No,” Chester said. “I didn’t ask.”

  “I did,” Greta said. “I asked those sailors. They didn’t know the exact number, but it’s less than a hundred, and that’s counting the people they found in Ireland. No one made it from Kent. I mean, if they had, they would have mentioned the children, wouldn’t they?”

  “Hmm.” Now it was his turn to be thoughtful. “So no one from Kent, well, we guessed that, and I suppose if there was anyone left in the Home Counties, they would have made their way to London and the Thames.”

  “Anglesey is a logical destination for any survivor to try to reach,” Greta said. “It’s not the only one. Anglesey, the Isle of Man, the Isle of Wight, Orkney, those are the obvious places to aim for. If anyone had enough supplies to last this long, but was worried they’d run out during the winter, the beginning of autumn was the most sensible time to make the journey. The days would still have been long, the nights not too cold. Few people made it. Why? Because there’s no one left.”

  “There probably is,” Chester said.

  “Maybe a handful,” she said. “Maybe a few hundred spread out across Britain, but not a group like ours. We’re the exception because we have ammunition for silenced weapons. We have military rations, and without them we would have left the Tower and attempted to reach Anglesey. We would have died, Chester. Don’t you see? That’s what has happened. We’re the last. It’s over.”

  Chester wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing.

  “There, up on the hill,” Greta said half a mile later. “There’s a house with sheets hanging from the windows. Can you see it?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Sure.”

  “What colour is the flag hanging out of the left-most window?”

  “It’s the cross of St George,” he said instantly.

  “It’s a pink bed sheet,” she said. “Use the binoculars. Tomorrow, we’ll find you some glasses. What was the nearest town, Aylesbury?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then we’ll look there,” she said. “For signs of Eamonn or…” She trailed off.

  There were footprints in the mud leading from the railway and a trio of lines trampled through the overgrown paddock. Chester had the mace in hand long before they reached the house.

  They found the zombies outside a barn. Three creatures squatted by the partially open door. Chester had no trouble seeing the stains around the wounds where they’d been infected, the cuts and wheals that had spread as the rotting skin had stretched, the tufts of hair on a balding scalp, or the broken, blackened teeth. He swung the mace low, then high, letting his muscles take over. He slammed the ancient weapon into a knee, then up into the zombie’s head as it fell. A small, shiny cube flew from the creature’s ear. With a practiced flick, Chester turned the upswing into a sideswipe that crushed the next zombie’s arm. It staggered sideways, and he stepped back before he punched the mace into its chest. Ribs cracked, and the zombie crumpled to its knees. He swung down, crushing its skull just as its hands clawed around Chester’s boots. He kicked his feet free, bringing the mace back up.

  There was a muffled crack as Greta fired. The last zombie fell.

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “Better? I feel tired.”

  “Sometimes you need to feel in control,” she said. “You did the same thing in Kent.”

  “I did?”

  “Sure.” Greta shrugged. “But so did I. I think we all feel like that. The one thing we all learned from the outbreak, the war, is that we were all utterly powerless to have stopped it.”

  Chester wiped the mace clean on the long grass, and saw something glint in the sunlight. It was the object that had flown from the zombie’s face, a diamond earring. Sometimes it was too easy to forget the living dead had been living people not so long ago.

  It took a minute to confirm that the barn was empty of the undead, twenty to confirm that there were no more in the surrounding paddocks, and another thirty to check the house itself.

  Chester dropped his pack on the kitchen floor. “That’s the map,” he said, pointing at the counter top. “It’s in Bran’s handwriting.” He checked the cupboards underneath. “Someone’s been here,” he said. “There’re a couple of empty cans in the rubbish bin. We’d have to check how much food Bran left here before we can tell how much was eaten, but we can do that when we call in.”

  “There’s not much point,” Greta said, crossing to the kitchen window. “One person or two, three months ago or four, it doesn’t matter. They left because of that map, but they didn’t get to Anglesey.”

  “It’s directing them to Llanncanno,” Chester said. “That’s a beach along the coast.”

  “It was a mistake,” Greta said.

  “What was?”

  “The maps,” she said. “Telling people to leave these safe houses. They should have been told to stay here, and that help would come.”

  “But help wouldn’t have come,” Chester said. “This way, they had a chance. What was the alternative? There was a well in the barn. I’m going to get some water. We’ll have a wash, have some food, and get some rest.”

  As a rule, Chester avoided introspection. In his old life, thinking too deeply conjured questions about the morality of his deeds. That was never a good idea for a professional thief. Part of being a professional, and one of the ways he’d avoided incarceration, was to observe his victim prior to a crime. He’d get to know their schedule, their habits, their weaknesses. Of course, back then, he’d thought of them as marks, not victims.

  Since the outbreak, and since he was first bitten, he’d found it impossible not to think too deeply. He’d tried channelling that into thinking about others, deciding his own future was pre-determined, and that redemption would come through self-sacrifice. Then he’d met Nilda, and he’d read some of Bill Wright’s journal. He’d learned what Cannock had done, and confronted the real truth of his own past.

  Chester had never been as evil as his childhood associate, but he’d never stopped Cannock. He’d had many opportunities to turn the man into the authorities or to do the more normal, human thing of trying to make the man see the error of his ways. Yet how could Chester have done that without accepting the errors of his own? He’d devoted himself to finding Jay, and then to keeping the others alive, but always with the expectation that his own life would eventually be forfeit. He had expected to die, but in the end, he had survived.

  In Kent, he’d thrown himself at the undead because he’d not placed any value on his own life. He’d done the same in London and elsewhere. Since then, he’d told himself that he had a blank slate, an uncertain future before the final certainty of death. He had Nilda, he had Jay, and he had everyone else. So was
Greta right, did he need to feel in control? Or was there something else?

  “How does anyone ever know?” He dropped the bucket down into the well.

  As he was hauling it up, he heard running footsteps. A moment later, Greta dashed into the barn.

  “It was Eamonn!” she said, holding something out.

  “What’s that?”

  “Eamonn’s ring! He was here.”

  “He was?” Chester let go of the rope. The bucket plummeted down into the well. He peered at the ring, but to him it was just a gold wedding band. “Did you give that to him?”

  “It was from his first marriage,” she said. “His wife died. He wore this around his neck.”

  “Are you sure it’s his?”

  “Look at the inscription,” she said.

  There were letters, and one might have been an E, but he couldn’t tell. “If you’re positive.”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “By a window,” she said.

  “Was there a note?”

  “No. I… I’ll look again.”

  “Right. I’ll come and help in a moment.” He turned back to the well. The rope had slid in, all the way to the bottom.

  By the time he’d found another bucket and rope, and had collected enough water to wash and drink, Greta had searched the house twice.

  “There’s no note,” she said. “Should I expect one? No. Eamonn wouldn’t have expected to fail, not this close to London.” She sounded far more energised than earlier.

  “All right,” Chester said as he scraped his knife along the edge of the chair. He peered at the splinter. “Looks okay, just polish, not varnish. Shouldn’t be any dangerous fumes.” He threw it into the grate. “All right, so Eamonn came here for the same reason that we did, for the same reason that Bran set up a safe house here. If you’re avoiding the motorways, the railway is the obvious alternative. There’re a few lines leading from London, but this was the most logical route to get to Wales.”

  “The note in the kitchen mentions a place in Wales, but it’s not Anglesey.”

  “Llanncanno,” Chester said.

  “When was the last time anyone went there,” she asked.

  “No idea. I’ll ask when I call in with our position.”

  “Maybe he’s there,” she said. “I mean, he has to be somewhere. He… he…” She trailed off, the excitement fading from her voice. “He made it this far, that’s all. He made it far enough out of London that, when something went wrong, he tried to go on rather than go back. That doesn’t alter that something did go wrong.”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Chester said. “In some ways he survived the most difficult part.”

  “Oh, Chester,” she gave a wan smile. “You’re humouring me, and I thank you for it, but the truth is that he’s dead.”

  “If I’m humouring you, I’m humouring myself, too,” Chester said. “Let’s assume he’s alive. So, if he’s alive, he’s injured, probably with a broken leg or something, but that means he has to be somewhere with supplies. Most likely it’s another safe house. When he left here, he would have travelled to the safe house in the Cotswolds mentioned on that map. That’s about fifty miles away. If he made it that far, he would have aimed for Llanncanno. So, that’s the route we’ll take.”

  “Do you really think he’s alive?” Greta asked.

  Chester took out a small bottle of lighter fluid from his pack and gave the wood a generous squirt. He struck a match and flicked it onto the kindling. There was a soft whoosh as the fire took.

  “Chester?” Greta prompted.

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” he said. “Part of me thinks that anyone who survived the outbreak stands a good chance of still being alive today. The other part of me remembers all those who I’ve seen die. I’ll give George a call and see when someone last went to that beach.”

  The call went through, but it wasn’t George that answered.

  “Chester, yes? Hi, sorry you’ve caught us in the middle of dinner.” The voice was English, male.

  “Hi, yes, this is Chester, who’s this?”

  “Bill Wright. I’ve been wanting to speak to you for a while, but that particular conversation can wait until we meet. Where are you?”

  “Near Aylesbury,” Chester said. “The safe house at Cuddington, near the ruin of the Royal Train.”

  “Ask him if the Queen was in it,” a young girl said.

  “Sorry,” Bill said. “The phone’s plugged into the speakers. The whole room can hear you. Is there any sign of your friend?”

  “Actually, yes,” Chester said. “He came through here, though we’re not sure when. Bran left a note here that lists two other safe houses, one in the Cotswolds, the other at Llanncanno. Do you know the last time anyone went through there?”

  “No, but I’ll find out,” Bill said.

  “How did you know it was me calling,” Chester asked.

  “It’s caller I.D. of a sort,” Bill said. “We’re routing all calls through a digital switchboard, one we’ll take with us when we go. We’re hoping to set it up so people can call each other rather than having all calls coming through here, but that’s proving more complicated than we have time for. We’ve got a boat heading towards Caldey Island, then to Lundy. If you’re heading to Llanncanno, they can pick you up.”

  “I’m not sure if we’ll end our search when we reach it,” Chester said.

  “Of course,” Bill said. “I totally understand.”

  “Ask him about the train,” the girl said again.

  “There was no sign of the Queen,” Chester said.

  “Call back in the morning,” Bill said. “I’ll see what more information I can find. We’ll send the boat to Llanncanno anyway. You can get on board or you can resupply.”

  “Thank you,” Chester said.

  “Of course. I understand what you’re doing, and why,” Bill said.

  Chester went back to the fire, and watched the flames. Bill Wright might think he knew his motivation, but Chester wasn’t sure he knew it himself.

  Chapter 19 - Jagged Scars

  Oxfordshire, 12th November, Day 244

  Even Chester could see the jagged scar ripped out of the landscape by the passage of thousands of the undead, but he didn’t raise the binoculars. He had no desire to see the details.

  “Zombies did this?” Greta asked. “This was the horde? They came all this way from Hull?”

  “A horde did it,” Chester said. “I don’t know if it was the same one as Nilda and I saw in Hull.”

  “If it was, then it came from the north, and turned west here,” Greta said.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’m going to call it in. We’re not going to reach Bicester now.”

  “No?”

  Chester pointed at the jagged gash leading westwards. “It’s over there.” Before they’d left the safe house, he’d called Anglesey. They’d been given a list of places that lay more or less on the route to Wales and been asked to investigate them. The first was a vehicle-restoration centre near Bicester. Someone on Anglesey had liberated an old Triumph motorbike from there, and made it to the shadow of Snowdon before the engine had given out. That had been three weeks after the evacuation, but, in addition to a score of other heritage vehicles, they’d found tanks of fuel. It wasn’t likely that the fuel had survived the intervening months unlooted, but it had been worth making a slight detour to check. “No,” he said again, “we’re not going to Bicester now.”

  Greta jumped the ditch at the side of the road and climbed the dry-stone wall. “Nothing. No, there! Movement. Zombies. Two of them.” She climbed down, and sat on the wall’s edge. “They’re heading south.”

  “Right,” Chester said. He took out the sat-phone and called Anglesey.

  “Is that Chester?” It was the young girl who answered.

  “It is. Is anyone there?”

  “It’s just me,” she said. “Everyone’s packing.”

  “Is so
mething wrong with power plant?” Chester asked, a new fear piling on top of that of the horde.

  “Oh, no. I mean, yes, but there’s no change, not that they’ve told me. We’re always packing, now. Where are you? Did you find the motorbikes?”

  “We didn’t get to Bicester,” Chester said. “We’re about ten miles west of the safe house. We’re… we’re looking at a…” He struggled to find words to describe it. “A horde passed this way. They’ve left a jagged scar through the landscape. Either they came north and took an abrupt turn west towards Wales, or they came from the west and headed north.”

  “Leaving, like, a desert behind?” the girl asked. “Like there’s nothing but dirt and dust and rubble and twisted metal? Hang on, I just need to find the map.” She didn’t seem shocked. There was the sound of pages being turned. “Is it near Stratford-upon-Avon?”

  “Look south of there,” he said.

  “Yeah, maybe it’s the same one that trapped us near Wales,” she said.

  “Can you get the satellites overhead?” he asked.

  “I could,” she said, “but I’m not allowed to do it again. I’ll have to ask Kim.”

  “Then you do that,” he said. “I’ll find out precisely where we are, and I’ll call back.” Chester hung up.

  Greta’s eyes were fixed on the desolate expanse.

  “It was a girl on duty, a teenager,” Chester said. “Everyone else is busy. Not sure it would have mattered who answered, mind you. She said she saw something like it before. Asked if it looked like a desert.”

  “Deserts don’t have arms sticking out of them,” Greta said.

  “Arms?”

  “You can’t see them?” Greta asked. “They’re moving like branches caught in the wind. It’s the buried undead. You see that one, there’s ivy growing up its arm.” She waved vaguely at the barren expanse.

  Chester squinted.

  “Just use the binoculars,” Greta said.

  “Nah, there’s no point,” Chester said. “Though maybe we should look for a pair of glasses. Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”