Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  “About an hour ago. He arrived in Birmingham about two hours before that. How long will it take you to get there?”

  Bran checked his watch. “If today is anything to go by, I could be there tomorrow. I’ll send everyone else back to the ship, and call this evening. Out.”

  Bran hung up. He hadn’t asked exactly what he should do if Locke was lying, nor what to do with the renegade soldiers if she was telling the truth. He didn’t need to be told.

  “Battles finish, but the war never ends,” he murmured. “All right,” he added, loud enough for his voice to carry. “Finish it up, fall in!”

  The recruits scrambled back to their bikes as Lena nimbly dropped down to a ledge and then jumped to the ground.

  “What’s going on, Sarge?” Dean asked.

  “You’re going back to the boat,” Bran said. “I’m going back to England.”

  Chapter 23 - Old Friends

  Birmingham, 15th November, Day 247

  Chester had the mace in his hands and his good eye on the zombie crawling through the inch-deep, twenty-foot-wide puddle. Chester had chosen the petrol station for the rendezvous because it offered a clear view of the road into Birmingham, but it was completely absent of anywhere comfortable to sit. Glass from the shattered window had worked its way into the padding of the solitary chair behind the counter. There was nowhere comfortable to lean, either, not without risking bringing down the rest of the partially collapsed roof. Instead he stood by the shattered after-hours sales window and watched the zombie crawl across the flooded tarmac while he waited for Bran.

  It was a truly pitiful specimen, with mangled limbs and moss growing on the remains of its clothes. Its shoulders rose then fell with a feeble splash as it pivoted its hips. Chester had seen the zombie before he’d gone into the petrol station, but it had moved less than a foot in the time it took him to hang the looted beach towel on the field-side of the building. That was more than signal enough for Bran, but it would also be a signal to Quigley’s soldiers if they’d followed him. If they were Quigley’s soldiers.

  The zombie thrashed a little more violently, and that caused it to roll onto its back. Chester’s hand went to the submachine gun slung on his back. He’d barely used it since leaving London, but if Quigley’s soldiers had followed him, he’d need it soon enough. Yes, he wished he’d found another rendezvous, because he doubted the walls of the forecourt shop would stop a bullet. Then again, if they had followed him, it would make things a lot easier. He’d let them pin him down while he called Anglesey and they called Bran, and, together, they caught the renegades in crossfire. However, despite his poor hearing and worse eyesight, Chester was reasonably sure he hadn’t been followed. The partially submerged zombie was confirmation. When Chester had entered the petrol station, the zombie had seen, or heard, or sensed him. That was when it had begun its slow crawl through the puddle. If it changed direction Chester would know there was someone else in the area.

  Greta had counted five soldiers leaving the warehouse that morning, and they’d been carrying buckets. They’d gone in the general direction of the reservoir, and walked as if they’d had no care in the world. That was odd, because they weren’t that well armed. Unlike the previous day, only one had a rifle. From its over-long suppressor, it was a weapon from Anglesey. Another carried a shotgun, and the other three had fire-axes. Did that mean that they didn’t have enough assault rifles, or ammunition, for everyone? Possibly. No doubt they all had an assortment of other sharpened tools about their persons, and possibly sidearms at their belts. Those would be more than enough to fight the undead, but Chester was confident that, with the arrival of Bran and his squad, they would be able to defeat Quigley’s soldiers in a pitched battle. What he wasn’t sure about was whether they would be able to get Eamonn and Isabella out alive.

  That was a dilemma to which he had no simple answer. When facing Graham, it had been easy to sacrifice himself in order to save a greater number, but now the equation had been turned on its head. How many lives were two hostages worth? Eamonn was one of his people. Risking his own life for Eamonn was one thing, but could he risk anyone else’s?

  Isabella was a new mother, and it was a miracle her child was still alive. Then again, it was a miracle that three generations of the same family had survived. Of course, the other way of looking at it was to count the number of survivors with living relatives. That was a ridiculously small number considering that most people had begun their quest for survival with one or more members of their family.

  The infant was sick, though. Time was running out for her. The months-old powdered formula, the poor air, the damp, the cold, the fear, it was taking its toll, but the baby’s survival was now assured. It was Eamonn and Isabella whose fate was in doubt.

  From the way that the renegades had left the warehouse, they were going to collect water. From the way that they’d showed no concern for danger, they must think Locke had left the city. In which case, there was no need to keep Eamonn and Isabella alive. It was possible that the hostages might already be dead. If they weren’t, then how many lives was their rescue worth?

  It was an impossible question to answer, so instead, Chester watched the zombie. It began to thrash and roll a moment before he heard a very human whistle. A second later, the whistle came again. Chester wasn’t sure how to reply.

  “Hello?” he tried.

  “Good to see you don’t go anywhere without your towel,” Bran said. He stepped around the broken wall, less than eight feet from Chester. “It’s good to see you, Chester. What happened to you?”

  Chester raised a hand to his scar. “I got shot,” he said. “I suppose the bullet couldn’t find any brain to harm. Lost my eyesight for a bit. More or less lost the hearing in that ear, but I’m alive. Where’s the rest of your squad?”

  “I sent them back to Anglesey,” Bran said. “They were raw recruits, barely skilled at fighting zombies. I couldn’t risk them on this.”

  “Oh. I was hoping for a squad of Special Forces.”

  “You’ve got me,” Bran said. “Are you here alone?”

  “I left Greta watching the warehouse. Five of the soldiers are on the loose. I think they’re gathering water.”

  “You told Anglesey that you’d found a survivor named Sorcha Locke,” Bran said. “She’s not here?”

  “No, she’s with Greta.”

  “What did she tell you about herself?” Bran asked.

  “Not much,” Chester said. “She came through Anglesey from Ireland but barely escaped with her life. She said it had something to do with that bloke, Bishop.”

  “You know about Bishop? George told you?”

  “Yes, what’s wrong?” Chester asked.

  “Clearly George didn’t tell you about Sorcha Locke,” Bran said. “She used to work for Lisa Kempton. Locke was her deputy in Ireland, the UK, and who knows where else. She knew about the apocalypse. She knew about Quigley. As Kempton was financing Quigley’s plans, we have to assume Locke knew about them, too.”

  “So that’s why she’s got a warehouse full of a ammunition and survival supplies,” Chester said.

  “We can’t trust her,” Bran said. “You know that expression, the enemy of my enemy is my friend? When the last bullet has been fired, your enemy is still your enemy. We need to be careful. What do you know of the people with her?”

  “Three children aged ten to twelve, a grandmother and her infant granddaughter,” Chester said. “The mother’s the other hostage.”

  “I meant, do you think they knew about the warehouse? About Kempton?”

  “They’re Birmingham locals,” Chester said. He thought back over his brief conversation with the older Isabella. “I don’t think Isabella, the grandmother, knew Locke before the outbreak.”

  “And there are thirteen hostiles?”

  “Not too heavily armed, either,” Chester said. “With a few more people, I think we could take them.”

  “I doubt we have time to wait for reinforcements,�
� Bran said.

  “Nor do I,” Chester said. “When they went out for water this morning, they left as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I think they reckon either Locke has left the city, or she’s dead. In which case, why keep the hostages alive?”

  “What about the undead?”

  “It’s not too bad,” Chester said. “In fact, it’s better than London. It’s far, far better than Kent. You’ll see one on every other street, if that. Locke and her people, and then these soldiers, have been killing them.”

  “That’s something,” Bran said, “but it’s more than just in the city. On my way in, I counted fewer than thirty on the roads. There were a few more inside buildings. In northeast Wales, it was much the same. I think they’re dying, I really think they are, and in a month or two, they’ll all be gone. Then these soldiers will be able to go anywhere they want. We have to deal with them now so we don’t have to do it later.”

  “Agreed,” Chester said. “You really think the zombies are dying.”

  Bran gestured out of the window at the creature splashing through the water. “I think it’s a possibility, but they’re not dead yet, and until they are, I’m not going to bank on it. We’ve a helicopter on Anglesey. It’s a search and rescue machine, and it’s ready to collect the children. That’s the only safe way to get them out of here. When it comes, the sound will summon the undead. Even if some are dying, there will be too many for us to fight. So when the helicopter comes, we’ll all have to leave.”

  “You mean we’re not going to try to rescue Eamonn and Isabella?” Chester asked.

  “Right now, I don’t know,” Bran said. “It’s more a question of whether or not we can.”

  “This is Greta, and this is Sorcha Locke,” Chester said.

  “Sergeant Branofski,” he said. “People call me Bran. Chester said five of them left this morning. Any sign of them?”

  “They came back an hour ago,” Greta said. “They had buckets. They were full.”

  “Where are the rest of you?” Locke asked.

  “For now, it’s just me,” Bran said, “but we’ve got a helicopter that can come in and collect the children.”

  “I see,” Locke said. “A helicopter? Then things are looking up for the people of Anglesey.”

  Bran knelt down and crawled to the edge of the roof. Chester hung back, not looking at Sorcha Locke, but reassessing his opinion of the woman. Chester had heard of Lisa Kempton, but so had everyone on Earth. He’d not heard of Sorcha Locke, but then who knew the number-two of any billionaire? Cannock and McInery had played a part in Quigley’s ascension, but neither had expected an apocalypse. Considering how events had played out, not even Quigley could be said to have properly prepared for the end of the world.

  By their deeds ye shall judge them, and this woman’s deeds spoke a very dark tale, albeit tempered by her escape from John Bishop, and her actions with this small group in Birmingham. Again, he thought of McInery. She’d saved the lives of survivors. That hadn’t been out of any great love, though, but because a ruler needed subjects.

  There was a lesson in that. As long as they had a common enemy, Locke was an ally. After the helicopter arrived, it was going to be a different story, but one battle at a time.

  Bran eased himself back from the edge of the roof, rose to a crouch, but didn’t stand until he was in the shadow of the fire escape.

  “Please,” Greta said. “Just… please?”

  Bran gave her a smile and a brief nod, and then turned to Locke. “There’re thirteen of them?” he asked.

  “Thirteen, yes,” Locke said.

  “No secret escape routes? No tunnels? No hatches?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What about a sewer?”

  “There’s a septic tank under the vault and a compost-toilet,” Locke said.

  “So, no manhole covers? Where does the water come from?”

  “From the reservoir, through a five-inch pipe that I blocked.”

  “So the only way in is through the gate or onto the roof.” Bran turned back to Greta. “They have soldiers on Anglesey, Special Forces and a few Rangers, but they’re deployed in Ireland. It will take at least another forty-eight hours to get them back to Anglesey. Overland, it would be another two days before they would get here. If we could wait that long, I’d set up an overwatch position on this roof, and another sniper in the building facing the gate. I’d send one team up onto the roof at the rear, and then send another in over the bus. We’d need an explosion first, a distraction to draw as many of them out into the courtyard as possible. We’d mark our targets, and take out all that we could, then move inside hard and fast. Unless we knew where the hostages were, there would be no guarantee they’d survive. If there’s a jailer, he might use a prisoner as a human shield. If so, he’ll kill the other because a spare would only get in the way. I’ve seen it happen. Fifty-fifty are the best odds I can give you for a frontal assault, and that’s the not the odds of success, but which of the hostages would live. Casualties on our side would be low, but not zero. That’s if we had the time to wait. We don’t.” He turned back to Locke. “You blocked the water pipe. Today, five of them went out to get water. You are no longer viewed as a threat. Either they think you’re dead, or they think you’ve gone. Either way, they have no reason to keep the hostages alive. No, we don’t have time to wait. We need to act, and we need to act now, but not from up here. You’ve used this position before? They might think to look. Where are the rest of your people?”

  “It’s not far,” Locke said.

  “Show me,” Bran said.

  Chapter 24 - Older Foes

  Birmingham

  “This’ll do,” Bran whispered. The collapsible ladder clinked as he extended it, but it was barely audible against the background sounds of a dying city. “Do you want to do the honours?”

  Chester took the spray can out of a bag that was otherwise filled with dry paper and kindling.

  “This takes me back to my youth,” he murmured as he scrawled a message on the doors of the three garages while Bran climbed up the ladder onto the roof.

  The garages, more for the storage of goods than vehicles, were at the edge of an industrial unit to the south of the warehouse. All that lay between were three hundred metres of road, ruins, scrub, and one of the building sites that Kempton had purchased, levelled, but never developed. Chester took a step back. If he could read the message, then one of the renegade soldiers would easily manage it. He followed Bran up onto the garage’s low roof. It was sagging in the middle, and coated with a thin pool of foetid water. Insects buzzed around the surface, taking flight as Chester crawled over to Bran’s position. The soldier had his rifle aimed at the warehouse, but the binoculars raised to his eyes. He passed them to Chester.

  “Keep watch,” he whispered.

  “You should have asked Greta to do this,” Chester muttered, “and not just because the stagnant rainwater’s seeping deep into my clothes. I don’t have the eyesight to be a spotter.”

  “Greta’s already at the limit of endurance,” Bran said. “Thinking someone she loves is dead, then discovering they might be alive but suffering the worst torments evil can wreak on this world. No, I don’t want to add to the pressure.”

  “Fair enough, but even so, and even with the binoculars, I doubt I’ll see anything.”

  “You’ll see movement,” Bran said. “Dusk is approaching. Someone will come up before dark to inspect the perimeter.”

  “You’ve done this before, then?” Chester said.

  “Something like this,” Bran said.

  “You were in the Special Forces, the SAS?”

  “The entire British Army is a special force,” Bran said.

  “Tuck said much the same thing when I asked her,” Chester said. “Will this work?”

  “No plan can ever be guaranteed a success prior to implementation,” Bran said. “No action is without risk. A frontal assault would mean to up to four deaths. This way, it’s
only the two hostages who are in danger, and they are already close to death. There’s a slim chance we might all get out of here alive, and that’s the best answer I can give.”

  Chester wasn’t happy with the plan even though he’d come up with the initial idea. They’d returned with Locke to where her people sheltered in a cinema near the centre of the city. After a few minutes of discussion, it became clear there was no easy way to get inside the warehouse.

  Bran had his rifle and sidearm, Chester and Greta their submachine guns, Locke her crossbow. They had a few hundred rounds of ammunition. Against people, that wouldn’t last long. Chester had said they’d faced a similar problem when dealing with Graham. As he’d recounted the story, he’d realised that he had it the wrong way around.

  The warehouse was the fortress. In its way, it was as formidable as the Tower. A frontal assault wouldn’t work, so they had to get the renegades to bring the two hostages outside. Since they were only being held captive so the renegades could gain access to the vault, they needed to be persuaded that the real treasure wasn’t inside the warehouse. Bran was going to provide the evidence of that by wasting an entire magazine shooting at the bus blocking the warehouse’s entrance. As Chester and Bran ran, they would set light to the bag of kindling to guarantee that the renegades realised where the shots were coming from. They would investigate, and find the message spray-painted on the garage doors: You can have Britain. I want my people. The real vault is one mile from here. Bring the hostages to St Mark’s Church, north side of reservoir, tomorrow, noon. I’ll give you the location of the vault and the codes.

  “Do you think they’ll believe the message?” Chester asked.

  “It depends on what the hostages have told them,” Bran said, “and how much of that they believe. At least some of them will come to the rendezvous. Between a rifle and two submachine guns, we’ll catch them all in the crossfire.”

  “But will they bring the hostages?”

  “Possibly,” Bran said. “Maybe only one.”