Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  “So what do we do if there’s a hostage still inside the warehouse with half of the soldiers.”

  “I’ll worry about it when it happens.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Chester said. “Go to war, I mean. In my line, in my old life, death was a risk at times, but it wasn’t this ever-present angel.”

  “Focus on the mission,” Bran said. “Never its end.”

  “What if, tomorrow, they don’t leave the warehouse?”

  “I’ll revise the plan accordingly,” Bran said.

  “Did they teach you that in the Army?” Chester asked, as he raised the binoculars.

  “What?”

  “How to sound so calm. There’s movement,” he added. “People. Two, no, three of them. They’re coming to stand on the bus.”

  “Let me see.” Bran took the binoculars. “Damn.”

  “What?” Chester asked. “What is it?”

  “Barclay,” Bran said.

  “I think his name’s Barker,” Chester said. “Wait, Barclay? You mean the guy who killed the people near the aqueduct? I thought you shot him.” It seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been a lifetime ago.

  “I shot him,” Bran said. “I didn’t kill him. He’s got more lives than a cat. He made it to Northumberland, I saw him there.” He took aim.

  “If you shoot him now, they’ll kill the hostages,” Chester said.

  “I know,” Bran said. “Get off the roof. Quick.”

  Chester hesitated, but only for a second. He knew he could trust the soldier to make the right choice. He crawled back across the roof, and down the ladder. His head was an inch below the rooftop when the firing began. The soft crack-crack-crack almost made him fall the last few steps. The firing lasted for twenty seconds, and then he heard Bran crawl along the roof. The soldier jumped down.

  “Time to go,” Bran said.

  “Did you shoot him?” Chester asked, as he dropped a match into the kindling. There was a soft whoosh as the lighter-fluid-soaked wood and rags caught.

  “I shot an X into the bus,” Bran said. “I’ll settle the score with Barclay tomorrow.”

  Chapter 25 - The Night Before Battle

  Birmingham, 16th November, Day 248

  Eamonn

  The door to the underground cell opened. Eamonn tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too caked with blood to part.

  “One minute past midnight!” Barclay called from the doorway. “And you know what that means, but there’s good news of a sort. You have a reprieve. A message came earlier today. I didn’t want to trouble you with it at the time, but it seems that Locke is alive. She wants to trade for you. Where I’m a little confused is that her message says that the vault isn’t in this building. So, what do you think, should I believe her?”

  “Why would you believe us?” Isabella replied, utterly defiant.

  “A valid point,” Barclay said, “but I thought we’d established that I’m the one who asks the questions. Do you really want that lesson again, because we have time? I thought not. So, can I trust her? If her supplies aren’t behind that door downstairs, then where are they?”

  Eamonn spat blood onto the floor. He wanted to spit it into Barclay’s face, but he’d done that before and knew what the man would do. He’d flip a coin. Heads was Eamonn, tails was Isabella, and she would have to endure a far worse torment than a beating.

  “I don’t know,” Eamonn said, the words a guttural hiss through his broken teeth.

  “That’s honest, at least,” Barclay said. “Locke has ammunition and a gun, and she didn’t have those last week, so where did it come from? London? She disappeared for a couple of days, so is that where she went?”

  “It took me a month to get to Birmingham,” Eamonn said for the hundredth time.

  “But you are a singularly useless specimen,” Barclay said.

  “Aye, I’m useless,” Eamonn muttered.

  “She didn’t tell you everything, did she?” Barclay said. “She didn’t tell you what she knew, how she was involved in the outbreak, how she paid for the virus to be created. Do you think she told you about her real vault?”

  Barclay wasn’t sure, Eamonn realised. Up until now, the thug had been certain of everything. Certain which fingernails to pull out, which teeth to extract, where to cut, where to hit. Barclay knew how to cause pain without leaving Eamonn too incapacitated to spend his days pumping water from the reservoir. When the water pump had stopped working, Barclay had announced Eamonn was going to die.

  “You don’t know,” Barclay said. “What about you, Ms Garcia?”

  “I told you,” Isabella said. “There was nothing inside the basement. Lots of empty boxes and crates. Locke said someone had stolen her supplies. She said they’d sold them on the black market before the outbreak.”

  Despite all they had put her through, Isabella had repeated the same line over and over, and so often than even Eamonn thought she was telling the truth.

  “So was she lying to you?” Barclay asked. “Is there a real vault somewhere in this city?”

  “All I know is that she will kill you,” Isabella said.

  “That’s what I think, too,” Barclay said. “Not that she’ll kill me, she hasn’t managed it yet, but I think it’s a trap. She’s not shot at us in weeks, and we’ve seen no dead zombies with bullet holes in them. I know she took ammunition from the people of mine she killed. I think she’s been hoarding the bullets, and it’s those she used to shoot the wall. Yes, it’s a trap. She’s good at those, but I’m better. I’ll set one of my own. So you two have a reprieve. Until tomorrow, then.” He grinned, and left.

  Bran

  Bran didn’t need to check his watch to know that they were nearer to dawn than sunset. The delay had been caused by the infant Isabella. They’d been minutes from departure when the baby had begun to cry. Finally, she was sleeping, but it had been a reminder of how precarious their position was. Bran would give her another twenty minutes to properly settle, and then they would depart.

  It was less than a mile from the cinema to the car park near the library. He’d walked the route at dusk, after confirming that Barclay’s people had all returned to the warehouse. Bran knew Barclay of old, and his brief observation of the warehouse and its lack of a permanent sentry had confirmed that the man hadn’t changed. The renegades wouldn’t leave the warehouse at night, but they almost certainly would leave at dawn to set up an ambush at the church where the hostage exchange was meant to take place. That was fine with Bran. He planned to set up his own ambush close enough to the warehouse that those soldiers who remained inside would hear the shooting. As soon as the hostages were brought outside, Bran would attack. If some of the soldiers had already gone to the church, all the better. Though it begged the question of whether, after freeing Isabella and Eamonn, he should concentrate on finishing those in the warehouse, or those who’d already left. Once the hostages were safe, his priority had to be Barclay. Wherever he was, Bran would go. The man had to be stopped.

  First, though, he had to get the civilians to the roof of the car park where the helicopter could collect them. Anglesey had it ready to leave, but it was going to fly light. It was a hundred and fifty miles from Birmingham to Anglesey in a straight line, but the chopper was going to fly over water until it reached England so as not to disturb the undead in Wales. That would add fifty miles to the outbound leg. Assuming that they flew back the same route, it would be at least four hundred miles. The helicopter had a range of five hundred and fifty miles, though a lot depended on the wind and exactly how much time the chopper spent in the air between collecting the civilians and the hostages. There was a margin of error, but it wasn’t as large as he’d told the older Isabella and the children.

  He smiled. The helicopter wasn’t his problem. Getting the civilians a mile through the night-time city was. One mile? That was easy enough.

  Locke

  Locke stared at the blank cinema screen, her mind lost in a memory of Sean O’Brian, a heat
wave in New York, and a midnight screening of Serpico. That had been a good night. There had been many like them. Odd moments snatched from the frantic chaos of preparing for the apocalypse. There hadn’t been a chance for a life, for romance, or even friendship beyond their inner circle. Sean had been a friend, a good friend, the brother she’d never had. So many had died in Elysium and elsewhere, but his was the death she regretted the most, the life she missed, the memory she couldn’t forget.

  Greta looked anxious. Well she might. Eamonn was probably dead. The two of them had known love, for however brief a time. The woman would grow to appreciate that if she lived long enough. Locke knew that her chance at that variety of happiness died long before the outbreak.

  It was over. It had been over the moment that the infection had escaped the hospital in New York. Lisa’s preparations had been a last resort, a desperate contingency if all other plans failed. Those plans had failed with spectacular swiftness. Those desperate contingencies had collapsed soon after. Locke had clung onto them, onto Lisa’s dream, beyond the point where any hope remained of it being realised. No, it was over. She should have accepted it when Elysium had fallen. If she had, Sean might still be alive. It was over, which meant it was time for a new plan, and there was only one that was possible. Assuming, of course, that she survived the day.

  Chester

  Bran looked tense. Greta was anxious, knowing that by the end of the day, Eamonn would be dead or in her arms. Locke was quiet. It was left to Chester to be cheerful.

  “Think of this as a race on sports day,” he said to the children, “but one where the prize doesn’t go to the fastest, only to those who complete the course.”

  Hazel, the oldest of the children, nodded.

  “I didn’t like sports day,” Damian said.

  “Me neither,” Phoebe said, a fraction of a second later.

  “Yeah, okay, that was a bad example,” Chester said. “Actually, thinking about it, I don’t think my school ever had a sports day. Or if it did, I never went. Then again, I did miss quite a lot of school. When I should have been in lessons, I was running through the streets. When I was bit older, I wasn’t in school because I was asleep having spent the previous night running around the railways and rooftops. Now that was in London, but the same principle applies here. We’ve got about a mile to travel, back to the library.”

  “We know the way,” Phoebe said.

  “Hush,” the older Isabella said. “Listen to the man.”

  “You know a way,” Chester said. “It’ll be different at night. We’re going to travel quietly, and together, and for most of it, we’ll be moving in the dark. In daylight, this would take twenty minutes. Tonight, it’s going to take longer, and seem far longer than that, but even if we have to stop, we’ll be safe at the library long before an hour is up. Now, first things first, we don’t want to make any noise. There are no loose straps?”

  “Just this one,” Damian said tugging at the rope around his wrist.

  “Hsst!” the older Isabella hissed. The children went still.

  “Check your shoes,” Chester said. “Make sure there are no loose stones in the treads. No metal keyrings liable to knock into a button? No loose change in your pockets?”

  “Why would anyone carry loose change?” Phoebe asked.

  “Good point,” Chester said.

  They were leaving almost everything behind. Chester checked his water bottle and weapons, and then the straps loosely tied to his left wrist and which were each attached to a separate child. He could drop them if he needed to fight, and the children could pull them free if they had to. The pack on his chest contained the last of the children’s worldly possessions. It was a motley assortment of keepsakes that Chester would have left behind, but the children hadn’t wanted to, and he didn’t want to risk them attempting to return for them. With Chester carrying those, the three children were carrying nothing. Isabella was carrying the infant, but the baby was now thankfully silent. As long as she stayed asleep until they reached the car park, they would be safe. The children were scared. If Chester was honest, so was he. Before the outbreak, he’d loved the night. Ever since, he’d tried to stay behind thick doors and thicker walls after the sun went down.

  “I think we’re ready,” Chester said.

  “Ms Locke,” Bran said. “If you would lead the way.”

  Chester mentally ran through the route as they left the cinema. They had to follow the side roads to Upper Dean Street, then Hill Street to the Town Hall. It wasn’t the shortest route, but it involved the fewest turnings and it avoided travelling through the ruins of the Bullring shopping centre. Travelling at night under the open sky was one thing, under ground was something else entirely. After the nightmare that had been the Tube in London, Chester never wanted to venture below ground again.

  Large clouds scudded quickly across the sky. Their speed spoke of a new storm on its way. For now, the more immediate concern was that stars and moonlight were blocked.

  Bran turned on his torch. Everyone else followed suit. The light from the children’s weak beams shook. Chester had pinned his to his chest, otherwise he was sure it would have been just as unsteady.

  “Lights on the ground,” Bran said. “Never up, and never into anyone’s eyes. Ms Locke?”

  They began their slow journey. Beneath their feet, leaves rustled, plastic split, metal crunched, and then, from somewhere to their left, glass tinkled to the ground.

  Bran hissed, and swung his rifle up. The torch attached to the barrel shone on a zombie just before he fired. The zombie crumpled to the ground.

  “We’re fine,” Bran said calmly. “But we can pick up the pace.”

  It was easy to say, but their speed was determined by the three children, and by the older Isabella carrying the infant in her arms. Chester wanted to offer to carry the baby, but he needed his hands free for the fight that was coming, and it came just after they reached an unhelpful road sign. One arrow pointed to the ring road, another to the railway. There was no mention of the Town Hall or the library, but just beyond the sign were the undead. Chester counted three before Locke fired. He had given her his silenced submachine gun, and she made good use of the weapon. A zombie with a jagged gash running from lip to empty eye socket collapsed as a bullet smashed into its forehead. The other creatures staggered on, their arms raised, their mouths open, the torchlight glinting on rusting zips and exposed bone. Bran fired. Locke fired again. The creatures fell.

  “It’s over,” Phoebe whispered.

  “Not yet,” Hazel said.

  She was right. From somewhere in the ruins, glass cascaded onto brick in a torrent that lasted five seconds but seemed like five hours.

  “Keep moving!” Bran said, less calmly than before. They moved, but not nearly quickly enough. Their lights danced from one patch of rubble-strewn road to the next, from one long-dead zombie to another, and that creature raised its head. Chester raised his mace. Before he could hack it down, a bullet smashed into the zombie’s temple. Greta lowered her submachine gun.

  “Almost there,” she said. “Almost there.”

  Ahead Bran fired one shot and then a second. Chester couldn’t see what he was aiming at.

  “Don’t stop!” Bran said, firing again. “Keep moving!”

  “Come on,” Chester said, pulling at the ropes attached to the children’s wrists. He turned his head to the left to look at them. When he turned it back to the right, he saw Greta, her rifle raised, firing back behind them. He followed the beam and saw the undead. One fell, and then another, but in the moving beam of light he saw a dozen more sepulchral faces barely twenty feet away.

  “Move!” he hissed.

  “Right!” Bran called. “Go right! Down there!” Bran flicked his torch to shine on a side road, before returning his aim to the creatures in front. Locke ran down the road first, her light disappearing for a moment. There was a dull crack as she fired.

  “It’s clear!” Locke called.

  “Almost
there,” Chester said, as he pulled and chivvied the children along.

  “We’re almost there,” the older Isabella echoed as she followed them into the alley. Chester heard Bran and Greta’s feet behind him. He hoped it was theirs. He didn’t turn to look. The children had their lights shining every which way and he found it disorientating. He had to close his left eye just to keep his balance, but taken with the stroboscopic illumination, staying upright and moving forward was as much as he could manage. Locke ran, paused, fired, moving as professionally as Bran, sweeping broken windows, alley mouths, and open doorways as she took the lead.

  A narrow street. A wide road. An alley blocked with bollards at either end. Chester looked for signs, but saw none when his light, and then the children’s, struck battered sheets of reflective metal. Light bounced up and away, shining on a monstrous expanse of ruins.

  “The Bullring,” Isabella murmured. “We’re almost there.”

  “Almost there,” Chester echoed.

  “Almost,” Hazel said.

  Phoebe whimpered. Damien moved closer to her, and that tugged on the strap attached to Chester’s wrist. As he turned around, he saw the zombie, barely three feet from Isabella and her granddaughter. Chester dropped the straps as the zombie lurched out of the darkness. The older Isabella thrust out her hand, warding it off, while moving the infant to her other arm. The creature’s mouth snapped down. Blood arced from Isabella’s hand. She hissed, but didn’t scream. Chester punched the mace into the zombie’s face. The creature staggered back with the impact. Chester drew the mace back, but it was too big a weapon for such close quarters. The zombie lurched a step forward, and Chester wasn’t going to raise the mace in time. There was a muffled crack. The zombie fell.

  “Almost there,” Greta said, lowering her submachine gun an inch.

  “Almost there,” Chester echoed, repeating the words that were becoming their mantra. “Isabella, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Isabella said, though through gritted teeth. Metal clattered across brick somewhere in the distance. “Can you take her?”