Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  Chester clipped the mace to his belt, and took the bundled infant from Isabella. The child was thankfully warm, but whimpering quietly.

  Locke fired. Something heavy fell to the ground.

  “There’s two more,” Locke said. “Two more in the shadows.” A louder clatter came from the ruined Bullring.

  “Move!” Bran said. Following Locke, they ran through the streets. Their passage marked by the sound of one shot and then the next.

  Chester thought he caught the word library on a road sign, but didn’t want to believe it.

  “I know this road,” Phoebe suddenly said. “We are almost there. We are!”

  Chester didn’t want to dare believe she was right.

  Bran and Locke suddenly stopped. Chester and the children staggered to a halt behind them. There was a trio of shots from Bran and three more from Locke. Chester followed the beams of light and saw the undead streaming out of a gaping hole in the side of a box-shaped building.

  “Greta, watch the rear,” Bran said without looking away from the sea of undead flowing into the street. “Chester, you have the sat-phone? When I say run, take the children find somewhere inside, anywhere you can barricade. Call Anglesey.”

  “Understood,” Chester said. He shifted the infant to his left hand side, getting ready to fight his way through the nightmare streets. He let his mind go blank, thinking not of the future, nor of the past, but only of the present threat as the undead lurched towards them. He ignored the shots as one, then the next, fell. He ignored the rattle of spent casings hitting the road. He ignored the whimpering of the children, and the bubbling fear in his own chest.

  “Greta? What’s the rear like?” Bran called, slotting a fresh magazine into place.

  “We’re clear,” she said.

  “Up to the front!” Bran called.

  Greta ran forward to add her submachine gun to the volume of fire being aimed into the building.

  “It’s the library,” Isabella said calmly.

  “That building?” Chester asked, keeping his tone just as nonchalant.

  “That’s where we were sheltering,” Isabella said. “It was a good home. I don’t think they have anything similar on Anglesey.”

  “I… uh… I don’t think so,” Chester said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Too much of his mind was concentrating on Bran, waiting for the man’s command to run. It would come soon. Very soon. Before it did, there was a different warning shout.

  “There! Behind us!” Isabella called.

  Chester spun around. The creature was barely ten feet away.

  “Here!” He thrust the infant into Hazel’s arms as he drew the bayonet. As the zombie lurched forward, Chester launched himself at the creature. He knocked its arms out of the way, grabbed the back of its neck, and plunged the knife up through its mouth and into its brain. With a twist, he wrenched the blade free. As the zombie fell, he decided it was over. It was time to run. He was about to lead the children somewhere, anywhere, when he realised that it was over. The firing had stopped.

  “Clear! We’re clear!” Bran said. His voice was low and as calm as ever.

  Five minutes later, they were on the roof of the multi-storey car park, huddled between an abandoned car and the low exterior wall.

  “Can the helicopter land here?” Isabella asked.

  “Easily,” Bran said.

  Chester slumped against the wall, but then remembered Isabella’s injury.

  “Let me see your hand,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” Isabella said. “It’s just a scratch, that’s all. It’s nothing serious, though I could do with a bandage.”

  “Here,” Bran said, taking one from the pouch at his belt.

  “Are you immune?” Chester asked.

  “Of course,” Isabella said. “I’ve never had a day’s sickness in my life. No Isabella Garcia ever has.”

  “Except that cold you got in September,” Phoebe said.

  “That was hayfever,” Isabella said. “It’s entirely different.”

  Bran finished tying the bandage. Isabella barely flinched, though her expression hardened.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Bran said. “You need rest, and you’ll have it soon. I make it about three hours until dawn, about eight until the helicopter arrives. Keep an eye on them, Chester, I’ll be back.”

  He headed for the ramp. Chester didn’t ask where he was going, nor did he volunteer to help. For once, he was happy to let someone else do the work.

  As adrenaline wore off, the cold set in. Chester broke the lock on the car door, and the children huddled in the back, Isabella in the front with her still-sleeping granddaughter. He stayed outside with Greta and Locke, and then with Bran when he returned.

  “The car park is empty,” the soldier said. “There are no zombies inside, or in the stairwell. I think there might be a few still moving in the library, and others in buildings nearby. As long as you’re quiet, you should be fine. The ramp leading up here worries me, but there isn’t anything to block the entrance. I looked at the cars down on the ground level, but their tyres are flat. Moving them would take too much effort and make too much noise.”

  “We’ll stay quiet, then,” Chester said. “We can manage that.”

  He looked over at Greta, she was the quietest of all, but there were no words of reassurance Chester could offer. Soon, it would be over. Soon, they would know whether Eamonn was alive. Soon.

  “There’s light on the horizon,” Bran said. “We need to leave. Chester, when there’s enough light to see the numbers on the phone’s keypad, call Anglesey, confirm your location. We’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Good luck,” Chester said. There wasn’t anything else to add. Leaving Isabella and the children in the car, he crossed the short distance to the wall. He listened to the soft sound of quickly moving footsteps as the three humans ran into the city. He kept listening as they were replaced with the slower, dragging, lurching sound of undead feet staggering along the road. When those feet, too, had disappeared, he placed the call.

  It was answered immediately by Bill Wright. “Chester? Where are you? How many are with you?”

  “We’re on the roof of a car park, next to the library,” Chester said. “There’s one infant, three children, two adults.”

  “And we’re collecting five adults later?” Bill asked.

  Hopefully, Chester thought. “That’s right,” he said.

  There was a moment’s pause at the other end. “That’ll be fine. We’ll have more than enough room, though not for baggage. The helicopter will arrive at noon. If there’s a change in your situation, call. Otherwise, I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I suppose you will,” Chester said. He hung up. Above, the clouds were gathering. He shivered, pulling his coat close around his neck. He didn’t think there would be snow, but there might be rain. Would that affect the helicopter? Presumably, but precisely how much, he didn’t know. That wasn’t his problem. He went over to the car.

  “You’re smiling,” Isabella said.

  “It’s almost over,” Chester said, “and the hardest part is already done. We just have to wait and help will come to us. This evening, we’ll be back among the electric lights.”

  “On Anglesey?” Damien asked.

  “That’s right,” Chester said. “You can have a hot bath, and a hot meal, in a centrally heated house. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Sorcha said that Anglesey wasn’t a nice place,” Hazel said. “They killed her friend.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Chester said. “I know there were some bad people, and I know the good ones dealt with them.”

  “But you’re from London,” Damien said. “Is that where you’re going back to?”

  “Me, Greta, and Eamonn, yes,” Chester said. “At least for now.”

  “What’s it like?” Phoebe asked.

  “London?” Chester looked at the skeletal frames of the buildings jutting up into the g
rey sky. “It’s not as bad as this, though it’s not too different. The Tower’s all right, but it can get a bit cold. The river smells a bit, though it’s not as bad as it was. We’ve got the crown jewels. The kids like to play with them, taking it in turns to be princes and queens.”

  “There are children there?” Hazel asked.

  “Of course, didn’t you hear what Eamonn said?” Phoebe asked. “So we’re agreed? That’s where we’ll go. Not to Anglesey, but to London.”

  “We’ll see,” Isabella said.

  Chester wasn’t sure if it was his place to say yes to their coming to London, though he saw no reason to say no. Sorcha Locke was a different matter entirely. After a few more hours in the woman’s company, he’d already decided that she wouldn’t be welcome in the Tower. It wasn’t that he entirely distrusted her, but that he knew he’d never be able to trust her entirely.

  “So that’s the library where you used to live?” Chester asked, pointing at the metal-clad building adjacent to the car park.

  “That was a good home,” Isabella said. “It would have been perfect if it wasn’t for the undead.”

  The infant whimpered. Everyone went quiet, listening for the sound of the approaching living dead.

  Dawn properly arrived, the day truly began, and the seconds slowly ticked away. There were five hours until noon, and that soon became four. Chester sat on an upturned oilcan by the edge of the wall and watched the road. Below, a zombie drifted towards the car park’s entrance, but didn’t venture inside. It lurched onwards. Only when the creature had staggered another twenty yards along the road did Chester relax.

  The plan had worked so far, but so much could still go wrong. With no way of blocking the entrance to the car park, there was nothing to stop the undead from slouching inside and up the ramp to the roof. On the other hand, as long as they were quiet, there was no reason for the living dead to venture inside. He found himself looking at the infant Isabella.

  They should have found a better place to wait for the helicopter. Somewhere without a ramp at the very least. Somewhere indoors, perhaps. Somewhere that could be secured. Neither Locke nor the older Isabella had been able to think of anywhere else that was relatively clear of debris and overhanging obstacles, and which had enough flat space for a helicopter to set down.

  Below, another zombie drifted into view. Chester didn’t let his expression change as the creature limped along the road. One leg was injured, and it moved in a series of short circles, maintaining its momentum more by the swing of its arms than the movement of its legs. It had heard something. Whatever it was, it wasn’t from the car park. The zombie disappeared into the city. As long as they were quiet, they were safe.

  The children sat in the back of the car, huddled together, not quite asleep, but exhausted from terror. As long as they were quiet, they should be safe, but what if the infant woke up? What if the undead heard the child and came into the car park. He needed a backup plan.

  “I’m just going to take a look at the stairwell on the other side of the car park,” he whispered.

  “Why?” Hazel asked.

  “I want to see if the door’s locked or not,” Chester said. “Best to know that there’s only one way in or out.”

  “Are you going downstairs?” Phoebe asked.

  “No. I’ll be there and back, and you can see me from here.” He nodded to Isabella. She had the infant swaddled her coat, the crossbow in her lap, loaded. “I won’t be long,” he said.

  Chester crossed to the stairwell in the far corner of the car park. The door was unlocked. After a moment’s hesitation, he went through and down. The stairwell was dark, filled with the stench of death caused by two corpses near the first-floor door. They had probably been undead, and had certainly been killed long ago. He kept going down. At the bottom were two doors. One led into the car park’s ground floor, the other led outside. If they had to escape, it would have to be out there, but where they would go then, he had no idea. He went back upstairs.

  “You said you weren’t going through the door,” Hazel said.

  “I thought I heard something in the stairwell,” Chester said. “There was nothing there. We’re safe. I’m getting a bit restless, that’s all. I never had the patience to sit still. That was always my problem when I was your age. I always wanted to be out and doing.”

  Three hours became two. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was coming. The infant Isabella whimpered. Chester forced a smile through gritted teeth. The rain was holding, for now, but in many ways that was the worst weather they could have hoped for. The dense clouds meant no satellite images of the area, and while a lack of rain meant the helicopter would have no trouble landing, it also meant there was nothing to muffle the sound of the child’s cry. The other children watched the infant, and looked as worried as Chester felt.

  “You know, I flew on a helicopter once,” he whispered. “It was for my birthday, let me see, four years ago. I was feeling a little flush at the time, but temporarily without any friends. They, uh…”

  The job had been off the books, and done without McInery’s knowledge. The target had been a betting shop that ran a side line in gambling on no-rules prize fights. In one of those ironic twists of fate that was amusing only to those who hadn’t been caught, Chester’s gang hadn’t been the only people who’d noticed the betting shop’s owner’s ostentatious display of wealth. The tax authorities had taken note, and the police had been conducting an investigation. They’d seen Chester’s gang go in through the back, and had quickly organised a cordon. Chester had slipped away with the haul, but the others had been arrested. To ensure that his name was never mentioned to the police, Chester had foregone most of his share. He’d been left with a meagre two thousand pounds. It hadn’t been worth laundering, so he’d spent the money instead. A helicopter flight over London was the first thing he’d bought.

  “My friends were all too busy to come with me, so I took the helicopter flight alone,” he said.

  “Did you like it?” Phoebe asked.

  “Oh yes,” Chester lied. “It was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done.” It wasn’t, and he’d hated every minute of it. He had no problem with heights, but being confined to a small box had felt too much like being in a cell. “It was amazing what you could see from—” He was interrupted by a jarring clank from below.

  He eased himself up, and peered through the railings at the top of the wall. Two undead drifted down the street. They’d been a man and a woman by their clothes. Brightly coloured clothes, too. She wore a pink jacket, rainbow scarf, and blue thigh-length boots into which tartan trousers were tucked. He was in a white leather jacket, red combat trousers, and leopard-print trainers. Either they’d found the clothes in the bargain bin of a charity shop or in the private catwalk-collection of a world-famous designer. There was little mud or dirt on the clothes, though a few dark stains and jagged rips indicated how they had become infected.

  The infant Isabella gave another whimper. The undead woman jerked her head left and right. Her lank hair whipped across her face as she looked for the source of the sound. She stopped when her eyes were level with the car park’s entrance.

  “Give me a moment,” Chester whispered calmly.

  And he did feel calm as he crawled back along the roof for a few paces, then ran, doubled over, to the ramp. It was the calm that came in the middle of the storm when fear of the impending tumult had been replaced with certain knowledge of what the worst was and how far away safety yet lay.

  On the ground floor, the undead woman had taken two steps towards the entrance. The other zombie was a step behind. Chester stood in the shadow of a pillar, watching, waiting, but knowing that he couldn’t wait for too much longer. The undead woman took another step inside, and it was time to act. He unclipped his mace, and stepped out of the shadows.

  “Morning,” he said, mostly to get the creature’s attention. “I’m sorry about this. I really am.”

  The undead woman gr
owled and lurched towards him, her gnarled hands punching the air. Left, right, left, right. There was almost a rhythm to it.

  Chester rested the mace on his shoulder as he strode to meet her. The shadows were deep, the light was poor, making her face nothing but an empty silhouette. He was glad of that as he swung the mace up. The tip clanged into the low ceiling.

  “Damn it!” He skipped back a pace, changed his grip and drove the mace horizontally into the woman’s chest. Bone crunched, cloth tore, and she staggered sideways. The undead man was only two steps behind. Chester let momentum turn him around, pivoting a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, crouching as he turned, putting his entire weight into the next blow. The mace smashed into the zombie’s knee. Bone shattered, sinew tore, decaying muscle fell apart as the zombie toppled forward. Chester rolled out of the way, and then to his feet. He flipped the mace, and drove it down onto the back of the fallen creature’s skull. Turning around, he looked for the undead woman. She’d collapsed, and lay near the booth by the exit. Her left side was a ruin. The fingers on her right hand dragged across the concrete, but her left hung limp. Her legs twitched, and her mouth jerked up and down, but she was unable to move.

  “I really am sorry.” He slammed the mace into her face, crushing it. She went still. He checked the road outside. It was empty, at least of the moving undead. Further down the road he could see the corpses they’d fought during the night. He looked at the dead woman.

  When he’d left the Tower with Greta, he’d thought that this trip would be his farewell to England. A footnote that would provide stories for future generations, stories like the discovery of the Royal Train. That was an indulgence, the same kind of distraction he’d used in his last life when he’d told himself that he’d make one last score and then retire. The truth, the real truth and his real future, was that the war was never going to end. The undead might. They might truly be dying, but that would not be an end to danger, simply a harbinger of the next one. People had always been the real threat, just not always the most immediate one.