Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  Barclay might have been one of Quigley’s lieutenants, and his interest might be in a warehouse built by a co-conspirator, but the reality was that they were fighting over supplies. They might get distracted by the undead, the weather, or by hunger or disease, but ultimately, their foe was other people, just as it had been throughout history. To Chester, Anglesey had represented the dream that it could be otherwise. It was the myth that he could lay down his weapons. His past would become a collection of amusing anecdotes, stories of rooftop chases, of outwitting dim police officers and canny canines, told to the children and their children as he grew old. It was a fantasy. This was his life. Ultimately, it would be his death. It was humanity’s endless struggle, the war that would never end, the battle from which there would be an occasional rest but no respite.

  He walked back to the ramp, and went up to the roof.

  “It’s all fine,” he said. “It looks quiet out there. Not long to go.”

  “Quiet except for the storm,” the older Isabella said. “But there’s no lightning yet, that’s a blessing, and Isabella’s settled.”

  Chester crossed to the wall, and saw that the sat-phone was blinking.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Chapter 26 - Hostage and Misfortune

  Birmingham

  Bran stood statue still, his eyes on the warehouse, his ears on the zombies stumbling along the road outside the terraced house. There were many routes the renegades could take to reach the church so only two possible locations to ambush them. Either at the church itself, or close to the warehouse where the renegades would least expect trouble.

  Behind him came a squeak as Greta moved a fraction in her chair. Bran raised a warning hand. The squeaking stopped. He knew it was Greta. He’d been keeping one eye on Locke all night, and learned the woman could move more silently than a ghost.

  It was that constant observation of Locke which had almost spelled their doom as they had walked from the cinema to the car park. Bran had been paying too much attention to her and not enough to the undead. More than once, Locke had risked her life to save the children. Bran felt he could trust her up to the point where the hostages were rescued. After that, he expected she would vanish into the ruins. Anglesey wanted her alive, or at least wanted confirmation that she was dead. Bran had made up his mind on that. He’d known many evil people in his life, people like Barclay, and Locke wasn’t like him. When the woman vanished, Bran wouldn’t stop her.

  The end-of-terrace house offered a view of the bus parked across the warehouse entrance. When the hostages came out, Bran would go downstairs and then through the front gardens, looping ahead of Barclay’s people. As to precisely how and where they would ambush the renegades would depend on how many guards the hostages had.

  It was ten o’clock. He’d been watching the warehouse since just after dawn, and so far, no one had left. It was possible that some of the renegades had departed before sunrise. It was more likely that no one had and that no one was going to. An hour ago, two figures had climbed onto the building’s roof. Not wanting to risk them catching light reflected from the binoculars, Bran hadn’t given them a close examination, but he was sure neither was Barclay. Those two had been sent up to the roof as bait for a sniper. They’d stood there for five long minutes before they’d retreated back down into the warehouse. In the hour since, Bran had seen no one.

  There was another near silent squeak behind him. Again, he raised a warning hand. There was no chance the soldiers would hear, but he was more concerned with the undead in the street outside. There had been a lot more during the night than he was expecting. It might simply have been that those zombies had been trapped inside the ruined Bullring, but it might not. It might mean something else. It might mean they were in more danger than they realised. He couldn’t do anything to confirm it, not now.

  “Another hour to go,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure what he’d do when that deadline was reached. He wasn’t going to delay the helicopter, but didn’t think Greta would leave Eamonn behind. He wasn’t sure that Locke would leave Isabella. Bran knew himself, and he knew Barclay, and he knew that he couldn’t leave the two hostages to that thug’s scant mercy.

  The best option was to wait until the helicopter arrived, hope that Barclay heard it and came out to investigate. They could kill some of the renegades in the open, and then launch an assault on the warehouse. Perhaps. It was unlikely to work. It certainly wouldn’t work without casualties. Still, Chester, the children, and the grandmother would survive. That was something. The crook had survived and truly reformed. Bran smiled, glad to have been proved wrong.

  Ten minutes later, a figure climbed onto the roof of the bus. A second joined him, and then a third, and Bran was sure that man was Barclay. There was something about the man’s stance Bran had always been able to spot from a distance. In Somalia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, in training when they’d both been recruits, and before when they’d been children.

  Barclay climbed back down into the warehouse, while the other two renegades cleared the barbed wire from the bus’s roof.

  “It’s happening,” Bran whispered. “Get ready.”

  There was a too-loud shuffle behind him, and then Greta was as quiet as Locke.

  Bran kept his eyes on the bus. With the wire cleared, a ladder was dragged up from the warehouse-side, and propped on the road-side of the vehicle. The two renegades climbed down. One gave a shout. The words were inaudible, but the meaning was clear when more figures climbed up onto the bus’s roof. One, then two, then three and… no, that figure wasn’t climbing, he was being hauled up and then unceremoniously pushed over the bus’s edge. One hostage, male from the ragged beard. Another figure was hauled up. Like the man, her hands were tied at the back, but that didn’t stop her from trying to kick at her captors. Bran thought he heard a laugh as she, too, was pushed down into the road.

  “Two hostages,” Bran whispered. “A man and a woman.”

  “Eamonn,” Greta whispered.

  Bran hoped so, because all the other figures climbing onto the bus and then down into the road had their hands free. It was a ragtag group, dressed in more civilian clothing than military, armed with as many shotguns as rifles, and with some only carrying axes. With surprise as his multiplier, Bran had no concerns about the coming fight, even though, from the look of it, they were going to fight them all. He counted ten, then eleven, then twelve, and then thirteen renegades gathered in the road.

  “They’re all outside,” Bran said.

  “All of them?” Locke asked.

  “I count thirteen plus two hostages,” Bran said.

  Barclay was talking to his men. Something was wrong. Bran couldn’t work out what until the group broke into two.

  “Okay. We’re up,” he whispered. “It looks like four are leading the hostages towards us.”

  “What about the other nine?” Locke whispered.

  “They’re heading east,” Bran said. “Barclay’s with the larger group. I think those four with the two hostages are to keep us distracted while the other nine loop around and encircle us. We’ll have to strike quick and fast to get the hostages clear. Okay? Move.”

  Bran spared no thought as he shot the stray zombie loitering outside the damp terrace. The time for subterfuge was over. He ran sure-footed down the road, two strides ahead of Greta. He let her set the pace, but he set the direction, following the memorised map rather than personal knowledge.

  Left and left again, and then right, running along the edge of the reservoir. One glance at the bubbling blanket of white foam covering the water was all he needed to be glad that he hadn’t had to swim in it. His respect for Locke grew a notch. Even with scuba gear and a wetsuit, he would have thought twice about venturing into its depths. In a flash came a memory of Australia and the promise of a very different type of rendezvous. He pushed the distracting thought away, raised his rifle, and shot the zombie staggering along the path. The creature collapsed. They ran on, slowing when they reached an ac
cess road that led to Icknield Port Road. From the direction the four renegades had taken on leaving the warehouse, they would have to travel along that street. Opposite the access road was a row of two-storey low-rise flats with an alley between them. He marked that alley as a possible escape route.

  “Wait here,” he told Locke and Greta, and edged forward. Trees and bushes had been planted in a plot not quite large enough for a house. The overgrown shrubbery obstructed his view without offering any real cover. He inched forward until he had a clear view of the road. There were more houses, then what was possibly a row of shops, and there, coming towards him, were the two hostages and four soldiers. They’d been too slow. There was no time to set up proper angles of fire. How good a shot was Greta? They would find out.

  Turning around, he raised a finger to his lips, and then motioned for the other two to approach. Again he marvelled at how quietly Locke could move. Greta was a lot worse, though no nosier than a zombie. Bran turned back to the road, watching the soldiers, waiting for any sign that they had heard Greta. He saw a soldier at the front looking around warily. And then he saw Eamonn fall. The closest guard kicked him. The renegade at the rear hurried forward and grabbed the soldier’s arm. Any momentary flash of concern that not all these soldiers deserved their imminent fate vanished when that second guard smashed the stock of his rifle into Eamonn’s arm. Eamonn moaned. Isabella yelled and lashed out with her feet. The guard closest to her slapped her across the face. It was a vicious backhand that sent her spinning across the street. The soldier at the front barked at them, an inaudible command that was obeyed when they dragged the hostages to their feet, and pushed them along the road.

  Bran glanced at Greta. She was beside him now and must have seen some of the confrontation. Locke was next to her, submachine gun raised.

  “Greta,” he whispered, “shoot the man at the front. Locke, take the man at the rear. I’ve got the two either side of the hostages. Fire only when I say. Not before. One shot. No more.”

  He waited. The group drew nearer. A hundred yards. Fifty. Bran heard glass break in the distance. A can clattered along the road behind them, rolling closer. The lead renegade slowed, watching it. He didn’t stop, but the others slowed, too. That lead soldier was armed with an assault rifle fitted with an over-long suppressor that could only have come from Anglesey. The man at the rear had a shotgun. The other two had axes. One was an ancient weapon with a butterfly-blade, the other a more modern firefighter’s tool.

  As the soldiers slowed, they bunched together. Bran’s second shot was going to be difficult. They were thirty yards away, close enough to make out their uneven stubble and hacked-short hair, their stained clothes repaired with tape and smeared with mud.

  Twenty yards, and another rattle of metal, and this one came from the alley on the other side of the wide road. This time, the soldiers stopped. The lead renegade raised his rifle. Bran took aim.

  “Now,” he whispered.

  Greta fired. So did Bran. The lead soldier fell, as did the guard next to Isabella. A moment later, the one at the rear collapsed. As Bran shifted his aim to the last renegade standing, Eamonn charged sideways, knocking the man to the ground. Isabella spun around, launching a kick at the man’s head. Bran had lost his shot.

  “Move!” he barked, and pushed his way through the undergrowth and down into the road.

  The renegade grabbed Isabella’s raised foot, twisted, and pulled her to the ground. Eamonn was on his knees, clearly already beyond his limit of endurance. The thug grabbed his axe. Still running, Bran raised his rifle, but before he could fire, the renegade collapsed, a trio of bullets in his chest.

  Bran glanced around. He saw Locke lower her weapon. Then he saw the zombie ten feet behind her. He spun, fired. The zombie fell. Locke, seeing the rifle pointed in her direction, raised her own weapon, aiming it at him. Bran ignored her and headed for the hostages.

  Greta reached them first, rushing to Eamonn’s side.

  “I’m here. I’m here,” she said, sobbing with relief as she cut the ropes. “You’re an idiot, Eamonn, an absolute fool. You should have told me you were leaving.”

  He mumbled something indistinct in reply as Bran ran to Isabella’s side.

  “You’re safe. Your baby’s safe,” he said, cutting her ropes. “Can you stand?”

  “Who are you?” Isabella asked. “Sorcha? Sorcha!”

  “They’re friends,” Locke said. “Friends of Eamonn’s, anyway.”

  “The children are safe? Where? Where’s my baby?” Isabella asked.

  “In a car park near the library,” Locke said. “A helicopter is coming.”

  “She’s not safe, then,” Isabella said. “Not yet. They’ve gone looking for them. Barclay has gone to find the children. He thought you were alone here in the city, so if you were coming to get Eamonn and me, the children would be unguarded.”

  “They’re not unguarded,” Bran said as firmly as he could manage. He took out the sat-phone to call Anglesey.

  “It’s done,” Bran said. “We’ve got the hostages. They’re safe.”

  “They’re not,” Bill said. “I was trying to reach you. The clouds have cleared to the northwest of Birmingham. There’s a horde. It’s heading towards the city. It’s about four miles from the reservoir at the moment. It’ll be in the city in an hour, two at the outside. It’s big, Bran, bigger than anything we’ve ever seen. At least one million strong. Maybe ten times that.”

  “Ten million? Are you serious?” But he knew Bill was. Bran had wondered why he’d seen decreasingly fewer on his trips to that same corner of northeastern Wales. He’d hoped the zombies were dead. They weren’t. It explained why so many of the undead had appeared in the city overnight. They were the outriders, the orbiting undead that hadn’t yet been sucked into the horde’s dark, dense mass. He looked up at the low clouds, but they offered no hint at the nightmare on the horizon.

  “Can you get any images of us, or of the car park?” Bran asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Bill said. “The city’s still covered in clouds.”

  “Fine. Greta, Locke, and the two hostages are going to Handsworth Park. Get the helicopter to pick them up there after they’ve collected the children. Four of the renegades are dead. The other nine are searching for the children. Get that helicopter here as fast as you can.” He hung up and handed the sat-phone to Greta. “Go to the rendezvous. Call Anglesey when you get there. If you can’t make it to Handsworth Park, call Anglesey, arrange to be collected somewhere else.” He turned to Locke. “Make sure they get on the helicopter. All of them. Then you can do what you have to do, but get them there first.”

  Locke crooked her head to the side, suddenly thoughtful and knowing.

  “Understood,” she said.

  Bran ran to the corpse of the soldier with the assault rifle. The briefest of searches turned up one spare magazine with nine rounds. He took that and the magazine from the fallen weapon, and ran east, into the city.

  Chapter 27 - Stand Off

  Birmingham

  “Hello?” Chester said, answering the sat-phone.

  “Chester, they’ve all left the warehouse,” Bill said. “Four took the hostages west. The hostages are alive and safe. The four renegades are dead. The other nine are looking for the children. The clouds are too dense to get a satellite image, so I can’t tell you where they are.”

  “Looking for the children?” Chester said. It made sense. If Barclay thought that Locke was alone in the city, then he would think the children were only guarded by the older Isabella. Suspecting that Locke might lie to them about the vault, Barclay planned to trade Eamonn and Isabella for more valuable hostages. “Well, he can look, but he won’t find us. Where’s the helicopter?”

  “Travelling as fast as the winds allow,” Bill said. “It’ll be there in under an hour.”

  “An hour? Fine. We’ll be fine. We’ll be here.”

  “Wait, there’s—” Bill began, but Chester’s finger had already pre
ssed the button to end the call. He thought of calling back, but silence was their best friend now. He put the phone away.

  “Is there a problem?” Isabella asked in a tone that suggested she knew there was.

  “Your daughter’s safe,” Chester said. “So is Eamonn. The bad news is that nine of the soldiers are loose in the city, looking for us. It’s a big city, the helicopter is on its way. In a couple of hours, you’ll be with Isabella again, eating hot food somewhere nice and warm.” He forced a smile. The older Isabella did the same.

  “Two hours and we’ll have a hot meal, that’ll be nice,” she said brightly. “Though I think I might have a hot bath first.” As she spoke, her hand curled around the loaded crossbow.

  “I’ll go and keep watch,” Chester said, and returned to his perch by the wall.

  Eamonn was alive. It was hard to believe. Good news had been rare over the past nine months, and in this case it was tempered by the renegade soldiers searching for the children. Birmingham was a big city. Finding the children would be like finding Graham in London. Of course, they had found Graham in the end. No, that was only because Graham had come to the Tower. Barclay had no reason to search an empty car park. He’d look for buildings that were fortified.

  Except…

  Except that Barclay had found this group once before, when he’d captured Isabella and Eamonn. Chester hadn’t asked how the man had managed it, but Barclay was one of Quigley’s people. Bran hadn’t rated the man, but perhaps finding people was Barclay’s speciality. Perhaps, but that didn’t mean he’d be able to find the children.

  Except…

  Except, Chester and Greta had found Eamonn. Out of all the towns and cities in the world, they had found the one that Eamonn was in. Technically, it was Locke who’d found Greta and Chester, but even that wasn’t a coincidence. The satellites had spotted smoke and lights. Chester hadn’t asked precisely what Anglesey had been looking for, but Birmingham couldn’t have been the first place above which they’d moved the satellites. Out of all those places, from Anglesey to London, they’d seen lights and smoke in one place. The reason that life was here was because of the vault that Locke had built. Locke had stayed here because of that vault. Had Barclay come here for the same reason? Had he learned of it from Quigley? No, it was no coincidence that Locke and Barclay, and he and Greta, had all come to Birmingham, so what? That didn’t mean Barclay would find them now.