Surviving the Evacuation 11: Search and Rescue

by Frank Tayell

  Except…

  Chester’s gaze lingered on the corpses lying in the road outside. Barclay would find them. Prior to tonight, Locke had been careful to hide the corpses of the undead. The bodies they had left during the night-time skirmish were a trail leading right to the car park.

  Chester took the sidearm out of his pocket. It was a silenced nine-millimetre, given to him by Bran in exchange for the submachine gun that Chester had given Locke. He would have preferred something with a greater volume of fire. The pistol would have to do.

  He crooked his head to the side, listening with his good ear. All he could hear were the sounds of tiles falling, of leaves blowing, the slowly approaching storm rumbling in the distance, and… and of feet, running.

  His mouth went dry. He checked the safety on the pistol, and glanced at Isabella. Her face was stern. Her jaw was set. He had no advice to give her, so he shook his head, and lowered himself behind the cover of the wall.

  He heard the running feet draw nearer.

  “Sir!” a voice said.

  “I see it,” a second voice said.

  “She said they lived in the library before they moved to the warehouse,” a third voice said. “Those must be the zombies they killed back then.”

  “Then tell me why that blood is still wet,” the second voice said. “Fan out.”

  Chester wrapped his fingers around the pistol’s grip more tightly. How long until the helicopter arrived? Half an hour? Forty minutes? Fifty? He had two spare magazines, plus the one in the gun. Sixteen rounds in each, and it didn’t add up to enough, not with his eyesight. The only glimmer of hope was that the renegades couldn’t have much ammunition, either. Time, that’s what he needed, and he wasn’t going to buy it on the rooftop.

  He gave Isabella as reassuring a grin as he could manage, and rose to a crouch. Doubled-over, he ran back to the ramp, and eased his way quietly downward.

  By the time he reached the ground floor, the renegades were already inside. Chester stopped behind the massive supporting column around which the ramp was wrapped. He eased around its edge until he could see the shadowy outline of the renegade soldier. He was examining the undead woman by the ticket booth. In his left hand was a long-arm. The interior of the car park was too dark, the figure was too blurred for Chester to tell if it was a shotgun or hunting rifle, but it didn’t look like an assault rifle.

  “Hurry it up,” another man called, walking into the car park. In his hands was the unmistakable silhouette of a fire axe.

  “It’s recent,” the crouching soldier said. “Very recent. Died today.”

  Chester eased the safety off. He closed his bad eye and took aim.

  “They’re not going to be in a car park,” the axe-man said.

  “Do you want to tell the boss that?” the other said. “Search the place.”

  “Fine,” the axe-man said. He walked a few more paces into the car park. His outline blurred as he stepped into the shadows, and away from the light. In two more steps he’d no longer be silhouetted by the daylight outside.

  Chester pulled the trigger, firing two suppressed shots at the axe-man, another two at the man with the gun. Both fell, but the axe-man wasn’t dead. He crawled out into the daylight as Chester shifted his aim.

  “Boss! Bo—” the axe-man managed before Chester fired again, his bullet forever cutting short anything more the renegade had to say.

  Two down, seven to go, but any hope that the sudden death of those two would cause Barclay to retreat or even pause were dashed with a shotgun blast. Pellets skittered wildly across the near-empty car park, burying themselves in concrete and abandoned cars. None came near Chester. He didn’t move. Another shotgun blast roared. A glass windscreen shattered somewhere below and to his left.

  “Give up!” a man called. Was it Barclay? Probably. “We’ve got all day. You haven’t. The zombies are coming.” There was another blast from a shotgun, and this time, Chester thought the gun had been fired into the air. Certainly, it hadn’t been fired inside the garage. “In ten minutes, the zombies will be here. You and those children are going to die. Give up, or die.”

  Chester grinned. The man was either an idiot or he was desperate. Probably both. Let the undead come. Chester knew how to fight them. Barclay thought he was only facing the older Isabella. Chester decided to let him think that for a little longer.

  Outside, a shadow moved to the cover of the ticket booth, another ran to the other side of the car park’s entrance. Barclay wasn’t waiting for the undead after all, but just until his people got into position. Time, that’s all Chester needed, and there was one way to buy a few more minutes.

  “What children?” he called out.

  There was silence for a moment, and Chester hoped it would stretch to a full minute, but after twenty seconds Barclay replied.

  “Who are you?” the renegade called out.

  “That’s a long story,” Chester said, trying to think of a plausible lie. “It began in Wandsworth nick. I was doing ten years for a bank job. Now I’m a free man, and I plan to stay that way. I’ve survived nine months on the road, and you ain’t going to change that.”

  Outside, someone hissed something to Barclay. Chester couldn’t hear what, though he heard Barclay tell the man to shut up.

  “You robbed banks?” Barclay called. “Not much call for that these days.”

  Chester grinned. It was working. “I dunno,” he said. “You’d be amazed what people stored in safes. Not food, sure, but I’ve found a gun or three since my release. Still got them, and plenty of ammunition. What have you got? Shotguns and axes? You’re outgunned, mate, so why are you shooting at me?”

  “Because you just killed two of my people,” Barclay said.

  “Only because you shot at me an hour ago,” Chester said. He could feel the thread of his lie slipping between his fingers. Each second counted, though. Each second meant the helicopter got just that little bit closer.

  “Someone shot at you this morning?” Barclay called. “Where?”

  “Down near the Bullring,” Chester said. “That wasn’t you? Hell, I think we’ve got a case of mistaken identity here. Why don’t you go your way, I’ll go mine, and we’ll call it square.”

  “You killed two of my people,” Barclay said. “We’re far from square. I need payment.”

  And then there was a cry from above. A wail, loud and clear.

  Barclay laughed. “Oh, very good. I don’t know who you are, but we’ll take the children now.”

  A hail of gunfire came from the left of the entrance as an assault rifle’s magazine was emptied on fully automatic. The bullets were aimed at the dark shadows to the right of the ramp, but a ricochet pinged past Chester’s good ear as he ducked lower. He’d bought a few minutes, but he’d need a few minutes more.

  He swung around the pillar and fired at the ticket booth until the gun clicked empty. Ten bullets came back in reply as he took cover again. He loaded a fresh magazine. He was already running low on ammo and he was completely out of ideas. He heard feet running and getting louder, nearer. He edged around the pillar and saw a shadow sprinting towards the ramp. He fired two shots. The figure collapsed, screaming. Chester sprinted back up the ramp, and onto the first floor.

  There were more abandoned cars than on the ground floor or the upper-most level. Most had their fuel caps, boots, and doors open, evidence of being searched by Isabella and her people when they’d lived in the library. From below, the gunfire had ceased. They knew he’d retreated.

  Chester took cover behind a field-green four-by-four, aimed at the ramp, and waited for the next soldier to appear. At first he was relieved. After a minute, he began to worry. What were they waiting for?

  He realised they weren’t waiting for anything when the door to the stairwell opened. Chester stood, swinging the gun around firing at the shadows. He heard bullets hit wood, and thought he heard a heavy object falling to the ground. All hope that he’d killed the man was dashed when there was a roar of
a shotgun. The bullets hit the car’s chassis. Chester fired back as he ran to the ramp and up to the top-most level. He ran out into daylight, saw Isabella with her crossbow aimed in his direction, and then saw her abruptly change aim. He spun around to face the stairwell in the far corner. The door was opening. Chester fired, emptying the magazine into the renegade. The man collapsed, and Chester dived for cover behind the low wall.

  “You all right?” he called to Isabella, as he ejected the magazine.

  “We’re fine,” she said. “You?”

  “There’re five or six of them left,” Chester said. “Barclay!” he called. “Barclay! Are there five of you left, or is it six? How many more have to die?”

  “There are more than six of us,” Barclay called back, and his voice came from close below. He was on the ramp. Chester eased himself around the wall, listening for footsteps while keeping his eyes on the stairwell. The corpse stopped the door from properly closing.

  “Barclay? Barclay! We’ve got Isabella and Eamonn,” Chester yelled. “They’re safe. Your people are dead. It’s over. Walk away. Leave now or you’ll never leave this place.”

  A shot came from the stairwell, a single bullet that slammed into the car behind which the children were sheltering. Chester fired at the door, but another shot came, and again, it wasn’t aimed at him.

  “Surrender,” Barclay said. “I won’t ask again.”

  This was the hard choice, the one he’d been dreading having to make in London. His life might buy the children a few minutes, but would that be enough?

  He fired at the stairwell again. Again a shot came in reply. Again it was aimed at the car. The windscreen shattered. There was a cry of anguish from the children as broken glass rained down on them.

  “Give up!” Barclay called.

  Chester reached over the ramp’s low wall, and fired blindly down the other side.

  There was a laugh from below. “Not even close,” Barclay crowed.

  Chester was out of options, and out of time. He whistled. Isabella peered from around the side of the car. Chester slid the safety on, and threw the gun to her. His death should make the renegades incautious, and if Isabella could kill another one or two, that might make the rest hesitate. Hopefully, for long enough.

  “Sorry, Nilda,” he murmured, and unclipped the mace from his belt. “Tell you what, Barclay,” Chester called. “How about—”

  There was a scream from below, abruptly cut short. Then a yell of surprise, terminally ended.

  “He’s below us!” someone called, but it wasn’t Barclay.

  Chester heard shouts of fear, cries of pain, the sound of a shotgun blast, and then there was silence.

  “Chester?”

  “Bran?”

  The soldier ran up the ramp, gun raised. He swept the car park, finishing with his weapon aimed at the stairwell. “Everyone all right?”

  “You took your time, mate,” Chester said, grinning. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

  “My daughter?” Isabella asked. “Is she really alive?”

  “She’s alive,” Bran said. “She and Eamonn are alive and safe. Greta and Locke are moving them north. Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?” Chester asked.

  “After Barclay,” Bran said. “I let him live once before, and look what he did. Stay here, the helicopter is on its way.”

  Bran ran to the stairwell, and disappeared down it.

  Chester eased himself upright.

  “You’re bleeding,” Isabella said.

  There was a stain on Chester’s sleeve. It was only a shallow wound. Isabella ripped a length of material from her shirt, and wrapped it around his arm.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Save the thanks until we’re on that helicopter,” Chester said.

  “It won’t be long,” Phoebe said.

  She was right.

  “Do you hear it? Is that it? Is that it?” Damien pointed at the sky. “It’s coming! See!”

  Chester didn’t. Not at first, not until all the children had, and were jumping up and down and waving.

  Chapter 28 - The Chase

  Birmingham

  The helicopter flew in low, circling the car park once before settling to the tarmac. The door was already open. A woman jumped down. Short with dark hair, she carried a sniper’s rifle. She was followed by two, far bulkier figures. A man and a woman, both wearing body armour over fatigues emblazoned with the Stars and Stripes.

  The woman called out something, but Chester couldn’t hear her over the sound of the spinning rotors. They weren’t slowing, and it was clear that the helicopter wasn’t going to linger. Chester grabbed Phoebe and Damien as Isabella, carrying the infant, hustled Hazel into the helicopter.

  The dark-haired woman yelled something again. Chester shook his head. He pointed to the SA80 in the U.S. Marine’s hands. The Marine frowned.

  “I’m going after Bran!” Chester yelled. He didn’t think they’d heard him, but the woman seemed to get the gist. She motioned for the Marine to hand over his weapon. Chester took it and a spare magazine, and checked he still had the sat-phone in his pocket. Head low, he ran away from the helicopter, and towards the stairwell.

  Since Bran had come up the ramp from the road, that left the rear exit to the stairwell as the only direction for Barclay to have gone and for Bran to have followed. Outside, there was a corpse with blood still oozing from the pair of bullet holes in his chest. It was one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t Barclay.

  Chester jogged away from the car park, pausing when he heard a change in the drone from the helicopter. He watched it rise up, and fly away.

  With its absence, he heard the woken-undead claw at doors, smash glass with fists and face, and kick through the drifts of litter and debris as they lurched along the rubble-strewn streets. Ahead lay a creature recently shot in the head. The wound still oozed brownish-black gore. Chester was on the right trail.

  He heard the sound just before he reached the alley. He raised the borrowed rifle to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger just as the zombie staggered into sight. The weapon was set to fully automatic, and Chester fired ten shots into the creature’s head before he released the trigger. The zombie crumpled. He slung the gun and drew his mace. He’d save the bullets for the living and keep the steel for the undead.

  Following the trail of recent corpses, he jogged along Lionel Street to Livery Street and across a bridge over the rubbish-strewn canal. At a junction with a wider, nameless road, he caught up with a zombie travelling the same direction as he was. He swung the mace into its legs, but didn’t stop to finish the creature. Another road, and then a dual carriageway, an alley, and onward. He followed the bullet-riddled corpses northeast until he reached a junction absent of zombies, moving or dead.

  It was as nondescript a junction as he might have found in London. Even the shops were the same. A newsagent, a chain-bakery, a fried-chicken shop, a down-market deli with up-market prices still advertised on the chalkboard in the window.

  Perhaps he’d been unwise to chase after Bran, but it had been an automatic response. Whether it was wise or not, he wasn’t going to find the soldier now, nor would he find Barclay. Instead, he would go home. He took out the sat-phone, with the intention of finding out where the helicopter was going to collect Eamonn and Greta. The light was already blinking.

  “Hello, Chester?” Bill answered immediately. “Where are you?”

  “I’m not too sure,” Chester said.

  “Is Bran with you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, listen. We got cut off before I could tell you earlier, and Kim tried to tell you when she landed, but you couldn’t hear her. There’s a horde. It’s massive. Somewhere between a million and ten million strong. We think it’s the horde that you saw in Hull, the one that we saw in Wales, and most of the rest of the undead that were in this part of the world. It was heading towards the city before the helicopter flew over it. The main mass will swamp the reservoir in under
an hour. There’s a swarm of thousands ahead of it, and they’re already in the city.”

  “Ten million?” Memories of Hull came back to Chester in a flash. There wasn’t a sea to jump into here.

  “Probably less than that,” Bill said, “but there are so many that the exact number doesn’t matter. The helicopter is about to pick up the two hostages, Greta, and Locke. Can you make it to Handsworth Park?”

  “Dunno,” Chester said. “Where is it?”

  “Northeast of the prison,” Bill said.

  “If I could find the prison…” Chester murmured, looking for a street-sign. “No, I’m not going to find it in time.”

  “If you can locate somewhere the helicopter can land,” Bill said, “and if you can do it in the next forty minutes, the helicopter can collect you. Otherwise, head east. Keep running. Outpace the undead. We’ll refuel the helicopter, and send it to get you later this afternoon.”

  “Understood,” Chester said. He hung up. The compass he usually kept strung to his belt was gone. He’d lost the water bottle, too. Probably during the fight in the garage, though he didn’t remember when. No matter. Absent of any better idea, he continued the way he’d been going.

  His knowledge of Birmingham wasn’t great, though it was better than it had been before the outbreak. Where Jay had taken to spending the evenings watching TV shows and bad movies, Chester was reading more. Old stories about the construction of the Grand Union Canal were among his favourites, but that wasn’t a place for a helicopter to land. There was Spaghetti Junction, of course, and that was to the east of the city. The motorway would be signposted, but it would also have been fenced in during the evacuation. He walked a little faster. What he needed was a park. London had plenty of those, surely Birmingham was no different. He looked for a sign. Instead, he saw the zombie.