by Frank Tayell
Eamonn was on a stretcher. Greta was next to him, holding his wrist not his bloody hand. He looked terrible. Chester knew he should go and speak to him, but he needed a few more minutes to collect himself. Behind them sat Bran. He looked as if he was asleep. Next to him was Locke. Chester was surprised to see her. Then again, had she stayed in Birmingham, she would have died. There would be no other escape from that city.
Epilogue - Before the Storm
Anglesey, 17th November, Day 249
“You’re going to be fine, mate,” Chester said. “A few weeks of rest, and you’ll be as good as new.”
Eamonn gave a thin smile borne mostly of morphine, exposing a mouth almost empty of teeth.
“They’re going to make you some dentures, which’ll be a lot less bother in the long run,” Chester said. “No more risk of toothache, for one thing.”
Greta’s smile was fixed and fake. “Are you going back to London?” she asked. Her tone was as brittle as her smile.
“As soon as they can organise a boat,” Chester said. “Maybe tomorrow or the day after.”
She nodded. “You’ll pack up our things?”
“I’ll send them to you when the boat returns,” Chester said. “When you get to Belfast, you can pick out a nice house, big enough for all of us. Not a hotel, though. See if you can find a mansion like the kids had in Kent.”
Eamonn and Greta weren’t going back to London. Yesterday, as soon as they’d reached Anglesey, Eamonn and Isabella had been rushed to the hospital. While an initial examination of Eamonn hadn’t showed any internal damage from which he couldn’t theoretically recover, there was still a good chance that he wouldn’t. Aside from blood loss, malnutrition, scurvy, and the damage to his mouth, he had scores of paper-thin cuts across his entire body. Three ribs were fractured, his kidneys were on the verge of failure, and he had an infection on his left hand where the nails had been pulled, the bones crushed. And those were only the findings from the initial examination.
“What if you don’t come to Belfast?” Greta asked.
“We won’t leave you behind,” Chester said. “We’re family, aren’t we?”
Eamonn gave another morphine-induced shallow smile.
“I, uh, I’ve got to have a word with the doctor,” Chester said. “I’ll come and see you later. Keep strong, mate. Get better quick. We’re going to need you in the days to come.”
Chester didn’t need to speak to the doctor, but if he stayed much longer, he knew he would snap. They’d learned what had happened more from Isabella than Eamonn, and she had told them more about what had happened to him than to her. Barclay was a man who enjoyed causing pain, and liked to see that pain displayed on his victims. Chester’s anger wasn’t in regret at the swiftness of the renegade’s death, but in the familiar way that the U.S. doctors had treated the two hostages. They had seen those types of injuries before, and often enough not to be shocked by them. Barclay wasn’t the first. He wasn’t even the first since the outbreak. Would he be the last? Chester wouldn’t bank on it, but he forced the fury from his face because the small hospital wasn’t entirely empty and Eamonn wasn’t the only patient.
In the corridor, the three children from Birmingham were drawing on the walls with marker pens and wax crayons. The older Isabella sat in a chair outside the room in which her daughter and granddaughter were being treated. Her hand was thickly bandaged, her eyelids heavy, and the smile on her face looked oddly false.
“Hello all,” Chester said cheerily. “That’s a nice house, Hazel. You’ve got a real eye for perspective.”
“How’s Eamonn?” Phoebe asked.
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Chester said. “It’s mostly bruises, and they’ll heal quickly enough. He’s got to rest, though. And how are you finding Anglesey?”
“It’s strange,” Phoebe said.
“It’s wet,” Damien said.
“I don’t like it here,” Hazel added. “Sorcha was right. Where is she?”
“I’m not sure,” Chester said. “I can ask around.”
“When can we go to London?” Phoebe asked.
“I’m not sure about that, either,” Chester said.
“You know what’s best on a cold wintry day?” the older Isabella said. “Hot chocolate. I heard them say there’s some in the nurse’s break room. Why don’t you three go and see if the rumour is true.”
“You want to get rid of us so you can talk, don’t you?” Hazel said.
“Yes,” Isabella said, “but I’d also like some hot chocolate, so be a dear and see if you can find some.”
“Do you know where Sorcha is?” Isabella asked when the children had grumbled their way out of earshot. “I haven’t seen her since the helicopter landed yesterday evening.”
“Not yet,” Chester said. “I washed, ate, slept, and woke up about an hour ago. I can ask around.”
“One of the doctors told us that she’s infamous,” Isabella said. “That she was part of the conspiracy that created the zombies.”
“I don’t know about that,” Chester said.
“I know that she kept the children safe all these months,” Isabella said. “She could have left us when Barclay arrived. She stayed. She kept us alive. I think someone needs to be told that.”
“I’ll make sure they know.”
“Thank you. Will you go back to London?” she asked.
“For now,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’ll stay there.”
“Because of the horde?”
“Partly, but I think we were going to leave anyway,” Chester said. “We hadn’t really talked much about what we’d do in the spring, but there’s not enough land around the Tower to plant a crop. If the undead were dying, we might have moved into Buckingham Palace and turned the Royal Parks into farms. Some might be dying, and the rest will in a year or so, but I don’t think we can wait for it to happen. Yes, it’s that horde. It’s a roiling cauldron that could spill south and drown us all. No, the Tower’s not going to be safe.”
“So you’ll come to Ireland?” she asked. “That’s where they want us to go as soon as they’ve cleared Bella for release. They’re more worried about her than my daughter.”
“I didn’t realise. Is that why it’s taking so long?” he asked.
“Bella was born three days before the outbreak. She seemed healthy enough.” Isabella shook her head. “Sometimes it’s easier when you don’t have a doctor to tell you that there’s something wrong. Will you come to Ireland?”
“Greta and Eamonn certainly will,” Chester said. “They won’t be coming back with me. As for the rest of us, I don’t know. Stay close to Greta. I’ll make sure she knows our plans. There’ll be a place for you and yours wherever we go. As to where that is, I suppose I better find out.”
She smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.
He returned her smile, uncertain what to say.
Anglesey was very different to how he’d remembered it. When he’d left, not long after the power plant had been turned back on, the island had seemed a place of hope. It had bustled with promise as people stripped shops to their floorboards and talked of opening new ones, new restaurants, new farms. It had been more talk than work, but there was the prospect of something good being forged from the ruins. It had seemed as if the best parts of the old world could be rebuilt and the worst parts consigned to history. Now, the streets were virtually deserted. According to one of the doctors, only a thousand people had so far been relocated to Ireland, with most of those now living around Belfast Harbour. He wondered where everyone else was.
His feet took him to the terrace where Bill Wright lived. Chester had gone there with Kim after the helicopter had arrived, principally so that he could call Nilda. They had offered him a bed, and he’d gladly accepted, but he’d gone to the hospital first, and there he had fallen asleep. He wanted to call Nilda again. He wanted to hear her voice. After that, like all the other people on Anglesey, he wasn’t sure what he’d do while waiting
for the ship that would take him away.
Inside the house, a score of people huddled around a row of screens. Some showed the partially cloud-covered satellite images, others the slightly blurred pictures taken from the helicopter. All showed the horde.
“Was it really as bad as that?” Annette asked, detaching herself from the group as Chester entered.
“I don’t know,” Chester said. “How do you measure bad?”
“That’s what we’re trying to work out,” she said. “How many there are, and where they’re going. Do you think they’ll go to London?”
He was too tired to lie, but before he had to tell the truth, a door opened on the other side of the room.
“Chester?” It was Bill Wright. “Can you come through? I was about to look for you.”
The small kitchen was empty, the table covered in papers, and two laptops.
“Please,” Bill said, “take a seat, we’ve a lot to talk about.” He leaned against the counter as Chester took the more comfortable padded chair close to the window.
“You look like you’ve had some bad news,” Chester said.
“So do you,” Bill said. “You stayed in the hospital last night?”
“I fell asleep the moment I sat down,” Chester said. “Eamonn’s probably going to recover, as will Isabella. I’m not sure about the baby.”
“I got a report this morning,” Bill said, picking through the sheets of paper. Unable to find the one he wanted, he quickly gave up. “We’ll have to move them to Elysium. It’ll be a longer journey than to Belfast, but that’s where the Harper’s Ferry is being towed by the Vehement. The Harper’s Ferry has the medical equipment, and Elysium has an energy supply. It’ll mostly be wind turbines this winter, maybe supplemented by solar if the clouds ever clear, but that’s more than we’ll have in Belfast. The ship’s a few miles east of Cork at the moment, but they should get there in another four or five days. Once it’s safely moored, we’ll send them there.”
“Where’s Elysium?” Chester asked.
“Near Kenmare Bay on the southwestern corner of the Atlantic coast.”
“About as far from Belfast as you can get,” Chester said.
“Pretty much,” Bill said. “It was one of Kempton’s retreats, and originally run by Sorcha Locke until it was overrun by the undead. I can’t promise that your friends will be safe there, but they’ll be with medical personnel, and protected by Marines. If the walls break again, they can retreat to the Harper’s Ferry.”
“This isn’t what I was hoping my return to Anglesey would be like,” Chester said.
“And it’s not how I pictured this meeting,” Bill said. “I often thought about it. You know that our paths crossed in Sydenham a few months after the outbreak? I was trapped in a house. We communicated with bits of paper stuck to the window. I was angry at first, when you left your house and walked past mine. I waited for you to come back, and you didn’t.”
“I wanted to,” Chester said. “I was trapped in a cafe a few miles from there. When I managed to get out, I went back for you, but you’d gone.”
“Bran told me,” Bill said. “It was part of the story that caused Annette to move the satellites over London. Although, if I’m honest, I think she was looking for an excuse to see what her old home looked like.”
“She’s a Londoner?” Chester asked.
“She is,” Bill said. He shook his head. “I never really thought I’d be a parent. Now I have two children and responsibility for so many more.”
“Tell me about it,” Chester said. “I’ve acquired a few myself. Every minute is a new worry.”
“Isn’t it, just?” Bill said. “Yes, after you didn’t come back to rescue me, I was angry for a time. I cursed your name and blamed you for every ill that befell me. Eventually, the anger faded as I came to realise who I was and who I’d been. I was a different person back then. Arrogant, selfish, self-centred. I suppose I still am, but at least I’m aware of it.” He smiled. “In the end, I hoped you’d survived and that, one day, we’d be able to sit and chat over a drink.” He waved a hand at the counter. “Herbal tea is the best I can offer. We’re out of the proper stuff. Out of coffee, too. The hospital has a stash we seized when we raided the Inn of Iquity, but they say it’s only available on prescription. I don’t begrudge them. Not too much.”
“Anything hot will be fine,” Chester said. “When you say raid, what do you mean?”
“That was the pub where Rachel Gottlieb worked. Have you heard of her?”
“A little.”
“She’s dead, but we didn’t get all of her supporters. Rather, we only found evidence that pointed to one. Gareth Lenetti.” The kettle clicked. Bill poured water into two mugs and brought them over. He sat opposite Chester. “Lenetti was found guilty of murder. There was a jury trial, and an appeal, and then there was an execution.” He was silent for a moment. “No, when I imagined the two of us meeting, I didn’t expect the future to be like this.” He shook his head. “We’ll have that conversation another day, perhaps. For now, I need to warn you that strangers arriving in London might not be friendly.”
“George mentioned that,” Chester said. “But we’ve had troubles of our own, we know to be suspicious.”
“I’d like to hear your story,” Bill said. “I think everyone would, so if you don’t mind, I’ll write it down and have it printed. Not right now, though. There are more pressing worries. Even more pressing than some of Rachel or Bishop’s followers still being alive. Despite that horde, my biggest worry isn’t the undead. It’s not finding fresh water in Belfast, or coping without electricity, or even our dwindling food supplies, though those are all contributing factors. My greatest concern is that law and order will break down. We’re maintaining a paper-thin veneer of civilisation through a newssheet, through holding elections, but mostly through fear that the power plant will melt down before we’ve all left. That veneer will crack during the long winter months ahead of us. If it breaks, any hope that we might create something new and better than what we had before will be dashed. Even maintaining something that’s the same might be beyond us.”
“I don’t envy you,” Chester said. He took a sip of tea as he formulated how to best ask the question. “That’s disgusting.”
“I know,” Bill said. “We’re down to what we’re happy to leave behind.”
Deciding there was no circumspect way to ask, Chester went for the direct approach. “Are you running things now? I thought it was Mrs O’Leary and Mr Tull.”
“I would say,” Bill said carefully, “that she is the head of state, and that I am currently heading up the civil service. Officially, I am her chief of staff. In practice, I’m organising our departure from Anglesey and the search for a new home, which may or may not be in Ireland, but certainly won’t be on the British mainland. I’ve been reading a lot about Churchill and his wartime cabinet, and I tell myself it could be a lot worse.” He took a sip of tea. “You’re right, that is foul.”
“I don’t think any people will reach London overland,” Chester said. “The horde will see to that. That’s going to be our biggest problem.”
“I’ve been up all night, trying to find a solution,” Bill said. “I even considered a nuclear strike. The Vehement still has its arsenal. We’ve no GPS, and can’t use the satellites for navigation, so we’d have to plot the trajectories the old-fashioned way. With a target as big as the horde, we’d hit it, but I don’t know how many zombies we’d destroy. Even if it was all of them, there’s no reason to think that another horde might not coalesce. The question, though, is whether Mister Mills would refuse to launch. He did when Quigley gave the order, and he refused to even countenance it during the summer when the idea was even more theoretical. He has a point, of course. We’re the survivors of a nuclear apocalypse. Launching a missile would do untold psychological damage. It would take us a step away from democracy and one step closer to despotism, and all for what? Everything we do now isn’t just about staying alive,
but it’s about how the method of our survival will determine the shape of our future.”
“All for what? Exactly,” Chester said. “It wouldn’t change much for us in London. We can’t plant in concrete so we’ll probably have to move come the spring. Our best hope is that the horde grinds itself to dust against Birmingham’s bricks. If it doesn’t, if it turns south, we’ll have to flee far sooner. For that we’ll need some ships.”
“And that’s where I can offer you some more practical help,” Bill said. “George and Lorraine, and their yacht, are staying in London until we know whether the horde is continuing south. If it is, they’ll transport your people downriver. Over the next few days we’ll put together a flotilla of sailing boats with sound hulls and strong rigging. If it comes to it, you can move far enough from London that you’ll be safe until a large ship can collect you. If you’re still there in a month, we might be able to give you a larger, powered ship with enough oil that you can reach Ireland as and when you need to.”
“If we’re there in a month?” Chester murmured. “The power plant, the horde, do you think it will ever end? Will there ever be a time when we can look about and say that this land is ours, that it’s where the children can live and grow old?”
“I hope so,” Bill said. “But there’s something else I wanted to discuss. Sorcha Locke.”
“Where is she?”
“Under guard,” Bill said. “It’s more for her own protection than anyone else’s. After the business with Bishop, I put out a brief account of our trip to Ireland. In all honesty, it was a way to distract people for a few hours, because we were that desperate for breathing time. I might have made a bigger deal out of Sorcha Locke than I should have, but mostly because I assumed that she was dead. Everyone on the island knows the name and knows her as Kempton’s right hand, and so as complicit in the outbreak as Quigley or Kempton herself.”