by Frank Tayell
One hundred and twenty steps from where she started, counting the four steps left, three steps forward, and four right to walk around a desk, her hand touched cold glass. She searched the frame looking for a latch. There wasn’t one. The window wasn’t designed to be opened. Irrational panic grew. She barely had the presence of mind to turn her head and raise a hand to her eyes as she drew her bayonet and stabbed the blade at the glass. The sharp white pain of something cutting through her glove brought her out of her fug. She quelled the temptation to stick her head outside. Instead, she groped around until she found a chair. Standing on it, she ran the bayonet along the frame, clearing the top and sides of jagged shards, only then, and when standing on firm ground, did she lean out and breathe in. The sudden blast of cool, cold, wet air was like balm on a summer’s day.
The moment of calm didn’t last long. Would Graham have heard the sound of falling glass? Would the undead? Or would the storm have masked it? It was too late to worry about it now.
She searched the desk, and then the drawers for something plastic and hollow, instead finding a metal bin underneath. She upturned it and cautiously felt inside. It was dry, dusty, but felt clean. It would have to do. She propped it in the open window, then began the laborious task of making her way back to her lookout point.
What was in those cases, that was the question, and it was one she couldn’t answer from where she sat. Graham believed they were nuclear weapons. Tuck wasn’t so sure. Regardless that the outbreak had been caused by accident, if Quigley could organise a project like that, then researching the miniaturisation of nuclear warheads was entirely possible. But was it probable? Could the cases contain something even more destructive? How many other secret labs did he have? In the dark, with dawn an unknown time away, her mind filled with monsters far worse than the undead. She slowed her breathing, telling herself to think rationally, but it was close to impossible. Those six cases, if they were nuclear bombs, would have a yield large enough to destroy a few blocks, but no more. What was it Graham had said? Something about a backup plan in case all else went wrong. What use would those cases be against the undead?
She was looking at it the wrong way. The outbreak had been an accident. There were no other monsters, nor labs to create them. Quigley had created a plan around the tools he had available: those cases. The details of those plans were immaterial. All that mattered was that Graham thought they were nuclear bombs.
And he’d said something else. Something significant, though she couldn’t remember quite what. She was still replaying the conversation, trying to remember what it was when her eyes caught the sudden twinkling of a raindrop outside. Dawn was on its way.
She stood and began the trek back to the room with the broken window. Knowing that the darkness would soon be vanquished, she moved with more confidence than before. By the time she reached it, there was enough light to see the bin still wedged in the window. There were only a few inches of water inside, but the rain still fell. She began a search of the building, this time opening doors and pulling back curtains. She found a supply closet near the stairs, and in it some bleach. Even diluted, it would kill off most bacteria. It would do nothing for the radiation, of course, but that didn’t matter. A break room provided some mugs. She decanted the rainwater, returned the bin to its perch, then went back to her window, and continued her vigil.
29th September
Any minute now, she thought, any minute now, but the minutes passed and there was no sign of Graham. The undead continued to mill about in the road, some motionless, others slouching off towards the northwest, though where they were going she couldn’t tell.
As the sun was reaching its zenith, a zombie in a studded leather jacket staggered through the propped open doorway. She leaned forward, eyes trained on that dark portal, almost wishing she might see a flash betraying a gunshot. After half an hour she leaned back. An hour after that she found her gaze had drifted up to the fractured skyline. She sighed and turned her attention back to the doorway. Any minute now…
30th September
She woke with a start. The sky was clear, the sun well above the horizon. How long had she slept? Eight hours? Nine? Too long, but the door was still open. There was no sign of Graham. Was he waiting for her to return? How long could he wait? How long could she?
1st October
Why hadn’t he shot her? It didn’t make sense. Nothing he’d done, from the thefts to Hana’s murder, made sense. There was some piece of the puzzle that she was missing. Or perhaps it was that she had more than one puzzle, and she had the pieces mixed up. It didn’t matter.
There was a litre of bleachy rainwater, but she was down to the last of the MREs she’d found in the hotel. She could go back for more, of course, but what if Graham came out while she wasn’t there to watch. No, if she left, it would only be to go down into that building. She’d confront him and end it. He must have supplies in there, she realised, enough to keep him going for weeks. Perhaps he was being honest when he’d said that he’d leave them alone. She didn’t believe it, and it was too great a risk. No, she would have to go in there and finish it, but not today. She still had water. She could wait a little longer. Patience, she told herself.
2nd October
One more day, she decided when she woke. There was a stiffness to her shoulders and legs that suggested something more than just tense muscles. She was tired, hungry, and the last of the MREs was gone. She was down to half a litre of water, and it was only because it tasted so strongly of bleach that she hadn’t downed it in one go. One more day, then she’d—
There was movement in the doorway. It wasn’t Graham. It was the zombie with the leather jacket. She stared at the creature. Graham had let it wander around the building. Had he left? Possibly, but why? Surely he had everything he needed there. Did he have a camera in the corridor, or even one out in the street? Maybe he’d seen the door was wedged open and realised it was a trap. Except, surely he hadn’t had time to set up any cameras. And where would he have found them? No, there were only two possibilities. He was still up in that room waiting for her, or he had come down to close that door and one of the undead that she’d let inside had attacked him. There was an obvious way to find out which.
She went along the corridor to the room in which she’d broken the window, picked up the chair, and threw it outside. A screen followed it, then the bin in which she’d collected the rainwater, and then a set of shelves. She checked up and down the street, making sure that the undead were moving towards the sound, and then went back to her post, watching as the zombies outside Graham’s lair slowly turned away from it and moved towards the building she was in. When they were gone, she went downstairs, and outside.
Except for that zombie in the leather jacket, the road was empty. Its hands pawed at the shoe, still pinned to the door. Couldn’t it tell the noise wasn’t being made by something living? It didn’t even turn around as she stepped closer, and rammed the bayonet through its ear.
It took less than a minute to move the corpses out of the way, allowing the door to close behind her, and then another thirty seconds for her eyesight to adjust to the gloom. It was almost a second too long. A zombie lurched out of a doorway to her right. She grabbed its lank hair, slammed its face into the wall, and stamped down on the back of its knee, feeling the bone break. It slid sideways, arms still thrashing. She kicked it again, this time in the shoulder, and then smashed her heel down on its head. The skull cracked open, spreading a putrid black pus over the already stained floor. If Graham was still alive and still inside, he would definitely have heard that.
Grenade launcher raised, she dashed to the stairs. There wasn’t a new barricade. She looked up, down, but could see no trip wires or traps. Cautiously, she went up. By the time she reached the floor he’d been on, there was still no sign of Graham. She looked down the corridor’s forbidding length. Could he really still be waiting for her in that room? Wasn’t it more likely he’d gone down to the ground floor only to
have been killed or infected? She wanted to believe it, but knew she dared not until she’d seen proof.
The door to the large room was still open, and before she’d stepped inside she could see the cases were gone. Abandoning all caution, she ran through to the door on the far side and pushed the table out of the doorway. The room beyond had sofas, chairs, and desks, all in the same old wood, polished leather, and tarnished brass she’d seen in the rest of the building, but there was no sign of Graham nor that he’d spent any time in there. There was no discarded bedding, no stray food wrappers, and no empty water bottles.
Disconsolate, confused, she searched the two rooms. All she found were a handful of casings by the solitary broken window. She checked the next room, and the next, and then the floor above. He wasn’t there. He never had been, not really. There were no cameras. He hadn’t lain in wait nor set up some elaborate trap. Either he was moving the cases here, or he’d found them here, and by pure luck done so minutes before she’d chanced upon him. He’d thrown up that hasty barricade, and probably left soon after their confrontation.
By now he could be anywhere, and he’d had time to dig in and prepare. She could continue searching for him, but she had no food, no water, and hadn’t had any proper sleep in days. She might find him but was more likely to find a bullet. It was time to go back and warn the Tower. And then she realised that might be where he had gone. She left the building and started running north.
Tuck gagged on the sickly sweet syrup. She’d never liked cola and was suspicious of anyone who said they did. Sugar, yes. Caffeine, yes. Cola, no. She took another mouthful. There was nothing to dilute or mix it with other than salt, but it was all that was left in the burger joint four miles to the north of Westminster.
The rain had got heavier during the day, and the undead had seemed to grow more numerous as she’d run from Whitehall. At some point she’d become disorientated, though she wouldn’t go so far as to say she was lost.
The sugar was wonderful, glorious. She could feel it seeping into her bones. She was about to take another sip, but the syrup was more sugar than water. She put the jug down. Night wasn’t far off, and her system wasn’t used to so much concentrated caffeine.
She’d spent the day hiding more often than running, and running more often than fighting. Tomorrow she’d be back at the Tower, and once everyone was informed, a decision had to be made. As the day had worn on, her mind had cleared. It was unlikely that Graham would have returned to the Tower. Even more unlikely that he would have done so with one of those cases. If they were bombs, they would require a code to activate them, and there had been something in the way that he’d acted that told her he didn’t have it.
He could find explosives. After all there was a crate full of rounds for the grenade launcher in the hotel, so he might be able to create a dirty bomb, but she doubted he could create a timer. From what she knew of him during their time in Kirkman House, he wasn’t that mechanically minded. But if he found that code…
Had he known the cases were there? Was that what he’d been searching for during his excursions from the Tower? He would look for it, she was sure of that. Until he found it, or he gave up, he would keep to his word and leave them alone. But how long would that be?
Part 3:
The Long Goodbye
3rd October
The crowded dining room was silent as Jay finished translating Tuck’s story.
“If we leave him alone, he’ll leave us alone?” Nilda repeated, looking at the soldier. “You think he means it?”
“Even if he means it now, he might not next week,” Tuck signed.
“And those cases,” Aisha asked. “Are they really nuclear weapons?”
Sign language had a distinct advantage here, Nilda thought. Everyone had to wait for the translation, and that meant they were forced to think rather than just say the first fear that came to mind. Everyone except Jay and McInery, of course.
“They must be,” McInery said before Jay had finished translating. “Having a London stronghold was always part of Quigley’s plan. There had to be more to it than just building the barricades.”
“Was that why you wanted to go to that hotel?” Greta asked. “Did you know they were there?”
“What use would a nuclear warhead be to me?” McInery asked. “I suspected that there had to be something left in London. Why else would thousands of soldiers be stationed here? You saw the images Tuck and I recorded of that vehicle park in Horse Guards? That was what I thought would be there. Vehicles. Ammunition. Fuel. Enough for an army in case London survived but everywhere else didn’t. But nuclear weapons? No, I didn’t suspect that, nor can I conceive of any use to which Quigley could have put them.”
“Quigley’s the past,” Nilda said, speaking loudly to cut across the chatter. “We need to forget about him and his old world conspiracies. Graham is the problem.”
“It’s obvious what we have to do,” McInery said. “We kill him.”
“That’s easy to say,” Kevin said. “But how?”
“We use the rafts,” McInery replied, “and go upriver. All of us, or…” Her eyes settled on Constance. “Nearly all of us. It would be forty against one.”
“And how many will die?” Nilda asked. “How many will the undead kill while we search for him? He has a rifle. He has ammunition.”
“He’s probably got more than that,” Chester said. “You said it wasn’t the same rifle that you repaired?”
Tuck nodded. There was a moment of silence.
“Was that a yes or a no?” Chester asked.
“It was a different gun,” Jay said.
“Right, so who’s to say what else he’s found,” Chester continued. “Grenades? Landmines? Won’t he expect us to go after him? Won’t he have set up some traps? It’s what I’d do. He’s got the weapons and the high ground, and we’ve got swords and spears.”
“Then we’ll be clever,” McInery said. “We don’t go rushing in, we take our time.”
“Wait!” Jay shouted to quiet the sudden babble. “Wait,” he said again, this time more quietly. “Tuck wants to know exactly where we’re going to look. He could be in Whitehall, Westminster, or Victoria. Or he could have gone beyond the barricade and be in…” Jay stalled, there was a minute’s back and forth “Somewhere north of the M25,” he continued with a shrug. “If there were rifles, if there was ammo, why not petrol? Whether he’s stayed or not, Tuck doesn’t think he wants to kill us. He had the opportunity and didn’t. Oh. No, sorry. She doesn’t think he wants to kill us yet. It’s not far from here to Westminster. If he’s stayed in London, there is little stopping him coming here. But if we go and attack him, even if we kill him, most of us will die.”
“Speaking of which,” Styles said. “Why did he kill Hana?”
“I don’t know,” Tuck signed.
“Would one of those grenades set off a nuke?” Kevin asked.
“Probably not,” Tuck signed.
“But if one did go off, that would irradiate the river?” Aisha asked.
This question resulted in a longer back and forth between Tuck and Jay than before.
“Probably,” Jay summarised. “But she says it might not. It’s like if you’re attacked by the undead; there’s a chance that the virus wouldn’t get into your system, but you wouldn’t want to risk it.”
“And we can’t risk it,” Nilda said. “We can’t risk the river becoming undrinkable.”
“Becoming?” Styles scoffed, his laugh brittle. The attempt at levity failed to lighten the mood.
“When you have nothing else, attack is the only form of defence,” McInery said. “As you say, it’s not far from here to Westminster. We could set out in small groups, each coming in from a different direction and—”
“No,” Nilda said. “We’re not soldiers, and this isn’t the same as fighting the undead. As Tuck says, we don’t know where he is, or if he is still in London.
“Then we should go and see for ourselves,” McIn
ery said. “And if not, then what would you suggest? That we take the rafts and leave?”
“No,” Nilda said, forcing herself to sound calm. “There is nowhere for us to go. We shouldn’t rush blindly into anything. He could have killed us all by that hotel. From what you say, Tuck, he could have killed you. He didn’t, so whatever his plans are, we should take him at his word. We’ll leave him alone and hope he does the same for us.”
“After he killed Hana? After he shot Chester?” Constance asked.
“For now,” Nilda continued. “Just for now. Until we can come up with a scheme that won’t leave us all dead.”
Sombre didn’t come close to describing the mood as Tuck ended the meeting by signing that she was going to find the closest thing to a hot shower the Tower had. No, Nilda thought, it wasn’t sombre, it was expectant, but it was the expectation of the noose.
“So what are our options?” Nilda asked, her voice low. She, Jay, Tuck and Chester stood on the top of the Wakefield Tower, near the soldier’s bivouac which had collapsed after a week of storms and neglect.
“I suppose it depends what we’re facing,” Chester said. “Suitcase nukes were a bit of a myth, weren’t they? The sort of thing they had in movies but not in real life. And weren’t the ones they actually developed far larger than a suitcase? Didn’t they take two people to carry and operate?”
“What the world knew and what weapons actually were developed are two different things,” Tuck signed. “The virus proved that.”
“That was an accident,” Chester said. “The scientist was trying to cure disease, not create the living dead.”