Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland

by Frank Tayell

  12th July – 1pm.

  I was sorting through Bill's pack, seeing if there was anything we could leave, anything we could get by without and I found that hard drive he's been carting around. It's still wrapped in plastic from the Manor. Call it curiosity, call it a distraction, but I’m going looking for a laptop.

  13th July – 2am.

  I found a laptop. Actually I found three. It wasn't that hard. I don't think Bill was really trying. I don't think he wanted to know what he was carrying around, not really. There are 71,394 files taking up two and a half terabytes on the hard drive. It's a whole mixture of formats, some I recognised, others I didn't, but the computer did. I didn't know whether I should start with the videos or the photos or the documents or the weirder ones with bizarre extensions I couldn’t even guess at. I thought the largest might be the most important. I don't know if it is, I haven't got to it yet. My eyes were caught by the smallest file, a text file titled “BILL READ THIS NOW”:

  “Hey Bill,

  If you're reading this then I've had to leave. This is an automated dump of everything I've managed to discover on Operation Prometheus. I don't know how much you've learnt, or how much you've guessed. You must have worked out some of it and I’m sure Jen will have told you some of the rest.

  Prometheus was the US and the UK's post-Armageddon strategy for unilateral pre-emptive degradation. It all started with the vaccine, but you know about that. At some point someone realised that there was no way for us not to lose World War Three. Instead they gave up on MAD, and decided to focus on making sure the other guys wouldn't win. Come the end of the world, and that seems to be what we're facing right now, they want to ensure that the only people building anything more technologically complex than a fire on the ashes of the old, is us. Not the Russians, not the Chinese, no one. I've included all the target data I could gather, but I couldn't get access to it all. There should be enough to work out what the rest would be.

  The above is not the point of this message. I’m almost certain Jen Masterton knows about Prometheus. Quigley certainly does. You've got to tell them that so does every other nation on the planet. Or the ones that count, at least, and they've got their own versions of the same plan. I've included that target data too. I've no idea how much is missing, but there's enough there to get the picture. With hundreds of targets all over the world, no one can win. We'll be lucky if we end up back in the Stone Age. If we survive.

  If you can, you've got to tell Quigley and Masterton and anyone else you can, to stop Prometheus, but whatever you do, don't trust them. I don't know if Jen or her father told you about me, or what they told you if they did, but don't believe it.

  I’m sorry for everything. I did try, and you have to believe that everything I tried was ultimately for you. If I can I’m going to try and head your way, if it's not too late.

  Stay safe. Good Luck.

  Sholto.”

  After reading that, I sorted the files by date. I found the satellite images easy enough. It took a while to work out what I was looking at. Then I found the one of the Hoover Dam. After that, I had a better idea what I was looking for. There's one of a canal, which could be Suez or Panama, I can't tell. There are dozens that I first took to be tiny odd shaped islands, until I realised they were off-shore oil platforms. Some of the images look like ports, some like cities, others like mines or factories in the middle of the desert, others seem to be clusters of ships out at sea. Exactly where these images are of, for the most part I couldn't begin to guess.

  I went out and found a map, a good one. I was able to work out where some of the targets in Britain were. There's an image of the Isle of Wight, another of the power station at Dungeness. There's another I think it's Birmingham and one I’m certain is Glasgow. There are others too, but conscious of the computer's battery life, I turned it off at that point.

  It's a lot to take in. More than that, it's a lot to try and understand. There are, I think, some pictures of London. I’m not certain. It might be that I expect there to be, and so am seeing familiar shapes and patterns which aren't there. Bill was in London when Barrett saw the explosions over what must have been the Isle of Wight and Dungeness. If London was a target, then, for some reason it was spared. By whom and why, I've no idea. And if London was spared, then where else is still standing?

  As for who Sholto is, what he was apologising for, that's another puzzle, one that I’m not going to expand my theories on here. You see, really, I don't think it matters. I can see that it is important, but it doesn't change what I need to do next. There is only one file in there that will help me rescue Annette and Daisy.

  13th July – 3pm.

  Bill regained consciousness. Sort of. I think regaining consciousness probably has some kind of technical definition. Some doctor would probably describe his condition as stable with periods of lucidity or something equally vague.

  I don't know if the fever's broken. I think his temperature has gone down but I don't have a thermometer to check. Even if I had one I don't know what's normal. He woke for a bit this morning and croaked out for water. He's fallen asleep again, but that has to be a good sign.

  I know where I can find fuel. It's not far, and I spent most of the day getting ready. The boat is good to go. There's not enough water, but we'll just have to hope for rain. There's no way I’m drinking that stuff in the river. Maybe I'll find water stored with the petrol.

  I've added spare clothes, an old torch I found next to the fuse box in the beer cellar, blankets, a couple of new bags and the food. I’m going to give Bill another twenty four hours and then he has to decide. He can come with me, or continue his search for answers to questions no one cares about. Either way, I've lingered here too long.

  Day 124, Riverside Links Golf Club, Oxfordshire.

  06:00, 14th July.

  I am awake. I am alive. I thought I was dead, but I was dreaming. It was a terrible dream, made worse by waking up and finding that reality is little more than a nightmare.

  Kim has gone out. Water. We... I... My hand. My left hand. It's missing... You have ten fingers, how many do you really need?

  I can stand. Just, and not for long. It's...

  15:00, 14th July.

  I slept. I ate. I slept a bit more. I am feeling better. I think I must have been unconscious through most of the pain. I’m just weak now. Kim found water. She says she has checked everywhere nearby. We've only six pints left. She's found a boat and knows where there is fuel. She won't say where. I checked the journal. She's been writing in it. She didn't say where in there either. Tomorrow she's going. She won't tell me where.

  14th July – 7pm

  Bill is sleeping again. I said I'd record the conversation we had this evening.

  “It's a simple choice,” I told him, bluntly. “I'm going after Annette and Daisy. You can come with me or you can stay, recover and go find your answers. It's your choice, you've got to make it.”

  “It's not as simple as that,” he croaked back.

  “It is. I’m making it that simple. The past or the future.”

  “No,” he tried to shout. “We need to destroy all trace of it. What if someone finds it... What if I’m carrying the infection, what if everyone who seems to be immune is...”

  “What of it?” I snapped. “You really think that changes anything?” I picked up the map. “I found Lenham Hill. It's not far. Less than ten miles. In a few days time you'll be fit enough to walk there.”

  “I...” he began. I didn't give him a chance.

  “What do you make of the note? You've read it enough times. What's he apologising for?”

  “I don't know. Really.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “You mean you do?” he asked

  “No,” I said. “I mean, is it important to you? I don't know you, Bartholomew Wright. You saved my life. I saved yours. That doesn't give us some kind of deep spiritual connection. I don't know what you want, but when I leave here, I’m going to find the girl
s and then I’m going to find somewhere safe for them. Somewhere safe for me too, but that isn't as important, and don't ask me why. I can't explain it. It's just how it is. So what is it you want?”

  “You don't get it.”

  “No. You don't. Let's say you find that those thousands of vials of virus are still there. And let's say that you find out who's responsible too. Whether it was an accident or it was on purpose, so what? Who are you going to tell? Me? Annette? Daisy, when she grows up? Do you think there could really be anything there that matters to us, to our lives? You think that knowing any of these things has anything to do with living long enough to have a life?”

  “How can we do that,” Bill said, “when all the time we're just struggling to survive?”

  “That's the problem,” I said, standing up. “We're not survivors, you and I, we're not looking for rescue.” I held up a hand “I've been thinking about this. I've had the time, a lot of time, whilst you've been unconscious, and we're not survivors. That's just another word for victim, and whilst we may have been victims of circumstances and whilst we both may have been victims once, we're not any more. You know what those satellite images are?” I pointed at the hard drive. “You know what they represent?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said bitterly. “That I could have stopped it. That I wasn't just responsible for the evacuation, for the murder of millions of Britons, but of millions others besides. Billions, all over the world.”

  “NO!” I shouted. “If it means anything it's the complete opposite. It's proof that you were a cog in all the manipulative machinations of some master Machiavellian. You weren't any more important to the grand scheme of things than I was, and that doesn't matter any more. We're not captives to that old world order. We're not survivors, we survived. That part of our lives is over. It's the next part, what we do with it, that's what's important now.” I subsided a little. “Sanders, Liz, Chris, even Cannock, they were survivors. They got so far, and that was it. Their worlds became nothing more than getting by day to day. Just dragging existence out for a few more years, one day at a time. That's no more a life than what I had in that cell.” I sat down and picked up the rifle.

  “Look at us,” I said, hefting the rifle. “Look at this, what we are now, who we are. We're the barbarians inside the gates, alright. If you go out and find the who and why and how of it all, that's not going to turn back the clock. The undead aren't going away. You can look for your answers, you can spend your whole life doing it, and maybe you can even find them, but the world is going to keep on turning, indifferent to you and all that you find.”

  He was silent for a while.

  “We'll have to go far away, somewhere no one recognises me,” he said, finally.

  “So you're coming with me?”

  He didn't say anything for a long while.

  “The way Barrett and the others looked at me...”

  “You should have said who you were to start with. Or, yes, made up some lie about what happened, or better yet, burnt that journal. But it's too late for any of that now. You want to come with me, or not?”

  “The future or the past, that's the choice, is it?” he paused again. “Where are we getting the fuel?”

  “You need to say it. I need you to say it, and I need to know you mean it. I’m serious. There's no turning back. If we stumble across some of those answers on the way, then that's fine with me, but we're not looking for them. We've one job. Find the girls and get them somewhere safe. Yes?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We'll find them. We'll take them somewhere safe.” He paused for a moment, and then smiled. “Manipulative machinations of some master Machiavellian? How long did you spend working on that one?” Then I smiled too.

  “So, where are we getting the fuel?” he asked.

  “Easy,” I said. “Lenham Hill. That's why I needed you to say it out loud.”

  Day 125, Riverside Links Golf Club, Oxfordshire.

  06:45, 15th July.

  “I make it a bit less than ten miles to Lenham, according to that map,” Kim said, this morning.

  “Let me see?” I asked. “Well there's no direct route. I make it about fifteen, assuming that none of the roads are blocked.”

  “We're going in a straight line. Over the golf course, then down the train line. That brings us to within a kilometre. We'll see what the land is like there. Maybe we can drive up close. Or we walk.”

  “You're certain there's fuel there?”

  “No. There was a whole load of manifests and supply documents. They got a lot petrol delivered. Diesel too. Just before the outbreak. We're talking tankers of the stuff, and since it was an MOD place I can't see it being requisitioned.”

  “But what if it was? Or if there are people there, like you said, out of all the places in the world, this one is...”

  “Then I've got the addresses of a three car showrooms within a couple of miles of it.” She cut in. “We'll find some fuel somewhere.”

  “It's a long shot,” I said.

  “It's better than just sitting around here.” And that was it. The matter was settled.

  My next question was more practical. “How are we going to drive there, without fuel?”

  “Golf carts.”

  “Golf carts?”

  “What else do you expect to find at a golf club? I reckon they were designed to go up and down at least ten miles of grass without being recharged. So two batteries should see us there and back. I've found us four. They're easy enough to change over and when they run out, we dump them. Satisfied?”

  I wasn't. I’m still not. I feel exposed sitting out here, waiting for her to finish loading up the rest of the supplies. At least a golf cart should be silent, and since I can't walk, what other choice do we have?

  09:45, 15th July.

  The cart is quiet. It's no faster than walking, particularly on the uneven ground of the golf course. There's something farcical about all of this. I’m sitting by the train tracks, watching Kim push the golf cart up the embankment. Even the undead on the golf course, unable to move far with their crushed limbs, heard us coming, but They couldn't even crawl towards us. They could only let out a low moan as we went by. Yes, this is almost funny.

  We're just going for the fuel. I had to agree to that again. If the place is abandoned, if it seems safe, and if there's time, then we might search for information on the virus and we may try and destroy the facility. But only if there's time. Kim's right. Annette and Daisy come first. The past can wait.

  11:15, 15th July.

  We've stopped about a mile from Lenham Hill. Kim has gone on to scout ahead. We saw a strange sign, a “road closed” sign, with the word “zombies” scrawled over it. We've hardly seen any of the undead since we left the train line. We had to deal with a couple when we went through a tunnel. Rather, Kim had to deal with Them whilst I just sat and watched.

  There's something sinister about those signs. Kim has gone to check, just in case.

  Day 125, Lenham Hill, Oxfordshire.

  20:00, 15th July.

  “Three zombies. Already dead,” Kim said when she returned. “Shot. And there were another two signs, just like the first, each in the middle of a road.”

  “We can't go back,” I said. We'd discussed it when the first battery died, a mile along the railway line. We'd discussed it again when the second ran out when we were in the middle of the tunnel. Now, only a mile away from Lenham Hill, we'd just swapped in the fourth and final battery.

  “I think we can make about four miles,” Kim said. “Whoever shot those zombies, whoever left those signs, if they're still around here, then four miles isn't going to get us far enough away.”

  “We need the fuel, then.”

  We left the cart in an otherwise anonymous terrace at the edge of a cricket club, and with Kim holding me up, walked the last thousand yards or so into a small copse, overlooking Lenham Hill.

  “There's no hill,” Kim said.

  “No, well, that's the point,” I sai
d. “Second World War mentality. Disinformation dragged forward into the Cold War. It's just another old airfield, long sold off to a private company, at least as far as anyone else might suspect.”

  “It was an old radar station?”

  “Sort of. During the war it was an airfield, then a staging post for commando raids then, after the war, it became the site of one of the post-nuclear communication centres. It was part of a string of bunkers across the country, linked by underground cables. A sort of pre-Internet post-apocalyptic communications system. You have to remember that Britain was broke after the war, so the sites they picked were chosen purely on where there was an existing underground facility. Then the bombs got bigger. These places became obsolete and were mothballed. Or that's what I thought.”

  She levelled the rifle and peered through the scope. “I can see a hanger, an old red-brick, and a couple of newer office type buildings. Where's the bunker?”

  “At a guess? The concrete hut where the two landing strips intersect,” I replied.

  “It looks deserted. I don't like that.”

  “You'd rather you could see machine gun nests and searchlights at every corner?” I asked.

  “No, I mean, if someone's going out and shooting the undead, then there should be some kind of sign of life about this place.”

  “You're assuming that whoever shot those zombies came from here. They could be somewhere in the town or one of the villages around here, or it could have been someone passing through any time in the last few months,” I said.

  “I can't see anyone down there,” she said, ignoring me.

  “The kind of people who'd be stationed there would be good at not being seen,” I said. Suddenly, Kim leapt up and turned around.

  “What is it?” I asked, startled, as I turned around whilst I scrabbled in my pocket for the pistol.

  She smiled. “Sorry. It's just that if this was a film, that's the bit where some grizzled sergeant appears out of the darkness and points a gun at you.”