by Frank Tayell
Together, Kim, Sholto, and I rescued Annette and Daisy. We went north and west, searching for a refuge. We stumbled across George Tull and a group of survivors on a beach in Wales. They claimed to have a safe haven, but told us that Quigley was still alive. I found him in the old Masterton family home in Northumberland. I also found Jen. She was infected. She died. Sholto and I killed Quigley.
We escaped, and we went to Anglesey where we discovered ten thousand survivors. There was electricity, thanks to the nuclear power plant. There was grain, thanks to the three giant cargo ships hijacked by the Royal Navy during the days following the outbreak. There was fish, thanks to the hundreds of sailing boats. Most importantly, there were no zombies. It seemed like a paradise. You know what they say about paradise? Evil lurks within.
That was at the beginning of August and shortly before I wrote my last entry. As to what happened next, I suppose that the best place to begin is with the day when I first met Lilith, Will, Simon, and Rob.
Chapter 1 - Anglesey
04:30, 15th August, Day 156
The day began with a plaintive whimper. Though my eyes were closed, I hadn’t been asleep. Annette insisted that the lights be left on day and night, and I couldn’t get used to it. I couldn’t get used to a proper bed either, and had left ours for the more familiar comfort of a chair an hour before. At least the ever-present light meant I could read. I was working my way through the various books I’d picked up in the wasteland and discarded, half-read, rather than be burdened by the additional weight.
The whimper came again. I pushed myself out of the chair, and over to Daisy’s cot. She was as unfamiliar with its newfound comfort as we were with beds covered in genuine laundered sheets. At least, I thought that was why she found it hard to sleep.
“Come on,” I said, and carried her downstairs.
Our cottage has five bedrooms if you count the annex my brother claimed, two bathrooms if you count the one Annette insists is for her sole use, a few living rooms, an old-fashioned library, and a very modern kitchen. There’s a small garden in the front and a much larger one at the back, with a trio of fields behind it that are ours to tend should we want to. It’s almost exactly the sanctuary I dreamed of during our trek through the wasteland. As with most dreams, reality was not nearly as perfect.
After half an hour of walking the floors with Daisy, it was clear she wasn’t going back to sleep. Dawn was close enough that I could distinguish between dirt and shadow in our front garden.
“It’s a tad scruffy, isn’t it?” I murmured. “You know, yesterday, I read an interesting book on domestic gardening.”
“Red?” Daisy murmured, suddenly interested. I knew what her mispronunciation meant, and what she’d thought I’d said.
“All right, fine,” I said. “We’ll go and get some bread.”
It had become a morning ritual. I strapped her into the pushchair, and strapped on my belt with its hatchet, knife, and holstered pistol. That was just as much part of the ritual as our trips to the bakery. So was checking the front and back windows to make sure there were no zombies outside. There weren’t.
Our cottage is on Holy Island, the small island to the west of Anglesey. Famous for its burial sites and ancient religious landmarks, it was best known in recent years for the port of Holyhead, from which ferries to Ireland departed. The bridges connecting Holy Island to Anglesey still stand, but those connecting Anglesey to the Welsh mainland were destroyed in the early days of the outbreak. Shortly after that, the island was cleared of the undead. No one says much about that, but the recently dug graves in the cemetery speak to the difficulty of the task.
Old instincts that have kept you alive die hard. I checked the front and back a second time before opening the door.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I said to Daisy as I pushed her outside.
“Red,” Daisy said again, this time more emphatically.
“That’s right, dear. Bread,” I said. “We’ll see if the baker’s awake.” Daisy half swivelled in her chair, stared at my face as if making sure I was to be trusted, then turned around again, satisfied.
It was a beautiful day, and despite the early hour, I didn’t mind being out in it. Our time in the wasteland had been days of travelling until exhaustion forced us to stop, and sleepless nights taking turns to stand sentry. It was wonderful being able to walk the empty roads without worrying that the undead lurked behind every overgrown hedge, or inside every abandoned car.
Our cottage is half a mile to the northeast of Holyhead. The old ferry terminal had become the principal port, and the population hub for our little community. That wasn’t by design, but simply because it was the harbour into which the grain ships had been towed. They’d been hijacked by the Royal Navy during the chaos that followed the outbreak, but were still at sea when the nuclear missiles were launched. Abandoned on the open ocean, the grain carriers were salvaged by Mister Mills and the crew of his submarine, the formerly-HMS Vehement. The wheat, oats, and maize, coupled with fresh-caught fish, had become the survivors’ staple diet. Bread and fish, however you cook it, is hardly a balanced diet, but compared to the lean months in the wasteland, it’s a feast.
My first emotion on seeing hundreds of boats lining the coast had been shock. That sank into dismay when I realised that most of their occupants only ventured ashore to claim their daily allotment of grain. Even the return of electricity hadn’t enticed them into the houses on the mainland. In fairness to them, some of the sailors did take their boats out every morning, and brought back more fish than we could eat. Fishing was how they’d survived the outbreak. It had become routine, and therein was the problem. Some of the farmland was being turned over by hand, but it was the exception. The number of people trying to forge something close to a new life could be counted in the hundreds. Those who stayed on their boats, listening to old music, watching old DVDs, or otherwise trying to pretend that the last seven months hadn’t happened, could be counted in their thousands.
“And then there’s the baker,” I said.
“Red?” Daisy asked.
“Ah, so you associate the word baker with bread?” I said.
“Red.”
“Yep, bread,” I said. There were a few nascent businesses on the island. The return of electricity also meant the return of mains water. An Icelandic plumber had joined forces with the former manager of a Caribbean hotel to open a launderette in a row of terraced houses near the waterfront. My first thought on seeing that had been pride that not even the apocalypse could dampen the entrepreneurial spirit. My second thought had been that the launderette was completely unnecessary since a washing machine, and the water and electricity to run it, were available in any of the tens of thousands of unoccupied homes.
Daisy raised a hand, pointing at a brown-feathered bird with wide feet, white markings on its beak, and a wingspan at least that of a raven’s. I slowed to watch as it pecked at the green lichen spreading across the road. It gave us a beady stare, flapped its wings, and took off, landing in the branches of a tall conifer behind an unoccupied house. Leaves and litter had gathered in the porch, the paint was peeling, and ivy was drifting towards the door. Left like that, damp would soon get in, the wood would rot, and it would become unliveable. Soon after, the house would collapse. The bird took off, flying up and around in a great loop, before landing on the roof of an abandoned blue family four-door with flat tyres.
“Bird,” I said to Daisy, hoping she’d parrot it back. “Bird.” Daisy stayed silent. “Don’t know what type of bird,” I said, pushing her onward. “I never saw one like that in London. But there are lots of birds on the island, aren’t there?”
Depending on whom you asked, the birds were either suffering from a population explosion due to the lack of predators, or had sought refuge on Anglesey in much the same way we had.
“They’ll be a problem when we start planting,” I said. “If we start planting.”
“If,” Daisy echoed.
“T
hat’s right, if,” I said, but she didn’t repeat the word again. I told myself to stop worrying about things I could do nothing about. Quigley was dead. The undead were only a threat on the mainland, and we were safe. Anglesey wasn’t perfect, but it was infinitely better than the life we’d led mere weeks ago.
“Life is good,” I said as we approached a set of traffic lights. They still worked. “I suppose no one’s figured out how to turn them off. Or perhaps no one’s bothered trying.” The lights changed from green to red. On a whim, I stopped.
“You have to stop at a red light,” I said.
“Red?” Daisy asked, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the light.
“Yes, Daisy, we’re going to get some bread.”
A year ago, the sign had read ‘Fish and Chips’, now it read ‘Fish for Bread’. Since our last visit, a stylised plane had been added to the sign. Like the launderette, my initial good cheer at discovering there was a bakery was soon tempered by the realisation that it was just as unnecessary. There was more grain in the three giant cargo carriers than we could eat before it spoiled. Anyone could have bread if they simply ground the wheat into flour. Most people couldn’t be bothered, and would rather trade for it. Money was worthless, but fish wasn’t the only acceptable currency. By the door to the bakery was a handwritten board listing the current prices. Tea was at the top, with spices next. Coffee came in third in a clear testament to the demographics of the customers. Washing detergent was near the middle, with light bulbs below it, and soap below that. Shoelaces, needles, batteries: the list was long, but we had nothing to trade.
When Sholto and I had arrived on Anglesey, we’d found the cupboards in the cottage full, and I’d taken that for granted. The food, the clothing, and all the other supplies were gifts from Mary O’Leary and George Tull. Partly it was a thank-you from a grateful government for dealing with Quigley, and partly it was a gift for Daisy and Annette. There were so few children among the survivors that they are more prized than any possession.
Daisy and I had discovered that for ourselves during our first early morning walk through the old port town. All she’d had to do was give the fresh-baked rolls a soulful glance, and one would be willingly handed over. Today was no different.
“There you go,” Scott Higson said, passing one down to her. Daisy tore into it, scattering breadcrumbs on the ground. Higson was always working the counter when we walked past, though I couldn’t tell if the cheerful Australian was the owner, or just the baker on the morning shift.
“The plane’s new,” I said, pointing at the sign.
“Yeah, guess what I did before,” he said with a shrug. “Old Mrs O’Leary promised I’d be flying a helicopter back from Belfast Airport. That’s what I want, you see. One last crack at the sky. It’s not the same as a jet, but it’s all we’ve got left. Another few years, and the choppers’ll be covered in more rust than you’d find on a Victorian anchor. I thought the plane out front might remind old Mary O’Leary about Belfast. Keep it fresh in her mind.”
A few of the seagulls waddled closer. I made to shoe them away.
“Don’t,” Higson said. “We’ll net them as soon as you’ve gone. Seagull’s a bit gamey, but it makes a change from fish.”
“Business isn’t good?” I asked.
“Good enough,” he said. “We’ve got the yeast perfected now. We’ll start working on a proper oven soon.” In the makeshift kitchen behind him were dozens of domestic bread-makers alongside almost as many kitchen ovens. “No, the problem is that people don’t have much to trade besides fish, and after a few months at sea, I sorely want a steak.” He glanced back at the heat haze billowing from the kitchen. “But I’d settle for air conditioning. Here, take one for her sister,” he said, passing me another fresh roll. “And I’ll see you tomorrow, Daisy.” He gave her a wave and went back to his ovens, and we continued our walk, heading towards the sea.
“We need something to trade,” I said. “Something other than your smile. I suppose we should plant some crops in the garden, though it’s too late in the year for most vegetables. Cabbages, maybe? Radishes? What else comes into season in winter? A better question is where we might find the seeds.” Daisy was engrossed in her bread roll, but I didn’t mind. I found great pleasure in being able to talk aloud, and as loud as I liked.
“I suppose we could find goods to trade. Of course, not on the island.” Though few people lived ashore, most of the houses had been emptied of clothing, detergent, toiletries, and anything else that didn’t have an expiry date. “Well, either we find something we can make, or we’ll have to go back to the mainland and scavenge supplies ourselves. I don’t know how we’ll do that, except we’d have to start by finding a boat. It’s something to discuss with Kim. We’ll take a look at the ships, shall we? And then we’ll go back. The others should be awake by then.”
I paused by the wharf so Daisy could watch the loading of a luxury, multi-deck yacht, but she was more concerned with the pair of pigeons covetously eyeing her roll. According to the name painted on the ship’s side, it was called The Smuggler’s Salvation. I’d noticed it during one of our previous walks, partly because of its size and shape, and partly because of the solar panels arrayed on the deck. It must have been a billionaire’s plaything. Not a party boat, but something designed for travelling from one offshore tax haven to the next.
The captain, Miguel, a man with a gold tooth who looked like he’d come straight out of casting for a swashbuckling villain, saw us, grabbed something from just inside the cabin, and jumped ashore. The first mate, a blonde with alabaster skin, followed close behind.
“Our historian,” Miguel said with a warmth that belied his piratical appearance. “I wanted to thank you.”
“You did?” I asked. “What for?”
“You’ve given us something to read on our journey,” he said, waving a bundle of loosely tied papers.
“Oh, where are you going?” I asked.
“Svalbard,” the first mate said. My brain whirred, trying to remember her name. I thought it was Collette. “There was a NATO supply dump there,” she said. “We’re leaving as soon as the tide turns.”
“There should be enough oil to sail a fleet down to Australia,” Miguel said. “Or so the rumours go.”
He sounded as if he was talking about some long-lost buried treasure. Perhaps he was. Something else he’d said gave my brain a kick.
“What do you mean read?” I asked.
He held out the bundle of papers. It was my journal.
“You did what?” I yelled.
“You heard,” Annette snapped back, switching her tone from apologetic to defensive.
“Bill,” Kim said warningly.
I bit down another pointless rhetorical question. Instead, I picked up the bundle of photocopied papers from where I’d dropped them on the kitchen table. “You copied my journal,” I said, stating the blindingly obvious. “You know, two people came up to me this morning and asked for my autograph?”
“Really?” Kim asked barely able to suppress a laugh. “Did you give it?”
“It’s not funny,” I said. At least, I didn’t think it was. Nor had it been funny to be accosted by two almost-strangers and asked to sign the bundle of papers. Miguel and Collette had thought it just as hilarious as Kim, and that wasn’t helping my mood.
“How many copies did you make?” I demanded of Annette.
“Why does that matter?” she replied.
“You photocopied them,” I said. “We can’t make any more toner. When it’s gone, it really will be gone. As it is, I doubt any of it will survive the damp of the winter.”
“Right, exactly,” Annette said. “So if we don’t use it, it’ll be gone forever, so where’s the harm?”
“Think of all the other things we could have done with the ink!” I said.
“Like what?” she said, her tone rising to match mine.
“I… I…” I couldn’t think of anything. “That’s not the point,” I said.
“It was my journal. You had no right to copy it.”
“Then you had no right to put us in it,” Annette said. “It’s just as much my story as it’s yours. You said as much. You said you were writing it for me and Daisy so we’d know what happened and why. That means it’s ours, and that means I can make a couple of hundred copies if I want.”
“A couple of hundred? You can’t be serious?” I’d assumed it was just a couple of dozen.
“It’s important,” Annette said. “It’s everyone’s story, and everyone needs to know. It tells them how they came here. Honestly, I don’t see why you’re so angry.”
“Really? You don’t? Do you even know what invasion of privacy is?”
Behind her, Kim shook her head.
“You gave it to me,” Annette said. “When you went off to kill Quigley without even saying goodbye, you gave it to me. You didn’t… didn’t…” Tears bubbling up in her eyes, she ran from the kitchen. I turned to go after her.
“Leave her,” Kim said. A moment later the front door slammed. “On the whole,” she continued, “I think it’s possible you could have handled that worse. I’m not entirely sure how, but give me time and I’ll think of something.”
“You think this is funny?” I asked.
“I think this is one of those laugh or cry moments, Bill,” she said. “Given all that’s happened, I know which I’ll choose.” She picked up the journal. “Your handwriting’s terrible. Maybe as a punishment you could get her to type it out.”
“Doesn’t she know about privacy? About boundaries?” I said, ignoring the invitation to laugh the whole thing off.