by Frank Tayell
Tables and chairs lay strewn about the floor, suggesting they had, until very recently, been forming a barricade. From the dead zombie I had to step over, it hadn’t held. At the rear of the entrance lobby, an upturned desk blocked a doorway. In a room to the left, Gwen knelt by a man whose shirt was covered in blood. Hovering close by was a woman with short-cropped, green-dyed hair, and anxiety written across her face.
“What happened, Lilith?” George asked.
“Will got bit,” Lilith said simply. “The radio stopped working. I got some of them, but I couldn’t get a clear line of fire on the door. I was going to risk it. I was. I was going to try to shoot our way out, then you came.”
“Where’s everyone else?” George asked.
“They went to Caernarfon Castle, and never came back,” she said.
I could see there were a dozen questions George wanted to ask, and I could think of just as many myself, but he left them unsaid and went over to the injured man.
“Will? Can you hear me, Will?” he asked.
“He can’t,” Gwen said. “He’s unconscious.”
“He is immune,” Lilith said. “I know he is.”
“Then we’ve only got blood loss and infection to worry about,” George said. “Gwen, Lilith, can you carry him back to the launch? We’ll go back to Anglesey. Bill, I’m going to leave Simon to watch the dock. Take Lorraine and your brother, go as far as the castle. See if the others are there. You’ve got the yacht if you need to escape. If they’re trapped, don’t do anything heroic, just get back to the yacht and wait offshore for us to return. If Miguel’s not left, maybe I can get him to delay his departure, or we’ll come back with Kim, if no one else.”
“Check the castle, don’t do anything stupid,” I echoed.
“Stupid, I don’t mind,” George said. “Just don’t get yourselves surrounded. We’ve not got the people to launch a second rescue.”
After they’d gone, I stood in the car park, looking at the trees. It was better than looking at the bodies of the undead. Their clothes were rags, their skin taut, withered, and covered in dirt and worse. That the gunshots had destroyed their faces did little to mask the lack of humanity in their twisted frames.
“We’re going to the castle?” Sholto confirmed. “Which way?”
I gestured north. “It’s about a kilometre, on the other side of a river.”
“How much of that journal was true?” Lorraine asked.
“All of it,” I said. “Though it wasn’t necessarily the complete truth.”
“I meant, how much of that stuff about fighting the zombies was exaggerated? How good are you?”
“Good enough,” I said, slinging the axe over my shoulder. I limped towards the road. “What about you? What’s your story?”
“If I tell you, will it go in the journal?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Then I’ll keep it to myself,” she said.
“Markus and his lot were the muscle on this trip?” Sholto asked.
“You don’t need many muscles to pull a trigger,” she said. “They were meant to help with fetching and carrying. Lilith’s the fighter. I’ve never seen her so discomposed. It’s what happened to Will, of course.”
“They survived the outbreak together?” I asked.
“And a lot more,” she said, “but if you want to know, you’ll have to ask her.”
I was starting to see the drawback in being known as the island’s chronicler.
“Markus,” Sholto prompted. “What can you tell us about him?”
“The way old George summarised the survivors doesn’t give the full picture,” she said. “He’s got this top-down approach, a way of looking back on the present from some distant future when he’ll be long dead. That’s useful, and maybe it’s because of his age, but it misses out a key demographic: the people who actually want to go out into the wasteland.”
“Like the people setting up the safe houses, you mean?” Sholto said.
“Oh no,” Lorraine said. “Those people are damaged. I mean,” she added hurriedly, “the outbreak changed them. It changed us all, didn’t it? But they had to examine their own souls and found themselves wanting. They’re on a private mission for repentance or forgiveness, even though they know they’ll never find it. Markus is different.”
“How?” I asked.
“He runs this pub,” Lorraine said. “Except he doesn’t do any of the work, and you can’t really say he owns it, not legally, except by possession. He ransacked Anglesey, stockpiling the booze. I guess he’s running out, and I think the only reason he wanted to come over here was to restock.”
“There’s a baker down by the waterfront that’s trading bread for batteries, tea, coffee, and a whole list of sundries,” I said.
“Scott Higson? Yeah, that’s one of the government stores,” Lorraine said. “It’d have to be, wouldn’t it? You know, because the grain is still stored on the ships. It’s the same with the launderette, and the music shop. That’s all Mrs O’Leary’s doing. Partly it’s to make sure people get a balanced diet. You can’t force people to eat vitamin tablets, but you can fortify the bread. They also stop Markus from setting the prices, while allowing us to build up a national surplus from the things people looted when they raided the empty homes. Markus is just out for profit. His big mistake was selling the booze before he realised how much it was worth. I mean… Okay, do you know the first thing he did when the electricity was restored? He put on a film night. He found the biggest TV he could, rigged up a load of speakers, and set it up in the back room of the pub.”
“A cold beer and a movie?” Sholto said. “That sounds pleasant.”
“They were zombie films!” Lorraine said. “And after each of them, he ran a Q&A session about what the characters did wrong. That’s kind of guy he is.”
“Ah. And this is tolerated?” I asked.
“Mrs O’Leary says it has to be. It’s a democracy, isn’t it? That’s the thing about survivors. In the depths of danger, you think everyone is like yourself. It’s only when things settle down you realise that not all survivors are selfless or good or even nice. I mean, okay, he’s not evil,” she added. “Not like… what was the name of those people who kidnapped your kids? Barrett and Stewart?”
“You really did read the journal,” I said.
“There’s not much else to read,” she said. “Crime fiction, anything contemporary come to that, it’s all out of date. Horror doesn’t scare, not any more. Science fiction stories about space exploration and aliens seem like they’re taunting us with a future we’ll never have. Anyway, yeah, that’s Markus. He’s the very definition of self-centred. I think he still believes the universe revolves around him. Not evil, just not the kind of guy you want to be around.”
The words hung in the air, but there was no mood for them to spoil. The road leading to Caernarfon hugged the coast, and so Anglesey was visible to us across the Menai Strait. It looked lush, but the paddocks immediately to our left gave the lie to that. They were overgrown with seeding grasses and flowering weeds. Like those on Anglesey, they’d be good for grazing, but we had very little livestock.
“I suppose there’s not much chance of taking a boat down to Kent,” I said.
“What for?” Sholto asked.
“The fruit in the trees,” I said. “The apples will be ripe soon. Even if this field was full of ripening wheat, I doubt we’d be able to harvest it, but we could pick apples.”
“That’d be nice,” Lorraine said. “I miss apples. And peaches. Oh, and remember bananas?”
“I miss ribs,” Sholto said. “A big plate of them on Monday night, with the game playing in the background.”
Each of us was lost in our own private fantasy until a quartet of seagulls erupted from the roof of a shed in the next field along.
“Caernarfon Castle,” I said, pointing. It was partially obscured by trees, but there was no mistaking the crenelated walls.
“Feet,” Sholto said. “Do yo
u hear them?” He raised the rifle.
“Running feet,” Lorraine said, half-raising her own. “It must be Markus. It must be.”
My heart beat faster. It’s half a year since the outbreak. Everything I’d seen told me that zombies barely had the co-ordination to walk, let alone run. Certainly, I’d seen none move faster than a lurching stagger, but running zombies were near the top of my list of private dreads.
The sound of running feet drew nearer. Two figures jogged into sight around a thicket of alder. Both were male. One was about six-foot-two, with dangerously long dirty-blond hair. A recent scar running from nose to lip was only partially covered by deliberately trimmed stubble. Sunglasses covered his eyes, a bandana his neck, and a T-shirt a size too small barely covered muscles that, quite frankly, weren’t any more impressive than anyone else’s on the island. It was as if he’d found a style that suited him in his early twenties, and now, well over a decade later, he’d stuck with it, despite the fact it only highlighted his age. The other man was far younger. Probably out of his teens, but only just. His head was shaved in the style that was common in a world where soap was rare and long hair could be grabbed by the undead. The thick bovver-boots were completely impractical, as was the short sword in his hands. It looked like a Roman gladius.
“The tall guy is Paul,” Lorraine said. “He’s been with Markus since the beginning. The younger one is Bob or Rob or something. Hasn’t been here long. He came from somewhere in Northern England. The Lake District, I think.”
The two men slowed to a walk.
“What happened?” Lorraine called.
“The castle’s no good,” Paul said, giving her a sardonic smile. “Too many zombies. Got thirty of them, though, didn’t we Rob?”
“Thirty? Yeah, I guess,” Rob mumbled. He looked hot, exhausted, close to terrified.
“Where’re Markus and the others?” Lorraine asked.
“Gone shopping,” Paul said. “There’s a trailer park over there.” He waved a hand vaguely behind him. “I’m out of ammo. Rob lost his gun. We were going to get more from the supplies at the golf club.”
“Will was bitten,” Lorraine said. “He and Lilith were surrounded. We had to come over to rescue them.”
“Will’s still alive?” Rob asked.
“Yes,” Lorraine said.
“Then it’s all worked out, right?” Paul said.
“That’s not the point,” Lorraine said. “You shouldn’t have left them.”
“When did you arrive?” Paul asked.
“About half an hour ago,” Lorraine said.
“And Will’s still alive. If you hadn’t come, we’d have rescued them.” Paul gave another grin, showing a set of perfect teeth. “What was it that our illustrious mayor said? That there aren’t enough people for any of us to waste a breath? Seems like we did the right thing.” He began walking again. “The castle’s no good. It’ll take an army to clear Caernarfon, and now we know. So, you guys coming, or what?”
“The rest of you, Markus and the others, when did you last see them?” Sholto asked.
“When was it, Rob?” Paul asked, turning to the younger man. “About eight o’clock last night?”
“I guess,” Rob muttered.
“Then they’re probably dead,” Paul said. “Give us five minutes to dump our bags and get some more ammo, and we’ll help you look for them.”
Lorraine opened her mouth, but then bit back the reply. “Go back to the boat and wait there,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Suit yourself,” Paul said. He walked away. Lorraine did the same, continuing down the road. Sholto and I shared a look, took a glance back at the two men, now sauntering along the road, and followed her.
“You okay going after these other three?” Lorraine asked after twenty yards.
“It won’t take long,” I said. “If they disappeared last night, either they’re dead, gone, or dead drunk in some caravan.”
“One hour,” Sholto said, checking his watch. “Then we go back. Is it safe to leave them with the boat?”
“Simon’s there,” Lorraine said. “He’ll shoot them rather than leave without us.”
“Maybe that would be for the best,” Sholto said.
I glanced at my brother. He had a thoughtful expression.
“Penny for them?” I said.
“What?”
“Your thoughts,” I said.
“If they spent the night in a ruined castle and then ran out of ammo, why are their bags so full?” he said.
“Because Paul was lying,” Lorraine said. “He’s probably loaded up on spirits from some abandoned pub.”
“They were running pretty fast to be loaded down with anything heavy,” Sholto said.
“Then it’s something else,” Lorraine said. “And if you want to know what, go to the pub tonight and see what they’re selling. I bet he’s hoping Markus is dead so he can take over the inn for himself.”
“Where’s this trailer park?” Sholto asked.
“There’s a caravan site a few hundred metres that way,” Lorraine said, gesturing inland. “We came over in the spring. Heather Jones saw some smoke when she was fishing. It was just a house fire, but that got her thinking we should grab everything we could while we could. There were too many zombies in Caernarfon, so we stripped the houses this side of the River Seiont. There aren’t many and it wasn’t long before we ended up at the caravan park. It’s a holiday place, and it was mostly empty and shuttered. There were a few odds and ends, but anything valuable enough to be stolen had been removed at the end of the summer season. There was a restaurant, and a path that leads to the site through the fields somewhere…. there, I think.”
Ivy coiled around a battered signpost and over a broken stile that marked a footpath’s beginning. After months of unchecked growth, the blackthorn and bramble hedge constricted the path to a narrow two feet.
“You see it?” Sholto asked, raising his rifle.
“I do. It’s mine,” I said, lowering my voice. “Those rifles are quiet, but not silent.” Nor were we.
Perhaps it was the weeks of safety, or the relative ease with which the zombies around the clubhouse had been dispatched, or the sight of the island just a churning stretch of water away, but months of experience had been forgotten. The zombie had heard us approach and was beginning to stand. It hadn’t been on the path long enough for the undergrowth to ensnare it, nor had it been undead for much longer. Its red jeans, blue shirt, and thick cracked-leather boots were free of the mud that coated those who’d been infected before the stormy spring settled into this stifling summer.
I hauled myself over the stile and raised the fire axe over my head. There wasn’t room to swing it any direction but straight down. Bravado had made me volunteer, and as I pushed my way through the thicket of thorny spikes, I knew that was a foolish motivation. I had nothing to prove, not even to myself, not anymore, and I vowed to never be driven by such cavalier recklessness again. It was a vow that didn’t last long.
I focused my attention on the creature’s lumbering gait. Watched its arms catch in the vines and branches. Listened to the sound of cloth ripping on the blackthorn’s inch-long barbs. Saw its mouth gape open, and I brought the axe down, splitting its skull. It fell into the hedge, stripping leaves from breaking branches.
“I’d say that was as loud as a gunshot,” Sholto said.
“Loud enough to wake the undead,” Lorraine muttered, climbing over the stile.
After another hundred metres, the path ended in a thicket of blackberries that almost completely concealed a varnished gate. Two downward strokes of the axe, and we had a route through, and a clear view of the caravan site.
It was a mixture of once-white static caravans and pine-clad chalets, separated by weather-cracked picket fences and ragged ornamental hedges. Each was surrounded by a patch of withered grass covered in windblown debris. Ten yards in front of us was a curving asphalt road partially covered in a fine dust of sun-dried leaves.
I saw what Lorraine had meant about their not being much here to salvage. It was a place for the summer that could be tolerated in the autumn, but which would have been empty during the winter when the undead rose. Since leaves didn’t trample themselves into dust, it was clear that zombies had had free rein of the site for the last few months. It was also evident that survivors had steered clear of it. There were no barricades, and little sign of struggle beyond a pair of broken windows either side of a faded, bloody palm-print. That made sense. Anyone who reached this far, even if they hadn’t known there was a refuge on Anglesey, would have made for the island. That begged the question of why Markus had come here. It was clear where we’d find the answer. There was no one in sight, but the sound was unmistakable. From the way they raised their weapons, Sholto and Lorraine had heard the noise, too.
“That way,” she whispered, gesturing with her rifle barrel towards a gap between two chalets.
Avoiding the drifts of crackling leaves, and the narrow constraints of the artificial alleyways between the caravans, I took the lead. I had my head cocked, listening to the sound of flesh beating against metal and wood, trying to confirm it all came from the same direction. The noise grew as the road curved inland. I raised a warning hand. Slowed. Stopped. Inched forward to confirm there weren’t any creatures lurking behind a low brick wall to my left. Head extended, but axe raised, I eased forward until I could see around the edge of the caravan. I saw them. At least twenty zombies were gathered around a wooden chalet sixty yards down the road. Splinters flew as they kicked and beat against the thin boards. It was a miracle those walls had stood for so long, but they wouldn’t stand much longer. I backed away, and Lorraine and Sholto did the same.
“At least twenty in sight,” I whispered. “So probably thirty, all told.”
“This is not what I planned for my summer,” Lorraine said, her hand dropping to the spare magazines in her webbing.