by Frank Tayell
Daisy frowned.
“Right. So we all came back to Anglesey. Oh, but not before they found a plane. They brought the plane back over here. Scott Higson flew it. You remember Mr Higson?”
“Read.” Daisy said.
“Okay, so you remember how he baked bread. Yeah, he’s okay, Mr Higson. Anyway, that’s sort of when it all went a bit wrong. Mrs O’Leary had said there was going to be an election. The trouble was that there weren’t any proper candidates. Sholto had wanted Kim to stand but she was in Ireland. He tried to get Donnie to be a candidate, but Donnie fell from a ladder on one of the grain ships and hit his head. Well, actually, he can’t remember anything that happened that day so we’re not really sure what happened. He was inspecting the grain, and a lot of it was ruined. But I’ll get to that. So the election came down to Markus, Bishop, and Dr Umbert. You remember Dr Umbert?”
Daisy gave a nod.
“He was nice, but he died on the Isle of Man. Bishop was mad. Turns out he was working for Rachel, and that she was trying to take over. She wanted Markus to win so she could rule through him. Bishop kidnapped Bill and Lorraine, but they escaped and killed him. Then they went to confront Rachel, and she died. I… I’m not sure who killed her. Anyway. That’s about it. The election sort of happened. Mary was re-elected, and they chose some ministers, like Dr Knight and Leo Fenwick, but it’s basically Bill who’s running things now.”
“Da?” Annette said.
“Yeah, I suppose,” Annette said. “And I guess it’s for the best that he’s in charge. I mean, he knows a lot about government and stuff. But the election didn’t really bring us together. We realised we’d not as much food as before. Oh, and that the power plant is falling apart so we have to leave Anglesey. Hmm. You know, it’s weird. Looking back on it all, I’m not… it’s not a complete story, is it? There are bits that are missing. Bits to do with Rachel and Bishop. I mean, we think we caught all their followers, but there’s stuff that doesn’t really make sense, like destroying the grain. Maybe it was just an accident. But if it wasn’t, why would Rachel have done it? And why attack Donnie but not kill him. Weird. I suppose those are things we’ll never know the answer to. Okay, so what’s left?”
“Boat,” Daisy said, pointing at her drawing.
“Oh, yeah. Rob came from a town called Penrith. There were a couple of other survivors from there: Nilda and her son Jay. They got separated because of Rob. Rob said that Jay was dead. Nilda believed him and sort of wandered around Scotland for a bit before ending up in the sea. That’s where Kim and I found her on our way back from Svalbard. Nilda was walking through Anglesey, and guess who she sees? Rob. And guess what he has in his hands? The sword Nilda had given to her son. She almost killed Rob. Anyway, Nilda went off into the wasteland to look for her son with this guy Chester. And guess what, Chester sort of met Bill a long time ago, not long after the outbreak. They were trapped in different houses on the same street, trying to communicate with each other using bits of paper stuck to the window. Bill wrote about that in his journal, though, so you can read it there. The thing is, that we thought Chester and Nilda were dead. But they weren’t. When they got to Nilda’s old house in Penrith, they found that Jay had left a note for her saying he was going to London. They were going to meet in a place where Nilda had met Jay’s father. I’m not sure where that is. Anyway, Jay was in London, and so were other people. They’ve been living in the Tower of London. Here’s the thing; Bran actually met Jay out in the wasteland. You know Bran. He’s nice.”
Daisy shook her head.
“Okay, he’s sort of stern and standoffish. Kim says that’s because he’s from Yorkshire. You know, I think that was a joke, too. Hers aren’t much funnier than Sholto’s. Anyway, Bran was wandering the wasteland looking for survivors and he came across Jay with this soldier, Tuck. We didn’t know this until last week. When Bran told us, I sort of put two and two together and moved the satellites over London. Okay, Mirabelle and Ken helped a bit, but I did most of the work. We found a message on the roof of the Tower of London addressed to Mr Tull. That’s why George and Lorraine took a boat down to London to go and see. They found Nilda, Jay, and Chester and about a hundred others. It’s a smaller world now than ever before, that’s what Sholto says.”
“No,” Daisy said.
“Maybe not,” Annette said. “Anyway, George is in London now. So… so that’s more or less who we are and where we are. I’m not too sure what’s going to happen now. We’ve got to turn the nuclear power station off before the 7th January, but Bill wants us all in Belfast before Christmas. It’ll be weird living without lights again. Everyone thinks it’ll be temporary, that we’ll go from Belfast to somewhere else, to make a new home. It’ll be like Anglesey, but better. I dunno. I mean, you and I, we saw a lot of England and Wales, didn’t we? I don’t think there’s anywhere better than this.”
Daisy held out her drawing.
“For me? Thank you,” Annette said.
Daisy held out her hand.
“What? Oh, you want to trade.” Annette looked down at the still blank notebook next to her capped pen. “Sorry, I was sort of thinking aloud. I haven’t started writing yet. Okay.” She picked up the pen. “So… so what did I just say?”
Prologue - The Two Responsible
11th November, Anglesey, Day 243
The woman slowly wound the handle of the mill, methodically turning grain into flour while her eyes watched the late afternoon rain drizzling against the window. Theirs was a small cottage near Anglesey airport. There were far grander homes, far closer to the centre of their new government, but they had wanted seclusion. The cottage was the only property on a narrow track off a winding road that was scarcely used, though they could see the runway from their rear garden. From her seat at the kitchen table, she could see out of the window for four hundred metres down the potholed track. So she saw the figure approach long before he reached the door.
“You’re early,” she said as the door opened.
“And a good afternoon to you,” he said, taking another look outside before closing the door. He crossed to the window, staring down the winding lane that led to the cottage.
“You’re dripping water on my floor,” she said.
“I’m just making sure I wasn’t followed,” he said.
“And who do you think would have followed you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I’m looking.”
“There’s no one,” she said. “No one knows what we have done. They blame Rachel and Bishop for all of it. At least, for all that they realise has been done. Everything else, they think it was an accident.”
“There are still Bishop’s people, the ones from Willow Farm.”
“And I told you that they know nothing,” she said.
“You also told me that they would be executed,” he said. “Instead, they’ve been given their freedom.”
“I would hardly call their lives in Menai Bridge that,” she said. “They are under close watch while they sweep streets, gut fish, and mend sails. I spoke to each myself. They are scared, deluded, and weak-minded, desperate for a saviour because they can see no salvation in each other. They didn’t even know that Rachel was pulling Bishop’s strings, let alone that we were pulling hers.”
“There’s Donnie O’Leary,” he said. “He might remember something.”
“There is nothing for him to remember. I will admit that the amnesia he suffered when falling from that ladder on the grain ship was a boon, but he didn’t see anything. I am certain of it.”
“Nonetheless,” the man said. “It is better to be safe than caught.”
“Nonetheless,” the woman said, “I washed that floor yesterday and I am not doing it again. Hang your coat by the door, take your boots off, and tell me what news there is. I take it there is some for you to have come home so early. Am I needed in my official capacity?”
“What? No, it’s not that,” he said. He gave a shrug, dislodging a small puddle
of water from the dip in his hat. “Sorry,” he added, finally removing hat and coat. He hung them by the door.
“Well?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
“We had a sat-phone call from London,” he said. “Old George Tull has arrived. There are survivors there.”
“In London? How many?” she asked.
“Just under a hundred. Half are children.”
“And is there any good news?” the woman asked.
“Not really,” the man said, taking a battered mug from the draining board. “They have ammunition and food, but only sufficient to feed a hundred people for three months. That’s if you believe what they say.”
“Hmm. So there would be three weeks for a thousand? No! Not that bottle.”
The man’s hand froze.
“That’s the bottle we took from Rachel,” the woman said. “It’s the poison.”
“Then why is it in this whisky bottle?” the man said reproachfully. “Why can’t you keep it somewhere else?”
“Always hide in plain sight, remember?” the woman said.
The man picked up a different bottle. “This one?”
“That was a gift from Markus,” she said.
The man picked up a third bottle, this one half full, and of a much cheaper brand. He placed the bottle and mug on the table opposite the woman. He poured himself a generous measure and sat down.
“A hundred people in London?” the woman said. “That changes nothing, though perhaps it can help us. There are too many to fit in Mr Tull’s boat? Then he won’t return to Anglesey immediately.”
“Not for a few days,” the man said. “It depends on the doctor. She’s still examining the people there.”
“And should it be necessary for some to be rushed back for treatment, Mr Tull will volunteer to stay behind,” the woman said. “He is too eager to sacrifice himself to be a true leader. Good. He sees too much. Things will be easier in his absence.”
“If you’d listened to me, we’d have got rid of him months ago.”
“Rachel was too eager to resort to murder, and look what happened, our plans almost unravelled. We cannot afford for them to do so again. Half those in London are children, you say? O’Leary’s ridiculous sentimentality will ensure boats are sent there, and crewed by military personnel, no doubt. While their attention is on London, we shall act.”
“You want to bring the plan forward?” he asked. “I thought we were waiting.”
“Until after Christmas?” she asked, her tone mocking. “You’ve grown too fond of your comforts. Yes, we must act. With some in London, some in Elysium, others in Belfast, they are scattered, distracted. Now is the time, because the longer we wait, the greater chance they realise what we did. Rachel was useful for that, at least. They are blaming all their ills on her and Bishop, but if they have time to think, to investigate, they will realise the truth. You left too many clues behind.”
“You mean we did.” He sipped at the mug. “I told you we should have killed Donnie O’Leary, not just left him unconscious at the bottom of that ladder on the grain ship.”
“And again, I would remind you of what happened to Rachel Gottlieb,” the woman said. “If she hadn’t died, if she had talked, we would have been discovered. At it is, it was only because I was able to destroy the evidence that we were not discovered. We were lucky, mostly because they didn’t know what they were doing during that first investigation. That American, Captain Devine, was newly arrived, and the rest were trampling around playing at detective, destroying as much evidence as they found. But they have learned from their mistakes. Worse, they have discovered a police detective in Ireland. The next time, I cannot guarantee that I will get to the evidence before they have a chance to properly catalogue it. No, we can’t take any more risks, and that is why we must act.”
“Fine.” He took another sip, then a swallow. “Are you sure one thousand people is enough?”
“One thousand is twice what we need. That is why we will take both ships. The spare will be our insurance. One thousand adults, fit, healthy, pliable, but reliable. Bishop was useful for that, at least. The weak-willed identified themselves by following his cause. We don’t want them, or those in Menai Bridge. They are too keen, too likely take initiative rather than orders.”
“It’s a pity about Rachel,” the man said. “We could have made use of her.”
“No, in the end, she would have tried to lead,” the woman said. “Her death was inevitable from the moment she tried to recruit us.”
He poured another measure. She reached over, took the bottle, and placed it on the floor by her feet.
“And in one year, the zombies will be gone?” he said. “You’re sure about that?”
“According to the more lucid of Dr Singh’s notes,” she said. “Within one year after infection, even the most fit subjects will be dead.”
“Dr Singh is anything but lucid,” the man said. “Has he even slept since the outbreak?”
“They have sedated him,” she said. “He can’t accept that he created the undead. Nor can he accept that, since it was an accident, he is blameless. Quite how a scientist can be so illogical is baffling. Quigley recruited him to create a super-vaccine, and by all accounts, he succeeded. That the compound also re-animated the dead is nothing but a side effect. Where is the blame? It has driven him mad. Now, he says nothing, not even to his brother. When he was more lucid, before Bill Wright came to the island, Dr Singh made notes day and night. I went through them.”
“And did you understand them?” the man asked.
“No more than anyone else, but I understood enough,” she said. “Within a year of infection, the host will die. Within a year, not after. It is almost a year since the outbreak. The time is coming when the nightmare will be over. It is time to think of the future, humanity’s future. The world will be ours, if we have the strength to take it. Is everything in place at the plant?”
“Yes. I did it yesterday.”
“You followed the instructions?”
“Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t have known what to do otherwise.
“You weren’t seen?” she asked.
“Of course I was seen,” the man said. “That was the point of me doing it. I was seen, but no one thought anything unusual about me being there.”
“I meant did anyone see what you did?” she said.
“Of course not. I can go back this afternoon to initiate it.”
“No, not this afternoon,” she said. “We shall wait until the boats are sent to London to rescue those children. And we can’t risk it being you. One of our soldiers will be sufficient to the task. It is time they proved themselves.”
“I still say we should have found more.”
“More people? No, because they will have to die before we reach our new home. When we make landfall, only you and I shall know the truth. Did you speak to Heather Jones?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And?”
“And she doesn’t want to leave Wales.”
“You know what I was asking,” she said.
“Her fishing boats and yachts will get the people in Menai Bridge over to Ireland, but not much further. They have few ships that will survive the winter. They won’t be a threat. That just leaves the admiral. What do we do about her?”
“You’re trying to run before we’ve begun to walk,” she said. “We don’t need to do anything. When the crisis begins, they will be forced to flee hurriedly and without proper preparation. If you have done your work properly, not all will reach Ireland. From those that do, we shall select our one thousand. Then we will take the Amundsen and The New World north, take the fuel that we need from Svalbard and destroy the rest. Without the oil, no one will follow us. No one will find us. We’ll get to that bunker, and our future will really begin.”
“If Rachel was telling the truth about its location. But what if they do follow us? What if they set out, seeking revenge?”
“They won’t seek reve
nge, because they won’t know what we’ve done,” she said. “They will know that the two ships have disappeared, but those will be considered another pair of accidents. In a few weeks, Svalbard will become icebound. Without the Amundsen, it will be March before a ship is sent there. Assuming they have any ships left by then. Assuming that any of them are still alive by then. If they reach Svalbard, they will find nothing there, and only corpses to greet them.”
“I think I can find a way to get the remaining people there evacuated to Belfast,” the man said.
“You can?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “They’ve been discussing the calories required to keep even a small contingent alive there during the winter. I think an argument can be made that it is a waste of resources.”
“Then make that argument,” the woman said. “If we don’t have to kill anyone in Svalbard, our task is oh-so-much simpler. We shall simply tell our one thousand that we received a message from Ireland saying that disease has swept through them. Everyone is dead or dying and that we are the last. Yes, they will believe that. I doubt it will be far from the truth.”
“Maybe,” he said. He raised the mug, but it was empty. He put it back on the table. “What if Rachel was lying?”
“But why should she have been?” the woman said. “She thought she had as much to gain as we did. Lisa Kempton built a vault in the United States in which there are the supplies to keep a thousand alive for a century. The vault requires a code.” She picked up a bundle of poorly photocopied papers from the table. “A code that Bill Wright found in Elysium. He found a list of addresses for properties like that house in Pallaskenry, and with them, he found the code. It’s a shame that he didn’t publish the number itself, but he did publish that he found it. And he thinks he is a statesman.”
“Rob found the list,” the man said. “Not Bill Wright.”
“Exactly. That’s proof that Rachel was telling us the truth, and why it is a boon that Rob and Rachel, and Paul and Bishop are dead.”
“And what if Kempton went to that bunker,” the man asked. “What if there’s nothing left. What if there are people there?”