Britain's End

by Frank Tayell

  The shockwave hit them first, followed so closely by a wall of sound that the two couldn’t be told apart. The boat rocked as stone and rock rained down, and dust and grit billowed outward from the bridge. Nilda grabbed the rail, listening to the sound of that heavily solid rain patter against the boat, the river, the shore, staring ahead into the dusty mist ahead of them. As it settled, she saw the bridge. It still stood.

  “It didn’t work,” Jennings said. “I think we just blew off the decorative surround.”

  “Zombies,” Jay said. He’d insisted on coming up into the cockpit to watch.

  Nilda looked around, but she couldn’t see them.

  “No, Mum, there, on Sheppey,” Jay said.

  There were four of them, on the riverbank. They weren’t important. “Well, what do we do?” she asked. “Go back, I suppose. Get some more explosive?”

  “And a proper drill,” Jennings said. “A pneumatic drill and a generator. We’ll take it up onto the bridge, and drill down into the roadway. That’s how we do it.”

  A day to return to London. Another to return to the citadel, a third to get back to Sheppey. They’d need to get the fuel from that car park, and then find a tool-hire company either in Sheerness or Sittingbourne. Five days? At least. It was frustrating, but— But then the bridge rocked. It undulated. It shuddered and shook, and Tuck grinned. The fractured pillar seemed to jump sideways before collapsing, bringing down five feet of roadbed from the bridge above.

  “Well, it’s not all collapsed,” George said.

  “Look at the other pillar,” Jay said, just as it fell. The sound wasn’t as deafening as the initial explosion, but the eruption of dust and debris was worse as pillars and bridge collapsed onto the Kent coast.

  Nilda didn’t have to wait for the dust to clear to know that it had worked, but they stood, silent, until they were certain.

  “You just blew up a bridge,” Jay said. “Cool.”

  “And only the section above the shore,” Lorraine said. “The river is still navigable, at least for now. I’m not sure I’ll feel comfortable sailing a boat underneath, but I’d say that’s a good job well done.”

  “Good enough,” George said. “So what now? It’s getting late, we’ve an hour before dark.”

  “We kill the undead,” Nilda said. “That explosion will be heard across Sheppey. The zombies will come to the shore. By tomorrow morning, they’ll all be there. How much ammo do we have left?”

  “A few thousand rounds,” Jennings said.

  “Count it,” Nilda said. “Whether we kill them now, or kill them next week, we’ll have to kill them, so let’s do it today. Sheppey’s going to be our home. It really is.”

  She turned away from the broken section of bridge to scan the shore. She could only see two undead on it now. No, one. The other had staggered into the Thames. Even better, she thought. Let the tide carry them out to sea.

  “I’ll get my gun,” Jay said, hopping back towards the cabin. Nilda caught his arm.

  “No, leave it to Tuck and Norm. You’re a good shot, but they’re better, and you really should keep that leg elevated. If you’re not going to lie down, at least sit down.”

  “Nilda,” Lorraine said. “Look.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “The Kent shore. That zombie by the waterline.”

  “Where?”

  “The zombie staggering through the shallows,” Lorraine said. “That zombie was on Sheppey. It was one of the zombies on the bank, one that fell into the river.”

  “Are you sure?” Nilda asked.

  “I think so,” Lorraine said.

  “Zombies can’t swim,” Tuck signed.

  “But they don’t breathe,” Nilda said. “I mean, you can shoot them in the lungs and it does nothing. How deep is the water?”

  “No idea,” George said. “But not deep enough. I’ve seen them fall into water. I’ve seen them stagger out minutes later. No, they don’t breathe. The water dissolves them, slowly, like it does with people.”

  “But a few minutes trudging along the seabed, a few feet from the surface, they can manage that?” Nilda asked, but she knew the answer. “Of course they can.”

  Summoned by the sound of the explosion, more undead reached Sheppey’s shore. Some stopped, but others kept moving, falling into the river.

  On the boat, they watched the Kent coast, waiting for confirmation of their worst fears. Five minutes later, they had it, when a zombie trudged out onto the Kent shore. Still they waited for ten minutes, then twenty, then half an hour. They counted one zombie, then another, then more, drifting into the water, emerging onto the opposite shore a few minutes after that.

  “The sun’s setting,” Lorraine finally said. “It’s not going to be safe here.”

  “Take us back to that quay near Sheerness,” Nilda said. “We can wait there tonight.”

  The ship’s lights added macabre shadows to Tuck’s expression, and made her hands hard to read, but Nilda knew what she was asking.

  “What now? Not Sheppey,” Nilda said. “The Swale is too shallow. The undead could wade across. We’d have to keep as many people on guard as on the mainland, but we’d lose the benefit of being able to search for supplies on foot.”

  “If not Sheppey, then where? Do we stay in the Tower?” Tuck asked.

  “For now,” Nilda said. “Where else is there? St James’s Park won’t work, not as long as the undead are alive. So we stay in the Tower and hope they die.”

  “And if they don’t?” Tuck asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nilda said. “I don’t think Ireland is going to be any safer than London. Crete? Malta? Cyprus? They’re too far. If we had more fuel, a proper ship… but we don’t. No, for now, we’ll have to stay in the Tower. We’ll have to make it work. We’ll have to focus on Jay’s hydroponics. Come the spring, we’ll send a ship to the Med. You’ll have recovered by then. We’ll…” She trailed off. Out of ideas.

  Chapter 9 - Waiting for the Phone to Ring

  16th November, The Tower of London, Day 248

  Nilda stared at the sat-phone, waiting for the call. In the three days since they’d gone to Sheppey, the messages from Chester relayed via Anglesey had been a welcome distraction. Life in the Tower had taken on a gloomy tone. Without words being said, news had spread that there was no better refuge nearby. With that had come the understanding that this life was as good as they could hope for. That had sharpened their view of daily life. Chores had become a drudge. Tempers had frayed. The mood had soured. Nilda hadn’t tried to lift it, but had tried to come up with a new plan. Clearing the airport, collecting the fuel from the vehicles at the port on Sheppey, even emptying the citadel’s bunker, she hadn’t the enthusiasm. It would wait. There was, after all, plenty of time.

  She had shared with everyone that Chester and Greta had reached Birmingham, and that survivors had been found there. She hadn’t told anyone that Eamonn might be alive, and might be being held hostage by a psychopath. Until all three were safe on Anglesey, she would keep that to herself. And so, she sat alone, watching the phone, waiting for it to ring.

  Finally, it did.

  “We’re safe,” Chester said.

  “Chester? It’s so good to hear your voice. Greta’s okay?”

  “She is,” he said, his voice weary, strangely distant.

  “And Eamonn?” she asked.

  “We got him,” Chester said. “We did.”

  She heard the hesitation. “How is he?” she asked.

  “Alive. Barely. They’ve taken him to the hospital. I’m going to go there in a moment.”

  “Why? Are you—” she began.

  He cut her off. “I’m fine. I really am,” he said. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Eamonn’s alive. So is Greta. So am I. We got the survivors out of Birmingham, the… I don’t know what to call the people holding them. It was a soldier, one of Quigley’s. The last one, I think. He’s dead. All his people are dead. Hardly seems to matter now.”

  �
��Why? What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s a horde,” he said. “The horde. Millions of them. Maybe ten million. It’s impossible to tell. They descended on Birmingham. The city… it’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?” she asked, though she could imagine. “You mean like Hull?”

  “Worse than Hull,” he said. “It must be most of the undead in England. They were heading south, Nilda. Maybe they’ll change direction. Maybe they’ll stay in Birmingham. I don’t know.”

  Her mind conjured a map. Birmingham was only eighty miles distant. As the undead lurched day and night without rest, that was forty-eight hours away.

  “They’re heading south?” she asked.

  “They were heading south,” he said. “We’re not sure if they still are, or whether they’ll stop in Birmingham. There’s too much cloud for the satellites to be of use. The helicopter will go back up tomorrow and check. They’re going to send some boats to you.”

  “Yes. Right. We’ve got Lorraine’s ship, and we’ve got the life rafts. We can sail down the Thames to meet them if we have to.” Her eyes fixed to the ancient stones in the ancient wall. “Ten million?”

  “Maybe less,” Chester said. “Probably less, but how many less doesn’t matter. It’s still too many.”

  “The Tower has withstood a lot, but it won’t withstand that,” Nilda said. “We’ll… we’ll talk in the morning. Go to the hospital. See Eamonn. I’ll… I’ll speak to Tuck, and to George.”

  She ended the call and stared at the handset.

  Ten million zombies? Heading south? In forty-eight hours, they could be swamped. London was doomed.

  Her eyes turned back to the stones. Reality pushed back her darkest fears. It wouldn’t be forty-eight hours. The brick and stone of Birmingham, London, and all the land in between would slow the undead. It might be three days or it might be ten. It might be a month, but there was a horde, ten million strong, eighty miles from London. That wouldn’t change. It was time to leave. Time to leave and… and… and go where? Anglesey? Perhaps. For now. For a few weeks. It had electricity, and she wasn’t sure it was wise to expose the children to that again, only to take it away from them soon after. But what was the alternative? Straight to Elysium or Belfast, and it was a roll of the dice as to which would be safer let alone safe.

  According to George, and confirmed by Denby, the admiral was going to return to America. Perhaps they could go with her. The sea might be a dangerous place, but the children would be safer there than on land. Maybe. Perhaps. Except…

  Her eyes fell on her submachine gun. There were supplies here in London, and no room on the ships to take them away. The bricks might fall, but the bunker would remain, buried under rubble and concrete. The MREs, the ammunition, the weapons, the explosives; Jay could collect them in five years. The rations should last that long, and the ammunition certainly would. Was it enough? Ammunition ran out, and once gone, the guns would be useless, but there was plenty of steel in the Tower. They could make one last trip up the river, and leave swords and spears in the bunker as well. And that was all she could do. That was the only preparation she could make, the only gift she could leave for her son. His legacy would be a chance to continue the fight.

  Part 2

  Planes, Prisoners, and Graves

  17th November - 18th November

  Anglesey

  Chapter 10 - The Pilot

  17th November, Anglesey, Day 249

  “Nilda,” Chester said, speaking into the headset’s microphone, “I just wanted to say I love you.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?” Nilda asked.

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m safe. Eamonn’s… recovering. He’ll be fine. I just wanted to tell you that I love you; I don’t say it enough.”

  “I love you, too, Chester. Are you coming home?”

  “Soon,” he said. “I promise.” He took off the headset, but couldn’t see an obvious button that would end the call. “How do I hang up?”

  Bill Wright tapped the keyboard. “Creating a switchboard isn’t as simple as it sounds,” he said. “It’s on the list, but I don’t think we’ll get to it before we lose the satellites. Radio is the future.”

  “Right.” Chester took in the room. He’d seen it the previous night, but not examined it. The terrace had been a row of three-up, two-downs, built over a century ago for fisher-folk. The ground floor had been recently knocked through; a few dozen bricks were still neatly stacked next to the hole. He didn’t know what had happened to the rest of the bricks, nor to the furniture. Rows of office desks and chairs were now in their place. On the desks were screens. All but three were dark, and those three showed clouds. In front of those lit screens sat two women and a man. One of the women was tall, thin, wrapped in a massive down jacket, and wore a pair of taped-together glasses perched on her nose. The other woman was shorter, with tufts of short blue hair jutting out from beneath a clumsily knitted woollen hat. Neither could be much more than twenty. The man was older, but like the two women, he had a ball of wool on his lap and a pair of knitting needles in his hands.

  “Did you meet last night?” Bill asked. “This is Dee-Dee, Mirabelle, and Ken. They’re part of the… um… the collective. They keep track of the satellites, and sort through the images when there’s anything to see.”

  “This is Belfast,” Dee-Dee, the woman with the broken glasses, said, pointing at the monitor on the left. “That’s Birmingham. And this is the Shannon Estuary. Hopefully the cloud will clear as the day warms. We don’t want to move a satellite blind as we then spend hours comparing the photograph to the topographical maps, working out precisely where we’ve moved it to.”

  “We don’t know where the horde is?” Chester said.

  “Scott’s taking the helicopter back up this morning,” Dee-Dee said. “He’ll take photographs. Do you want to see yesterday’s?”

  “The pictures taken from the helicopter,” Mirabelle added.

  “No,” Chester said. “No, I don’t think there’s much point. I just want to know how long London has.”

  “As soon as we know,” Ken said, “you’ll know.”

  Bill gave a shrug. “Let’s see Sorcha Locke. Then we’ll go to Menai Bridge and I’ll show you the boats we’re sending to London. We can discuss the future then.”

  “You know,” Chester said, “with the knocked-through walls, this place reminds me of a chippie in Brixton. Did a really nice line in spicy batter. Wish I’d asked for the recipe.” He followed Bill outside.

  “Do you mean that place on Coldharbour Lane?” Bill asked.

  “You know it?” Chester asked.

  “One of my interns lived near there,” Bill said. “Insisted I try it. Wasn’t bad. No, it wasn’t bad at all.”

  An uneasy silence settled between them. There were many things Chester wanted to discuss with Bill Wright, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, but this wasn’t the time. That left small talk, and it was proving difficult to find a common point of reference. They’d both lived in London, but he’d been a thief, while Bill had been a de-facto politician, and those two worlds didn’t intersect as much as the newspapers had liked to claim.

  “It’s clean here in Holyhead,” Chester said. “Noticeably so. It’s a real contrast with London. There it’s all we can do to clear the dead zombies from the streets. Sometimes we can’t even do that.”

  The road outside the terrace had been swept, the leaves gathered into the front garden of the house opposite. There they mouldered, adding a wonderfully natural smell of decay to the chilly air.

  “We didn’t think about the leaves before they fell,” Bill said. “That’s one more thing we didn’t consider until after the event.”

  “At least it’s not snowing,” Chester said, tucking his hands into the pockets of the borrowed jacket.

  “Hmm,” Bill said, and clearly decided to abandon any further attempt at small talk. “We’ve been in touch with London while you were
on the road.”

  “Is there something wrong? Something I should know?” Chester asked.

  “No, the opposite. They’re all well, as I understand it. They took the boat down to Sheppey. The channel separating it from Kent was too shallow. The undead just walked across.”

  “Ah. Sheppey wouldn’t have worked, not if the horde is heading to London. If the zombies end up in the Thames, they’ll just get washed down with the tide, and end up coming ashore there.”

  “Probably,” Bill agreed. “But that’s the bad news. The good news from London is what that lad, Jay, was working on. His hydroponics.”

  “I thought they’d been doing something similar here,” Chester said.

  “Growing, yes,” Bill said, “but it was this idea with laptop batteries and small wind turbines that I’m interested in. For us, here, electricity has not been an issue, and when I’ve been forming plans for the future, I’ve been searching for something on the scale of the nuclear plant. Coal power plants, offshore wind farms, even the peat-burning power stations in the middle of Ireland; I’ve considered each and found them wanting. What that lad, Jay, has made me realise is that it’s not generating the electricity that’s the issue, it’s the labour involved. We can either mine coal or we can dig fields, but we can’t do both because either requires as many people on guard as are wielding a pick.”

  “And the batteries are the answer?” Chester asked.

  “They’re the key to finding the answer,” Bill said. “We only need lights during the evenings, and while they’re long at this time of year, we can cope with going to bed in the dark. But wind turbines can generate power as long as there’s a gale, so what we need is a way to store the electricity. I don’t know if wind turbines are the solution. Since we’ll need water, we’ll have to stay close to rivers. I doubt it’ll be too difficult to rig up a water mill. It wouldn’t need to generate much power, because, with a battery-array, we could store the energy for when we need it.”