Britain's End

by Frank Tayell

  “What are you doing out here?” Sholto asked.

  “Watching those anglers,” Siobhan said. “It’s an odd place to fish. And an odd place to stay fishing as night falls, after a day without a bite. Go, I’ll see you later.”

  Sholto fell into step next to Kallie, matching his pace to her slower one.

  “You’re recovering?” he asked.

  “I’ve got the best doctor in the world,” she said with an edge of bitterness. She had been shot by Jasmine Cotter shortly after she, Bill, Kim, Siobhan, and the others had arrived in Belfast. “Besides,” she added. “If the zombies come, they won’t care if I can’t walk. Have you see Dean and Lena?”

  “I have, and I’ve got a letter for you from them.”

  “How… how are they?” she asked.

  According to Bill and Kim, Kallie had been cheerful to the point of exuberance during their journey from Connemara. There was nothing cheerful in her tone now. Perhaps that was the gunshot. Perhaps, Sholto thought, it was something far more mundane. Three teenagers from the same school had escaped the outbreak. One was here, while the other two were off having adventures of their own, together. Without an obviously comforting answer to offer, he opted, instead, for the truth.

  “They’re tired,” he said. “It’s getting hectic on Anglesey. Because everyone knows we’re leaving, not much is being done, but at the same time, so much needs to be done.”

  “Doesn’t it just,” Kallie said.

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  “I’m playing the cop,” she said, and the bitterness in her voice was clear. “We’re here.”

  Here was a parcel-distribution warehouse at the end of the concrete pier, near dry-land proper. Outside stood a Marine guard wearing a patched U.S. military jacket but civilian trousers. Uniforms were running low, then. Even the rifle wasn’t standard issue, but a British SA80 fitted with a silencer Sholto knew had been made on Anglesey. The Marine gave them a distinctly un-martial nod of greeting as they went in.

  There were no boxes inside, though there was flattened cardboard on the floor, forming a carpeted path that led into the dimly lit interior. To the left of the door was a small pile of clean cardboard next to a bin filled with sharpened tools. Battery-powered electric lamps pushed back the shadows far enough that Sholto could count the folding camp-beds. About forty people called the warehouse home. They probably called it the command centre, too. Pinned to the eastern wall were maps of Belfast and the surrounding area. Some of the camp-beds were already full as, with night beginning and duties over, Marines took their much-needed rest. He assumed they were Marines. A few had military jackets, boots, or trousers, but none wore a complete set, and some were dressed entirely in civilian garb. Unlike Kallie, though, the clothing was light in colour. Blues and greys dominated. Which, when he thought about it, made sense. The enemy didn’t have snipers, but they were covered in mud. No one wanted to be mistaken for a zombie, and with so many new recruits, friendly fire was a real danger.

  “Welcome home,” Kallie said. “The admiral’s in there.”

  In the western corner, two shipping containers were stacked one on top of the other. Both had windows, and a steep staircase led up to the top-most one. Kallie took Sholto to the ground-floor container.

  Admiral Janet Gunderson was inside, with Lieutenant John Whitley, an officer from the Harper’s Ferry.

  “Mr Sholto,” the admiral said. She didn’t say welcome, but she didn’t say he wasn’t welcome either. She hadn’t forgiven him for his role in rigging the U.S. presidential election, and he doubted she ever would, but a truce had been declared, and it seemed to be holding.

  “Admiral,” he said.

  In the corner were two office-desks facing one another. The piles of paper in front of Whitley were stacked with meticulous military precision. Kallie collapsed into the swivel chair at the other desk where the papers were chaotically arrayed. Dominating the rest of the room was a folding table covered in maps. Not all were of Ireland. One was of Maine, the other, Florida.

  “How’s Anglesey?” Whitley asked.

  “I’ve got a few reports here,” Sholto said. He took the plastic envelope out of his bag.

  “Is there a summary?” the admiral asked.

  “It’s all relatively calm. Locke knows something, or she wants us to thinks she does. Whatever it is, she’s not willing to share. Markus has held a few meetings, seeking out support. They were sparsely attended.”

  “What did he say at these meetings?” Whitley asked.

  “Nothing inflammatory, just that we can have back all that we’ve lost. It was a variation on the theme he stuck to during the election. I think he’s gearing up to fight the next contest. The horde is a few miles southwest of Birmingham. Or it was the last time the helicopter went up. We’re not sure if it’s now on a southwesterly course, but it doesn’t seem to be heading directly towards London. Regardless, Leon has set sail for London.”

  “Leon?” the admiral asked. “Not Heather Jones?”

  “No. Leon went,” Sholto said. “He should be there in five to ten days.” He handed the written report to Whitley, and the letter from Dean and Lena to Kallie. “Where are Colm and the kids?” he asked.

  “Asleep,” Kallie said. “Or Tamara, Billy, and Charlie are. Colm is out shaking hands.”

  “Telling local stories and local legends,” Whitley said.

  “Trying to make this place seem like home?” Sholto said. “Why not.”

  Kallie shook her head, put the unread letter into her pocket, and picked up a few pieces of paper from the desk. He doubted she was actually reading them.

  “I’ve marked out the road,” Whitley said, filling the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “The one you want to use as a runway. Colm will give you the tour in the morning.”

  “We need to clear it of cars and obstacles. How many volunteers can you round up?” Sholto asked.

  “How many do you need?” the admiral replied. She made a show of checking her watch, though there was a clock on the wall. “Kallie, you’ve been working for sixteen hours. Go and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a longer day. John, check the squads by the barricades.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Whitley said. He crossed to the door, held it open, and looked pointedly at Kallie. The young woman gave another thin smile, but she left.

  Sholto crossed to the window that looked out onto the warehouse. “You’ve got some new recruits, I see.”

  “A few. All volunteers,” the admiral said.

  “And in a new uniform. The blue and grey,” Sholto said.

  “There’s no symbolism in it,” the admiral said. “The clothes were in a warehouse next door. What mattered is that there were enough sets that it could become a uniform.”

  “How are you set for food?” he asked. “Have you found much in the ruins?”

  “Is that why you’re really here?” the admiral asked.

  He turned to face her. “I’m really here to find a landing site for that plane,” he said.

  “Not to go back to the bunker?” she asked. “What did Locke really tell you?”

  Sholto’s eyes narrowed. How much did she know? How much could she know? Could the Marines guarding Locke have overheard their conversation? Possibly, but there was no way they could have got a message to the admiral. There was a good chance she was bluffing, but he was tired of playing games. He opted for the truth.

  “Yes, Locke talked to me,” he said. “She said that Lisa Kempton was trying to save the world. She said I was the villain. That my actions, in getting Max elected, precipitated the apocalypse. That if it hadn’t been for me, Kempton would have stopped Quigley and his American masters.”

  “I… I see,” the admiral said. “Is she correct?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. She says that they knew who I was, and what I was doing. If that’s true, and if they were truly trying to stop the apocalypse, they could have spoken to me. We could have worked together, and t
ogether we could have prevented it. No, I think she is bluffing. Quite why, I’m not sure, but that means I’ll treat anything she says with scepticism. I think that there are more vaults like Birmingham, more stash-houses like at Pallaskenry, more bunkers like here in Belfast, and more redoubts like Elysium. They’ll be similarly equipped, with supplies for between a few dozen and a few hundred.”

  “You don’t think there’s some great storehouse somewhere?” the admiral asked.

  “I think she wants us to believe there is,” Sholto said. “And if I’m honest, I want to believe it, too. That doesn’t mean it’s real.”

  “What about the…” She paused, crossed to the map of Ireland, and peered at a note pinned at the mouth of the Shannon Estuary. “Claverton Industrial Supplies. That’s the name of the business outside of which The New World was moored. There are the pre-cursors for rocket fuel, and for a nitrogen-based fertiliser. We don’t need rocket fuel, but we will need fertiliser in a few years. Are there more buildings like that?”

  Sholto mulled it over. “The business is a front. Kempton had many. I saw her accounts. She paid for three satellites, a cruise ship, and those redoubts. There wouldn’t have been much left over.”

  “Did you know about Birmingham?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is possible that there are other places you don’t know about.”

  “It is,” he said. “Like I said, I want to believe there are, but I’m not going to be driven by false hope. She’s been given the chance to leave, and she has chosen to stay. She wants to tell us something, and she will, in a week or two, probably before we finally leave Anglesey. I’m going to avoid any more speculation until then. What’s it really like here?”

  The admiral walked over to the window. “Tensions are running high,” she said. “People don’t realise what they’re leaving behind until they arrive. The children and the sick are on The John Cabot where they have some lights and flushing toilets. Here we have open fires, five litres of water, and eighteen hundred calories a day. I’m running it as a military camp until we’re more properly settled, but the real friction comes from regret that they left Anglesey so soon. Regret turns to resentment, and I can see that becoming a riot.”

  “That’s why you’re recruiting them?” he asked. “Stick them onto your side of the barricade so there’s no one left throw rocks from the other side.”

  “On the other side are the undead,” she said. “Belfast is an empty city. Between them, Locke and Jasmine Cotter searched most of the houses. We used that map your brother found, collecting what they had boxed up. It didn’t amount to much when spread across thousands. We will learn to loathe fish over the coming months, but soon that will be all that’s left.”

  Sholto crossed to the map of Belfast and the surrounding twenty miles. There were dozens of pins. “There’s nothing left in the city?”

  “We’re still searching,” she said. “Sending out patrols to scavenge does not turn civilians into soldiers, but it does turn individuals into teams. That will help, but it’s swiftly becoming the only value in searching the city. We occasionally find a few cans in a cellar, a few jars in a cupboard, but it is an increasing rarity.”

  “So where’s next?” He ran a finger along the farmland to the southeast of the city. “The Ards Peninsula?”

  “Perhaps,” the admiral said. “I’m sending a pilot back in the boat that brought you here. We need the helicopter.”

  “So do we. I thought there were plenty near the airport.”

  “They’ve been outside for nine months,” the admiral said. “They’ll need to be stripped down before they can fly. I can’t wait that long.”

  “For what?”

  “To see what is out there,” she said. “You’ve got a satellite over Birmingham, and one over Elysium, leaving one above us, but in this weather, what can they see? The satellites are being wasted. I would like them redeployed somewhere there are clear skies. However, that will not solve my immediate problem. Before I send people out to investigate the surrounding countryside, I’d like to know which roads have been washed away, which buildings might become a redoubt, and where a helicopter might extract them.” She pointed at the map, to the Victoria Channel, the waterway that led into the city. “With that ship sunk in the channel’s entrance, we can’t navigate into the city. As the sea represents our only way of escape should a horde descend on Belfast, we can’t venture further inland than these quays. Geography gives us a small area that must be defended, but it also means that all expeditions have to travel out and back along the same route.”

  “You’re saying Belfast is finished?” Sholto asked. “Before we’ve even relocated everyone from Anglesey?”

  “I didn’t say that,” the admiral said. “But see for yourself in the morning. There are a few spare cots at the eastern end of the building. The washroom is next door.”

  “Right.” He knew he was being dismissed, but didn’t resist. He walked to the door, and had one hand on it when she spoke.

  “Grant Maxwell was a good man,” she said, almost reluctantly. “In time, he might have made a good president.”

  It wasn’t an apology, or an absolution, but it was something.

  “I thought so, too,” he said.

  Sholto lay on his bedroll, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the symphony of snoring. Everyone slept in the same room. No one had privacy, not even the admiral. Well, almost. The three children slept in the alcove between the shipping container-offices and the wall. It had been separated off by plyboard painted to look like a castle’s walls. So many sailors, so many soldiers, so far from home, and so far in time from families who were almost certainly dead; the three children had become surrogates for all who’d been lost.

  Had that been a deliberate ploy by the admiral? Was it a way of ensuring loyalty and diligence by placing a physical reminder of what was being fought for so prominently? These… were they sailors, soldiers, or Marines? Either way, these recruits in the warehouse were among the admiral’s most trusted followers, those she could rely on in case of crisis. The question was whether the admiral expected an assault by the undead or an uprising among the living.

  He rolled over. He was getting cynical in his old age, and he felt that age more with each passing day. Unfortunately, the cynicism wasn’t born of paranoia. On the boat-ride from Anglesey, Gwen had practically demanded that he, Bill, Kim, and the girls relocate to Menai Bridge. Heather Jones was planning something. She wasn’t the only one. Before he’d left, Scott Higson had cornered him, and pitched the idea of taking the plane to America. The pilot had already put the idea to Bill, and his brother had told him to wait. It looked as if the pilot wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The admiral had her own scheme. All of them, the admiral included, were preparing for the worst, but their plans didn’t intersect.

  It was the election; that had been the mistake. Not that they’d had one, but that it had ended so disastrously. If Kim had been in Anglesey, or if Donnie hadn’t fallen from that ladder on the grain ship and ended up unconscious in hospital. If Dr Umbert hadn’t died. If, if, if, but even if it had gone to plan, Bishop and Rachel would still have been weaving their dark little web.

  He rolled over again, trying to find a position where he could fit both his head and feet on the cot. It was six inches too short, and already creaking.

  The rest of Anglesey would arrive in Belfast over the next few weeks. The hope had been that things would remain stable until the exodus was complete. Trouble would come, and they expected it to come from Markus, which was why he and his people were being watched. Trouble might come from a more prosaic direction as people simply left, seeking their better fortunes alone. Those who left, like with the first exodus after the outbreak, would be the people with the better boats, the better equipment, the better chance of survival. Heather Jones, the admiral, and who knew who else.

  He had expected that. When he’d regained control of the satellites, he’d created a seconda
ry password, ensuring all communication had to be relayed through a central system. No one could talk to one another without him knowing about it. Control the means of communication, control the message; that had been Kempton’s reason for creating the satellites, and he’d made it his own. It hadn’t mattered. No one was making a secret of their preparations.

  He knew how to run an election, and how to rig it. He knew how to steal, bribe, and muscle his way to success. None of those skills were useful now. There had to be a way of keeping everyone together. To make things work, not for himself, but for his family. For so long, for almost all his life, he’d been without one. Now he had one, he wasn’t going to lose it. No, there had to be a way, something he was missing. A way to connect all the little pieces into a pattern that would ensure humanity’s survival.

  Chapter 15 - All Roads Lead from Belfast

  19th November, Belfast, Day 251

  “I’d say fish porridge tastes better in Belfast,” Sholto said as he pulled his hat down over his ears. The pre-dawn mist had evaporated with the first hint of sun, but the promise of a glorious day had vanished as clouds scudded in from the northwest. That wind brought a bitter chill to the air, but at least it wasn’t raining.

  There were five in the party going to inspect the road. In his view, that was three too many. Colm was showing the way, but Lieutenant Whitley was clearly there as a pair of eyes for the admiral. If Sholto hadn’t vowed to be less cynical, he’d have said Whitley was also making sure that he didn’t disappear off into the city to search some location given him by Locke. Specialist Thelonious Toussaint, and the young Private Luca Petrelli rounded off the group. At least their presence meant he could keep his hands in his pockets, and leave them to watch for the undead.

  “And there was coffee,” Sholto added. “That was a welcome surprise.”

  “You’re out of coffee on Anglesey?” Colm asked.

  “Utterly,” Sholto said. “Tea as well. We’re down to drinking cups of hot water.”