by Frank Tayell
Kim almost tripped on an uneven shape. It was a corpse. The face was a familiar one, though she didn’t know the woman’s name. Kim had often seen her in the small park in Holyhead, sitting on the bench, watching the swings.
“We need light,” she said. “We need—”
“We need order,” Bran said. “That’s what we need.”
“Here!” Kim bellowed. “Rally!” She hesitated, uncertain what command to give, what command would be understood. “Here. To me! Lights. Who has a light?”
A bobbing beam danced towards them. It was Rahinder Singh.
“What happened?” Rahinder asked. “Why did it happen?”
“Worry about that later,” Kim said. “We need to get the wounded out of the water. Can I?” She took the torch, and shone it up across the ship, then along the shore. There were scores of bodies, but there were people, too, and some were moving the wounded further up the beach.
“And we need to get guards with weapons on—” she began, but was cut short by a scream from her left. She swung the light towards it, settling on a figure hunched over a body, fifty metres from her. This figure, though, hadn’t been a passenger. The mud-coated clothes, the hand missing three fingers, the scalp missing all but a tuft of hair, the deathly eyes caught in the beam of light; it was undead.
“Bran!”
But the soldier’s rifle was already raised. He fired before she could give him another command. The zombie fell.
“We need to secure the beach,” Bran said. He turned to Rahinder. “Find lights. Find weapons. Find people. We’ll form a line up on the dry ground, away from the ship. For now, leave the injured. We’ll help them soon. Go. That way.”
Bran was already moving in the other direction. Kim, light in hand, walked up the rocky shoreline. Her foot kicked against something. She shone the light down. It was part of a crossbow, and clearly not a functioning one. When she shone the light into the dark again, the beam found a hunched shape slouching towards her. Her hand went to her holster, hesitated as she remembered the gun wasn’t silenced. Did that matter? Surely not, not now. She drew the machete anyway, and stepped forward to meet the undead.
The creature’s jacket had been shredded, but the woollen jumper underneath had remained mostly whole. Water and movement had stretched and loosened it. The sleeves hung lower than its hands, giving it an almost comical too-big appearance. Comical until she looked at that face with the skin torn around the mouth exposing even the back-most broken teeth.
She swung the machete one-handed and low, bending forward as the new-stamped steel arced at the creature’s legs. It staggered towards her, and into the blade. As she dragged it back, skin cut, flesh tore, and rotten sinew was severed. The zombie toppled forward, instantly squirming and writhing, trying to get back to its feet. Kim slammed the blade down on its skull, then turned away from the corpse, scanning the shoreline again. She could see no more movement, at least, not from the dark depths of Ireland.
A scream came from behind her. She spun around. Hers wasn’t the only light seeking the source of the sound. It came from a figure, prone on the rocks. Around the person were other figures, all crouched. But they weren’t attacking, they were helping. The scream turned to a bubbling cough, and then to silence. Another cry came, but this one from the ship itself as a large wave crashed into the over-turned hull.
The largest cluster of lights came from directly below the ship’s superstructure. She headed over to it, and found Bran there, with Commander Crawley, and at least a hundred others. Some had lights. Some had weapons. Some had crude bandages, stained dark with blood and spray.
“Commander,” she said. “Get people up the beach. Form a line. Get the wounded up there.”
“Where’s Mrs O’Leary?” someone asked from the crowd.
“Still up there,” Kim said, pointing at the superstructure. “With Annette and Daisy. When you’ve got all the injured to dry ground, go up for them.”
“And then what?” that voice called again. Kim shone the light into the crowd. She didn’t know his name, but she’d seen him hanging around the waterfront.
“There’s a tall building, about a quarter mile from here,” Kim said. “Maybe an office block, maybe apartments. That’s where we’ll go. And I’m going there now to make sure it’s safe. I’ll be back in under an hour, and I want everyone ready to move.”
“I don’t see why you’re—” the man began, but the commander cut him off.
“You heard her,” Crawley barked. “Cassie, Dave, I want…”
And as the commander gave orders, Kim turned away, and moved towards the dark shore.
Chapter 23 - Expedition, Inland
Dundalk
Bran fell into step next to Kim. “You’re doing everything right,” he said, as they walked away from the wreck.
“I shouldn’t be the one giving orders,” she said.
“No, it’s better this way. Everyone knows you. Not all of them like you, but they know who you are. You worry about where we’re going, and Commander Crawley and I’ll worry about keeping people alive. Between us, we’ll get everyone through this.”
There was movement to her left. Kim swung around, having raised her machete to shoulder-height before she saw that it was only Mirabelle. Slowly, she breathed out, and lowered her arm.
“What’s happened now?” Kim asked, expecting some new piece of disastrous news.
“Nothing,” Mirabelle said. “I’ve been delegated by Dee-Dee to be your bodyguard. And don’t worry, Ken’s gone to get Daisy and Annette.”
“He has? They’d probably be safer up on the ship.”
“Do you want me to go back and tell him?” Mirabelle asked uncertainly.
“No,” Kim said. “I was being— no, it’s fine. You’re armed?”
Mirabelle raised a machete. “Yep. Not much of a beach, is it?”
There might have been sand beneath the rocks, pebbles, moss, gorse, and occasional boulders, but you’d have to dig deep to find it. Bran took the lead as the scrub led to an incline covered in ferns topped with a crash barrier, beyond which was a road.
“It’s travelling north-south,” Bran said. “Following the coast.” He shone his light left, then right, stopping when it fell on a lumpen shape lurching towards them from the south. The zombie was hunched over, its hands almost trailing along the dirt as it pushed itself along the crash barrier.
“It must have been on the road, further up the coast, and summoned by the sound of the shipwreck,” Mirabelle said.
Whatever injury caused it to be hunched over, that posture made it impossible for it to tumble over the crash barrier, and so down onto the beach and towards the wreck.
“Save the bullet,” Kim said. She raised the machete, and walked towards the creature. The zombie sensed her approach. Its arms raised a few degrees, its head tilted to the left, but it couldn’t straighten. She swung the machete left-to-right, twisting the blade so that the flat rather than the edge smacked into its out-stretched arms. As the creature’s momentum carried it forward, that of her blow turned it sideways, exposing its head to her second strike, a two-handed hack that cleaved through bone and cut deep into its brain. With a dull thump, it collapsed to the damp tarmac. Kim listened, but all she could hear were the waves, a sharp creak of twisting metal, and then a solitary, high-pitched scream. She looked towards the beach.
“Commander Crawley is in control there,” Bran said. “Dundalk proper is to the north, so I say we go that way, and look for a road that cuts west, inland. You said the office block was over there?” He shone his own light north, along the road, then across the field to the west.
“I think so,” Kim said, “but I wasn’t thinking straight.” She peered into the darkness. “I mean, during daylight we’d find it easily enough, but now, I don’t know.”
“We’ll find somewhere,” Bran said. Again, he led the way. The fence surrounding the field turned to a low stone wall that ringed a bungalow.
“It must ha
ve had the most beautiful view,” Mirabelle said. “How big was Dundalk?”
“I’d heard the name,” Bran said, “but I’d say it was fifty-fifty whether I’d have guessed it was in Ireland not Scotland. I’d say ten to twenty thousand people.”
“Then it probably isn’t an office block,” Kim said. “Maybe sea-view apartments? If we don’t find it, a town that size will have at least a couple of schools, those would be big enough for a refuge. Eyes open for playing fields, I guess.”
“And Belfast is to the north?” Mirabelle asked.
“Sixty miles away, give or take,” Kim said, as they passed the bungalow. The plot next to it was a building site.
“And south is Dublin?”
“About the same distance,” Kim said.
“Along this road?” Mirabelle asked.
“Our left!” Bran said. He had the torch in his left hand, clamped to the stock of his rifle. He shone light and gun onto a creature staggering through the building site. Barely before the light settled on the zombie’s flayed scalp, he fired, and the creature collapsed into a pile of sand and leaves.
“Cut through here?” Bran said, his tone implying it wasn’t really a question.
“Agreed,” Kim said. Bran stepped across planks sunk deep into the dirt of the partially developed plot. The land had probably belonged to the owners of the bungalow. Foundations had been laid for what would have been a far larger, and much grander, property. Kim wondered if the bungalow’s owners would have moved into it, or whether it had been sold to developers, or whether it was being built to fund their retirement.
Mirabelle swore. “Sorry,” she said. “Stepped in a puddle.”
“You need to keep the noise down,” Bran said, with studied patience. “And keep your weapon up.”
Mirabelle nodded, and raised the machete.
“You go second,” Kim said. “I’ll watch our backs.”
The crashing of wave against rock seemed louder than the ship’s wailing screech of tortured metal. Was that a good sign? Did that mean that the ship wouldn’t break up any further? Maybe. Maybe it just meant the tide was going out.
The building site led to a pot-holed track that led to a road dotted with irregularly spaced homes. They were smaller than the bungalow and far smaller than the unfinished house, and lacked a sea-view, but it would still have been a grand place to live. Kim smiled at the thought, remembering the shared house she’d lived in a year before, remembering the person she’d been. So much had changed, and she had changed so much.
Bran froze, swinging the light to the left. Something small and furry darted across the road and up the path of the house opposite.
“A cat!” Mirabelle said.
“That’s something I haven’t seen for a while,” Kim said. She shone her torch after the animal. She couldn’t see it, but she saw the front of the house. “The window’s broken, but the door’s closed. Might be something in there.”
“A zombie?” Mirabelle asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “And maybe there’s food, too. That’s next on our list after shelter.”
They kept to the road and left the houses behind. Either side were overgrown stretches of green more likely to be paddocks than fields, though the low buildings beyond them looked more like factories than farms. One of those might suffice for a refuge if they couldn’t find the tall building. Ideally though, she wanted height with which, come dawn, they would see the surrounding countryside. Time was marching on. She’d said they’d be gone for an hour, but at least half that had to have already elapsed. Soon they would have to pick somewhere. A factory would be better than those houses close to the sea where, for most, it would be a cold night outside, little better than on the beach.
Without warning, Bran fired, then fired again.
“Two of them,” he said.
A rasp came in reply from the grassland to their right. Kim swung the light towards the sound, and saw nothing but a neat row of ornamental trees. The sound grew louder. She shone the light down. A zombie crawled through the mud towards her. She stepped forward, and as the creature’s twisted hand curled around her shoe, she slammed the blade down on its head. Bone cracked as the blade sunk deep. She kicked her foot free, then, with a spray of black gore, dragged her machete clear.
On Anglesey, when it had been announced that they were going to mass-produce weapons, a vigorous debate had ensued. There had been many impractical suggestions inspired by movies, games, and books, but the majority could be split into two groups. Those she called fans of Bill’s journals wanted pikes. Those she thought of as critics wanted swords. The decision to make machetes had been Rahinder’s, and because the weapon fitted the functioning equipment and available steel. The blade was half a metre long, with a bulbous end, heavy enough to crack a skull. It wasn’t ideal, but it was good enough. Plans had been made to create a staff to which the machete could be attached, thus turning it into a long-handled weapon. Like with so many other schemes, they had run out of time.
The clouds briefly thinned. A dark void against the moonlit hills had to be the tower block.
“It’s still at least a quarter-mile away,” Kim said. “I got the distance wrong.” She shone her light to the right, and onto a sign for the new-build warehouse a few dozen metres down an equally new access road. “That sign says Dalk-Talk. A phone company, maybe?”
“They do image rendering for MMORPGs,” Mirabelle said. “Started off as a VOIP company, back before there was even broadband. If you want a dragon to look like it’s really breathing fire, that’s who you go to."
Ahead, a wide lorry partially blocked the road. The back was loaded with one-foot-diameter plastic pipes. From the look of the scaffolding on the plot out of which it had driven, the lorry had been making a delivery when news of the outbreak reached Dundalk. Whether the driver had fled on the day of that first outbreak, or whether it had happened in the months since, they’d mistimed the turning and crashed the lorry, leaving two wheels in the ditch.
“The zombie’s behind the truck,” Kim whispered. “Bran, go left. I’ll go right.”
“I’ve got it,” Mirabelle said, and ran ahead of Kim. As Mirabelle neared the rear of the vehicle, she swung her machete up. As a zombie in a tattered trench-coat staggered out from behind it, she swung down. The machete cleaved through the air in a wild swing that almost completely missed the creature. The blade sliced across the rotten flesh of its face, kept going, and embedded itself in the vehicle’s frame.
“Leave it!” Kim yelled as Mirabelle tugged at the hilt. The zombie lurched sideways, swinging its hands, the shredded remains of its sleeves flapping wildly behind. Mirabelle let go of the machete as the zombie fell on her outstretched arm. Mirabelle screamed as the zombie bit deep. Kim charged into the creature, pushing it clear of Mirabelle. The zombie fell, rolled, and immediately tried to get back up. Bran fired. The zombie’s head disintegrated.
“Mirabelle, are you okay? Let me see,” Kim said. Her arm was stained dark. Kim’s hand went to her belt, but there was no water bottle there.
Bran pulled out a thin piece of cloth. “Here, it’s clean,” he said, wrapping it around Mirabelle’s arm. “Doesn’t look too bad. Is this is your first time out in the wasteland since the outbreak?”
“Pretty much,” Mirabelle said. “I went to Bangor, but not to fight.”
“Rule one,” Bran said, “is never rush in. It’s a good rule for life as well as combat. It’s not deep. Barely more than a graze. Won’t need stitches, but it does need to be kept clean. It’ll hurt for a few days, but you’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” Mirabelle said.
Kim caught the inflection. “You’ve not been bitten before? You don’t know if you’re immune?”
“I was the reason they stopped testing at the hospital,” Mirabelle said. “My readings didn’t make sense. The test kept coming up with a false positive. You know, that I was already undead.”
“Well, you’re not that,” Bran said. He wrenc
hed the machete from the truck’s door and handed it to her. “It’s been twenty-five minutes. In another five, we’ll need to think about heading back.”
“I thought it had been a lot longer,” Kim said. She pointed her torch towards the building towering ahead of them. “We’ll go there if we can, and if we can’t, then one of these buildings will do.”
Now watching Mirabelle as much as the surrounding countryside, they headed towards the tower block.
Chapter 24 - Restaurants and Stairwells
Dundalk
It was a hotel, not an apartment block, part of a chain whose name Kim didn’t recognise, but her holiday budget had rarely stretched further than a weekend at home. A quick count of the windows suggested it had thirteen floors, but she knew that couldn’t be right. To the side of the tower block, inland, was a low and wide building that might contain the award-winning dining room advertised on the sign by the road. Her mouth salivated at the thought, and she pushed it aside.
The chance of finding food in the kitchens was slim, because they weren’t the first people to come to the hotel. The doors were chained, and those chains were double-padlocked. After whoever had done that had left, someone else had smashed the glass doors.
“The glass is more outside than in,” Kim said, sending the torch’s beam into the gloomy interior. “They were escaping.”
“Then who padlocked them inside?” Mirabelle asked.
“No one,” Bran said. “Not necessarily. They might have done it themselves, and used a different door to get in and out. The upper-floor windows look intact. Can’t see for more than a few floors up, but I can’t see any glass on the ground, either. There are a few cars in the car park, and two delivery lorries. Both look as if they came here after the outbreak. I’d say the tyres are flat, not punctured. Other than there’s no one alive here now, I can’t tell you anymore from here.”