by Frank Tayell
Her treacherous, feeble, and oh-so-human body didn’t allow her to wallow in despair for long. Thirst returned. She took another bottle and, wanting to get out of the kitchen, went to investigate the rest of the house. There was nothing remarkable about it. She found no other occupants, living or dead, until she went out into the garden. There she discovered three graves.
She stood by them for a moment, trying not to wonder whether one of their occupants had infected the girl, and whether, in her last moments of life, she had buried her family.
She took some food from the kitchen and went into the front room to eat it. She had no appetite, but knew she’d need her strength. When she’d finished, she went to the garage in search of a shovel. Then she dug a fourth grave.
It wasn’t deep. Dragging the girl’s body to it exhausted her. She managed to make it back inside before collapsing again. When she woke she found it was night.
She ate. She drank. She threw up. She ate and drank again. She slept.
24th March
She filled in the grave.
25th March
She felt marginally better. According to the map she’d found in a kitchen drawer she discovered that, blinded either by the storm or rage or whatever illness had struck her down, she hadn’t just cycled past Carlisle but straight through it. She tried to remember when that could have been. Then she tried to recall the stations she had cycled through but found she couldn’t name a single one. In fact, she found it hard to remember very much of those days except that last sight of Sebastian just before he had died. She turned quickly away from that memory and back to the map.
There were dozens of places where Rob might have left the train line. If he hadn’t, if he had kept following it north, then there was little chance she would be able to catch him now. She stared at the map, trying to will it to reveal his location.
The only decision she came to was that Rob was lazy. If he could avoid effort, he would. So, he would have gone looking for a boat as soon as possible. Her decision was made, then. She would head due west until she reached the coast, then follow it south down through Scotland, and back into England if necessary. And if she didn’t find him? Then she would look in Ireland, and she would keep looking until she found him, and then killed him. She was determined of that.
She glanced out at the sky. It was only mid-afternoon. Suddenly there was no urgency. Revenge could wait, at least until morning. Once more, she fell asleep.
27th March
She could smell the sea. She thought she heard waves crashing against the cliffs. It was nearing noon five days after she’d found the house with the graves. She had wanted to leave the house the previous day. She had the desire burning deep within her, but not the strength. All she had managed to do was find a bicycle at the back of the garage.
When she woke, she’d loaded all the supplies she could carry, though most had to be left behind, then followed a branch line to the west. She’d travelled slowly as the tracks curved in and around villages and hills, only picking up speed when she needed to outpace the undead. She saw them differently now. Dangerous, yes, but they were to be neither pitied nor feared, they were just people who’d not had her luck.
She’d left the railway line when it began to curve to the north heading, she supposed, to Glasgow. She had taken a road, then a footpath, and finally switched to farmer’s tracks that snaked up and around the low hills.
She knew she would have to backtrack, but she wanted to see the waves. Every year on April 1st she and Jay had gone to the seaside. Regardless of the weather, they would battle the seagulls to eat fish and chips by the seawall, and then try and find somewhere that would sell them an ice cream. Always.
Clouds were gathering to the north. She guessed it would rain soon, but if she at least saw the waves, she felt she would be marking the anniversary. Though this year there would be two members of her family to remember. She pushed herself harder, forcing a way through the thick heather, propelled by the need for absolution.
Just before she reached the hill’s crest, she saw the waves. It was a pleasing though painful sight. With her eyes fixed on the dark green-blue expanse, she wheeled her bike up to the crest of the hill.
Then she saw it. A boat. It wasn’t far out to sea. It wasn’t even powered. It seemed to be drifting. It looked like a lifeboat, emblazoned with the orange and white colours of the RNLI. She thought she saw some people moving about on board. Could it be Rob? The boat seemed to be drifting with the sea from the north. Perhaps they’d run out of fuel, and the current was now pulling them back south. It was possible, wasn’t it?
If she signalled, would they stop? Would they see her? Would they guess who she was? Perhaps they would wait. But could she reach it? The grass-covered hill curved gently down to steep cliffs and a precipitous drop. If the boat was drifting she doubted it would be able to reach the shore. She had to try. She turned her attention to the cliffs. There had to be a path down them. Again she heard the crashing of the waves, except… except that wasn’t the sound of waves. The noise came from inland.
She turned. Heading towards her, trampling walls, crushing trees, was a horde of the undead, tens of thousands strong. They were spread out across the countryside, this slow moving band of death, a mile wide and she couldn’t guess how deep. The front rank was barely five hundred yards away. Above them, what she’d taken for clouds was a plume of dust and dirt thrown up by their incessant march. She glanced down the hill, at the way she’d come, looking for an escape. Then she looked back at the horde, and she realised she had waited too long. The creatures had gotten closer. Some at the front had seen her. They were moving faster, and the ones behind, though ignorant of the prey ahead, copied the pace. She gave up on thinking, pushed the bike out in front, and began to ride it down the hill.
Get ahead. Get ahead of them, she thought. Get ahead, and find a path down the cliffs. There had to be one. She scanned the ground ahead, but the grassy slope ended abruptly wherever she looked. She glanced behind. The creatures had crested the hill and were now stumbling and tumbling down after her. She threw off the bags hanging from the handlebars. The bike wobbled as she pulled off her backpack. She pushed her feet down on the pedals trying to pick up some speed, but then she realised that she was veering towards the cliff’s edge. Stamping on the brakes, she skidded to a halt just in time. She glanced behind. The undead were getting closer.
She cycled on, following the cliff, trying to find some method of escape, trying to see the obvious solution she had overlooked, but she knew she hadn’t. There were no options left. Ahead the path sloped down before coming to an abrupt end at a lookout point overhanging the rocks below.
Without stopping she glanced back one last time. The horde came on. One near the front fell, to be crushed by the multitude shambling on behind. There was no going back.
That left only a slim chance. How high were the cliffs? Twenty feet? Thirty? Forty? If they were much higher it would be like hitting concrete. She would probably die. But she would die if she stayed where she was. A quick death was preferable to an agonisingly slow one at the hands of the horde. But there was no point reasoning. Her feet still pedalled. She had already made up her mind. The cliff’s edge was only three feet away. She was going too fast to stop.
Not out of design, but from an instinctive desire to hold onto life for just one more second, she leant back as the front tyre spun on empty air. Momentum carried her and the bike forward. She let go of the handlebars. The bike fell. So did she.
It took seconds that stretched for years. Her mind filled with images of Olympic divers, she tried to twist and turn and to get her hands in front and her legs straight as she plunged down. The bike hit the water first. A fraction of a second later so did she. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.
It was dark.
It was cold.
Panic gripped her. Which way was up? Which way was down? She couldn’t tell. She struck out with her hands and feet. She was surprised
to find they worked. She was thinking. She looked forward. There was only darkness. She stopped thrashing, and twisted around. The water clung to her clothes. They were dragging her down. Down. And she wanted to go up, and now she knew which way that was. She floundered and kicked, and then the water above seemed brighter. Her lungs were burning. It was brighter. Her hands touched something strange. Not something, but nothing, she realised, as with a final burst of strength she pulled her head above water.
She gasped for air. Coughed. Spat out a mixture of blood and water. Breathed. Coughed. Breathed, and sank below the waves once more. This time her lungs were full. A stroke and a half and she was back above the surface. She breathed, and this time she didn’t cough.
She began to feel pain. She remembered the blood. That didn’t matter, she told herself. Not now. Not yet. Her legs worked. Her arms worked. Each stroke and kick was pain, yet she only experienced it abstractly. She looked about for the shore and saw the boat instead.
A wave struck her, and spun her around. She saw the cliffs. No, she thought. She had to reach the boat. It was important. She moved her arms, turning herself around. It took an age. She couldn’t see the boat. The waves were too high. Then one caught her and carried her up, and when she reached the crest she saw it. It wasn’t far away. There were figures on the side. They had oars. They were paddling towards her. Stroke by stroke she swam towards it.
And now, with salvation so close, the pain really began. She screamed and swallowed a mouth full of water. She sobbed with frustrated agony. The screams seemed to echo around her. No. It was voices. Voices from the boat. They were calling to her. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was of concern. It was human. It touched something inside her, kindling a flame she thought had died a week before.
She forced herself to swim on. One stroke at a time. The boat grew closer. They were bringing it closer, she realised. One more stroke, just one more.
And then there was another noise. The sound of something hitting the water. And then there was another. And another. She turned. The cliff top was full of the undead. One by one they were continuing over the cliff and falling into the sea a few dozen yards behind her. She turned back to the boat, drew on her last reserves of strength, and swam. Behind her the zombies continued to fall.
“Grab the oar. Grab it! Quick, girl. Quick!”
Nilda heard the words. She didn’t recognise the voice. She couldn’t see the oar, or the speaker, or even the boat, but she could sense the waves churned by its passage. Something hit her arm.
“There. Take the oar!”
She grabbed and held on as it was pulled back. Her shoulders were lifted out above the waves. Her hand slipped. She fell back into the water.
“Hold it. Grab it!”
This time she did, and she didn’t let go. The oar was tugged back towards the boat. When it was close, an arm reached down and grabbed the back of her shirt. Another arm came down and grabbed her wrist. She was pulled on board.
“You’re safe. You’re safe,” the voice said.
She stayed on her hands and knees for a full minute, retching, her head swimming, unsure whether she was going to pass out. She didn’t. Her vision began to clear. She looked up at her rescuer. He was in late middle-age, with the build of someone who’d spent his life outdoors, working with his hands.
“Can you stand? Here, let me help you up.” He held out his hand. “Odhran, Abbot of Brazely, or I was.”
Nilda let him pull her to her feet. She looked over at the other rescuer. He was still on his knees, coughing and retching. He looked worse than she did. Her gaze moved to the rest of the small boat. It was packed with at least two-dozen people. All of them looked sick. She froze, suddenly afraid.
“Are they…?” she began.
“No, no. They’re not infected. They’re not even contagious, but they are sick,” the Abbot said, his smile gone. “But, please. We need your help, now. We’re drifting back to the shore, towards…” He didn’t finish, just glanced back towards the cliffs. The undead were still streaming off over the side.
“Here.” The man thrust an oar at her.
“I’ve never… I mean, what do I do with it.”
“One end goes in the water, the other stays in your hand.”
“Where are we going?”
“At the moment? Away.”
Part 3: The Island
The Isle of Scaragh, The North Atlantic
30th March
The spade clinked against stone. Nilda scraped out one last shovel-full of dirt, then stood up and stretched. The hole was only four-feet deep, but that would have to do. Wearily, she climbed out. The cuts on her hands, which had been blisters the day before, were bleeding again. She walked down to the shore to rinse them in salt water, letting the sharp stinging pain do the job of coffee. There was none of that on the island.
There was no proper shovel, either. She had to make do with a folding spade from the lifeboat’s emergency kit. It wasn’t much bigger than the one Jay had had when he was still young enough to revel in the construction of sandcastles. Her soul wailed softly at the memory, but she was too weary to feel the full weight of grief.
She trudged back up the beach and grabbed the bottle she’d filled from the brook that morning. She was about to take a drink, but stopped. It seemed disrespectful to do it there by the open grave. She walked up towards the scrubby row of trees that separated the woodland from the stone and sand beach. Slumping down to rest against a scraggly pine, her back to the low prefab hut, she stared out at the waves.
At every moment, as they had battled the current, she had expected to hear the sound of rock ripping through metal. Though it had seemed an uncounted age, it can’t have been more than an hour before they had rounded the headland. Her last sight of the cliffs, from which she’d plummeted to such a bittersweet escape, had been of the undead, their numbers greatly reduced, still tumbling down into the water.
At first they tried to row towards the shore, then they had tried to steer a course close to land. The tide wouldn’t allow it. They gave up and let the currents decide their destination. With the last light of day they had seen the ominous clouds gathering overhead. When night fell, the darkness was complete. There was no moon, nor even stars, to guide them. Not that Nilda knew one constellation from another, let alone how to navigate by them, but one of the passengers did. Callum McTavish had pulled cod out of the Atlantic for most of his youth. In middle age, economic necessity had forced him into selling it, battered, in a shop in Glasgow. But even he couldn’t steer by the wind alone.
They hadn’t seen the rocks until the waves broke white against them. By then it was too late. There had been barely time to shout out a warning before the hull was pierced by some jagged shard of stone. The sound of metal being torn apart woke most of the passengers. A few, who by that stage nothing could rouse, slipped quietly beneath the waves before anyone was able to save them.
Terrified of what they might find in the dark, and with no notion of where they were, the remaining seventeen of them huddled together on the shore waiting for dawn. When it came, they found they were on a stone and sand beach twenty yards from the remains of the boat - now pinned to the rock that had pierced its hull - and forty yards from a one-storey building. It was made of prefabricated sections, with the front half on the beach, the other half suspended above the water on stilts. Next to it was a wooden jetty which ran out for fifty feet into the sea. There were no other boats and no other people, just a weather-worn sign that read ‘Isle of Scaragh. Population: 19’. The sign was a joke. She realised that when she went inside and counted the nineteen bunk-beds and saw the other sign, the one pinned to the door that read ‘Welcome to Pirate’s Cove’.
The building itself was split in two. The larger half held the bunk beds, each screwed to the walls, with space for folding chairs and tables in the middle. There were no mattresses, no blankets, no pillows, just the metal frames, and they were quickly filled by the sick.
The smaller half of the hut had a set of gas rings but no fuel-canisters, saucepans but no food, and cups but no coffee. No tea either, though she could live without that. She did find a brochure that said the island was uninhabited, and owned and operated by an outdoor pursuits company. It didn’t say where the island was, only that bookings were available from April to September. On seeing it, the Abbot had said they’d arrived a few days too early. Surrounded by so much death, Nilda found no humour in the weak joke.
The discarded beer cans, and faded paint marks covering rocks and trees, and one corner of the inappropriately jocular sign, spoke to what type of pursuits the island was used for. There were a few references to a centre somewhere in Wales and another in Aberdeenshire, and mention of sailing lessons. There was no boat on the island. Nilda had looked. There was no plumbing either, just a brick shelter a short way up the beach where a chemical toilet must have stood when the place was being used. At least, thanks to the brook, they had fresh water. She took another drink.
That first morning, Nilda had left the Abbot to tend to the sick and gone to make sure that the island really was uninhabited. That was what she had said. The truth was that she needed time away from the puking, bleeding, pitiful group that had saved her from death. But someone did need to explore, there was a small truth in that, and other than the Abbot, no one else was physically able.
She’d started by examining the boat. Most of what the group had brought with them from the Scottish mainland had been washed over the side when they ran aground. The only find of any substance was the emergency kit, bolted to the inside of the cockpit. In that, she found a few flares, a pack of twenty waterproof matches, the collapsible spade and a wholly inadequate first aid kit. There was nothing that would help the passengers. From what the Abbot said, there was nothing anywhere that could help them now.