by Frank Tayell
The hedge in the front garden was too high to properly see the house. He went back upstairs. Yes, there it was. The smoke came from a large house that had been turned into flats. Smoke meant a person. He looked up and down the street. There were too many undead for him to simply walk over to the other house, not unless the person in the house was ready to leave. Suddenly he found he wanted company but no, he had decided he’d wait for three days, so three days he would wait.
But there was no reason he shouldn’t try and communicate with the person. But how? And then he saw something on the upstairs’ windows. A message. He peered at it. There were letters, but he couldn’t read them. However, that did solve the problem of how to communicate. He needed paper. That was it. He’d write a message and stick it to the windows. He opened the drawer and took out a few sheets of paper. On one he wrote ‘Hello’. He stuck it up to the window. But it didn’t seem enough so, on another, he wrote ‘Is there someone there?’ and stuck that up. He still wasn’t satisfied. He glared at the pen and paper. Then he realised the problem. The question wasn’t what he should write, but what reply he was hoping for. What if there was someone there. What did he want to happen next? He mulled that over for a few minutes, and realised he’d already made that decision. He taped a third message to the glass: ‘Do you want to get out of London?’
Then he sat back to wait. A few hours later a message came back, this one written one letter per sheet. ‘E.S.C.A.P.E.?’
Chester smiled. That was a question he knew how to answer. He stuck up the letters ‘Y.E.S.’
Letter by letter, they communicated. By early afternoon he’d gathered that the man - Chester assumed it was a man - had enough food and water for twenty days. Chester thought that must be the reason that he’d stayed in the house for so long. That assumption was shattered when the man laboriously spelled out ‘B.R.O.K.E.N.L.E.G.’
Chester sat down in the chair and thought. A broken leg made things difficult. He’d assumed they would just be able to find some bikes and cycle away. Of course, thinking about it, if the man had been able to cycle away, he would already have done it. So what should he do? Leave him? Chester stared at his arm. He thought about that blank piece of paper, he remembered the words his father had said. And then he thought about the words his father hadn’t said during that night in the hospital just before the old man had died. Chester had sat at the bedside and his father had wept. He’d seemed so strong, so confident so unrepentantly proud of all that he had done, right up until that night. And then he had wept, and it had all come pouring out. And he had told Chester to do something with his life, just one thing that he could look back on and be proud of. And Chester had looked at his father, held his hand, and tried to think of something to say, but all he’d been able to think was ‘aren’t you proud of me?’. He hadn’t spoken out loud because his father had seen the question in his eyes, and Chester had known the answer the old man was too kind to give.
Here was his chance; the second chance that he had wanted; the chance to do it all differently. Here was someone he could help.
He would rescue the man and get him out of London and to somewhere safe. The broken leg was nothing but an obstacle to be overcome, and now that he thought about it, one that was easily dealt with. The station-wagon was just sitting there up at the transmitter. In the back was the generator and next to it were a half dozen fuel cans. Even if McInery sent someone up there to wire up the gear, they wouldn’t take the fuel away. That was how they would get out of London. He’d forget about McInery and Radio Free England. He would start a new life. This was the second chance he wanted. He could start all over again.
He started putting together a message to tell the man that they would escape by car. It wasn’t far to the transmitter. He thought he could get there and back in just a few hours. He glanced at the sun already heading towards the horizon. They should wait until tomorrow morning. And then he glanced at his arm. No, he’d said he was going to wait, he had to be sure he wasn’t going to turn. Three days, then. In three days he’d rescue the man and drive him out of London.
10th April
There was a still a day to go and Chester was certain, as certain as he could be, that he wasn’t going to turn. It was tempting to tell the man they should go sooner, but he didn’t want to tempt fate. He felt a deal had been struck, and he had to stick to the terms. He’d gone through too many nights where only luck had saved him from finishing them in the cells or worse not to believe in superstition. But he was growing hungry. He’d finished the food the day before. There hadn’t been much to start with.
He went back into the kitchen. He opened drawers and cupboards and came up with one stock cube, a pack of chilli flakes six years past their expiry-date, and a jar of economy herbs that looked like sawdust and smelled about the same. Fixing his mind on the tin of hotdogs in the station-wagon, and thinking about the feast they’d have just as soon as they got out of the city, he filled a saucepan with water.
There was a sudden bang from outside. Startled, Chester dropped the pan. It clattered loudly to the floor. The bang came again and again. It was coming from the other side of the fence. Zombie, he thought.
How the creature knew he was here, or whether it did, didn’t matter. The noise wasn’t loud, but it would bring others. He pulled open the cutlery drawer and found a large carving knife. He went outside. There was a stack of white plastic chairs by the edge of the patio. He carried them over to the fence, dropping them opposite the part that shook with each blow. He climbed up and peered over and down into the next garden. Undead eyes stared back at him. The zombie’s hands shot up and clawed at the air. He watched the movement carefully then, one hand on the trellis for balance, he stabbed the knife down. He’d mistimed it. Rather than punching through the creature’s left eye, the blade hit the bone just above its left, tearing a line of flesh from eye-socket to lip, but as it did Chester’s hand slid forward, slicing his palm on the edge of the blade.
Under his weight, the trellis cracked. Chester slipped and fell backwards, as the creature pushed forwards onto the fence. The wood split and the fence collapsed. Chester pulled himself up. The creature was trying to do the same. He took a step towards it, ready to bring an end to the creature, but then looked beyond at the path running down the side of the house. There were four more of the undead pushing and snarling their way towards him, and more behind those. He backed away and darted through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him and throwing down the bolts. That, he knew, wouldn’t be enough. He had to leave. The deal was that he would bring a car to rescue the man tomorrow. Well, he’d stick to that, but he couldn’t stay in the house.
He grabbed a few more knives from the drawer, went back into the living room, grabbed his jacket, the bottle he’d kept filled with water and, after a moment’s hesitation, the unloaded revolver. He went to the front door. He took a breath before opening it, then went out into the road. There were zombies in either direction. That didn’t matter. He’d lead them away. It would make the job tomorrow easier. Briskly, he walked down the street. He looked up at the house. He thought he saw a figure in the window. He thought of waving, but there was no point. He’d be back soon.
Occasionally he glanced behind to make sure the undead were following, but mostly he kept his eyes on the road in front. Zombies moved towards him, their arms raised, ready to claw, their open mouths readying to bite. He ducked, he dodged, he dived. He didn’t run. He kept walking, leading the undead away.
And that worked for nearly half a mile, until he turned a corner and found two-dozen zombies clustered around an abandoned post-office van. He turned around, and found twice that number following him a few dozen yards behind. That was when he started to run. But on every road there were more and more of the undead. And then he found the road ahead full of so many that he couldn’t get past. He turned around, but the road behind was no better. In desperation he kicked down the nearest door, hastily throwing up a barricade as he looked around. He wa
s in a coffee shop a few days away from being opened. He found his way to the back. Zombies filled the road outside. He was trapped. At least there was food. And it wouldn’t be long before the creatures dispersed, he thought. He sat down to wait. Minutes turned to hours, then to days.
17th April
For the thousandth time, he peered through the window, eyeing the silent undead outside, measuring his chances if he just tried to run through them. Suddenly one near a side road stood, and started to move away. And then another. And another. Soon they were all moving, shoving and pushing and walking into one another as they headed towards… he didn’t know what and it didn’t matter. They were leaving and that meant he could escape. He could rescue the broken-legged man. For Chester, after days of reflection, that was all that now mattered.
He waited a few more hours before leaving. He crept when he could, ran when he couldn’t, and finally reached the Crystal Palace transmitter. The car was still where he’d left it. McInery hadn’t sent anyone to check on it or him. He got in and drove down the hill to the house of the broken-legged man. He pulled the car to a halt in the street outside and went into the house.
“Hey! Are you here! Where are you!” he bellowed as he ran from room to room, but the house was empty. The man had gone. Might he have left a note? There wasn’t time to check. Through a window from a small room at the top of the house he saw the undead moving down the street towards the car. He ran back downstairs and outside but hesitated before getting back in the car. He had done everything he could. He had come back for the man and he’d looked for him, but he was gone. Chester didn’t want to leave. He had been certain his future was tied to the man with the broken leg, but the undead were getting closer. There was no more time. He got back in the car and drove away from London.
Part 4: Raft
Isle of Scaragh, North Atlantic
1st July
She was still alive. More than that, she felt well. Fish and crab and fresh air had done wonders to her physique. Her clothes, which had been tattered after the wreck, were now becoming ragged. They wouldn’t survive much longer, but appearances meant little. Whenever she looked in the small mirror, taken from the wrecked lifeboat, she didn’t see her own tort skin, but the ravaged face of the Abbot in those last moments before she filled in his grave. She didn’t look in the mirror often.
She was alive. She had reconciled herself to that, though it had been hard. During those first few weeks she had done little more than wait to die and think of her son. She had finally allowed herself to mourn. Entire days were spent lost in grief, yet hunger and thirst would always bring her out of it. And as time had gone by, she found she no longer wanted to die. As more time passed, she found that she wanted to live.
She sat down on the beach to stare out at the waves. She no longer expected the undead to come, nor feared them if they did.
She knew she couldn’t stay on the island. Whilst she had become adept at catching crabs and fish, there were fewer nettles to go with them and the roots she found were ever smaller. If she wanted to live, she had to escape. And she did want to live. But why?
That question had been troubling her for the last couple of weeks. There was something someone had said or not said, or done or left undone. Between the evacuation and her arrival on the island, every moment had been filled with action and then despair. It was only now that she had time to think.
She stared at the waves. Then at her hands. Then at her arms. The teeth marks were still visible. Then she knew.
If she was immune, then wouldn’t Jay be immune? Wasn’t there at least a chance that she’d passed on to him whatever it was that had kept her safe? And with that realisation she was consumed with angry guilt at her own self-pitying arrogance. The Abbot had been right. Guilt had caused her to pursue revenge when she should have gone back to look for her son.
She had to leave the island. She stood up and walked down into the waves. She had waded chest deep before reason returned. She couldn’t swim across the sea. She would need a boat. She waded back towards shore, angling towards the lifeboat. She clambered up onto the rocks it was still pinned to. First outside, then inside, she examined the sharp-toothed gash in the hull. She peered out to sea, then at the boat, the shore, the hut, and the island, searching for inspiration in how to seal it. Reluctantly, she admitted what she had known from that first morning on the island; the boat was a wreck. It would never float again. But she had to go back to the mainland. She had to try. With difficulty, she quelled the nihilistic impulse to try and swim. She would drown. She knew it. That would serve no purpose. There had to be another way. But what? She turned away from the ocean and looked back at the shore, and saw the cairn she’d built over the graves.
She had suggested a raft to the Abbot, hadn’t she? He’d said it took nails and rope and that there were none on the island. But how would he know? He hadn’t had time to travel further than between the hut and the graves. She began an inventory of all the materials she could find.
3rd July
At first, it had come to very little. In her mind she saw rafts as she had on the television; tree trunks held together by rope. She’d tried sawing through a pine with the serrated edge of the spade. After an hour’s effort she’d done little more than graze the bark. As for rope, the Abbot had been correct. There really wasn’t any on the island. She’d considered digging up the bodies, stripping the clothing from them, unravelling the thread, and then braiding it together. But she only considered it briefly. It was something that would take months of labour. There wasn’t the time. Not anymore. Not if Jay might be alive.
She’d subdued her frustration and turned her attention back to her surroundings. There was nothing of use on the island save the jetty, the hut, the wreck of the boat, and the detritus coating the beach.
5th July
She eyed the roof of the hut. It was made of two flat sections that met at an angle of thirty degrees, affixed to the walls.
“Bolted on, it looks like,” she murmured. But the walls were twelve feet high. She needed a way of climbing up to examine them properly. It took her another hour of staring at the collection of junk on the beach and wandering around the hut before she saw what was in front of her eyes; the bunk beds. They were metal framed, screwed into the floor and walls. It took the rest of the day to detach the bunks and drag them outside.
The next morning, as soon as it was light, she clambered up to examine the roof. There were brackets under the eaves, bolting the roof to the walls. Someone had made a half-hearted effort to seal the bolts in plastic, but salt-water had found its way in and done its work. Most of the bolts were rusted into their sockets. Having no wrench she had to hit them loose with a rock. By nightfall, with her hands bloody from where she’d missed, the bolts were finally loose. She collapsed by the fire and slept.
6th July
She was up before dawn, and up on her improvised scaffolding soon after. She had a plan. She’d take the roof off, then take down the walls and reassemble the hut upside down on the beach. The walls could be trimmed to a height of about five feet with the serrated edge of the collapsible spade; she’d practiced on a section by the doorway and found it was easy to cut. She had no illusions about the boat she was creating, but it only needed it to float for a few hours over a few miles. That wasn’t too much to ask. She hoped.
Slowly, she made her way around the roof, removing the bolts, carefully placing them in the now empty first aid kit; she would need them later. In half an hour she was ready. She just had to slide the roof off towards the beach. Gravity would do the rest.
The sea breeze had become familiar to the point where she ignored it. She didn’t notice that the wind had picked up until she’d slid the roof out three feet from the wall. A gust came in, entered the gap, and picked up the roof, spinning it over her head. She reached up in a futile attempt to grab it. Unbalanced, she fell, her improvised scaffolding toppling on top of her. She tasted blood, and something else. A tooth. She spa
t it out.
For a long minute she lay unmoving, unblinking, doing nothing but breathing slowly through gritted teeth. When she tried to stand, she found she had a long shallow gash on her leg. Dripping blood onto the wooden walkway, she ignored the pain as she limped along to the end of the jetty. The roof did float and was now fifty yards out to sea.
10th July
With a grunt of effort she dragged the hut wall down the beach to the water’s edge. She’d had to wait until the cut on her leg had scabbed over - she didn’t want to risk an infection and all that would mean. She got an edge of the wall out into the water. No, she realised with relief, onto the water. It floated. She pushed it further out until it was bobbing freely up and down on the waves, then she clambered on top. It sank. She had half expected that. It didn’t matter. The principal was what counted. The walls would float. She’d be able to cut them into shape and… she wasn’t sure. But she could work it out. She would work it out. She rolled off the prefab and into the shallows. She waited, expecting the wall to bob up out of the water. It didn’t. She grabbed it, and dragged it back to shore. It was sodden, soaked through. She had assumed it was made of wood, or at least of fibreboard. It wasn’t. Sandwiched between thin layers of waterproof laminate was a compressed mixture of cloth and paper. Water had seeped in through the exposed edges turning the interior into nothing firmer than papier-mâché.