Surviving The Evacuation (Book 9): Ireland

by Tayell, Frank

  “And on the off-chance they’re closed?” Kim asked.

  “Cutlery and a kettle,” I said. “Dean? You fancy a bite to eat?”

  He shrugged, unwilling to play along with the game.

  “Watch his back, Dean,” Siobhan said. “And I’ll stay here and watch the children.”

  “Ooh,” Tamara whined. “Please can’t we get off the boat?”

  “Yeah, please?” Billy added. “Please?”

  I gave it five minutes before the children wore her down.

  “Have you been to this part of Ireland before?” I asked as Dean and I strolled towards the shuttered restaurant. Well, I strolled; he stalked, an arrow notched to his bow.

  “Shh!” he said.

  “It’s deserted,” I said, as we approached. He said nothing. I tried the handle to the restaurant. “And it’s unlocked. No, I take that back. The lock’s been broken. Looks like it’s been done from the inside.”

  “You need to keep quiet,” Dean hissed.

  “That’s up for debate,” I said. “I’d rather the zombies heard us coming, that way, we’ll hear them as they lurch and stagger and knock things from tables and shelves. That’s better than walking silently into a place only to find two dozen hidden in the kitchen.”

  The nearest window was small, and covered in an eight-month crust of salt-water spray. Inside, I could see half a dozen tables-for-two. All had been stripped bare. They were lined up in two rows, with a bar and serving counter beyond.

  “Looks empty,” I said. “No zombies. No bottles behind the bar. Not sure if we should expect that to be wine or vinegar in a place like this, but we’re not the first people here.” I went back to the door. “Besides, zombies would have heard the sound of the boat’s engine.”

  “Famous last words,” Dean said. “They might not have. Not over the sound of the sea.”

  “Good point. Do—” I stopped myself. I was about to ask if he wanted to go first, but he’d almost certainly say yes. I raised the cutlass. “Your bow’s not going to much use in there.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He put the arrow away, looped the bow over his shoulder in a move I’m sure was no good for the string, and drew his machete.

  I don’t want to give the wrong impression of Dean. I think his foul mood was partly a product of his age, but mostly due to his camouflage. He’s stalwartly refused one of the remaining sets of Kempton’s uniforms. He says it’s because camouflage is more practical. I think it’s because it’s what he’s worn this far, and he sees it as what’s kept him alive, whereas he sees Kempton’s clothes as the colours of the enemy. I can’t say I blame him, and he has ditched the leaves and twigs that festooned his gear when we first met. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough room on the ship for the camouflage to dry out. I think it’s beginning to rot.

  I pushed the door open. My initial impression confirmed what I’d seen from outside: the restaurant was empty.

  “Kitchen,” Dean said, reaching the door before I did. He hesitated before pushing it open, glanced at me, then tapped the frame with his machete. There was no reply from inside. He pushed the door. The kitchen was as empty as the restaurant.

  “You check the cupboards,” he said. “I’ll look for a storeroom.”

  “Righto,” I said, but I knew we’d find nothing. The clue was in the empty bar behind the counter, the empty cutlery tray beneath it, and empty hooks on the kitchen wall.

  “Nothing,” Dean said coming out a moment later. “No soap. No toilet paper. No food, obviously.”

  “Nothing in the cupboards,” I said. “No saucepans, crockery, or cutlery. Do you think this place would have been open in February?”

  “Dunno.”

  “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it,” I said. “On the one hand, there wouldn’t have been much passing trade. On the other, there’s a sign outside. You’d think that would have been brought in if the restaurant was shuttered. How far away is Malin Head? Thirty miles?”

  “You’re thinking of Mark? Nah, he wouldn’t have come this far.”

  “No?”

  “Stay put, that was his plan,” Dean said. “He wanted to protect what he had. If no one went out, no one would bring the zombies back.”

  “Which is a fine strategy until you run out of food,” I said. “Come on. No point wasting time here. You see the door,” I added as we past it on our way outside. “Broken from the inside. Someone was trying to get out.”

  “You mean like a prisoner?” Dean asked.

  “Maybe, but it’s more likely to be someone who was bitten before they, or the person with keys, knew that immunity was a possibility,” I said. “They broke the door with…” I looked around but couldn’t see an obviously discarded tool. “I don’t know.” My gaze went to the village. “Why break out? Because you were the last person here? Or because you heard screaming from the village? Did you go and help?”

  “And then they died?” Dean asked.

  “Nope,” I said. “I think they broke out of here, went to help the people in the village, and got there in time. They saved everyone, and that’s how there were enough people left, and here for long enough, that they stripped the restaurant to its shelves.”

  “Oh? How do you know that?” he asked, looking around for the clues he’d missed.

  “Honestly? I don’t. It’s a story. I could be wrong, but I’d rather believe that they all lived than they all died.”

  “Oh.”

  I raised a hand and waved at Siobhan, standing on the quayside next to the trio of children. She’d let them come ashore, and they’d ventured a few feet from the boat. I couldn’t tell whether she had forbidden them from going any further, or whether they’d simply chosen to wait there. The air was fresh, pleasant in a way that can only be truly appreciated after being stuck in the close confines of a small boat with nine other people.

  “It’s nice having solid ground beneath my feet,” I said.

  “Yeah. I guess,” Dean said.

  I was about to suggest we should investigate the nearest row of houses, when I saw the children stand up, their heads turning towards the village. I followed the line of their gaze. I saw Lena, Kallie, Colm, and Kim running towards us.

  “Back to the boat. Get the kids on,” I snapped at Dean. “Go.” I stood there, waiting. I knew what it was before Kim and the others reached us.

  “Zombies,” Kallie said. “Lots of them.”

  “Didn’t get the water,” Kim said.

  “We didn’t get anything,” I said. “The restaurant was already looted down to the floorboards.”

  “Ah, well. Not far to Malin Head,” Kim said.

  I was the last to get on board, and as I was climbing down the ladder, the last thing I saw was a narrow column of shambling figures lurching towards the quay.

  We’re on the last leg of the journey, now. We’ll get to Malin Head tomorrow if not this evening. It’s hard to tell with these tides and waves, and wind that seems to blow in every direction at once. I was hoping for a few hours ashore so we could talk to Siobhan and Colm, and get a better idea of what we might expect from Mark and the other people in his community. Then again, Siobhan doesn’t really want to talk about Mark. She says he’s not like Cannock or Barrett, that he’s not an evil man, but that was in April. A lot can change in the long months since.

  There’s not much we can do, no real contingency we can put into place. All being well, we’ll go ashore, get some diesel, and Kim can set off for Anglesey. I’ll have to stay, a hostage in exchange for the fuel.

  Let’s hope Siobhan is right, and this man can be trusted.

  Chapter 16 - Portronan, Malin Head

  7th October, Day 209

  “There’s no smoke,” Billy said. “There should be smoke, right?”

  We were a quarter mile out from Portronan, a small harbour on the southwestern edge of Malin Head on the Inishowen peninsula, the most northerly point on the island of Ireland. The rain had stopped, but the sky hadn’t cleared. Visibility was less than
a mile, but that was enough for us to be certain that the approaching shoreline appeared lifeless.

  “No boats,” Kallie said. “Where’s old Seamus Doherty?”

  I glanced at Siobhan. “Who?”

  “A fisherman,” Siobhan said. “He lived a little way up the coast. He was born here, lived his entire life here, but would have left with us except his wife is buried on the hillside looking out towards America. He wouldn’t leave her. Sad story.” She glanced at Billy, Tamara, and Charlie, who, until land came into sight, we’d been teaching how to drive the boat. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  I returned my gaze to the rugged shore. We were barely making a knot. The engine’s rumbling burble was barely inaudible over the sound of the waves smashing against the rocks to the east and west of the narrow harbour.

  “Here,” Kim passed the sniper rifle’s optical scope to Dean. “Take a look.”

  The teenager’s sullenness had been replaced by anxiety. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the anxiety had been there all along, hidden under a facade of anger born of loss and grief.

  “Can’t see anything,” he said. “Wait. Yeah. Yeah, about a mile to the south, half way up the hill. There’s a figure. You see it?”

  He passed the scope to Colm who handed it to Lena.

  “Zombie,” she said with barely more than a second’s glance.

  “You sure?” Kim asked.

  “She’s positive,” Tamara said. “She can read the writing on the inside of an eagle’s wing.”

  “Old joke,” Lena said by way of explanation. “It’s missing an arm so, zombie.”

  When stressed, Kim’s speech becomes sparse. When we first met, I assumed that was how she always talked. It wasn’t. It was a defensive reaction to her imprisonment and distrust at me, a stranger she’d had no choice but to travel with. Over the months since, she’s opened up, though that economy of language returns when she’s under pressure. Compared to Lena, however, even at her most tense, Kim’s a walking dictionary.

  “Only one?” Siobhan asked.

  “Yes.” Lena handed the scope to Siobhan.

  “One’s still one too many,” Siobhan said. “The people must have left.”

  “But what if—” Charlie began.

  “No what-ifs,” Siobhan cut him off. “They’ve gone.”

  “Dean, Kallie, stay with the boat,” Siobhan said. “No,” she added, as Dean opened his mouth to protest. “You’re to stay with the boat and watch the children. Arrows out, eyes open.”

  When we reached the empty dock, Siobhan, carrying the MP5, jumped ashore first, then Colm with the rope. Kim followed, carrying the SA80. Lena leaped easily onto the quay. By the time I’d awkwardly clambered from the boat, Colm had it tied off. Bows, guns, and blades ready, we listened.

  “Anything?” Siobhan asked.

  “No,” Lena said.

  “You want to stay?” Colm asked. “I can do this.”

  “No,” Siobhan said. “I have to know.”

  Kim and I shared a look full of questions that we knew would get answered soon enough.

  The harbour was narrow, a small lagoon of concrete set among craggy rocks, and below a sweepingly steep green hill. Beyond the slipway was a pair of low-roofed buildings, about twenty feet wide, forty long, with a forty-foot gap between them. Outside were dozens of lobster pots, nets, and assorted oddments I assume had something to do with fishing.

  Siobhan gestured at the first door, at herself, then Kim. The two women raised their weapons as I pulled the door open. There were rows of metal shelves, and from the shine on the screws, they’d been put in recently. They were empty.

  “The shelves are new,” Siobhan said. “New since we left, anyway. This is where they stored their fishing gear.”

  “You mean the stuff that’s outside?” I asked.

  “No, that’s the junk they offloaded from the boats,” Siobhan said. “They kept the gear they actually used in here, and there was a lot of it. Soon after the outbreak, old Seamus put out a call on the shortwave radio. While the younger generation were loading their boats and heading to who knows where, a gang of septuagenarian fishermen rallied to his call. They came from up and down the coast. Most of them were still alive when we left. You know what old Seamus said? If you can survive seventy years out on the open ocean, nothing on land’ll kill you. I think that was due to the way his wife died.”

  “You said it was a sad story,” Kim said.

  “Oh, it is,” Siobhan said. “Then again, seeing what’s happened to the world, isn’t everyone’s story a sad one? Seamus’s father was on an Atlantic convoy during the war. His ship was torpedoed. He survived, but spent a month in a hospital in the States. He met a nurse, and promised to go back for her. After the war, he did. They returned to Ireland. Seamus was born, he grew up, and when he left school, he went to America to meet his mother’s family. He met his own American bride. Almost a year after the wedding, she died. He was away. A ship foundered during a storm. She took a rowing boat out to help rescue the sailors, but died in the attempt. He buried her here, and stayed because of her.”

  “If that was me, I’d have left the sea behind,” I said.

  “But that would have meant leaving her,” Siobhan said. “He wouldn’t do that. Besides, he was a fisherman. It was all he knew, and he knew he was lucky to have that during the lean years of the last century. He told me that, at first, he’d wanted the sea to take him, but it didn’t. He said that it wouldn’t, not until he was ready. He’d been waiting half a century, and still the sea didn’t want him. Perhaps it’s taken him now. I hope it has. If he had to die, I hope it was—” She stopped. “Let’s try the other shed. It’s where they stored the fuel.”

  It was just as empty.

  “They left, then,” Colm said. “And it was a planned exodus.”

  “Planned?” Siobhan looked around the empty shed. There was a slight tang of diesel still in the air, but the large tank rang as hollow as the solitary jerry can. “I don’t know if it was planned, but they had time. A day? They wouldn’t have needed two.”

  “Any idea when they left?” I asked.

  “My guess is as good as yours,” Siobhan said. “You can’t tell anything from the dirt around the door or the dust on the window. It’s not like anyone would’ve cleaned it before the outbreak, let alone since. We’ll have to look further up the hill. We’ll try Mark’s house. If he left a note, it’d be there.”

  Beyond the slipway, and its concrete storage sheds, a road zigzagged up the hill. Dangerously close to the floodwater-mark was a storm-battered cottage. The windows on the Atlantic side were almost as small as portholes. The door was at the back, partially shielded by a concrete abutment that also blocked out most of the daylight. There was no lock on the door. That made the smell of damp and natural decay even more dispiriting.

  “Empty,” I said, stepping outside after a brief search. “They really didn’t need to lock their doors here?”

  “Need?” Siobhan asked. “Some locked their doors. Some didn’t. Some stubbornly refused to accept that the world had changed. A few thought that they could change it back through force of will. Should they be mocked, or admired? I understand it was the same in Scotland, probably in parts of England, too. If it wasn’t, does that say more about us, or more about you?”

  “Was this Mark’s house?” Kim asked.

  “That’s further up the hill,” Siobhan said.

  “There’s no car,” Kim said. “The owner would have had a car, right?”

  “The car hasn’t gone,” Siobhan said. “Not far, anyway. I’ll show you. Lena, you go up the hill. We’ll take the road.”

  The teenager bounded across the road, over the low wall, and up the grass-covered, rain-sodden, near-sheer hillside with barely a slowing of her pace.

  “Is it safe for her to be on her own, exposed like that?” I asked.

  “She’s faster than any of us,” Colm said. “Good eyes, too. She isn’t reckless.”
r />   We stuck to the road as it wrapped its way around the hillside, pausing at an ordinary bungalow with an extraordinary feature. A wall had been built around the house. It was obviously a post-outbreak construction as a corner was built on the road itself. The first five feet were of breezeblock. Above that were metal rods and wooden planks held together with cement as much as brackets and pins. In line with the front door was a ladder. Siobhan climbed it.

  “It looks empty. I… I suppose we should check each home.” She climbed up another rung. “No. No, Mark first. We should… yes.” She climbed down. “We should check his house first.”

  I shot Colm a questioning look. He shook his head.

  Fifty yards mostly northeast, three cars blocked the road.

  “Mark’s idea,” Siobhan said. “Compartmentalised defence, he called it. Like a regiment forming a square as the cavalry approached, and…” She trailed off. The submachine gun was low in her hands, carried but clearly forgotten.

  “Hey. Look.” Kim pointed at Lena. The teenager raised her fist, then pointed to the north. “She’s seen something.”

  “She has?” There was fear in Siobhan’s voice. In the few days we’d known her, she’d seemed professional. It was the professionalism of the police officer deployed to a disaster, albeit one that would never end. Surrounded by the roiling erratic emotions of civilians, her training had taken over, and her own emotions were held in close check. With our arrival at Malin Head, that facade hadn’t just cracked, it had split right open. Not, I thought, because of where we were, but because of something that had happened here. It was a good guess, but it was another one that turned out to be wrong.

  We climbed over the automobile roadblock.

  “Fifty yards, I think,” Colm said raising his fire-axe. “You ready?”

  “Ready,” Siobhan said, raising the gun.

  “I’ve got it,” Kim said. “The MP5 won’t be silent.”

  “Right. Yes. Of course,” Siobhan murmured, but the gun barrel stayed up.

  We walked on until we came to another roadblock. There were four zombies on the other side.