Future's Beginning

by Frank Tayell

  “No.”

  “You drew your knife, but the riot was already underway. You couldn’t reach Markus, so you decided to improvise. You slashed your own face, but someone came at you. You lashed out, stabbed them, killed them. Reflexively, you threw the knife into the darkest recesses of the warehouse, but you left a print behind. A fingerprint with a void that matches the scar on your index finger.”

  “No. No,” Fenwick said. “No that’s… that’s a coincidence.”

  Sholto shrugged. He turned the phone’s light off, then turned off the voice recorder. He put the phone away, and threw the keys to Fenwick. “Go on. Undo the shackles.”

  Sholto walked back to the desk, and picked up the gun.

  “You’re letting me go?” Fenwick asked.

  Sholto slid the magazine back into gun, raised it, and fired. The bullet entered between the man’s eyes. Fenwick collapsed, dead.

  “No,” he said.

  The door opened. Toussaint and Petrelli rushed in.

  “I undid the cage, undid his cuffs so he could walk more quickly. He went for my gun.”

  Toussaint looked between Fenwick and Sholto.

  “Aye, sir,” Toussaint said. “That’s exactly what happened. Isn’t it, Private?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I guess,” Petrelli said. “Did he tell you anything?”

  “I’ve a recording of his confession. He said his sister was the ringleader, and I think she was, but he was complicit in all of it. They’d been trying to destroy the power station for months before they realised the water treatment plant was the weak link. They killed Dr Singh back on Anglesey, and Fenwick stabbed the guy during the warehouse brawl earlier today. There are a few other details and a few other crimes to which he confessed, but they can wait. It’s time to leave, and time to leave Belfast behind. Leave the past, too. It’s time to look to the future.”

  “And that’s looking pretty bleak to me,” Toussaint said.

  Part 3 - Day 257

  25th November

  Endings and Beginnings

  The Irish Sea & Dundalk

  Chapter 23 - One Person, One Vote

  The Irish Sea

  “You have a great radio voice,” Sholto said as he tried to find a position where he could properly extend his legs. This cabin on the John Cabot was small, though none were large, but with most of the space taken up by recently installed bunk beds, there was barely enough room for Sholto, let alone Siobhan as well.

  “I said as much as I could, but it won’t be enough,” Siobhan said. “People will have questions. Lots of them. You should write an account.”

  “That was always more Bill’s territory than mine,” Sholto said. He gave up trying to sit, and lay down on the bunk. Even then, the bunk wasn’t long enough.

  “People have a right to know,” Siobhan said. “They’ll demand it. If we don’t publish an account, there’ll have to be an inquiry. I think we both know which of those is preferable.”

  “A written account won’t stop people asking questions, it won’t stop rumours and doubts. Just look at what happened after Bill’s journals were published back on Anglesey.”

  “It will quell the anxiety,” Siobhan said. She sighed. “All this for power. All because they didn’t want to share what was in some mythical warehouse of Kempton’s. You know that everyone still thinks it exists?”

  “They do?”

  “I was asked about it eight times between the control room and this cabin. Granted, I must have seen at least a hundred people, but still, that was the first question that came to the minds of eight of them.”

  “Maybe the warehouse is real, maybe it’s not,” Sholto said. “The only person who can confirm whether it ever existed is Sorcha Locke. No, I think we need to look elsewhere for our salvation now, starting with Calais and those ships.”

  A low rumble was followed by a persistent vibration, and the entire cabin shuddered.

  “That’s the engines,” Siobhan said.

  “Then we’re heading for Dundalk,” Sholto said. He glanced out the small porthole. The sky was brightening. Dawn was on its way.

  “Our destination depends on who wins,” Siobhan said. “Since it could be anyone, our destination could be anywhere.”

  “Yep. That’s the point,” Sholto said. “In this election, it’ll be one person, one vote. Everyone gets to write down one name, and only one name. There are no candidates, no speeches, no manifestos, no debates. It’s a popularity contest, pure and simple.”

  “That’s precisely why I’m worried,” Siobhan said. “You really think an election is necessary?”

  “Our new leader needs a mandate,” Sholto said. “Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before there’s another challenge. Maybe it’ll be a mutiny, maybe a coup, maybe people will just up and leave first chance they get. Give everyone a say, give them a voice, and make it clear that voice is heard, and, sure they’ll grumble and grouse, but they’ll back our decisions, at least for a few weeks.”

  “It won’t be our decisions,” Siobhan said.

  Sholto grinned, and leaned back.

  At the end of her broadcast, after she’d summarised the evidence against Fenwick and Kennedy and played a few selective clips of their confessions, Siobhan had made an announcement. There was to be an election to select who was in charge of this flotilla. Every adult on each of the ships would write down the name of the person they thought should lead. One name per person, handed in when they collected their breakfast. It had to be the name of someone on board one of the ships, but it could be anyone except Sholto or Siobhan, as they would count the ballots. There were no other stipulations, restrictions, rules, or guidelines.

  “You’re not worried Markus might win?” Siobhan asked.

  “Nope. No one will vote for him. It’s unlikely anyone will ever want to shake his hand, let alone buy a drink from him.”

  “Aren’t you at all worried about who’ll win? It could be anyone.”

  “It won’t be,” Sholto said confidently. “There’ll be some people who’ll vote for themselves, and some who’ll vote for a friend. I’d say that’ll account for about a third of the ballots. The rest will vote for one of two people.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure, and whichever of those two wins, we’ll be heading for Dundalk.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the point of an election?” Siobhan asked.

  “That depends on what you think the purpose of an election is,” Sholto said. Before he had to say more, there was a knock on the door. It opened. Kallie stood there. Behind her was Private Petrelli, a box in his hands.

  “It’s the first box of ballots,” Kallie said. “All from the John Cabot. You heard the engines?”

  “They’re hard to miss,” Sholto said.

  “The wind’s changed direction,” Kallie said. “It’s blowing the smoke out to sea. We’re going to move away from the shore. Not to Dundalk,” she added, though more for the people in the corridor outside. “Not yet, because the admiral says our final destination has to be made by our new leader. But we have to get away from the smoke. We’ll get the ballots from the other ships when we stop. That’ll be in about an hour, the admiral thinks.”

  “Then we should get started,” Sholto said. “When you bring the next lot of ballots, do you think you could bring some food? I can’t remember the last time I ate.”

  “Sure,” Kallie said, and Sholto closed the door to the cabin.

  “How do you want to do this?” Siobhan asked.

  “I’ll read them, you tally them,” Sholto said, taking the box from her. “Do you want to place a bet?”

  “On the winner? No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She took out the pen and notebook in which she’d written the speech she’d just broadcast, turned to a fresh page, and looked up. “Go on.”

  “Hang on.” He looked around, and took a moment to consider the future, then picked up a pillow. “We need something to put the counted ballots in. This
pillowcase will do. Nice floral pattern, not the kind of thing you expect to find on a ship. First one, Admiral Gunderson.”

  “Got it. Next.”

  “The admiral. The admiral. Colm. The admiral. Colm. Colm. John Whitely. The admiral. Reg Cafney. Colm…”

  One by one, he read the names. One by one, Siobhan marked them off. By the time Kallie opened the door, with a large vacuum flask and two empty bowls in her hands and Petrelli behind with another plastic crate, they’d almost finished.

  “More ballots, and some breakfast,” Kallie said. “Who’s winning?”

  “Nope,” Siobhan said. “Absolutely not. There’ll be no running tally. No more questions, either. Just leave those there, and go.”

  “Huh. Fine,” Kallie said. “Not even a small hint?”

  “Thanks for the breakfast,” Sholto said, ushering her outside.

  “Fish stew laced with paprika,” Siobhan said, opening the flask. “At least, it smells of fish and smoke, and I’m going to assume that’s paprika.”

  “Who is winning?” Sholto asked, taking a bowl from her. “Is it Colm or the admiral?”

  “The admiral. Colm’s a few votes behind. You knew those two would be the frontrunners?”

  “The admiral’s been running things since we arrived in Belfast. Colm’s been walking the harbour, getting to know people, being friendly, and being seen. The admiral will be the first name that comes to everyone’s minds. Colm’s will be the second. Which of those two someone picks will depend on whether they distrust experience enough to want change. It’s what most elections come down to.”

  “You’re a cynic,” Siobhan said. “Eight people voted for Reg Cafney.”

  “He’s the closest thing we have to a pre-outbreak celebrity,” Sholto said.

  “Three for Gloria, though.”

  “I bet one of those was from Reg,” Sholto said.

  “Third place is John Whitley,” Siobhan said. “He’s got twenty-nine votes, so that’s a very distant third. What’s your theory on people voting for him? Is it that they want a military ruler, but not the admiral?”

  “I’d say those votes most likely came from people in her crew who’re threatening to mutiny. They want change, but for that change to be pretty much the same as what they have now.”

  “Yes, you definitely are a cynic. Shall we?”

  They continued counting, and Kallie continued bringing new boxes. The engines slowed, and the ballots were brought in from the other ships. It took hours, during which time the ships moved further from shore, but, through the porthole’s truncated vista, it was impossible to judge how far out to sea they’d travelled. Kallie refused to tell them, until they told her who’d won, and so they kept on counting, until they were finished.

  “And one more for the admiral,” Sholto said, stuffing the scrap of paper into fourth pillowcase, “and that’s our lot.”

  “That’s it? They’re all counted?” Siobhan said. “Right. Give me a moment. Well, no. It’s obvious who’s won. It’s the admiral. Not by much, though. It’s a margin of under a hundred.”

  “Sounds about right,” Sholto said, stuffing the ballots further into the pillowcase, then tying the end. He did the same with the other three pillowcases.

  Siobhan looked at him, then at the cloth sacks, then back at him. “Colm’s a good man,” she said.

  “He is.”

  “But maybe the admiral is the leader we need right now.”

  “I’d say so,” Sholto said. “More importantly, that’s what your tally shows. The people have spoken.”

  “With the admiral in charge, there’ll be no mutiny, not now.”

  “Not for a few weeks, anyway,” Sholto said.

  Siobhan looked again at the bags. Sholto knew what question she wanted to ask, but knew that she wouldn’t.

  “The people have spoken,” Siobhan said. “What’s it they say? That you get the leaders you deserve, not those you want?”

  “In my experience, in the elections I’ve been involved in, people always get the leader they need,” Sholto said.

  “Hmm. I think that is a statement you and I will dig into over the coming days. We have our winner, our leader. I better tell the admiral, and then tell everyone else. Are you coming?”

  “I’ll get rid of these,” Sholto said, indicating the stuffed pillowcases. “It’s only extra weight, and that’s a waste of fuel.”

  “Hmm.” She said no more, but left the cabin.

  Sholto picked up the pillowcases, triple-checked that he wasn’t leaving any ballots behind, then made his way out of the cabin, and back onto the deck.

  Everyone asked him who’d won. To everyone, he gave the same answer.

  “Listen to the ship’s address-system, it’ll be announced in a moment.”

  And it was, before he reached the ship’s stern. Siobhan’s voice rang out across the deck, announcing that the admiral had won. Even as she spoke, the engines roared into life, drowning out her words. It didn’t drown out the noise from the passengers and crew, because everyone was silent. Sholto hadn’t expected a cheer, though. Not today, not after the events of yesterday.

  As the ship rocked, beginning its slow turn southward, the admiral’s voice rang across the ship.

  “It is a new day, a new beginning,” she said. “This is not where we thought we’d be. Our destination is not where we thought we’d be going. New challenges await us, but we shall face them as we have faced so many before. We often talk about being at a crossroads. That junction is behind us. Ahead, there is a straight path with no turnings in sight. Together, we must go forward, because we cannot go back. We have to travel together, and so we cannot be divided. In unity lies our future and the salvation of our species.”

  There was a pause, then John Whitley came on. “We’re making best possible speed for Dundalk. According to Mary O’Leary, we can expect to find food and coal there, and hardly any zombies.”

  That got a cheer.

  With the announcement made, Sholto was ignored as he pushed his way to the back of the ship. Unceremoniously, he threw the pillowcases over the side. They bobbed briefly in the ship’s frothing wake, but then sank as the cloth, and paper inside, absorbed the water.

  He leaned on the rail, watching them disappear beneath the waves. The election had only formalised the status quo. The admiral had taken charge when word came that Mary’s ship had run aground. Siobhan had fallen back into the role of police officer, while Colm had assumed responsibility for morale. No one had asked them. They had seen a task for which they were qualified, and fallen into that role. Yes, the admiral was the leader they needed. For now. Next month? Who could say? Events changed so swiftly.

  Fenwick and Kennedy. Two more executions. It was best to think of them in those terms, rather than as murder. It was a philosophical distinction, but not one he’d lose any sleep over, if only because each day ended in exhaustion. If the past was a guide, their faces would haunt him during the sleepless wait for dawn after a nervous sentry raised the alarm, thinking the undead approached. Of course, there wouldn’t be any of those alarms raised while they were aboard the ship.

  He turned his gaze to the haze over Belfast where the fire still raged, but his mind returned to a childhood visit to a cafe with his father. He closed his eyes, but when he tried to recall his father’s face, he saw Bill instead. Nothing prevented him repositioning the satellites now. It was time to find his brother. And he would find him. He’d managed it before.

  Chapter 24 - A Glimpse of the Future to Come

  Dundalk

  Kim switched the sat-phone off. “Did you hear all of that?”

  “The admiral was elected, is that right?” Mirabelle said. “But I didn’t hear who came second.”

  “Colm,” Kim said. “They’re bringing their ships here to Dundalk, and should arrive this evening. I think that they’ll get here in time for some to come ashore, but the majority will have to stay aboard until tomorrow. Of course, I suppose that decision is the admi
ral’s now.” She looked over at Mary, but the old woman simply smiled.

  For once, the meeting was not being held in public, but in the small office in which Daisy and Annette slept, Mary planned, and in which Kim sometimes managed to doze for a few fitful minutes. Though the office was small, there was enough room for Mary, Bran, Mirabelle, and Kim.

  The windows had been boarded up, inside and out, leaving the wind-up camping-lantern as their only illumination. Even so, the room was brightened by Daisy’s mural. It now stretched across all four walls, and even covered the door. A band of yellow was bordered by one of dark blue, and another of a lighter blue, the top of which was a ragged line marking the infant’s upper-most reach. Beneath the defunct light switch was a jagged black line topped with four green blobs that, they assumed, was a palm tree. Kim still had no idea what had inspired the child to draw a desert island, or even if that was what Daisy had drawn. Mary had said the composition was far beyond what they should expect from a child Daisy’s age, and was an indication the girl was suffering no psychological effect from the shipwreck. Kim wasn’t convinced, but was happy to defer to the teacher’s experience, partly because there was just too much else to worry about.

  “Did they say anything about the sabotage?” Mirabelle asked. “Do they think it’s over?”

  “I hope so,” Kim said. “But no, they didn’t mention it, so there’s no change from the message last night.”

  “It’s a crowded ship, isn’t it?” Bran said. “They’ll be conscious that everything that’s said can be overheard.”

  “What else did they say?” Mary asked.

  “They’re not sure how much food they’ve brought with them, and they can’t do a stock-take until they’re able to send some people ashore and free up some space. Last night, though, Kallie did mention something about how they’d boarded the ships carrying weapons and clothes, and that some people didn’t even grab those. I think we can assume that whatever they took ashore was left behind in Belfast, along with whatever they found in the city.”