by Perrin Briar
“She’s all right,” Chris said. “It’s better for us if we keep moving.”
Twigs snapped somewhere in the darkness, and a pair of lumbering shadows emerged.
“About time,” Tiffany said, standing up. “Where have you been? I’ve had to entertain these people by myself.”
“I can see you’ve been an excellent host,” a deep voice growled.
The men were twins, large, with hunting knives at their waists. Each had a squint. One in the left eye, one the right.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to relieve you of that backpack you got there,” Left Eye said in a gruff voice.
“And the bikes,” Tiffany said. “They’ve got bikes too!”
“Yes, and your bikes. We’ll be needing those.”
“Thinking of entering the Tour de France?” Chris said. “Sorry, but we need them. Look, you really don’t want to be doing this.”
Chris felt his legs beneath him. They were stiff and sore. Not ideal for a fight in the offing.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is repay you by breaking your noses.”
Left Eye unsheathed his hunting knife. It gleamed in the moonlight.
“What do you say now?” he said with a victorious smile. “Still want to play that card?”
Chris sighed. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and bounced on the balls of his feet as best he could.
“I warned you,” he said.
Chris threw the leaf of food at Left Eye. It hit the man’s chest, the berries splattered against his shirt. Left Eye sneered at the wasted food. He roared and flew at Chris with his knife outstretched.
Chris crouched, throwing his centre of gravity and his body weight into the punch. He knew he wouldn’t have the power to throw many, so he took careful aim, and brought it into the man’s stomach. Left Eye’s mouth and eyes bulged as his body reacted to the blow into his gut, a wheezing gasp escaping his lips. He doubled over. Chris dealt a second punch, vicious and unyielding, into the side of the man’s skull, between where the chin met the neck. The man hit the ground, his face smacking an upturned log.
Right Eye, surprised by the turn of events, scrunched his face up in anger and flew at Chris with his own knife. Chris knocked the man’s thick arm aside, but was knocked back by his bull-like charge. Chris regained his balance and punched Right Eye full in the face. There was the crack of cartilage as his nose broke. Chris took hold of Right Eye’s shoulders and pulled his body down as he brought his own knee up, striking the man hard in the ribs, once, twice, three times in quick succession. Then Chris balled up his fist to strike the man again, but his eyes were already rolling into the back of his head. Chris let him fall to the ground. Chris looked over at Tiffany, his breath coming in rags.
“Thank you for your kind hospitality,” he said. “Apologise to Tweedledee and Tweedledum about their noses for me when they wake up, won’t you?”
Chris and Maisie turned and began to walk away.
“You can’t leave!” Tiffany said. “We need your things! You can’t go!”
“You’re more than welcome to them after we’re done with them,” Chris said. “Just come pick them up at the end of the world. And we are leaving. This way, in fact.”
Chris bent down and picked up a thick wedge of wood from the fire, a glowing torch to light the way. They walked toward the boundary of light lit by the fire.
Tiffany picked up a pan, screeched, and rushed Chris. She brought the pan up high. Chris swung the torch around, facing Tiffany. She ran into it, dropping the pan and screaming. Her dress caught on fire in half a dozen places. She beat at it, dropped to the ground, and rolled over.
“This is why we don’t stop to talk to strangers,” Chris said to Maisie.
They made their way through the foliage with the lit torch and emerged a dozen yards from their bikes. They approached them, climbed on, and continued on their journey.
Z-MINUS: 6 HOURS 12 MINUTES
The helicopter swept in low over the River Thames, making ripples flitter across the surface like an angel’s wing.
“Any sign?” Phillips said.
“Neither hide nor hair,” Vasquez said, peering down on her side of the river.
Discarded beer cans and shopping trolleys rose like modern art on either shallow riverbank. Large fractured bridge sections jutted out of the water like a beacon to a lost civilisation. They followed the broad winding river turns like the sideways movements of a snake. Then Vasquez pointed out the window.
“Wait,” Vasquez said. “What’s that?”
She brought the helicopter close to the riverbank. Something dark and small laid there. As they got closer, Phillips saw that it was a body. His breath caught in his throat.
“Bring us closer,” he said.
“But there might be zombies down there.”
“I said do it.”
Vasquez eased them down with a delicate touch on the controls. The water blew aside and whirled around in a fine spray. The body in the water below started, and turned to look up at them. It reached for them with its scarred waterlogged hands, its eyes not reacting to the stinging water.
On the river bank, a mob of zombies emerged from between two buildings, jerking and drawing close to the helicopter, their groans unheard over the rotor blades. They waded into the shallows and reached for the landing skid. Vasquez pulled on the controls and turned away.
“Was the body one of them, do you think?” Vasquez said. “One of the people we’re trying to find?”
“Maybe. But then where’s the little girl?”
“She might have got swept out to sea.”
“We’d better hope she wasn’t. Only she can tell us what happened to the final vial.”
“Do you want to keep looking?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God!”
Phillips followed Vasquez’s wild wide eyes to his door window. He started back. The waterlogged zombie glared at him through the Plexiglas, pressing its face against the door. Phillips opened the door. The zombie reached into the cockpit. Phillips kicked at it, knocking it clear. The body fell down, down, down, to the water below. Phillips shut the door, panting slightly.
“And they said zombies couldn’t fly.”
Z-MINUS: 6 HOURS 9 MINUTES
The moon moved dramatically across the sky, seeming to grow larger, silver picking out the silhouettes of everything they saw, like they were cycling through the world’s shadow.
There was a groan in the darkness, somewhere on Chris’s right, and he picked up the pace like an adrenaline shot to the arm, spurring him forward. But Chris could sense his own weakness, struggling to make his feet turn the pedals. They crested a steep hill, and he let gravity do the work.
As they began to rise up the opposite slope Chris hit the electric motor and let it pull him up. There was another groan, this one from a small malformed lump on a flat field, and rustling from behind thick veils of foliage. Nothing lurched out from the darkness.
A solid cube of shadow stood in the middle of the road. It was a van, its doors closed tight. Chris approached it, peering in through the unbroken window on the driver’s side.
“Does it have much petrol?” Maisie said.
“Not a lot, but it’ll be nice to take a rest from cycling for a while. Let’s see how far we get before it runs out of fuel, shall we?”
Chris opened the front door and checked there were no other passengers. He moved to the back and pulled the doors open. It was half-cloaked in shadow, the end a deep black. Chris banged on the van’s floor with his hand, shouting. There was no reply. He picked up first his bike, then Maisie’s, setting them in the van. He shut the door and moved to the driver’s side door.
“I’ll drive,” Maisie said.
Chris laughed.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
Chris climbed into the driving seat, climbed because his stiff joints wouldn’t allow more agile movement. Mai
sie hopped onto the long passenger seat like a gazelle, the arduous cycling having had no effect.
“You can sleep, if you want,” Chris said.
“I’m not sleepy.”
Chris was. If he closed his eyes he fancied he could sleep till the end of days. Maisie took off her helmet and mussed her hair. Chris gave her his helmet. He turned the key in the ignition and the van coughed and spluttered, and finally chugged to life. There was a knocking sound from the engine, and thick smoke the colour of cannon fire obscured the road behind them.
Chris followed the curves with ease, never over-revving the engine nor forcing the van any faster than it wanted to go, which was about forty miles an hour. Zombies lurched out onto the road now, drawn to the chuffing engine. One shadow half-rose off the tarmac in the middle of the road, but Chris was going too fast to stop.
He saw a sign for Brighton and took the junction, slowing down when he approached the roundabout and taking the second exit. Chris glanced at his watch at the time remaining and let a smile rise to his lips. They were getting close. They were going to make it.
Z-MINUS: 5 HOURS 56 MINUTES
The sea was an endless blanket spilling over the edge of the world. It was beginning to get rough, the waves silvery white, fluffy and furry. The helicopter spotlight swept across the thin band of yellow below.
“See anything?” Phillips said.
“No, sir. Nothing,” Vasquez said.
The land doubled back on itself, into the form of a cove, a circle of land that cut into the earth like a boil.
“Do you want to turn back, sir?” Vasquez said. “They might have gone in a different direction.”
Phillips’ eyebrows were pinched together in an expression of deep contemplation. They were missing something, he thought. Something they had overlooked that would tell them which way the girl would have gone. But what? He shook his head.
“It’s no use,” he said. “They’re not here. We’re wasting our time-”
He froze, looking out through the distorted Plexiglas, down onto the land below. He lifted his binoculars to peer at it closer.
“There!” Phillips said, pointing to something small and dark on the edge of a sandy embankment. “Take us down.”
The rotor blades blew the sand into a frenzy, mixing with the water and dirt. Phillips aimed the spotlight at the boat across the way, threw his door open and ran toward the boat that had been moored to a large rock. The disruption of the water by the helicopter had tugged on the boat, lengthening and pulling the mooring rope tight. Phillips ran into the shallows, water splashing up to his knees, seized the boat, and dragged it back to shore.
The helicopter engine died and the world became still. Phillips checked the boat over but found no evidence of who might have used it. Then he saw the number ‘3’ painted on the side in a rushed hand in white paint. It was one of the soldiers’ vessels. Phillips cast an eye over the wet sand. His eyes widened at the sight of familiar footprints.
“They were here,” Phillips said. “Both of them. They were here and they went this way.”
The tracks led off the beach, and toward a noticeboard. He approached it and placed his hand on the Perspex cover. There was a map underneath it, of the whole country, and then a larger one, blown up, showing the local area.
“Where are you heading?” Phillips said aloud.
“Which way do we head now?” Vasquez said.
“I don’t know. But there are only two main roads out of Gillingham. One heads back to London, the other south. As they just came from London it’s less likely they went that way.”
“What about these other tracks?” Vasquez said, her torch finding them in the gloom. “They look like tyre tracks, like the ones we found on the banks of the River Thames. Maybe they’re travelling together?”
“How could they? These tracks came later.”
“How much later?”
“It’s hard to say. A few hours?”
“Maybe they agreed to meet up somewhere.”
“Then why follow the exact same route? It doesn’t make any sense. If you agree to meet someone somewhere you take the fastest, easiest way to that place. Driving over sand in a heavy motorcycle isn’t easy.”
“Then, what? They’re tracking them?”
“That would be my guess,” Phillips said.
“Do you think they’re looking for the same thing we are?”
“They’re certainly not looking for Easter eggs.”
“How many of them are there?”
“About a dozen.”
“Who are they?”
“I have no idea, but they ride on motorbikes. Big motorbikes.”
“How are we going to track the man and girl without a trail?”
“If we can’t pursue the main goal, then we’ll pursue their trackers.”
“How?”
Phillips bent down and pressed his fingers to a stained black circle of sand, oil having soaked into it.
“Because they left a trail,” he said. “But we’d better hurry. They’re already ahead of us.”
Z-MINUS: 5 HOURS 47 MINUTES
The van began to sputter and chuff like a smoker without a cigarette. The chassis shook and ground to a halt. Chris turned the key in the ignition. The engine made half-hearted attempts to restart, but to no avail. Smoke poured from all four corners of the bonnet, cutting Chris’s thoughts of attempting to fix the engine short. They were in the middle of farmland that rolled on either side of them like deep waves in a storm.
“Where are we?” Maisie said.
“We’re almost there. Come on, let’s get on our bikes.”
Chris winced as he lowered himself down onto the hard saddle. They began to peddle down the road. It wound around two long corners, and then rose up another hill.
“We can take a break for a while if you want,” Chris said, puffing and panting, the sweat rolling into his eyes.
“Don’t think I’m the one who needs it.”
“What are you talking about?’ Chris said between huge wracking breaths. “I’m fine!”
“We must be close,” Maisie said, coming to a stop. “We can rest.”
“How is it you’re not even out of breath?”
Maisie shrugged.
“I take after Mum, I guess,” she said.
“You obviously don’t take after me.”
Just then, as Chris’s body ached and he couldn’t face pumping the pedals any longer, the shining white walls of Sussex Heights forced its way up from the bluff of the hill, as if emerging out of the ground and into creation. They looked down on the town of Brighton. It was picturesque and tranquil, like a little model city. Caught by the moonlight, Brighton Pier stood alone, yet with silent dignity, jutting out into the hostile ocean like a fearless child’s tongue. But a thick fog spoiled the scene, gripping the land and lying like a blanket across the expanse. The moonlight caught it and made it glow bright and thick, and impenetrable to the eye.
“It’s pretty,” Maisie said. “Is that the pier?”
“Looks like it.”
There was a soft rumbling sound like thunder in the distance behind them. It grew in volume, rumbling like an angry dragon.
“What’s that?” Maisie said.
“It sounds like an engine,” Chris said. “Lots of them. Someone’s coming. Grab your bike.”
They ran across the verge and into the foliage, behind a large oak tree. The engines, loud and deafening, pulled to a stop on the apex of the hill. A big black boot snapped the kick-stand out. A dozen other boots joined the first, each one sporting brightly coloured hair in dramatic shapes and sizes. They had spiked haircuts and metal studs on their jackets.
“There it is, boys,” the man with a Mohawk said. “The end of the line. They’re probably down there now.”
“How do you know they haven’t got there already?” a smaller man with a chain linking his ear and nose said.
“Because I said so, that’s why. Now, let’s get going before
they do get there before us.”
Mohawk released the kick-stop and revved his engine, taking the heavy motorbike forward and down the hill toward the city. The others did likewise. The revving engines dwindled and then disappeared altogether, the sounds of the forest returning.
“I don’t understand,” Maisie said. “Why are they here? I thought they were far away?”
“They must be looking for something.”
“What?”
“Us.”
Chris led them back onto the road as the bikers entered the city.
“They’re down there now waiting for us,” Maisie said.
“Probably.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to go down there.”
“Are you crazy? They’ll catch us!”
“Not if we enter the city without them knowing.”
“How are we going to do that?”
Chris smiled and turned his bike around.
Z-MINUS: 5 HOURS 44 MINUTES
Phillips and Vasquez stood in the centre of a large roundabout, the helicopter resting on the grassy knoll. The helicopter’s cockpit lights illuminated the first twenty yards of each road before they faded into darkness. Phillips was in a crouching position, picking at the blades of glass.
“Well?” Vasquez said. “Which way do you think they went?”
“I don’t know. They could have gone in any direction. If it was daylight it would be easier to see signs. Damn it. As it is, we could be inches from the trail and miss it. We’ll never find them, not when they could have gone anywhere from this point.
“If they took this road they could have gone back towards London or out into the rest of the country – back to wherever it is they came from. Or they could have taken this road and gone on to France, Europe, and beyond. Maybe they decided they didn’t want to be here anymore, that maybe they would have a better life elsewhere. I wouldn’t blame them. Or they could have taken this road south to Land’s End. Who knows which way they went? What is a tracker without tracks? There’s nothing I can do.”