Surviving The Evacuation (Book 14): Mort Vivant

by Tayell, Frank

  The room took up most of the ground floor. An arched alcove led to a kitchen. Rather, it led into a room with a broken ceramic sink. There were no white goods or appliances. Nor could he see any light switches. The fireplace and chimney had been built in the middle of the house, with the hearth open on either side of the dividing wall so that it could serve as a cooking fire for the kitchen and a source of warmth for the living room. In the corner, a staircase led upstairs. Beneath it was a door that, when Locke opened it, showed a cobwebbed cupboard. He propped his torch on a shelf built into the chimney stack.

  “Did you check upstairs?” Chester asked.

  “Yes,” Locke said. “Half the roof is gone, but the remaining floorboards appear intact. We don’t have to worry about the roof collapsing.” She crossed to the pilot, and checked his pulse. “He’s alive. We can make him comfortable, but nothing more.”

  “Then start a fire,” Bill said. “There’s some matches in my pack. Those cupboard doors will do for firewood. Private, can you collect some snow in those wine bottles? We can have hot water to drink if nothing else.”

  “And what will you do while we do that?” Locke asked.

  “This is good farming country, but this is an old building,” Bill said. “The new farmhouse can’t be far away. We might find food there, maybe even a map or two. Chester, fancy a stroll?”

  Chapter 2 - Blood and Snow

  Somewhere in France

  “Feels like sandpaper, don’t it?” Chester said as they stepped outside. “But you have to be alive to feel.”

  “Dry boots, dry boots, my kingdom for a dry pair of boots,” Bill muttered. Across the snow-coated farmyard, he could see the trees and wall, though not the crashed plane. More pertinently, he couldn’t see Sergeant Khan until he realised a moving branch was actually the Marine, waving the all-clear.

  “The clouds aren’t too heavy,” Chester said. “That’s good. They’ll see the crashed plane on the satellites.”

  “But the sun’s setting,” Bill said. “We’ve less than an hour until dark.”

  “Meaning that the earliest the satellites will spot us is tomorrow morning,” Chester said.

  “That’s the earliest the satellites will be able to take pictures,” Bill said. “But they won’t start the search here. We didn’t crash as near to the coast as I’d like. That begs the question of exactly where here is.”

  Beyond the snow-covered yard, in the direction opposite to ditch, wall, and crashed plane, was an old barn in worse repair than the house. The eastern wall was halfway through a slow collapse that had already brought down the roof. A steel joist jutted out of the snow. In turn, a wooden beam propped up that joist, marking where the farm’s owners had attempted to stave off the inevitable effects of time.

  “Someone didn’t want to let the place collapse,” Chester said. “But not someone with the time to do the job properly.” He dug his heel into the snow, dragging it back. “Dirt, not tarmac. Not concrete. Not even gravel. A sofa and candles. This was someone’s little nest. Not where they lived, but where they retreated from the world.”

  “But how far away is the world they were retreating from?” Bill said. “Did you pack much food?”

  “A few flatbreads, a couple of tins of mandarin segments,” Chester said. “It was a snack in case we ended up trapped for the night between the motorway and Belfast Harbour. You?”

  “I brought my lunch,” Bill said. “Still haven’t eaten it, though.”

  They reached the front of the barn, and its two-door metal gate. The gate was chained closed with a padlock far sturdier than the doors’ hinges. Where the chain was still taut, the brackets on the left hand door had rusted away, allowing the gate to collapse, leaving a two-foot-wide gap between it and the wall.

  “I left my torch in the house,” Bill said. “Do you have one?”

  “Hang on. Here.” Chester shone the light inside, sweeping the beam across fragments of collapsed roof, broken timbers, rusting corrugated sheets, and—

  “There! Stop,” Bill said. “No, go back. To the left. There. It’s a body.”

  Bill pushed his way through the narrow gap. As Chester followed, his light moved from the corpse. Bill blinked, momentarily unable to see. His foot crunched on a broken tile. When Chester returned the light to the body, it hadn’t moved.

  “Dead,” Bill said, stepping closer. “Yes. Dead. Two bodies. Two men. Boys, really.”

  Neither could be older than twenty, and were probably at least two years younger. Both had not-quite-matching streaks of red and white in their hair, and faces that barely needed to shave. Calf-length leather jackets were buttoned high up to their necks, with skin-tight grey trousers tucked into black boots. Long hair was an unusual sight, at least compared to the cropped and shaved fashion of Anglesey, and whether they’d found the jackets in the same wardrobe or they’d taken months to scavenge, they’d wanted to dress alike.

  “It’s murder,” Chester said.

  “I’m sorry?” Bill said.

  “Well, it was no accident,” Chester said. “They were shot in the chest, not the head. The cut on that lad’s arm, and that slash on the other guy’s leg, those wounds came from knives, not clawed fingers. I can’t see any weapons on the ground, either, so they didn’t kill one another. Someone cut them here, then they shot them.” He knelt down. “They were facing their killer when they died, but their hands weren’t tied. I don’t know if the cuts came from torture or a fight, but it was murder. Trust me.” He stood, and shone the light in a sweeping loop around the bodies, settling on a pair of bags. Both were light blue with red flashes and fluorescent stripes.

  “Two backpacks,” Bill said. “The killer left the bags.” He stepped around the bodies and over to the backpacks. “There’s a broom handle here, and a length of metal with cloth wrapped around the end.”

  “No one would have survived this long without a better weapon than that,” Chester said. “And they had time to get bags, to get matching clothes, but not an axe or gun? They must have fled in haste. They were already dressed, and the bags were close to hand. They grabbed them and ran.”

  “Are you sure it’s murder, not an execution?” Bill asked.

  “Is there a difference?” Chester asked.

  “I’d like to think so,” Bill said.

  Chester shone his light on the bodies, then on the ground around them. “Yeah, I’d say murder. It’s hard to be certain when you’re standing in a ruin, but I don’t think there was a fight. Not a proper one. Not a fair one. Not if they didn’t have weapons. Someone cut them because they wanted to. Only then did they use the gun.”

  Bill picked up a bag. “Still full,” he said. “Shine your light over here. Thanks. There’s some clothing. A paperback. A can of… not sure. There’s no label. A hunting knife. A few more clothes. Here.” He passed the bag to Chester, and picked up the other for himself.

  “A can? Either the killer didn’t need the food, or they didn’t even bother to search the bags,” Chester said. “Whoever they are, they’re well supplied.”

  “It just gets better and better,” Bill said.

  “It gets worse,” Chester said, shining the light back on the thin bodies, settling when it landed on one of the young men’s hands. “Look at the fingers. No rodents have gnawed on them, no insects have found them. They died after the weather turned cold. Hard to say when that was. A week? Two? I doubt it’s much longer. It’s safe to assume that whoever killed them is still in the neighbourhood.”

  “And if they’re close, they would have heard the plane,” Bill said. “Brilliant.”

  They took the bags back to the farmhouse where Locke had already lit a dozen candles.

  “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said. “I take it there’s more bad news?”

  “The barn’s a ruin,” Bill said. “Inside are two bodies, both human. They were both shot, and after the weather turned cold. These bags were left behind. We’re going out again, to see what’s beyond
the barn. We’ll be back when it gets too dark to see.”

  The cemented stone wall that ran above the ditch continued around the old farm. Occasional patches of crumbling concrete marked a half-hearted repair. Between two of the sturdier attempts was a twelve-foot-wide gap.

  “Might be a road,” Chester said, again digging his heel into the ground. “There’s something hard beneath the mud. Might be tarmac, could just be ice.”

  If it was a road, it led a meandering route through deciduous woodland. It wasn’t dense enough to be called a forest, but the trees were planted too randomly for them to be farmed.

  “We’ll give ourselves ten minutes,” Bill said. “See what we find.”

  “Finding nothing would be something,” Chester said. “I don’t like that we found two bodies here. Statistically, it tells me that there must be other victims nearby, otherwise it’s just too much of a coincidence.”

  “We saw smoke just before we brought the plane down,” Bill said. “That would be somewhere to the northwest. I did think we might head in that direction, see if we couldn’t find the people who lit the fire. Now, though, I’m not sure.”

  The shadows lengthened as they crunched through the pristine carpet of snow.

  “That’s it,” Chester said after five minutes. “The shadows are gone. The sun’s behind the horizon.”

  “Hang on,” Bill said. “There in the distance, that’s a fence. Can you see it?”

  “Ahead of us? No, not really,” Chester said. “Greta told me to get some glasses before we left Anglesey. I really regret not listening to her.”

  Bill took another step, then another. He frowned, squinting into the distance. “I can hear something. Metal grating against metal.”

  After another thirty feet, all became clear. Ahead was a sturdy, twelve-foot-tall, chain-link fence, intersected by a rusting seven-bar gate. The gate was held closed by a chain and padlock. Pushing against the gate, causing the chain to grate, were the undead.

  “How many?” Chester asked.

  “Twelve,” Bill said. “They must have heard the plane. The fence explains why there are none by the farmhouse.”

  “The gate’s chained?” Chester asked.

  “For now. I don’t know how long it will hold.”

  “Right,” Chester said, as he drew the machete from his belt. “Then let’s get this done. Wish I had my mace. I’ll take the right, have you got the left?”

  “Sure.”

  Bill swung the machete back and forth in a slow ten-degree arc, warming up his muscles as he stepped forward, towards the undead.

  There were twelve zombies, eight in the front rank, four behind. Their clothing was a muddy rainbow of browns and beige dotted with the occasional flash of a rain-cleaned button and the glint of a zip. None appeared recently turned, and they looked no different to the undead in England, in Wales, in Ireland; the receding skin around mouth and eyes, the collapsed noses, the open sores dripping black pus onto the trampled snow beneath the gate. Bill swung the machete up as arms reached forward. The zombies, seeing their prey approach, pushed against the gate.

  “Wish I had my pike,” Bill said, as he gauged the distance, looking for an opening. The gate’s hinges creaked. It wouldn’t hold for much longer.

  Chester roared, slashing his machete in a savage cut that severed an arm before bringing the blade up and down again on the unflinching creature’s head.

  “Well, that’s one tactic,” Bill said, swinging his own machete in turn. He aimed for the nearest elbow, but twisted the weapon, pushing the arm out of the way with the flat of the blade before another twist brought the edge down to crush the zombie’s skull.

  The undead on either side shuffled left and right, trampling the dead creature beneath their feet while the zombies behind scrummed forward, trying to push their way into the gap. The hinges creaked again, and again Bill swung, batting the hands away, cutting into necrotic skin and rotten bone.

  When he mistimed a blow, the blade skittered across a skull and down onto the metal gate. He stepped back. His hands were numb. His arms ached, but that was barely noticeable over the rising pain in his neck. Only seven zombies now remained. Two-handed, Chester cleaved through bone and diseased brain. Bill stepped forward, swinging, slicing the blade into an undead woman’s temple. Black gore arced upward, but the blade stuck. As the zombie fell, it took the machete with it. Bill stepped back again, reaching for his belt. He had his sidearm, but he didn’t dare risk a shot, even at this close a range, not when sound would only summon more of the undead. He drew the long, narrow hunting knife, but Chester stalked along the gate, slashing once, then twice, then a third time. The last of the zombies fell.

  “Phew!” Chester muttered. “Sometimes it feels like it’ll never end.”

  Bill tested the gate. “It’ll hold.”

  “Can you see any more?”

  “Zombies? Yes, two,” Bill said. “They’re stationary, by the fence, twenty yards from here.”

  “And only twelve here, despite the noise the plane must have made going overhead,” Chester said.

  “Though there are the zombies who gathered around the plane,” Bill said as he climbed over the gate. He retrieved his machete. “I’m not going to read anything into it. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He carefully picked his way across the snow. These last two zombies appeared different. He couldn’t immediately place why until, when he was ten feet away, they finally turned towards him. Their clothing was brighter, less faded, though their faces were ravaged by unnatural decay, making it impossible to mistake them for living people. The lead creature, still sporting a bright yellow silk scarf around its neck, lurched unsteadily from foot to foot. The other creature shook, shuddered, but had barely shuffled an inch before Bill turned his full attention to the nearer foe. Its arms swung by its sides. Its fingers curled into fists. Its mouth sagged open, and Bill swung the machete into its head. As it crumpled to the ground, oozing red-brown pus from its ruined skull, Bill stepped back, raising his weapon, but the other zombie had barely moved. Bill stepped wide around the corpse, watching the other creature, waiting, but it didn’t move, nor did it collapse. Cautiously, he hacked the blade low, into its knee, and skipped back as it toppled to the ground. Still, it barely moved, but stared at him with its unblinking eyes until he slashed down again, bringing an end to its tormented mockery of an existence.

  He peered along the road, into the gloom. Night truly was settling. Visibility was dropping, along with the temperature, but he couldn’t see any more zombies. He couldn’t see any signs either. As he trudged back to Chester and the gate, he scuffed at the ground.

  “It’s a road,” he said. “No signs, though.” He shivered. His hand slipped as he clambered back over the gate.

  “Can you see anything we can reinforce the gate with?” Chester asked. “The zombies’ clothing is utterly rotten.”

  Bill gave the gate a shake, and gave the scarf around the dead zombie’s neck a glance. “Not really.”

  “Then we’ll have to rob the dead,” Chester said. “The lads in that barn will have worn belts. Unless you want to explore further?”

  “No, not tonight,” Bill said. He shivered again. “It feels like a switch has been flipped, and my body’s reminding me it was in a plane crash an hour ago. No, we’re staying here tonight.”

  They trudged back to the farmhouse where a welcome yellow glow crept around the boarded-up windows. Bill imagined he could feel the heat, and then worried that was hypothermia setting in. As Chester went to strip the bodies of something with which to secure the gate, Bill continued on past the house, to the wall.

  Sergeant Khan crouched behind a tree, his rifle held loosely in his hands.

  “How bad is it?” Bill asked.

  “Bad, but it could be worse,” Khan said. “There’s over a hundred, under a thousand. I’ll get you a more accurate count when they stop coming in. There’s too many to fight, but they’re gathering around the plane, and almos
t all are coming from due south. What did you find?”

  “There’s a derelict house and barn, and a fence ringing it. Beyond the fence is a road, accessed through a gate. We found fourteen zombies there, but I think both fence and gate will hold through the night. I’d say we’re safe from that direction.”

  “Then we should get out of the cold,” Khan said. “We can keep watch from the upper floor of the house.”

  Finally, gratefully, Bill went inside, into the warm.

  Chapter 3 - Fireside and Candlelight

  Somewhere in France

  As gently as he could, Chester slid the belt free from around the waist of one of the dead young men, and then the other. Up close, he could better see the wounds. Taken with the position of the corpses, his first suspicion was confirmed. They had been tortured, then shot from close range.

  “I don’t know you,” he said. “Ground’s frozen, so I can’t dig a grave. I can’t offer you words of comfort, or even that you’ll be avenged. All I can say is that I’ll remember you.”

  It was a pledge he’d made too often.

  He gathered the belts, and returned to the gate. Now that the sun had set, the temperature had plunged. It would be a cold night.

  Strapping the belts between the gate and the fence took less than a minute. If the undead came in great numbers, that reinforcement wouldn’t keep the gate closed for much longer. Other than hope dawn arrived before the undead, there was little else he could do. He trudged back to the farmhouse.

  Higson lay on the sofa, his eyelids flickering out of time with the candlelight. Kessler was methodically emptying the backpacks they’d found in the barn, while Locke nursed a low fire.

  “Where’s Bill and Salman?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Upstairs,” Kessler said. “Watching the undead.”

  “Good. Good,” Chester said. “And how’s Scott?” Candlelight caused eldritch shadows to dance across the pilot’s face. “Is he unconscious or asleep?”