by Frank Tayell
At first glance, the checkpoint appeared intact. Gloria Rycroft knelt in the road, a Marine’s head in her lap. The rest of the man’s body was a shredded ruin. Sholto sped up, but it was already too late. Gloria closed the man’s eyes and gently lowered his head to the ground.
“What happened?” Sholto asked.
“I feel like I should ask you that,” Gloria said. “I stayed here when you went to deal with the rioting. We got word that the riot was just a brawl and then… then… I don’t know.” She looked down. “I don’t even know his name.”
“Chuck Branford,” Toussaint said. “Came from money. Signed up as a private three years ago to prove something to his parents. Proved something to himself, and proved himself to his comrades time and time again.”
“Poor man,” Gloria said. “It was a bomb, yes? Another claymore?”
“Yes,” Sholto said. “Can you tell me anything about the other two explosions?”
Gloria shrugged. “Other than they came from over there, and that’s the direction Lieutenant Whitley went, no.”
“Sir, with your permission?” Toussaint asked.
“Of course,” Sholto said. “Do what you can.”
Gloria picked up her rifle and followed the specialist into the nightmare.
A quick examination of the checkpoint confirmed his first impression. Illumination came from rechargeable flashlights rigged on long poles like lanterns, and most of those had been knocked out of position. They cast more shadow than light, but it was enough to tell that the mine had done little damage. To build the barricade, they’d stripped the sheet-metal cladding from the wrecked warehouses, supported it with girders, then concrete, then filled the gap between with rubble and rubbish until it formed a wall that was ten feet high and four feet deep. It would take more than a landmine to blast a hole through it. Even the gate, an outward-pointing V formed of two sections of sheet-metal, had sustained little damage. The razor wire cemented to its top had suffered even less. He glanced behind, then around, shining his torch on one body and then the next. Had the mine been placed on top of the gate, it might have blown it open, but the bomb had been set some twenty metres behind the barricade, by the side of the road.
“What do we do?” a voice asked from the darkness.
Sholto turned around and saw a thin crowd. None wore the blue and grey, but most carried a tool if not a weapon.
“Half of you, stand guard,” he said. “The rest, look for the wounded. Take them back to the infirmary.”
With that, he climbed over the gate, and went to look for Whitley and the other two blast-sites.
Where the checkpoint was heavily reinforced, the rest of the narrow front between the harbour and the mainland was not. Zombies followed sound, they followed people. The undead did not attack the weakest point. People did. Sholto hadn’t considered what their weakest point was until he reached the group of Marines, standing in the road, a dozen metres back from the orange glow of a spreading fire.
“What happened?” Sholto asked, though he saw the answer before anyone needed to speak.
The line of their defences followed an access road. On their refuge’s side was an aggregate depot that had become the fuel store. On the hostile-city side of the road was a chemical-works. The heavy-duty fence, the sheet-metal wall, and the side of the warehouses had been co-opted into their defences, though it was the checkpoints deeper in the city that kept the undead truly at bay.
One of the explosions had ripped a hole in the sheet-metal wall of the aggregate depot. The other mine had started a fire deep within the depot. That wouldn’t have mattered except that they had been using the mostly empty space to store the furniture, floorboards, roof-beams, and other salvaged wood.
“Our wood store is burning,” Whitley said.
Flames leaped six feet above piles of timber stacked twenty feet high. The smoke billowed city-wards, but it was a quickly growing plume.
“Three explosions,” Whitley said slowly. “The checkpoint, the wall, and the wood store.”
“We found the claymores in Willis’s container,” Sholto said. “There were six. Counting the device planted in our bag earlier, they’re all accounted for.”
“The claymores maybe,” Whitley said. “But that fire wasn’t started by an anti-personnel mine alone.”
From further down the road, beyond the fire, came a familiar shout, “Zombie!”
A moment later, came another shout, “Clear.”
“That was too loud,” Whitley murmured. “But what does it matter? The zombies will have heard the explosion.”
The checkpoint was far closer than Sholto had realised. Due to the daily procession of people coming back and forth with salvaged wood, the construction was not as formidable as the barricade where the first bomb had detonated. Salvaged wood was brought into the depot through a gate on the shore-side. A gate on the harbour-side was used when the firewood was collected. In theory, the two gates should never be open at the same time. They’d had many arguments over whether that was enough protection against the undead, arguments that were now moot.
“Zombie!” The warning was yelled out of the darkness.
“They’ve heard the explosion,” Whitley said. “Come on, we’re doing nothing useful here.” Whitley said no more, but led his Marines towards the undead. Sholto took a step after them, then stopped. Yes, the undead would be summoned by the sound of the explosion, but they’d had patrols out in the city searching for the creatures. The undead would come, they always did, but not in such great numbers that his rifle would be needed, not yet.
He crossed to the wide hole in the side of the depot. From inside came a metallic creak and then a crash as a giant awning collapsed. A dozen of those flimsy corrugated roofs, standing on two-storey-high girders, dotted the site. They offered some shelter to the wood stored beneath. Enough shelter from the recent snow and rain that the timber was dry enough to easily burn.
“This was the real target,” Siobhan said.
Sholto hadn’t seen her. She stood with her machete in hand, just inside the gate.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“I’m police, not fire,” she said, “but I would say no. I’ve sent for hooks and chains, for axes and shovels, and for the pumps, but they’re on the ships. We won’t get them in time. There’s too much wood, and we stored it… we didn’t store it. It was just dumped where people carried it in. They were exhausted after a day of labour and just wanted to get to their trough of washing-water, and then to their bowl of gruel. What a life we created here, what a paradise, and now it will burn.”
Another rickety roof collapsed. As it fell onto the flickering flames below, embers flew away to where they could start new fires, deeper in the depot.
“I counted the mines. Three were missing,” he said.
“I heard you shout,” she said.
“You think this was the target?” he asked.
“You saw the barricade?” she asked. “That mine was set up on the road. On the harbour side, our side. That’s hardly subterfuge. No one would notice people walking around there. Nor would they notice people coming into the wood store. Hundreds of people go through here everyday. The first explosion ripped a hole through that wall. The second started the fire. It was over there, in the far corner. That’s where it began. I tried to get close but there’s too much dumped furniture.”
“A mine alone wouldn’t do this,” Sholto said. “Not start a fire like this so quickly.”
“No, they added an accelerant,” Siobhan said. “Maybe something commercial, maybe something industrial. Who knows? If we had fire engines, or a helicopter with a scoop, or… or…” She sighed. “We don’t stand a chance of putting this out. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I do.”
Another rumbling crash was followed by a plume of flame as a third awning collapsed onto the metal wall, bringing down a twenty-foot-wide section.
“I’d like to examine that bomb that went off by t
he checkpoint,” Siobhan said. “I bet it was on a timer, and I bet that timer malfunctioned. I bet that they intended the first explosion to start the fire, the other two to detonate a few minutes later, when people came to tackle the blaze. Perhaps I’m wrong, maybe I’m just seeing the worst, but it doesn’t get much worse than this.”
“It’s time this was over,” Sholto said. “But I’ll need your help.”
“What with?”
He told her, barely finishing before they heard footsteps on the road. It was Whitley and the Marines, but there were more than had set off with him a few minutes before.
“It’s the smoke,” the lieutenant said. “You can’t breathe. You can barely see. I’ve had to bring everyone back from the checkpoint. The barricade is still secure, but we can’t leave people out there.”
“If the wind changes direction,” Siobhan said, “the smoke will be blowing towards us.”
“Not if,” Sholto said. “When.”
There were more running footsteps, this time coming from inside the harbour. It was a large group. The admiral was in the lead, but Leo Fenwick was gamely trying to stay abreast of her, a fire axe in his thin arms. Colm was just behind, and another hundred Marines, sailors, and civilians were behind him.
“Sit-rep?” the admiral demanded.
“Three explosions,” Whitley said. “One at the checkpoint—”
“We saw,” the admiral said. “The other two?”
“Here. One ripped that hole through the wall, the other—” He was interrupted by a crashing crescendo and fountain of sparks from inside the depot. “The other started the fire.”
The admiral looked at Whitley, Siobhan, then at the fire, then at Sholto. Her shoulders slumped an inch.
“Well, why are we standing here?” Fenwick asked. “We have to act. We have to put it out.”
“The pumps are on their way,” the admiral said.
“I don’t think the hoses will reach,” Whitley said.
“No. No, they won’t,” the admiral said.
“We have to try,” Fenwick said.
“I’ve pulled back the people from the checkpoint,” Whitley said.
“I don’t understand,” Fenwick said.
“It’s the smoke,” Siobhan said. “It’s always the smoke that kills you. The fumes are toxic and will only grow more dense, more deadly, as the fire consumes laminate and plastic, paint and varnish.”
“Fine, then we pull back into the harbour,” Fenwick said. “It’ll be uncomfortable, but only for a few days.”
“At present, the wind is dragging the smoke towards the city. What if the wind changes direction?” the admiral asked.
“It’s over,” Sholto said. “Belfast is finished. Without our wood store, we won’t be able to cook breakfast. We won’t be able to boil up drinking water. We can get more, but that wood came from the buildings closest to the harbour. We’ll have to go further afield. Time travelling is time not scavenging, we all know that. We’ll spend more time, expending more bullets, to gather less wood, and all for what?”
“For what? To live,” Fenwick said, turning to face the crowd. “To survive one more day, and then the day afterwards. That is our life, and yes, it’s not the life we hoped for, but as long as we are alive, we can’t give up.”
“We have no way of extinguishing the fire,” the admiral said.
“Maybe it will rain,” Fenwick said.
“Not soon enough,” the admiral said. “Not heavily enough.”
“Then what’s the alternative?” Fenwick demanded.
“We leave,” Sholto said. “Between the John Cabot, the Amundsen, and the two grain ships, there’s enough room for us all.”
“Not to get to America,” Fenwick said.
“No, but we can reach Dundalk,” Sholto said. “It’ll be worse than the crossing from Anglesey, but we’ll survive. There’s grain in Dundalk, a river for fresh water, and there’s coal. We know there aren’t many undead left in the town. It will do as a safe harbour for a few days.”
“What if the saboteurs strike again?” Fenwick said. “What if they sink another ship?”
“They’re dead,” Siobhan said. “It was Willis and his people, and they’re all dead. All the explosives are accounted for. That particular nightmare is over. We need to leave before the next one begins.”
“Admiral?” Sholto asked.
“At least two days until the fire dies? Two days breathing toxic fumes? Two days trekking into Belfast in search of wood, all so we can put off the day we must leave? No. We’ll pull back, load the ships, and prepare for departure. It might be tonight, it might be tomorrow. Perhaps it will rain, and we will have a little more time for our preparations. Perhaps the wind will change and we will have to leave within the hour. Time will tell, but the decision is made.”
“The other side of that wood store, there’s that warehouse with the tyres,” Colm said. “If the fire spreads to them, we’ll have some really toxic fumes on our hands. Give me fifty people, and we’ll move them out the way. That’ll buy us another hour or two.”
“Mr Sholto, can you help Colm take care of that?” the admiral asked.
“Sorry, no,” Sholto said.
“Why not?”
Sholto looked around the group, then at the shadowy figures behind. There were at least a hundred and fifty people now within earshot. His words would spread, and quickly, so he chose them with care. “It’s a long story,” he said. “It comes down to this. Locke left a server here in Belfast. It’s password protected, embedded in concrete and impossible to move. She couldn’t remember the code, but on the server, among other things, are the locations of Kempton’s safe houses throughout the world. I didn’t say anything because we know the safe houses aren’t here in Belfast, and Locke said none of them were as large as Birmingham. I’ve had a portable power-pack running a laptop that’s using a brute-force algorithm to find the code. As of yesterday, I was still unable to unlock it. If we’re leaving, I’d like to destroy it in case any more of Kempton’s people like Cotter or Rachel come looking for it.”
“Fine. Whatever,” the admiral said. “Colm, take care of the tyres. John, we need a new line of defence. I’ll organise the loading of the ships.”
Sholto slipped away into the night. There were obvious holes in his lie, but he hoped the saboteur wouldn’t spot them. No, he hoped that they would follow him, because that way, there wouldn’t be time for them to bring some new ruin upon humanity. If he’d guessed right as to their motives, they would follow. If he was wrong, then the night’s terror was only just beginning.
Chapter 19 - The Saboteurs
Belfast
Sholto jogged through the growing plume of smoke, trying not to inhale the increasingly heavy fumes. He paused by the now-abandoned checkpoint, but it was truly deserted. The ladder had been moved and laid against the gardener’s shed the sentries had used to shelter from the rain, sleet, and snow. He set the ladder in place, climbed over, and saw the corpses. He’d only heard the guards call out twice, but there were well over thirty undead gathered by the barricade, all recently killed. Just at the edge of that ring of recently dead was a steel trolley, the bodies of the eight zombies killed during the day piled on top. That gave him pause. Had the saboteurs summoned the undead to the harbour? No. How could they? Willis might not have minded going into the city, but the people responsible did. Assuming his guess as to their identity was right, of course. If he was wrong, then he would die tonight, and so many others would die soon after.
He picked his way through the corpses and to the edge of the pool of light cast by the lamps rigged to the checkpoint. Unlike those at the checkpoint deeper inside their perimeter, these had been taken from two PSNI Land Rovers, powered by car batteries that were charged from the John Cabot’s engines. Beyond, though, was the dark city. Sholto slotted his torch onto the end of his rifle, hoping that was enough light for his pursuer to follow.
As he prowled into the dark night, he shone rifle
and torch left and right, deliberately reflecting the light off broken wing mirrors and cracked windows. Thirty paces from the barricade, he heard the creak of the metal ladder. He smiled. The first part of his trap had worked. Success had brought over-confidence to the saboteur, and now they were on Sholto’s heels. This was more his game. This was more his speed. This was something he truly understood. Acting alone, double-dealing, triple-crossing, all for the sake of humanity. That had been his life over the last few years, and it was his life once again, though the stakes were oh-so-much higher.
He moved slowly but purposefully until the light caught the lifeless eye of a walking corpse. The pale orb appeared milky white, while the empty eye socket glinted where the desiccated skin had peeled back from the bone. As the creature lurched forward, Sholto fired, barely waiting to see gore spray from the back of its skull before shining the light left and right, up and down, off windows and twisted metal. He didn’t check behind, and hoped that wasn’t too much of a giveaway. On balance, he hoped that no zombie would attack his pursuer. It would be a poetic fate for the saboteur, but Sholto didn’t want that, not yet. Not until he had some answers. He headed onward, and into the city.
Smoke tinged the air, a growing irritant, but in the pitch black, it was impossible to tell how dense the cloud was, nor how quickly it was growing. Weeks of rain had rinsed the streets, turning leaves into mud. The melting snow had washed the decaying litter into the already blocked storm drains, where shallow swamps had now formed. He heard a soft splash behind him, then another, and a third. The footsteps were too rhythmic to be the shambling gait of the living dead. Hoping that assumption was correct, and only a human pursuer was behind him, he trekked on.