“I...” George was about to say he could, but then he saw the look on her face. “Fine. I'll see what I can do.”
“Good lad. Nothing fancy. They don't deserve pheasant, just warm up a few cans. And” she added as he got up to leave “be a dear and make sure the doors and windows are all properly closed. Just in case.”
“Well this isn't much.” Mrs Kennedy sniffed.
“It's what I could find” George said. “It was either stew or a fry up.”
“I'd have liked a fry up” Mr Pappadopolis said, “haven't had one in years.”
“Well, you'll like breakfast tomorrow then.” George said as equably as he could manage.
“But it's Lasagne on Tuesdays” Miss Conner said, staring with suspicion at the inexpertly chopped beef and carrots swimming in thick gravy.
“Well today isn't Tuesday and tonight it's stew. Beef, carrots, onions, some peppers and tomatoes. Enough to keep you going.”
“Probably all night long” Mr Grayson snickered. And the others, some with a furtive glance to make really sure that there were no staff present, laughed too.
“Come on,” Mr Parker said, pushing his way to the front of the crowd “out the way. Some of us are hungry.”
They didn't say thank you. But he did get a nod or two of acknowledgement which in the rarefied atmosphere of the home was as good as an honour from the Queen. George went back into the kitchen to finish the washing up, leaving them to serve themselves. When he returned to the cafeteria everyone was sitting down, eating and making occasional small talk.
“Look” he began. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, but all eyes were on him now “The thing is...”
“Spit it out, man” Mr Grayson said.
“They've gone. The staff. You've realised that, I suppose. There's an evacuation. You might have heard about that on the news.” He remembered who he was speaking to “No. OK. They're emptying the cities and the towns inland, pulling everyone back to the coast. London, Birmingham, Glasgow, here too.”
“But we're on the coast” Mr Roberts said in a tone that suggested that this should settle the matter.
“So's Glasgow” Mr Carter chimed in “Or it's on the Clyde, which is...”
“The letter” George interrupted loudly, before they started a pointless debate “said they were evacuating the village too, the areas indefensible. That's what it said. The evacuation is meant to start on the seventh, but the staff have left early, taking about half your medication with them.” There was an uncomfortable stirring amongst the group at this news. “McGuffrey is meant to have told a resettlement bod in Lower Wentley that we're here, and then they're meant to send a bus for us. If he told them.” George paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “The evacuation muster point, that's where we have to get to, is in Benwick, at that big sports centre there, the one with the go-kart track. They'll be no buses, no cabs, no help. If you want to go, then that's where you have to get to. It's about thirty miles. I'll leave the letter here. You can look at it yourselves. Make up your own mind what you want to do...”
“Well that's just terrible” Miss Conner cried, “I'm going to complain. I’m going to write to my MP!” It was said with a finality indicating there was no greater threat or sanction.
“Well, yes, you could do that,” George said as patiently as he could manage, “but there's no post any more, no phone lines either. And even if you could get through, this is a government plan. Your MP knows. They've signed off on it.”
“What about our rights?” Mr Pappadopolis said.
“What about them?” George replied. “Look, there's food for now, and I'll cook it up for you, but it won't last forever. You need to decide if you can make it to Benwick. Maybe if you head out someone will help you. There'll be other people, all heading the same way. Or you can stay here, but the food will run out and then... ”
“What about you? What are you going to do?” Mr Grayson asked.
“I don't know” George replied, and, dispirited once more, he left the dining room.
6th March.
The next day, after the promised fried breakfast, the residents split themselves into two groups. Half embedded themselves in the sun room, staring avidly at the television trying to extract any and all information that they'd disregarded over the past two weeks. The other half stayed in the dining hall, playing bridge, patience or talking loudly and desperately about anything other than the absence of staff, the outbreak or the undead.
“You missed the announcement today” Mrs O'Leary said when he brought her dinner that evening. He'd moved his television into her room so that she'd have something to do during her long hours of solitude. “Made by that young MP you fancy.”
“Masterton?” He said the name too quickly and she laughed. “I never said I fancied her” he went on “I said it's nice to see an attractive young woman in Parliament.”
“That might have been what you said, but it's not what you meant!”
“So what did she say?” he asked, trying to move the conversation along.
“They're evacuating the cities. Starting tomorrow. All the inland ones. London too, All to be emptied in twenty four hours.”
“Oh” he said, “so it is actually happening.”
“Seems so.”
“You think it'll work?” he asked.
“I think.” Mrs O'Leary said after a moment's consideration “That what they're telling us is the tip of an iceberg so big it could sink the world. And you know what they say, you can't sink an iceberg, you can only ride it till it melts.”
George smiled, “That's a good one. You come up with that this afternoon?”
“There wasn't much else to do” she admitted. “After your girl gave that speech they stopped all other programming. It's just the same stuff on what you should take with you. Reminders to wear two pairs of socks, take a spare pair of shoes. Bring bedding, stay with your family, bring water and food for at least two nights. And on and on for about half an hour, and then it repeats.”
“And the radio?”
“The same thing. Just the audio of course, but it's the same programme.”
“Nothing about us?”
“Nothing about anywhere specific. Any sign of McGuffrey today?” she asked
“No.”
“He might have told them, you know. Someone might come to get us all” she said, but without much conviction.
“You want to watch a film or something?” he asked after a while
“Would you mind?”
He leafed through the meagre collection of DVD's he'd bought second hand from the charity shop. “Brief Encounter?” he suggested
“Oh, that would be fantastic.”
7th, to 10th March.
On the seventh, the morning of the evacuation, he was woken by the sound of an engine and hurried outside to see the small ambulance disappearing down the lane. It wasn't a real ambulance, just a minibus that had been converted to take a stretcher. It was only ever used to take residents to the Hospital or the funeral home.
He'd thought about loading Mrs O'Leary into the back and just driving them away, but when he'd tried the engine he'd found the fuel gauge was on empty. He'd fed a piece of wire into the tank, and from the length that was damp when he pulled it out, he thought there was just enough petrol to get over the hills, but it would be free-wheeling down the other side. After that, whichever way you looked at it, it was going to be a very long walk.
At breakfast, a previously prohibited quantity of bacon and eggs, fried bread and the last of the fresh tomatoes, he'd found four of the residents were missing. None of those who remained had any idea where they had gone or that they had been planning an escape. After he'd finished the washing up he went outside to sit on the wall by the gates. He stayed there for most of the day, coming inside only to put together a simple lunch for the residents. He saw no sign of the missing ambulance nor was there any sign of Mr McGuffrey beyond an occasional oddly shaped shadow at the window.
What he was really watching out for, though he wouldn't admit it even to Mrs O'Leary, was a bus or truck or any other vehicle that might have been sent to evacuate the home. None came.
The next three days were consumed with cooking and washing up and caring as best he could for Mrs O'Leary. He checked the doors at night and unlocked them first thing in the morning. Occasionally he'd glance up towards the cottage on the hill, wondering what McGuffrey was up to. He was certain the man was there. The conclusion George had reached was that McGuffrey was waiting for everyone in the home to starve to death so he could head off to one of the enclaves claiming the residents had been left behind but that he had tried to save them.
At lunch on the 9th he used up the last of the bread. At dinner on the 10th he used up the last of the beef, and, with the last of the fresh milk gone off, he opened one of the four cases of UHT.
11th March.
George had woken after a restless night. He couldn't see what course of action he should take. He couldn't leave the others, nor could they all stay there in the home, not without more food. After breakfast, and after he had deputised Mr Grayson and Miss Conner to do the washing up, he examined the store room.
There were now only three and a half cases of milk left. The biscuits and cake he'd found in the staff break room had lasted less than a day. He looked at the rows of packets and cans, trying to estimate how long it would be before they too were gone. Perhaps two weeks, he thought, perhaps less. He decided to go down to the village. He knew that there wouldn't be much there, not if the Vicar and the Singh's had been relying on his hand-outs, but he had to at least look.
He took his coat, went down the drive and out to the footpath that led through the woods and down to the village. After a half hour he came round a bend and caught a glimpse of the river and the houses nestled alongside it. He slowed his pace, with each step nearer his view of the village improved and his sense of unease grew.
Hesitantly, feeling like he was being watched though he could neither see nor hear anyone, he walked off the path and into the trees. He found a secluded spot a little further down the hill where he could watch the village, hidden from view.
When he had looked down at the village from the home, he'd been able to make out little more than the rooftops and the patchwork colours delineating flowerbeds from lawns. Now he was only a few hundred metres from the Vicarage, he saw that the windows of the shop, the pub and the tea room had been broken. Shattered glass now littered the streets in front of them.
It was a little over a week since Mr Singh had said that they were planning on leaving. He tried to remember how many other people he'd seen on that visit. There had been the armed police patrolling in camouflage gear, but none of them lived in the village, he was sure of that. Had he seen anyone else? He didn't think so. The village was deserted, that was clear, and going by which windows had been broken he doubted he would find any food there.
“So we're on our own. Can't stay, Can't go” he mused, “or can we?” There were cars in the village, at least a dozen that he could count. None would contain much petrol, but pooled together there would be some. “Enough for one car, at least.”
What did he need then? The keys, obviously. Mrs O'Leary had joked about him breaking into a house to look for them, but why not? He'd also need some tubing to siphon the fuel out of the other cars. His eyes were drawn to a small red run-about that belonged to Daphne, the cook from the pub.
In the summers her disabled sister would visit. A childhood accident had left her in a wheelchair and George remembered being amazed at how the chair and a full load of shopping could fit in the boot of such a small car. He could get that car, drive it back up to the home, get Mrs O'Leary in and just drive away. Except he knew she wouldn't leave the others behind. Now that he came to it, he wasn't sure he could either. Which meant he needed drivers. He did a rough calculation in his head. At a pinch they could manage with just three cars, four would be better, but they could manage with just three. He was sure that at least two of the other residents would remember how to drive. And then they would go... go where? He thought for a moment. Cornwall was the obvious choice, that was where the letter said they were eventually going to go. His mind made up he turned and headed back up the hill.
“What's he up to?” George asked himself when he got to the top of the footpath and saw that the front door to McGuffrey's cottage was wide open.
Expecting to see the manager and preparing himself for at least some kind of confrontation with the man, he walked up the drive to the main doors of the home. There he was stopped in his tracks by a reddish brown stain slashing across the off-white paintwork.
Gingerly, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The signs of a struggle were unmistakable. The never-read magazines, usually arrayed neatly on the coffee table, were strewn across the floor. A solitary lilac slipper lay on the floor next to the fire extinguisher which had been pulled down and used, judging by the thin film of foam covering part of the reception desk.
Automatically he bent over to pick up the empty coat stand which was lying across his path. Then he stopped himself, and listened. The home wasn't silent. There was a strange sound, something he couldn't quite place, something he wasn't sure he'd heard before. It was coming, he thought, from the dining hall. Slowly he headed down the corridor, his heart racing faster the closer he got. With each step the noise got louder until he was only a few feet from the pea-green double doors with their porthole windows. Uncertainly he took a last final step, cautiously twisting his neck so he could peer through the glass window into the dining hall.
The sight froze him to the quick. A trail of blood led from the kitchen to two bodies lying face down near the windows. In the centre of the room lay Mr Pappadopolis, his legs still twitching as McGuffrey, kneeling above him, chewed on the old man's shoulder.
George backed away from the doors. He'd never liked Mr Pappadopolis. There was something about the way that the man with the comic-opera accent was accepted where he wasn't that had created an enmity between them. But no one deserved that fate. The uncertainty that had been gnawing at him since the outbreak evaporated. He knew what had to be done and knew it was he that had to do it.
He returned to his room, closed the door and wished, not for the first time, that residents were allowed locks. He bent down and pulled out his box.
“Destroy the brain, they said” he muttered, trying to recall all that the news bulletins had said. “Didn't say how or what with, though, did they?”
He pulled out the chain that hung around his neck. On it hung Dora's engagement ring and the key to the box. He unlocked it and, with a grunt of effort, turned it onto its side. The meagre contents spilled out onto the floor. He laid the box down and carefully removed the false bottom. Inside lay a bundle almost as long as the box. He took it out and carefully unwrapped the Assegai.
His father had brought it back from the Second World War. He'd taken it from the effects of a blundering Captain who'd died during a night time offensive that had killed the rest of the squad. It had been in the Captain's family for generations, ever since it had been brought back as a macabre souvenir of a massacre in South Africa, and had been taken to this new desert war as an outsized and ultimately ineffective lucky charm.
After the war, George's father, a citizen of Empire and a decorated war hero, had immigrated to Britain. He'd brought the Assegai with him, wrapped in canvas and strapped to the outside of the old kit bag he carried his worldly possessions in. It was hardly hidden but during the immigration process he received such a thorough examination it would have been discovered regardless. “Family heirloom is it? A spear for a spear-chucker?” The senior immigration officer had said, laughing, “Let 'im keep it.”
Dora had thought he'd thrown it out and he would have done had it not been the only thing he had of his fathers. Instead George had replaced the broken shaft, fitted the false bottom to the box, and hidden it there, almost forgetting he'd had it when h
e'd moved into the home.
He hefted the spear tentatively, gauging its balance. He had held it before, but never like this. He gripped it with both hands. It was almost like a sword, with an elongated handle.
He pushed the door open and stepped out once more into the hallway. His resolve stiffening with each cautious step, he made his way back along the corridor towards the dining hall. Outside the double doors, he paused just long enough to raise his hand briefly to the ring hanging around his neck. Then he pushed the doors open with his shoulders, levelling the spear in front of him as he stepped into the room.
McGuffrey wasn't there. Nervously, his eyes alert for any sign of movement, he moved towards Mr Pappadopolis' body which lay in a pool of drying blood in the centre of the room. He could tell the man was dead.
There were plenty of small wounds across the body that of themselves would have been enough to cause the old man to have a heart attack. Two fingers were missing from his left hand, his face was covered in dozens of deep bloody scratches and a semi-circular bite mark stood out against the pale flesh visible beneath a ragged tear in his trousers. There was no question as to what had killed him, though. His left arm was unnaturally twisted, white bone exposed where a chunk had been ripped from his shoulder. George forced himself to look at the face, to fix the agonised rictus of confused terror into his memory. After a few seconds, tasting bile in the back of his throat, he had to turn away, back towards the door. Where he saw Mr Parker.
Zombies vs The Living Dead (An Evacuation Story #1) Page 3