The Fall Series (Book 3): The Fence Walker

by Cross, Stephen

  Sam knew no more.

  Chapter 11

  James spent most mornings doing his rounds. First of all, he went to the food and supplies bank: what did they have a surplus of? What was needed? He followed with a review of the list. Top, as always, were chains for the fence. Other items: oil for paraffin lamps, getting hard to find, not a lot of people used paraffin these days; medical supplies, being the usual painkillers, bandages, plasters, and unpronounceable medicines as requested by the camp's resident doctors and nurses; board games, playing cards, footballs - these sort of items were pleasing as it suggested people secure enough to enjoy themselves; and then the items that gave James most pleasure - nappies, nappy rash cream, Calpol, baby-grows. It had been many months before the Runners had to make their first stop at Mothercare, and now, to everyone’s joy, it was a frequent stop.

  Next, James made his way to the Engineering and Mechanics base of operations - a small cabin set aside from the central reception area. Here were a few men and women whose daily job was to find ways to supply power, keep everyone warm, ensure the water was running and clean. They had done an amazing job over the past year. Filtered running water was being sourced from a local stream and fed into the camps extensive water system, meaning everyone had access to clean running water for drinking, washing and in more frequent cases, watering their plants and the many vegetable gardens that had sprung up. The team was also in charge of managing the distribution of gas cylinders. Each chalet ran its cooking and heating from these cylinders and, luckily, the Runners had always managed to source these. Ash had assured him they would be good for the coming winter, at least. Engineering and Mechanics were also responsible for trying to get the power back on. This was proving more difficult. They had no electrical engineers and trying to figure out to use a bank of petrol driven generators to plug into the park’s electrical supply had proved the holy grail of the team’s endeavors.

  James would pat them on the shoulder and say, “Keep going, I’m sure we’ll get there soon.”

  On his way to the Fishers, James liked to walk past the main sports hall in the leisure complex. This housed the school. Several classes of differing age groups sat in discrete groups being taught by a few real-life teachers, and their quick-to-learn proteges. The hall echoed with laughter, the voices of the teachers, the voices of the children, of chalk scraping across blackboards, and the odd telling off.

  It was then a short jaunt from the leisure center down to the seafront. On this particular day, James found himself pulling his jacket around him. Ominous dark clouds rolled in from the sea, striped banks of heavy rain lashed down on the horizon - a storm was coming. Give it an hour or two, thought James, and the heavens will open for a good Cornish downpour.

  These heavy summer storms were one of the fond memories he had as a young boy - running along the beach in nothing but T-shirt and shorts, getting soaked in seconds. He had been lucky to grow up only a stone's throw from the beach. He had spent his teenage years as many had; surfing, working in the many cafes that festooned the front, chasing girls, developing a love-hate relationship with cider. It seemed natural for him to stay in Cornwall and not to follow his peers in their race to answer the call of London and Bristol.

  He had worked his way up from barman in Tulloch Bay holiday park to the site manager over twenty years. It had been a simple and predictable life, and he had enjoyed every minute of it. He accepted where he was and never hankered for a more exciting life, yearning for the money that others were sure would deliver them happiness. For James, if he had that money, he would still live here, and he would still help others enjoy the sea; precisely what he was doing now.

  Then the Fall. It had taken his son and wife. A raw, exposed, and tender sore that offered no sign of healing. To function, James had to fill every minute of his waking life with activity; to protect his painful and crying mind with a drape made of tasks, one after another, all designed to make sure he had not a minute to stop and think. For to focus on his loss would reduce him to a quivering wreck, curled up in a dark corner waiting to die.

  People marveled at his energy, his ability to keep going, to hold the new society together, to grease all the moving parts and keep the new and rising factions of the new and the old from erupting at each other. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing - he just had to make sure he did it all the time.

  He turned towards the camp’s harbor; a steady and heavy stone pier that jutted out into the rolling green waters. Many small boats of different sizes and types lined the jetty, but Sam’s boat wasn’t back.

  “Hey Jake, any sign of Sam?” said James as he stepped onto the jetty. Powerful winds set mast bells ringing and seagulls in delirious tailspins as they took off into the sea.

  Old Jake put down the lobster pots he was carrying. Like Sam and James, Jake had been in Tulloch all his life.

  “I ain’t seen him yet,” said the old man, his raspy voice piercing through the wind. “They been out a few hours now. No sign on horizon either.” He passed a pair of binoculars from around his neck to James.

  James scanned the horizon through the funnel of the binoculars. Splatters of rain quickly appeared on the lens, distorting his view, but he saw enough to know there was no sign of Sam’s boat anywhere.

  “It’s a whopper of a storm coming in,” said Jake. “He’ll be caught right in it.”

  James stared into the murk of the approaching fury.

  “What you want to do?” said Jake.

  “Keep watching,” said James. “I’m going to see about getting a search party together.”

  “You can’t go out in that,” said Jake.

  James didn’t reply. He broke into a run, heading towards the Runners. They would be going out in about thirty minutes, so now was a good time to get them all together.

  The Runners, who would normally congregate in their teams in the car park while planning their routes, had moved out of the storm and into the reception office of the leisure center.

  He found Ash amongst the throng and motioned for her and Andy to follow her. “We need to talk.”

  He tried to hide the urgency from his face.

  “What is it?” said Ash as James hustled them into the old changing rooms, now stores for non-perishable foodstuffs.

  “The Fishers are missing,” he said.

  A moments silence. Andy and Ash glanced at each other.

  “What do you mean missing?” said Andy.

  “Sam’s boat is no-where to be seen, and you should see the storm coming in. Something must have happened, there’s no way Sam would still be out in this weather.”

  James waited for them to speak, for Ash to volunteer her services, to corral the runners and get the boats mustered and ready to roll.

  “We can’t do anything, James,” she said instead.

  “What?”

  “We can’t go out in this weather,” said Ash.

  “We can’t leave them out there!”

  “Ash is right,” said Andy. “You’ve seen the storm coming. At the moment, one boat is missing, but we send out a search party and anyone who goes out there will be missing too.”

  “So you’re just going to leave them?” said James, still struggling to accept their refusal to help.

  “It’s not a case of leaving them,” said Ash. “We just can’t go out there.”

  “They have the biggest boat,” said Andy. “We have a few rowing boats, some sailing boats and a few small motor boats - you know as well as I do that weather like this will topple those boats in minutes.”

  James sat on a nearby pile of large sweetcorn tins. He let out a heavy breath. They were right, he couldn’t send more people out in this weather. It would be murder.

  “Ok…” he needed a different approach. “Let’s think about what we can do. Ash, Andy, you can take your teams up either headland, take the binoculars, set up watches.”

  “We can start fires too,” said Andy. “With visibility as it is, they may not see the land.�
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  “Good idea,” said James, warming to the idea. Something to do. “Let’s get to it.”

  Jack barely noticed the massive raindrops on the window. Rain didn’t bother him - he was used to being out in all weathers. He had the clothes, he had the constitution. A year of being outside had wiped away his office belly and middle-class comfort socks. Sometimes when he looked at himself in the mirror, he laughed. His long, wild hair, starting to dread in places. His untamed beard, full and bushy. His face no longer the thick and pudgy baby-face of a twenty-first-century-softened man, but now the sharp angled and wind-beaten face of a rugged frontiersman. He wondered what his wife would have thought if she could see him now. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his memories pass.

  The heavy rain was not a concern. The wind, however, could be an issue. The small trees out the back of his chalet swung wildly, drunk with excitement.

  “I think I should check the Fence,” said Jack.

  Mac looked up from his jigsaw. It was a one thousand piece rendering of a New York night-scape, all little squares of light and darkness. Mac had spent weeks cursing over the complex image. “What you say, Jack?”

  “I’m going to check the Fence,” he said walking to the door, picking up his jacket.

  “Come on Jack, have a day off. You said yourself we need a rest every now and again.”

  “Not in weather like this.” He took his boots from the closet. The front door rattled in its frame.

  “It’s bloody howling out there, Jack.”

  “Exactly why I need to check the Fence. I don’t trust those ropes.”

  Mac stood up. “Right you are, hang on, I’ll get me coat.”

  “You don’t need to come.”

  “It ain’t right to sit around here doing some bloody jigsaw while you’re climbing over them dunes,” said Mac.

  He didn’t say anything, but Jack was glad for the company.

  “Ellie,” shouted Mac down the corridor.

  “What is it?” came a reply from the nursery.

  “You alright? Me and Jack just popping out for half an hour.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Just checking the Fence.”

  “Ok. Be careful.”

  “We will.”

  “Come on,” said Jack. He opened the door and nearly lost the handle as the wind wrestled to whip it from his grasp.

  “Blimey,” said Mac.

  They stepped out into the storm. Jack didn’t have to close the door behind him, the wind slammed it shut with a bang.

  They walked through the holiday camp towards the sand dunes that bordered the camp. Green leaves ripped prematurely from the trees, spun in furious circles. Twigs, small branches, pieces of rubbish, anything that hadn’t been tied down, twisted along the floor, bouncing like a computer sprite on acid. Heavy drops of rain, fuelled by the wind, stung Jack’s skin.

  “You got your goggles?” he said to Mac.

  Mac was already pulling them down over his eyes.

  Onto the path that led to the beach, where the wind funneled the sand and rain into a vicious soup. They reached the sand dunes and pulled themselves up and over the dune’s continually shifting surface. Jack had to stop repeatedly for Mac to catch up.

  The last sand dune, tall and exposed. They reached the top. The grey mire of the storm hid the sea. The horizon was lost in a nameless and featureless miasma of weather.

  The Fence ran along the bottom of the hill, hugging it tightly, its twelve feet of barbed wire, planks of wood, aluminum sheets and metal poles keeping the hungry world at bay. It rattled loudly in the wind, sections vibrating wildly, threatening to break loose.

  Jack ran down the dune, the sand racing from under his feet.

  Raised voices outside the sports hall door. The children nearest had noticed.

  “I’ll go look,” said Harriet to Jenny, one of the older ladies who taught the kids, and a real teacher.

  Jenny nodded at Harriet then turned clapped her hands. “Now, children, who can tell me what a tornado is?”

  Harriet noticed Adam, sitting four tables back. He was looking at her carefully, his eyes flitting between the door and her. She smiled at him, then walked to the door, squeezing out through as small a gap possible into the corridor, which led to a courtyard where what Harriet could only describe as a mob had gathered; forty or fifty people, angry faces, the electricity of tension in the air. The crowd ordered itself into two factions, one on each side of the courtyard.

  Harriet edged outside, getting as near to the fray as she dared. The mob shouted about boats, about missing people, and how it was someone’s fault. It was the fault of the newcomers: they weren’t disciplined enough, too wild, didn’t know how to sail a boat, probably hadn’t listened to Sam. No, it was Sam’s fault, not tough enough, been holed up in the camp since the Fall. Not a good enough leader, would be better if one of the new guys was in charge of the boat.

  A louder shout rose above the cacophony, followed by jeers. Someone had pushed someone. A thin man with thinning hair and glasses fell over.

  Harriet had witnessed a mob during the early days of the Fall. A mob wasn’t a group of humans - it was a new beast; thoughtless, single-minded, brave, righteous, and quick to anger.

  She ran back to the sports hall door. She took a breath and composed herself before opening it. She squeezed in through the door and motioned Jenny over.

  “What’s going on?” said Jenny in hushed tones. She was doing her best to look calm for the children, but her eyes betrayed her.

  “Some sort of argument outside,” said Harriet. Adam was still in his seat, still watching her. Good. His presence comforted her. “There’s a lot of people out there, arguing about something. I think something has happened to the Fishers.”

  “Who’s arguing?”

  “The originals and the newcomers,” said Harriet.

  A moment’s pause. Jenny had been in the camp since the beginning.

  “What a load of rubbish,” said Jenny. She moved towards the door, but Harriet placed an arm on her shoulder, gentle, but firm.

  “Don’t,” said Harriet. “I think it could be dangerous.”

  Another moment. Jenny searching Harriet’s eyes. “Ok, what do we do?”

  Harriet realized a hush had fallen over the sports hall. The children were still, watching the two women by the door. So were the other teachers.

  “We close the doors. We lock this place down.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Jenny.

  A loud jeer from outside, loud and vicious. Celebratory.

  Jenny stared at the door and took a deep breath. “Ok,” she said. “How do we ‘lockdown’?”

  Lockdown. The sort of phrase Harriet had heard a thousand times in the action films she used to watch and enjoy before the Fall. Back when she worked in an office and didn’t have a history of killing reanimated decomposing humans. Back when she was a typical twenty-five-year-old woman having fun and getting drunk and meeting men. Back when she wasn’t responsible for a ten-year-old boy who wasn’t hers.

  “Harriet?” said Jenny, her voice shaking. Jenny had been in the camp since the very beginning. She hadn’t witnessed much violence, close up. Not like Harriet had.

  “Chairs and tables. Against the doors.”

  “What do we tell the children? It’s a game?”

  That would work on the young ones, but not the teenagers. Harriet glanced at Adam. He was getting out of his seat and walking towards her.

  “We tell them the truth,” said Harriet. “That something is happening outside, and we need to lock the doors, just for a short while, just in case.”

  Jenny’s face revealed she didn’t think this was a good idea.

  “Children!” shouted Harriet, quickly before Jenny said anything. She clapped her hands. “Children!” She didn’t have to try hard to get their attention. Something was in the air, they could feel it, hear it.

  “We are going to close the doors and lock them. We are going
to put some chairs and tables in front of them.”

  Silence, for a moment. Then a single shout, a young toddler’s voice. “I want mummy.”

  As if given permission by the lonely toddler’s shout, a wave of unknown and uncertain children joined in. Then older children, realizing something was happening, began to cry too. The teenagers glanced at each other, their normal adolescent pea-cocking dampened by fear.

  “Shit,” said Harriet.

  “What do we do now?” said Jenny.

  Adam and one of his friends, a young boy named Arron appeared next to Harriet. “Do it, just close them,” said Adam.

  “Get those tables, chairs,” she shouted to no-one in particular. Adam and Arron had already started.

  Andy had taken the eastern headland. He was accompanied by two Runners he barely knew - Mark and Lucy, both in their early twenties, both with faces far too old for their age; still fresh, but withered around the edges by an outdoor lifestyle and constant uncertainty of being prey.

  Having driven - raced - through Tulloch, it had taken them fifteen minutes to get to the top of the headland. The wipers worked overtime in the heavy rain. Andy’s eyes were continually drawn to a smear of black and red in the bottom right corner of the windscreen, thanks to the zed they had hit in Tulloch’s main road. He usually tried to avoid them, but in this rush, it didn’t matter.

  A car park with a sign that said: “Beauty Spot” perched on the edge of the cliff that dropped to the sea a hundred feet below them. Even up here with the wind and rain, the crashing of the waves below could be heard.

  Andy pulled up his jacket and jumped out of the truck, followed by Mark and Lucy.

  “Now what?” shouted Mark.

  Andy scoped the area quickly. Car park covering the top of the rise. Wooden barriers to protect the sightseers from careering off the edge. To their left was the bay. Beyond the edge, the grey and menacing sea rolled, an uncomfortable mass of sheer and unforgiving power. Somewhere on its tumultuous surface, was Sam and his boat. Hopefully.