Surviving the Evacuation, Book 14

by Frank Tayell

  Before Bill could ask what fresh disaster had been thrust upon them, the rear of the plane clipped the ground. He was thrown forward, then up and back as the aircraft slammed into the snow. As they ploughed through the field, a kaleidoscope of white ice and brown dirt sprayed across the windows, mercifully obscuring the view of the trees they had no way of avoiding. Without sight as a distraction, his brain filled with the sounds that, in turn, filled the dying plane. Rivets popped. Bolts snapped. Panels clattered loose. A screeching grind bounced around the cockpit. From the cabin came a prayer, a yell, a muted scream. The roar of the engines abruptly died, replaced by a rending screech as metal was torn asunder. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the wall of sound collapsed, and the plane shuddered to a creaking halt.

  Bill exhaled, and allowed himself to relax into the seat. “Think I broke a tooth. Still, that could have been worse,” he said. “A lot worse. Cockpit window hasn’t broken. Is it a stupid question if I ask whether there’s any chance this plane will fly again? Scott? Scott?”

  Bill twisted in his seat, wincing as a flash of pain shot from his neck to his leg, but that was instantly forgotten as he saw the pilot. Scott was slumped in his seat. His head lolled to the side. Blood dripped across his forehead and along his nose.

  “Scott? Can you hear me?” Bill asked, fumbling with the harness’s release. “Scott?” Free, Bill pushed himself over to the pilot’s chair. “Scott?”

  The pilot groaned.

  “You’re alive! Good,” Bill said. “You’ve a cut on your forehead, but it doesn’t look deep.”

  And now he was out of his depth. He looked for a med-kit, caught sight of the familiar white cross on a red background emblazoned on a metal door, opened the narrow locker, and found it was empty.

  “Hold on,” he said. He had to shoulder-barge the buckled door to get into the cabin. Into the remains of the cabin. The tail section had been torn free, revealing a view of snow-white fields beyond the ruined plane.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked. “Or is that a stupid question?”

  “It’s a question I get asked far too often,” Chester Carson said. The large Londoner unbuckled his seat belt and stood up. The plane groaned, tilting to starboard.

  “At least we’re not on fire,” Sorcha Locke said, running a hand through her close-cropped greying hair before checking her palm for blood.

  “We’re alive,” U.S. Marine Sergeant Salman Khan said. “Private? Private Amber Kessler, report!”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Amber Kessler muttered.

  “The pilot’s not,” Bill said. “He’s injured, bleeding. Did anyone pack a first aid kit?”

  “Here,” Khan said. The grizzled Marine unclipped his pack from the seat next to him, and fished out a small grey plastic box. “It’s just the essentials.”

  “Give it to me,” Locke said. “Unless your medical experience extends beyond policy documents, Mr Wright?”

  Bill stepped aside to let the Irishwoman pass, then continued down the narrow aisle to the ripped-open rear of the plane.

  “It could be worse,” he said. A frigid wind whistled through the broken cabin windows. “Though not by much. Sergeant, can you and the private check outside? See if you can spy a farmhouse or something. We saw some smoke just before we landed, but I don’t know how far we’ve travelled since then.”

  “Aye, sir,” Khan said. “On your feet, Private, time to earn our retirement.”

  The young Californian groaned, but she followed the sergeant down the aisle, and out into the snow.

  Bill turned back to the cabin. “When Scott said he’d stripped the plane for weight, he wasn’t kidding.”

  The pilot had removed all bar ten seats, the doors to the overhead lockers, and even some of the panelling.

  Locke stepped out of the cockpit. “Mr Higson has a concussion,” she said. “I don’t think his skull is fractured, nor do I think there’s a spinal injury, but I can’t be certain. He will have to be carried and we should be cautious as we move him.”

  “So he can’t walk?” Chester asked.

  “Not for at least twenty-four hours,” Locke said. “That’s twenty-four hours of complete rest.”

  “Then we need a stretcher,” Chester said. “Maybe a sedan chair.”

  “We need an extraction,” Locke said. “Have you called in our position, Mr Wright?” She used his name as if to emphasise how much was wrong.

  Bill patted his belt. “I’ll find the sat-phone, you make a stretcher.”

  Back in the cockpit, a neat bandage had been wrapped around Scott’s head. The pilot’s eyes were half-open, but only the straps kept him in the seat.

  “I’ve been in worse situations than this,” Bill said. “We all have. We’re all alive, and that’s down to you, Scott. Thank you. Now, where’s that phone?”

  After the last call, he’d placed the phone in the webbing pouch next to the seat. It wasn’t there. He found it at the bottom of the control console, wedged in a gap where two panels had come loose. The screen was cracked, and the aerial had snapped off. He tried the buttons anyway, but the screen stayed dark.

  “Any reply?” Locke asked, stepping back into the cockpit.

  “What? No.” Bill said, turning around quickly. He’d not even heard her approach. “The phone’s broken.”

  “But you called in our position before we crashed?” Locke asked, bending down to peer beneath Scott’s seat.

  “Not exactly,” Bill said. “I placed a call just after we crossed the coast. That was about twenty miles from the sea. Scott dumped the fuel, brought the plane in low, and was about to land when he saw a mass of industrial pipework in the field. He brought us back up again.”

  “That was the dipping and bucking?” Locke asked. “I thought that was turbulence. Ah, yes.” She picked up Higson’s weapons belt.

  Bill eyed her. “Why do you want that?”

  “Why do you think?” she said. “This is hostile territory. More immediately, I need the knife to cut the seats into a sling with which we can move Mr Higson. Unless you have a better idea for creating a stretcher? What, you think I had something to do with the crash?”

  “It had crossed my mind,” Bill said.

  “Really? Perhaps you should cross it off until you can explain why I’d want to be a passenger on a plane that I intended to crash. You’re in my way. I need the harness from the co-pilot’s seat.”

  Bill stepped aside, and back into the cabin where Chester was cutting the belts from the passenger seats.

  “Have you found anything we can salvage? Anything we can use?” Bill asked.

  “The bag or two we each brought with us, and that’s all,” Chester said. “But since that’s all we’d be able to haul through the snow, it wouldn’t help if we’d packed an arsenal. Of course,” he added, “that leaves the question of where we’re carrying it.”

  “I’m on it,” Bill said. He continued down the aisle to the gaping hole where the rear of the plane had been. Leaping to avoid the jagged steel shards jutting out of the ruined cabin, he jumped down, sinking calf-deep into the drift. The cold sent a jolting bolt straight to his brain. As quick as he could, he kicked his way out of the snow and over to Sergeant Khan.

  “Where’s Private Kessler?” Bill asked.

  Khan jerked a finger behind him, but kept his gaze on the distant treeline. One wing had been sheared in two just beyond the engine mount. Kessler stood on the portion of wing still attached to the plane. Bill couldn’t see the wing tip, but in the snow, fifty metres beyond the private, was the plane’s tail-section. From the muddy gash gouged through the snow and frozen dirt, both the tail section and the rest of the plane had spun after they’d broken apart. His gaze tracked backwards, following the dark scar until it disappeared, marking the point where the plane had first hit the ground. Just beyond that, he saw movement.

  “Zombies,” he said. “Wait… no. No, it is zombies. About three hundred metres away.”

  “Seen them,” Khan said. “T
hey’re moving slow. Haven’t seen us yet. We’ve ten minutes. Did you pack any ammunition?”

  “Sorry,” Bill said. “I didn’t plan for this. I expected we’d land in Belfast where we’d have had an escort back into the city. How much do you have?”

  “Not enough,” Khan said. “I’ve a few hundred rounds, the private has half that. She saw something glinting through the trees due north of here, possibly glass from a windowpane, possibly not. Night is a couple of hours away. Whether we move or stay, we need to decide now.”

  “Due north?” Bill looked back towards the slowly approaching undead. The zombies wouldn’t have seen them, not yet, not as long as the zombies in France were the same as those in Britain and Ireland. Above the living dead, the clouds were thin wisps. If a satellite was overhead, it might be able to spot the wreck, but the sun was low on the horizon. Night was only a few hours away. Without a working phone, he couldn’t even call Sholto to give an approximate location.

  “It’s a hard decision,” Khan prompted.

  “We move,” Bill said. “I’ll get the pilot.”

  “Zombies are heading towards the plane,” Bill said. “The snow is slowing them, and we’ve got about ten minutes before they’re close enough to see us. Kessler saw what might be a building due north. We’re going to move.”

  “Of course we are,” Locke said. “We can’t stay here. Chester, give me your rifle.”

  The large Londoner hesitated.

  “You’re physically stronger than me,” Locke said. “And I am the better shot. Remember Birmingham.”

  “Fair point,” Chester said. He handed her the weapon.

  Locke ran to the rear, and jumped outside.

  “Do you trust her?” Bill asked.

  “I guess so,” Chester said. “But ask me again in a week.”

  Locke had knotted strips of the seats’ fabric into short ropes and combined it with seatbelts and wire to create a far sturdier sling than Bill could have fabricated. Despite that, it was still flimsy, likely to fall apart within an hour, but if they hadn’t found shelter by then, Scott would be dead, the rest of them soon after.

  He and Chester manoeuvred the pilot through the ragged hole at the rear of the plane. Kessler and Khan took the weight of the stretcher as first Chester, then Bill, jumped down to the snow.

  “Where’s Locke?” Bill asked.

  “She’s gone ahead,” Khan said. “More hostiles approaching,” he added. “A lot more.”

  Bill took the lead, with Kessler and Chester carrying the pilot, and Sergeant Khan guarding the rear. Even with his persistent limp, Bill was easily able to outpace the stretcher. The deep snow had saved their lives, but it reduced their speed to a slow, sodden trudge. Would the zombies manage any faster? He didn’t look behind to check, but kept his eyes scanning the treeline ahead. He couldn’t see the undead. He couldn’t see any buildings, either. Nor could he see Locke.

  Was she really innocent of involvement in the crash? He knew little about the skills she had, the training she’d received, except that she’d prepared for the end of the world. It was well within the bounds of possibility that she knew something of planes, though presumably not enough to fly one herself. Chester and Bran had reported that she’d moved virtually silently during the battle in Birmingham. So, yes, it was possible that she’d sneaked out during the night and so had the opportunity to meddle with the plane. The only reason why, of course, was if Kempton had a redoubt somewhere in France, due southeast of Anglesey.

  He smiled bitterly. That was a grim twist. If Locke could suggest a safe refuge close by, then they’d know she wasn’t to be trusted. If she couldn’t, then they could trust her, but would likely freeze to death. It was a dark quandary, a distraction from the cold. As he scanned the trees, he realised it had distracted him from the undead.

  “Zombie,” he said. “There, movement. The treeline. Two hundred yards. Private, how good are you with that rifle?”

  “I’m getting better,” Kessler said.

  “Then let’s swap,” Bill said. As the private stepped aside so Bill could take hold of the crude stretcher’s equally crude straps, he saw Scott’s face. It was pale and lifeless.

  With the pilot beneath him, Bill couldn’t see the ground, and he didn’t want to keep his gaze fixed on the dying pilot’s face. When he looked up, he saw the zombie slip in an icy drift, falling face first. And then Bill almost slipped. He looked down, trying to spy the ground between the straps and the pilot’s feet.

  “Hold your fire, Private,” Sergeant Khan calmly called from close behind. “Let it come to us. Check your surroundings. Never focus so intently on one foe you let another creep up behind you. How many do you see?”

  Kessler pivoted left and right, then repeated the motion, this time more slowly. “Just one, Sarge. Just the one.”

  “Can you take the shot?”

  “Um… no, I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  “Then wait,” Khan said. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

  That was hardly true. Bill had only the vaguest notion of how long hypothermia took to set in. Would they find shelter before they froze? Would the undead catch up with them before then? Should they have stayed on the plane, sent a scout ahead? They’d acted without thinking, without planning. The end result, out here, would be death. The pilot would be first, assuming he hadn’t already succumbed. Scott didn’t appear to be breathing, but nothing could be done while trekking across the snowfield. No, there, Scott’s lips moved. Bill turned his gaze away, instinctively searching for the zombie, and spotted it in time to see it fall to the ground. This time, it didn’t get back up. Kessler’s rifle was only half raised. Bill assumed Khan had shot the creature until he saw Locke step out of the trees. She waved them on, then turned around, aiming her rifle back the way she’d come.

  The straps joined the cold biting deep into Bill’s hands. His gloves were made of loosely knitted wool. Ideal when wielding a blade, where the fabric could absorb the gore, next to useless in this frozen hellscape where they were already saturated. His thigh-length jacket was waxed and lightweight, but not warm. His legs were covered in denim, his top in a t-shirt and jumper. They were threadbare clothes to be discarded after a battle on the motorway near Belfast. Kim had found him a complete set of hard-wearing gear; Gore-Tex trousers, a waterproof coat, a wicking-wear shirt, all designed for this very weather and presented as a gift, complete with wrapping paper and a neat red bow. There’d been a moment of panic when he wondered if he’d missed some anniversary, which had only made her laugh. The outfit was in his bag, and with her on the ship. By now, it would be in Belfast. No, he corrected himself. It was still only a few hours since the boat had left Anglesey. They’d still be at sea, and his clothes would be in the bag in the cabin. At least his journals were there, too. After the trouble they’d caused, he’d been inclined to leave them in Wales, but that wasn’t fair on Annette and Daisy. The journals told their story, as much as they told his.

  As they approached the treeline, Locke raised her rifle again, this time firing behind them. Bill didn’t hear the suppressed shot, nor the zombie fall, but it was enough to make them hurry.

  The trees were planted in an uneven line on a shallow slope that marked the edge of the field. Locke stood at the top of that slight rise. Beyond her, the ground dropped away to a narrow ditch on the other side of which was a far steeper incline topped with a stone wall.

  “There’s an old farmhouse the other side of that wall,” Locke said peremptorily. “It’s shelter. Best we’ll find.”

  “It’ll do,” Bill said.

  Locke raised the rifle, aiming behind them, but then lowered it as Khan took the shot. “I have to say, I’m impressed,” she said.

  “With?” Chester asked as they slipped their way down the slope.

  “With the silencers you made on Anglesey,” Locke said.

  “Ah.”

  The ground at the bottom of the incline was slick, then wet as Bill’s foot broke thr
ough the thin ice and into the freezing water beneath. “Careful,” he said through gritted teeth. “There’s a stream here. Only a few inches deep.”

  But they managed to get Higson up the other side without further incident.

  “You can tell we’re not in Britain anymore,” Chester said.

  “Why’s that?” Kessler asked.

  “The stones are cemented together,” Chester said. “You wouldn’t see that in Wales.”

  As Locke ran ahead, and leaving Khan to watch their rear, they hauled the unmoving pilot onward.

  The farmhouse was a one-and-a-half storey ruin. The reflected gleam Kessler had observed came from a window built into the eaves. That was the only glass on view, and the most intact part of the roof. The ground-floor windows had been boarded up, and long enough ago for the wood to bow and buckle in the damp and heat of many successive seasons.

  Locke’s footprints led through the ajar door, but those were the only marks in the snow.

  “Derelict, but no graffiti,” Chester said.

  “Does that matter?” Kessler asked.

  “It tells you how remote this place is,” Chester said. “You don’t tag a place where the shortlist of culprits barely stretches into single digits. Can’t be more than a couple of farms within walking distance. Certainly no towns. We must be well off the beaten track.”

  Locke came back outside. “It’s empty,” she said.

  “Then lead the way,” Bill said.

  The interior was no more inviting than the outside had been. A mouldering sofa squatted in the centre of the main room. Candle stubs littered the floor, the hearth, and every flat surface, with scores more lodged in the tops of empty wine bottles.

  “Quite a lot of wine bottles, but none have labels,” Chester said. “You think we might be on the edge of a vineyard?”

  “A vineyard is not the same as a bottling plant,” Locke said.

  “Here, let’s put Scott on the sofa,” Bill said. Little light made it through the cracks around the boarded-up windows. He took out his torch, pressed the button. Nothing happened. He gave it a slap, and the beam came on, adding his light to Locke’s and Kessler’s.