by Frank Tayell
Yes, they had saved lives, but if they’d not taken an evening off, if they’d worked harder, it was indisputably true that more lives could have been saved. Perhaps it would mean that some they’d saved would have died, but more people, on aggregate, would be alive. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Chester’s feet clunked against the probably-not-glass as he climbed the stairs.
“How’s Scott?” Bill asked.
“Still asleep,” Chester said. “And I think it is sleep, nothing worse. Odd room, this.”
“I assume it’s art,” Bill said.
“Ah. Maybe. I was thinking the same about those stairs. Not what you’d call practical.”
“No, it’s the kind of dream house built by someone who suddenly comes into money,” Bill said. “That’s the theory I’m going with.”
“Sounds about right,” Chester said, taking a seat, then almost immediately standing up. “Has to be art, otherwise it’s torture.”
“Bad choice of words,” Bill said.
“Ah, sorry.”
“He’d found a toolkit. Seemed to be working his way through it, one tool at a time. There’s been a lot of that. Torture, I mean.”
“It’s not surprising,” Chester said. “The presence of police, of laws, of justice was all that kept most people’s dark thoughts inside their head.”
Bill turned away from the window. “You really think so?”
“Don’t you? Isn’t that one of the core principles of policing? That you make people police themselves.”
“I steered clear of law and order,” Bill said, turning back to the view. “You can’t win an election on prison reform. You know about this cartel?”
“I’d heard the name, sure,” Chester said. “They were making a bid for some of the drug routes into southern England, but that wasn’t my bag. I knew enough to steer clear of them.”
“Yet Locke knew them,” Bill said.
“Knew of them,” Chester said. “Thugs and gangsters recruited in prison to run the streets, loosely affiliated to reduce any disruption to the upward flow of money; it’s nothing new. The biggest dog always controls the territory, and always demands his dues. It’s no wonder they survived, no surprise they embraced the worst possible versions of themselves.”
“So that’s the world we live in, where there’s nothing stopping people’s darkest desires from being made manifest? Cannock and Sanders. Barrett, Stewart, and the others. Did I tell you about them?”
“I read your journal. Re-read it back on Anglesey.” Chester crossed to the window and peered out. “They’re dead, so best not to dwell on the past when the present’s filled with enough problems. We’ve got food now, that’s something. It’s more additives than vitamins, but it’ll keep us going for a few days. Was there much more at the farm?”
“Some,” Bill said. “Probably as much as we could carry.”
“Enough for a week or so?” Chester said. He turned his gaze left, then right, squinting. “I really do need glasses. Greta was nagging me to get some back on Anglesey. I wish I’d gone to the trouble. Do you think the village is big enough to have an optician’s?”
“I’ve no idea,” Bill said. “Assuming we are near a village. I’m not sure how much to trust what those murderers said. Then again, we saw a couple of signposts to Fleurines, so maybe they weren’t lying.”
“And it’s about two hundred and fifty kilometres from the coast?”
“That’s what they said. Two hundred and fifty kilometres from Calais, sixty kilometres north of Paris.”
“Hmm. And we’ll have a week of food,” Chester said. “Of course, my next question is where did that food come from. I’m assuming it was the young people who collected it.”
“Probably. The fridge smelled of fish, though it was stocked with wine. I’d guess the food came from a delivery truck or possibly a supermarket somewhere nearby. The kitchens of the houses we looked in were empty, and the doors of the others had been forced open. It’s a safe bet that someone searched them for food.”
“Leaving the only supplies we’ll find nearby being those at that farm,” Chester said. “And there’s a generator and fuel. We could wait there until Scott’s able to travel.”
“Except we don’t know if those killers were alone,” Bill said.
“True,” Chester said. “But if they weren’t, they’ll find us here easily enough. If we’re going to fortify anywhere, better it’s somewhere with a few lights and some artificial heat.”
“Perhaps,” Bill said. “If Khan and Locke find the woman, maybe she can tell us if there are any more of those ex-cons in the neighbourhood. How long does it take to torture someone to death?”
“Dunno,” Chester said. “But torture isn’t just pain. Expectation is a big part of it.”
“Locke thinks that the bonfire had already been built, that this gang turned up within the last few weeks.”
“What’s the question you’re asking yourself?”
“They took their time,” Bill said. “Why? Why torture them at all? Surely there has to be a reason?”
“I dunno,” Chester said. “Either they did it for fun or for information. You know as well as I there’s little point us trying to work out which.”
“Twelve teenagers lived out here, in the middle of nowhere. We assume it’s twelve because of that cartoon, because of their hair. What were they doing out here? Why did they build that bonfire? Whose attention did they want to attract? How did the killers find them?”
“Those are questions the young woman can answer,” Chester said. “I’ll say this, though. If they were taking their time killing them, then these thugs weren’t worried about being discovered. We’re unlikely to find any friendly faces in the neighbourhood. How much fuel was there?”
“Twenty or so containers in the room with the generator,” Bill said. “I’m not sure how many were full. There’s a tanker in the courtyard. Not sure what’s inside, but it might be fuel.”
“But there’s at least twenty containers, each holding about thirty litres?”
“Closer to twenty, if full,” Bill said.
“More than enough to get to the coast.”
“If we can find a vehicle with a live battery,” Bill said. “And live electronics. We had that problem when we were getting out of London after Kew.”
“Ah. Yeah,” Chester said. He turned away, looking out at the snow.
“We found an old Land Rover Defender,” Bill said. “No electronics for an EMP to fry, and by then, even London’s streets counted as off-road. It’s a shame I’ll never get to see the city again. I thought I might go back to the capital. I knew we’d have to send a boat or three, and thought I might go with it. Not to stay, just for the voyage. I was going to take Annette. She was from London. So was Daisy, but I thought it might be good for Annette to say goodbye to the city. Hard to know whether it was the right thing to do, but if I’m honest, the only reason she moved the satellites over London was that it was once her home. Looking for Nilda and Jay, that was just an excuse. Well, it’s moot now.”
“Give it a few years, the zombies will be dead, and we’ll go back,” Chester said. “First step is getting to the coast. We can recharge a car’s battery with the generator at that farm, but we won’t drive far in the snow. Two hundred and fifty kilometres? With the right vehicle, we could manage that in a day, certainly in two. On foot, with Scott the way he is, it’ll take weeks, maybe a month. Was it diesel or petrol at the farm?”
“I’m not sure,” Bill said.
“If it’s diesel, we might have enough to get a motorboat all the way to Belfast,” Chester said. “If it’s not, we’ll need a sailing boat to take us to Sheppey. When I spoke to Nilda, before we left Anglesey, she said she’d gone ashore in Sheerness and found fuel in the tanks of vehicles at the car-import place.”
“But we’d have to wait for the snow to melt before we could drive,” Bill said. “Leon will probably reach London tomorrow. Perhaps today. Perhaps the day
after. Assuming they head due east out of the Thames Estuary, they’ll reach land around the Belgian-French border about three or four days from now. The logical thing for them to do is to head south, perhaps venturing inland, but only for as long as they have supplies. Give it a couple of weeks at most, and they’ll have to make for Ireland. If we can get to the coast in the next few days, light bonfires and leave messages, find a way for them to spot us, we can join them.”
“With this snow, in a car or on foot, we won’t reach the coast in time,” Chester said.
“I guess not,” Bill said. “None of the choices are good, none of the options easy. Zombie,” he added. “Coming up the road. Can you see it?”
“I can see the outline, that’s about all. Is it alone?”
“Just the one, yes. It’s in uniform. Or the remains of it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Chester said. He went outside. Bill watched as Chester reached the gate. Watched him haul himself up the recliner. Chester paused, peering into the distance. The zombie was still fifty feet away. It saw Chester, just as the Londoner jumped over the gate. The zombie lurched forward, its left arm swinging wildly while its right hung loose by its side. The thrashing, clawing arm gave the illusion that the zombie was speeding up, but it wasn’t. It slouched onward while Chester stood, legs braced, machete held loosely in his hands. It took a full minute for the zombie to get within an arm’s reach of Chester. He gave the machete an expert flick, and the zombie crumpled. Chester bent over the corpse, then straightened, and headed back inside and upstairs.
“A soldier,” Chester said. “Not French, but German. Not sure what that tells us.”
“Probably nothing much,” Bill said. “But that dead zombie is another giveaway to any passing thug that we’re here. No, there are no good choices.”
Chapter 9 - Campfire Stories
The Mansion, Fleurines
Dusk was settling when Locke, Khan, and Kessler returned. They were alone, and only carried the two suitcases Bill had crammed with clothes ten hours and a lifetime ago.
“She set fire to the buildings,” Locke said. “The outbuildings where her friends lay, and the bunkhouse.”
“The fuel’s gone?” Bill asked.
“Fuel, food, weapons,” Khan said. “We couldn’t salvage anything.”
“Any sign of the woman?” Chester asked.
“Her tracks led up the hill to an old castle,” Locke said. “It was partially ruined, partially restored, but completely indefensible against the undead. I suspect that was why they chose that farm as their redoubt. Her tracks disappeared among the ruins. If she was there, she didn’t want to talk.”
“But she might have followed us back,” Kessler said, heading for the staircase. “I’m going to keep watch.”
“Remember she might not be the only person who comes looking,” Khan said.
“It’s unlikely she’ll come here,” Locke said. “I think she waited near the farm until she saw us leave, then she set the fire and vanished. From the prints Bill and I left in the snow, she would have known which direction we’d gone, and chosen the opposite. With her friends dead, their bodies cremated, I can’t imagine she has any reason to stay.”
“That depends why she was here in the first place,” Khan said. “But she can follow our footprints if she wants to find us.”
“And if she hasn’t by morning?” Chester asked.
“A good question,” Locke said. “If we trust what the killers told us, we’re two hundred and fifty kilometres southeast of Calais. We can probably trust that a mushroom cloud was seen over Marseilles.”
“But can we trust what they told you?” Chester asked.
“I think so,” Locke said. “They’d already decided to kill us. Why bother with the effort of a lie? On that basis, we can also assume they originally made for the coast, intending to travel to England before they came across British refugees who told them about the lie that was the vaccine. While we don’t know which exact route they took, it is probable that there is a radiation-free corridor between here and Calais.”
“But we should look for a Geiger counter anyway,” Bill said.
“So Calais is our only option?” Chester asked. “Back in Birmingham you mentioned something about a redoubt in Portugal.”
“We’d never reach it,” Locke said. “To get to Portugal, we’d have to cross Spain. To get to Spain we’d have to cross the Pyrenees. If we had fuel, I might suggest it, but we don’t.”
Chester took the saucepan off the fire. “Tonight’s special is owl boiled in champagne. Food fit for a king, because I can’t think of a regular bloke who’d eat it. What do you say, Scott?”
The pilot snored in reply.
“I’d say that’s a good sign,” Chester said, as he spooned portions into crystal wine goblets. “There are no bowls. Quite a few slabs of slate which could have been used as plates. Odd way to live.”
“Was Mr Higson awake earlier, then?” Locke asked.
“Briefly,” Chester said. “I crushed up some of those crackers, mixed them with water. He held it down. In my experience of concussion, that’s a good sign.” He raised a hand to the scar at the side of his head. “So, let’s eat.”
Bill took a goblet. “Not sure if I should sip or spoon,” he said, dipping the spoon in, and then stopped as the sergeant murmured a quiet prayer.
“I’ve not seen you do that before a meal before,” Locke said when the sergeant had finished.
“After today,” Khan said, “we could do with all the help we can get.” He took a sip. “Not bad.” He put the goblet down, picked up Kessler’s. “I’ll take this upstairs.” They ate in silence until he returned. “It’s all quiet,” he said.
“Earlier, Chester and I talked through our options,” Bill said. “Despite that we’ve not got any fuel, and so can’t drive, our best option is to head to Calais. If we can find a boat with a small engine and enough fuel to reach Sheppey, we can gather fuel at the car-import facility. Then we’ll head to Belfast.”
“And if we can’t find a boat in Calais?” Locke asked.
“We follow the coast until we do,” Bill said. “If those thugs met refugees from England, then there are boats somewhere along the coast.”
“Were, not are,” Locke said
“Based on the events of today, I don’t see much point in working out a more detailed plan,” Bill said.
They ate in near silence, broken only by the pilot’s increasingly loud snoring. Finally, curiosity got the better of Bill.
“What’s in Portugal?” he asked.
He didn’t expect Locke to answer, but he was wrong.
“It is a facility similar to Elysium,” Locke said. “There is a two-hundred-year old house, but built on the ruins of a far more ancient property. Castle isn’t quite the right description, though it was originally designed as a mountaintop fortress around the end of the first millennium. Over the centuries, the building was alternately repaired, rebuilt, and abandoned until it burned down just before the Napoleonic Wars. The cellars and shrines beneath the house survived relatively intact. Lisa purchased it in order to restore it.”
“That was the cover?”
“No, that was the reason,” Locke said. “The cellars are a spectacular work of art, far superior to the tat in most museums. That we also had a need for a mountaintop retreat was a happy coincidence. Like Elysium, it held stores for a few hundred to survive until the fallout had dissipated. Because of its remote location, we had permission for a temporary helipad, a pair of wind turbines, and a solar panel array.”
“Why?” Chester asked. “That’s what I don’t get. Ireland, Portugal, Birmingham, Denmark, and wherever else. Why put your efforts into that?”
“Because we were individuals going up against governments,” Locke said. “Governments who were plotting nuclear war. Compared to that, groups like the cartel were an unwelcome sideshow.”
“Because Lisa Kempton wanted to save the world?” Bill said.
“I can hear the scorn in your voice,” Locke said. “Why do you find it so hard to believe? If you think her motives so base, then, after working so hard for all she had, why not think she would do all she could to protect her success? But her motives were not base. They were the same as yours or anyone else’s. Money does not corrupt everyone. Power does not corrupt everyone. It did not corrupt her, though she moved in circles occupied by those it had. She became aware of the malignant tumour spreading beneath the veneer we called civilisation. It was essential people survived who knew how the world had ended. People who knew who was responsible, because those responsible were governments. They had bunkers. They were the most likely groups to survive, to rebuild the world in their twisted image. We knew, after the end of the world, much of what we had would be gone, and a lot more would be forgotten. It was vital that the truth should survive.”
“Do you think the politicians did?” Khan asked. “Survive in their bunkers, I mean.”
“Not in Britain, but perhaps,” Locke said. “Which is why the truth is as important as ever.”
The snort of derision came unbidden to Bill’s lips.
“You don’t believe me, Mr Wright?”
“All the effort you put into surviving a nuclear war, why didn’t you try to stop it?”
“You don’t think we tried? Of course we tried. The cabal wasn’t the only threat. We stopped others. We delayed many more. We did not foresee Quigley’s use of a waking nightmare to seize control of a world on fire. No, we tried, and we did a damn sight more than your brother. For all he knew, for all he learned, what did he actually achieve?”
“He persuaded some of the silo-commanders and sub-captains not to fire their missiles,” Bill said. “Thanks to that, enough of the world is still liveable that we’ve survived.”
Locke laughed. “I’m sorry, you really think that’s how the world was spared? Your brother might have sent a message. People might have read it. A handful might even have heeded it. That is not how we are still alive today. We are alive today because of Lisa Kempton.”