by Frank Tayell
There was a shot, but it came from above. On the flat roof of an apartment building to their left, a guard waved her rifle, pointing southeast.
Chester spotted other sentries on other rooftops, but soon turned his attention groundward. The barricade sealing an alleyway had been repaired, though from behind, he heard a rattle suggesting a zombie was trapped inside. The patrol ignored the noise, and so did Chester, following Anouk through the streets until they came to a ragged halt outside a stadium.
From inside came the low buzz of the helicopter. Outside were the undead. Hundreds of bodies had been piled and pushed to the edge of a mostly empty car park. From the deep gouges in the tarmac and the ruts in the mud, this was where they’d moved the corpses after the previous days’ battle.
The handful of abandoned cars were rusting wrecks. Tyres, doors, even some seats had been removed. Only one vehicle looked in reasonable repair: a delivery truck with blue and gold livery. The paintwork was scarred, the bodywork dented, the lights smashed, one tyre was deflated, but the vehicle had to have arrived relatively recently. Mental cogs slowly clicked into gear, but hadn’t found their place before a figure staggered out from the side of the vehicle. She was dressed like a harlequin. One trouser leg was green, the other red. The sleeves of her coat were grey cloth, while the body was of brown leather.
“Martine?” Anouk asked.
The woman seemed to flinch at the word. Her shoulders jerked as she limped a pace forward. She snarled, twisting her head forward, revealing the bloody gash on her neck. The sentry fired a three-shot burst. The first two shots hit the undead woman in the chest, but the third found her skull. She fell.
Anouk slowly shook her head, while the rest of the patrol let out a collective sigh of anger and loss.
“The helicopter,” Chester said. “Don’t forget the helicopter.” He jogged forward, machete raised, but found no undead hiding behind the vehicle. He took a brief detour to confirm his suspicions. In the truck’s rear were a forest of speakers, a generator, and an amplifier. He jogged onward, to the stadium’s entrance.
To either side of the main gates were dozens of garden sheds. They were padlocked closed, but the wheelbarrows next to them gave him a clue as to what was kept inside. The presence of the truck, and that Dernier thought this a target as important as the fuel store, completed the picture.
A clatter came from his left. Heading towards them, across the battered car park, shambled a figure in a shaggy overcoat. A jagged scar ran along its bare head, its hair just a tattered wisp blowing in the morning’s light breeze.
“Hey!” he called. “Zombies. What do you call them? Ghouls! Morts vivants!”
He raised his machete, then lowered it as a shot was fired, and the zombie fell. In the near empty car park, the shot seemed louder than among the denser packed streets, but it was the sound of the helicopter luring the undead and living alike. The low burr saturated the air, seemingly directionless until Anouk undid the last of the heavy padlocks, the chains were pulled back, and the gates were opened.
The sentry began issuing orders, deploying some people to stand guard outside. Chester ignored his pointing finger and the accompanying angry words, and jogged inside, but came to a halt almost immediately. Eight ticket gates were arranged in back-to-back pairs and covered in corrugated steel, padlocked together.
Anouk walked past him, a large bundle of keys in her hand. She gave him a half-smile, half-glare, and unlocked the nearest padlock. She motioned for him to help. Together they pulled the steel gate apart, and then headed into the stadium.
When the professor, and Starwind, had talked about farming and hydroponics, he’d clearly misunderstood. He’d pictured rolling fields surrounded by rolls of barbed wire, but that was old-world thinking. It wasn’t a large stadium, a ten-thousand-seater at best, but those seats had been removed. In their place were plastic troughs, window boxes, tubs, plant pots, and trays of every colour and battered shape. Most still had soil in them, and a few had beanpoles, car aerials, or stair rods wired to the seat-frames, creating a crude trellis. On the ground, snaking down the steps and along the stands, were a mass of garden hoses that traced back to a row of water barrels lining the rear of the stadium. More hoses snaked from those up to the roof, but Chester turned his attention to the field where the pitch had been. It had been ploughed in the autumn, and was now a mix of muddy rises and waterlogged troughs, and it was there that the helicopter had landed.
The rotors still turned, the pilot still inside. Chester had to walk slowly down the steps to avoid the hydra of hoses snaking back and forth, but by the time he’d reached the sidelines, the doors still hadn’t opened.
He waved.
From behind him came a shout. He turned around to see Claire and the professor pushing their way through the patrol, a larger squad behind them, with Tam at the rear. He waited for them, but by the time they reached him, the helicopter’s cab still hadn’t opened.
“Your people came sooner than we expected,” the professor said, her tone angry, almost accusing.
“Must have found the helicopter close to where they came ashore,” Chester said.
“Then let us greet them,” Claire said. “Chester?” She turned to the guards, ordering them to stay in place.
“Right, sure. Let me introduce you,” he said, clambering over the field. “I suspect it’s Leon who’s flying. He’s French Special Forces. It’ll be him or one of his people. Must have flown through the night, though.” He slipped and ended ankle deep in mud. “Makes sense, though. Easier to spot lights at night, and it’s not like there’s any other traffic.”
The helicopter’s rotors slowed and then stopped. Chester did the same, the professor, Claire, and Tam stopping next to him. Chester raised his hand in greeting as the door opened, but his smile froze when the pilot stepped out.
“I don’t know her,” he said. “I don’t think I do.”
She removed her helmet, and he was sure. About five ten, she had a near-shaved head that was more grey than blonde. Her face was lined beneath a thin patina of oil stains and engine grease, but it was closer to sixty than fifty. The jumpsuit was bright orange, but the only part that wasn’t as stained as her face was the flag-badge sewn to her arm.
“Bonjour,” Claire said, and began a brief back and forth before the conversation switched to a language with which Chester was utterly unfamiliar.
“Polish, I think,” Tam murmured. “Yes, that’s the Polish flag on her arm. You don’t know her?”
“Not even a bit,” Chester said. The helicopter was a small machine, with room for a pilot and three passengers, but no one else was on board. He tried not to draw any conclusions from that because his mind had jumped to the radio set in the bell-tower. Surely not, though. Surely if Dernier’s people had a helicopter, they’d have used it as a weapon. Surely, but not definitely. He turned his attention back to the conversation in time to see Claire’s face drop.
The pilot repeated something, then gestured at the helicopter. Claire waved her assent, turned to the professor, and spoke in French. The professor’s expression collapsed.
“I don’t believe it,” Tam muttered.
“What?” Chester asked.
But Tam didn’t hear him. The pilot brought a small tablet out of the helicopter, and came over. She pressed the power button and tapped at the screen before passing it to the professor. Then she reached into her coat and pulled out a letter. She passed that to Claire. The professor stared at the screen. Claire opened the letter. Then they swapped. Chester stepped forward, peering over Claire’s shoulder at the screen.
“It’s a horde,” he hissed.
Chapter 26 - News from Above
Creil
Half the guards remained at the stadium to protect the helicopter. The rest escorted the pilot, the professor, and Claire to the island. Questions flew thick and fast, and only grew in number when they reached the bridge’s gate, but the professor ignored them.
On the island, peop
le were thickly clustered around the gate, with even more on the scaffolding above. The professor curtly dismissed their questions, and gestured for Bill and Sorcha to follow her inside. Chester, ignored by everyone, drifted over to Kessler, Khan, and Scott.
“It’s a helicopter, isn’t it?” Scott asked. “That’s what everyone’s saying.”
“A helicopter, one pilot, no passengers,” Chester said. “Pilot’s a woman in her late fifties. She landed in a stadium to the southeast.”
“Everyone thinks it’s our helicopter,” Kessler said.
“It’s not,” Chester said. He looked around, but the French survivors had already moved out of earshot, heading to the town hall. “She had photographs of a horde,” he said.
“A horde? Seriously?” Kessler said.
“What size?” Sergeant Khan asked. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Chester said. “The conversation was in Polish and French, but it was definitely a horde. The pictures were taken from a helicopter. They looked a bit like the ones you took over Birmingham, Scott.”
“So it might not be close, then?” Kessler asked. “It might be somewhere far away. Even England, maybe?”
“I don’t think so,” Chester said. “There was a letter as well. Not sure what was in that, but it convinced Claire and the professor. They took one look at that and the photo, and high-tailed it back here.”
“Describe the helicopter,” Scott said.
“Small. Single rotor. A sort of bubble-cab. Civilian paint-job. Pilot and co-pilot seats, with two passenger seats behind.”
“And the seats were still there? They’d not been removed?” Scott asked.
“Ah, right,” Chester said. “You’re trying to work out the range. The seats were still there. No spare fuel cans that I could see.”
“Did you see a cradle for a camera?” Scott asked.
“Nope.”
“How far do you think it’s travelled?” Khan asked.
“A couple of hundred miles at most,” Scott said. “Half that, if there’s no spare fuel.”
“Not from England, then,” Kessler said dejectedly.
“How dangerous is night flying?” Chester asked.
“These days, not in the slightest,” Scott said, but then added, “Well, as long as you stay above tree and cable height, and know where the hills, mountains, and any tall buildings might be. You think they were looking for lights?”
“They arrived just after dawn,” Chester said. “Why else fly at night unless you were looking for lights?”
“There’s another reason you fly at night,” Sergeant Khan said. “When time is so pressing, you have no choice.”
The seconds ticked by. A few people left the crowd, but a greater number drifted in from the island’s depths, swelling their ranks, increasing the volume of the chatter until a hush spread from the doorway. Chester couldn’t see her, but he heard the professor speak. He didn’t follow what she said, and she didn’t speak for long. Almost as one, people hurried away, while from the town hall, Claire, the pilot, and a dozen guards headed back towards the gate. Bill and Sorcha followed them out, but then headed over to Chester, Scott, Sergeant Khan, and Private Kessler.
“It’s not good,” Bill said. “Though it could be worse. There’s a horde, possibly fifty million strong, heading south. It’s probably not crossed the border, and could still be in Germany.”
“Germany? That’s where the photographs were taken?” Chester asked. “And who is she? Where did she fly from?”
“Good questions,” Bill said. “But as her answers weren’t in English, Ms Locke?”
“The conversation was held in a mix of Polish and French with a smattering of German,” Locke said. “Factor in that the entire conference lasted barely twenty minutes, and you’ll understand that there are more questions than answers. She said that she is part of a convoy that began its journey near the Dnieper River in Ukraine.”
“They’ve come that far?” Scott asked.
“Further, since they didn’t travel in a straight line,” Locke said. “The convoy either is twenty thousand strong, or those were the numbers when they left. Either way, it’s at least as many people as in Belfast. They had a redoubt on the Dnieper, in an industrial town. At its height, it was a sanctuary to four million people. They sent out scouts by helicopter and bike, and messages by radio, summoning people to their refuge. The undead followed the living. They were overrun, and so the ranks of the undead grew. They had other redoubts, other battles, other collapses, which led them towards the mountains.”
“Which mountains?” Higson asked. “The Carpathians?
“I’m not sure,” Locke said. “Based on the verb-form she used, I got the impression they were attacked by people, not the undead. They headed west. Sometimes they travelled north, sometimes south, but always west, and with a vast and growing number of the undead following them. This journey has taken them months. Obviously, there are as many gaps as there are questions, but the key point is that their final destination was a ski-resort in the Alps. Someone in their group either worked there or owned it. Again I was confused by the verb-form. The resort is accessed over a narrow bridge. They planned to destroy the bridge, and wait for spring. Apparently this resort, or the bridge, is famous. The general had sent an expedition there at the beginning of the summer to investigate whether it could be a sanctuary for the people of Creil. The bridge is already gone, the resort inaccessible.”
“A sanctuary?” Kessler asked. “But they’ve got this town.”
“Yes, precisely,” Locke said. “As I say, this brief conference has thrown up a good many questions. The professor suggested, as an alternative to the Alps, that the convoy should go to the Pyrenees.”
“Spain?” Chester asked.
“The border between France and Spain, yes,” Locke said.
“I’ve some questions,” Chester said. “And I’m not sure where to start, though how about with why we should trust anything this pilot says.”
“She had a letter,” Bill said. “Written by the professor. People have been leaving here, seeking other refuges. One such group was found by the pilot’s people. They died before a rescue could be completed. On the body of one was a letter signed by the professor. The letter didn’t mention Creil by name, but was obviously written after the outbreak. I got the impression the pilot was part of a scouting column that goes ahead of the main group.”
“That was the impression she wanted to give, yes,” Locke said.
“You don’t believe her?” Chester asked.
“On the whole, I am disinclined to believe either the pilot or the professor,” Locke said.
“Well,” Bill said, “the impression I got was that the scouts returned to the convoy with the letter. Someone there recognised the professor’s name. An old colleague of some kind. Finding the professor, because of her academic background, became a priority.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Locke said. “They were looking for people. Apparently, they hoped to find the professor, but were looking for any survivors they could locate. Assuming you believe what they say.”
“And what’s this about the Pyrenees?” Khan asked.
“It’s a military redoubt,” Locke said. “Part of the plan that began with securing the airfields, and which became redundant when the nuclear bombs fell. Apparently the general knew of its location. Gaston travelled there earlier this year, and confirmed the supplies were still there. The professor did not tell the pilot the exact location, however, so read into that what you will.”
“They’re leaving as well?” Kessler asked. “Everyone is leaving Creil?”
“They are,” Locke said. “They are joining this convoy and will lead them to the refuge in the Pyrenees. That’s what they say.”
“I don’t like a single thing about this,” Chester said. “So where does it leave us?”
“We’re back to our original plan,” Bill said. “Head to the coast. Meet up with Nilda, or find a boat
at Dunkirk and make our own way to Ireland.”
“Why are they leaving, though?” Kessler asked. “Even a fifty-million-strong horde would be lost in a country the size of France. Why not stay and hope it passes them by?”
“Because they were ready to leave,” Locke said. “I’m not certain of this, but I think that they were going to leave before Dernier launched his attack. In fact, I think the reason Dernier destroyed the armoury, destroyed the scaffolding-bridge, and summoned the undead, was to keep people here. A king needs serfs, after all.”
“I think you’re right,” Chester said. “They’d made up their minds before we turned up. The helicopter landed in a stadium. They’d ploughed the pitch, turned the stands into trellises. It’s a good idea. An enclosed space, easy to protect. They must have done the same with parks and pitches across the town, but none would be as easily defended as that place. Thing is, though, those corpses they’d moved by tractor, they’d taken them to the stadium’s car park. You wouldn’t do that if you planned to plant a crop there next spring.”
“Exactly,” Locke said. “They have been planning an exodus for months.”
“She told you that?” Kessler asked.
“She didn’t have to,” Locke said. “Look around you. Look at the people. When the professor announced it was time to leave, everyone scurried off to gather their possessions without a second thought. Do you know what she said to them? She told them this wasn’t a drill. There were drills, Amber. They knew this day might come, and they have prepared for it.”
“And that’s their business, their problem,” Scott said. “I want to know if the horde is going to be a problem for us. It’s in Germany?”