by Glynn James
“Okay, listen up,” he said, finally. “We can’t stay here and wait for the authorities to decide what to do with us.”
He looked around the gathered group for approval. There was a general murmur of agreement, so he went on.
“I originally thought we should head out of London and head north, maybe try to get away from all of this. But as it has rightly been pointed out, if London falls, millions will head north. So right now I’m thinking maybe we should just head across the city, maybe to the east, and try to find an empty building, then hole up for a while so we can try to figure out what to do next. There doesn’t seem to be any real refuge left, and I can’t think of a way out of this situation at the moment. But we can at least try to get a roof over our heads for the night. And after that we just keep moving, stay ahead of the dead – and try to stay ahead of every other damned survivor.”
The group pondered this for a moment, and then it seemed everyone wanted to speak at once.
“What about Ireland?”
“We could fish from boats, so we don’t have to go ashore.”
“We could go to Greenland or some other remote place if we got a boat.”
“What about the Isle of Man or the Isle of Wight?”
“What about in the London Underground?”
A cacophony of ideas bombarded Hackworth, many that he had already considered and put aside as impractical. Nonetheless, he was impressed with this group’s energy – their resilience, their self-belief, their determination to find some solution. It was no accident these people were still alive. They deserved to be. Still, he raised his hands, signaling for quiet, and the voices ceased.
“All good ideas,” he said, regardless of his personal opinion of them. “But each could mean disaster if we don’t know what we’re doing. We got this far because we’ve always been organized, and if we—”
But he was cut off, and turned quickly toward the noise, a loud screech echoing along the street. Two hundred yards away, a large truck had turned into the road and was barreling along at a dangerous speed, right in their direction.
“What the hell…” said Hackworth, as he stood and stepped back off the road. Next to him, Colley helped Amarie and Josie.
The Tunnelers watched in shock, along with hundreds of other refugees, as the massive vehicle roared down the street, bounced up over the curb, sent several terrified bystanders scattering out of the way, and ploughed directly into the relocation center itself, fifty yards away. The street-facing windows shattered, sending glass in all directions, as the truck embedded itself in the front doors of the building.
“Oh Jesus,” shouted a voice nearby, and every possible nightmare scenario Hackworth could think of rushed through his head in a flash. Was the truck out of control? The driver infected and turning? Was it just another goddamned maniac?
But his question was answered as the back doors of the truck burst open and a dozen figures – two of them armed with what appeared to be hunting rifles – rushed out onto the concourse. Just down the street, two soldiers were now hurrying toward the crash site, but they had only got halfway across the road when the two newcomers lifted their rifles and opened fire, cutting the soldiers down. This sent an instant shock through everyone there, though Hackworth thought the shots weren’t fatal – the rifles the gang were using were meant for hunting small game, not killing people.
A raid for supplies, he thought. That must be it. This will be over soon.
But then Hackworth’s chest heaved and he felt that familiar burn of rising adrenaline as he watched, shocked, as two other gang members ran over to the injured soldiers, snatched up their assault rifles, and fired bursts into them, killing them without hesitation.
We have to get the hell out of here, Hackworth thought.
Then there was the roar of another engine as a second truck turned the corner, and pulled up beside the first. This one was open-topped, and filled with perhaps a dozen people armed with baseball bats, knives, and even shovels. The men from the first truck, now armed with military weapons as well as the hunting rifles, turned their attention back to the relocation center.
And they started firing.
There’s No Place Like Home
London - Covent Garden
Rebecca Ainsley placed the phone back on its hook and staggered to the kitchen table. She held the back of the nearest chair to steady herself, and waited for the panic to pass. Alan, her brother, with whom she had just spoken for the first time in a week, had been frantic at first, babbling something about a dog, and zombies out in the lane, but he had eventually calmed down.
Now Rebecca went over the last two minutes of rushed conversation in her head, trying to make sense of it. Evidently, Alan and Tessa were rushing to get away, packing their 4x4 as quickly as possible, with as much as they could take, in the few minutes they had before the dead arrived.
Arrived, she thought. How could they be so far across the country already?
The outbreak was in the southeast, near Canterbury and Folkestone, as far as she knew, not all the way over near Portsmouth. And she knew the Army was deployed all across the south. Everything she had heard up until now had assured her that the outbreak was being dealt with, controlled, and put down. But what her brother said had completely contradicted that. Surely, if it had reached Portsmouth, then it must have spread outward in other directions? It could be approaching London even as she stood in the kitchen worrying.
The dead could be right outside the wall, she thought. Or even in London already. How was that possible?
And yet there was Alan, out in the middle of the countryside, packing everything in a panic, so he and his wife could escape the dead that he said were already in the lane behind his house. They were there, he’d insisted, saying that he had been attacked, and barely escaped, and yes he was unhurt, not infected. He was fine, just shaken.
Rebecca glanced around the kitchen, her mind whirling with everything she had to do. It was all happening too fast for her. But then what did she expect? Hadn’t she known, really, that this day would come, that the dead would eventually get here? And when the outbreak was on the news, she’d known, somehow, that it couldn’t be controlled so easily. No other country had managed to survive once the dead were within their borders, so why should Britain be any different?
She looked around, trying to make a mental list of things she needed to do, and in what order, and as she did so she regarded the place they had come to live in. The flat was small and grimy, and seemed to stay that way no matter how much she scrubbed it. It was nothing like the spacious house that had originally come with Connor’s position, before the overcrowding.
She had to get the boys out of school early, that much she decided, and then she was cursing herself. Why had she thought it was safe enough to leave the boys in school in the first place? The city was dangerous enough as it was, and now the dead were closing in.
They could be here tomorrow, she thought. And then what?
She grabbed her handbag and rummaged inside, pulling out the handgun Connor had given her, and checked that it was loaded. It was, and why shouldn’t it be? She had never fired it without his supervision, never had the need to – even though she’d come close to taking it out on a few occasions. The thought of actually using it, aiming it at another human being and pulling the trigger, was repulsive to her. Her husband may have been comfortable with the idea – he was after all a captain in the SAS. But she had never got used to guns being around.
And where was he, anyway? Where was Connor? Down in the south, fighting to keep the dead away? The thought caused her to shudder, and then to refocus. First she would go and get the boys, and too bad if the head teacher complained about taking them out of school early. But then what?
The access card, she thought. The other thing Connor had given her, and insisted many times that she keep safe.
“If ever there is an outbreak, and it comes to London, while I’m away,” he had said. “You take this card
with you to CentCom HQ, down in Wandsworth, and you show this card at the gate. Or any CentCom facility, for that matter. They’ll take you and the boys somewhere safe.”
Rebecca found the card in a zip-up pocket in her bag, still inside the plastic cover Connor had put it in, and regarded it intently.
If there was ever a time when this was needed, she thought, it was now. The dead may not be in the city, but if they were in Portsmouth, then they were probably right on the doorstep.
Hell, they could already be piling up against that damn wall on the M25 ring road.
She had no car, so they would have to walk across London, which was something she would never do at night. So it would have to be first thing in the morning. But right now she had to get her boys back, and safely locked up in the flat, where no harm could come to them. At least for now.
Rebecca grabbed her keys and looped her bag over her shoulder, then headed for the door. She was reaching for the handle when she heard the sound of smashing glass and the crack of splintering masonry. Rushing to the window, she thought there must have been a car crash on the street below, but quickly saw that it was worse than that. A truck had collided with the relocation center across the street, and people were rushing away from it, panicking.
Why are they moving away? she thought. Surely they should be trying to help the people inside…
But she watched, shocked for the second time, as hooded and armed men burst from the back of the truck, two of them aiming guns across the road at some soldiers running toward them – and opened fire, cutting them down in the street. This wasn’t an accident, she realized. It was a raid. I have to get out of here now. Out the back door.
Then she heard another roar as a huge open-topped truck sped up the road. This one was filled with dozens of armed men – but not soldiers.
More raiders.
She was about to run for the door, hoping to get out into the back yard and away, but she saw a group of people rushing her building below. Two of them shouldered the door open, and the rest, probably twenty or more, piled inside, flooding the ground floor – her only way out.
Rebecca Ainsley’s hand went into her bag, pulled out the gun, and pointed it at the door to her flat, as the sound of thudding feet echoed up the hallway.
Anywhere But Here
London - Covent Garden
The door nearly flew off its hinges as Colley barreled into it. Hackworth was at his side, but the older and smaller man had barely made contact with the solid oak before the Moroccan was past it and moving through the hallway. Ahead of them, a set of stairs led upward, but Colley moved past them, heading down the hallway and passing a door with the number 1a on it. Hackworth glanced behind him to check that the others in the group were close. He was relieved to see that they were. Many rushed past him now, stooping low, and terrified of the exchange of gunfire going on just fifty yards away.
It had been his call to run for the nearest house, and now Hackworth hoped to hell there was a back door, and a street or alleyway behind the building, otherwise they would be trapped. As he got to the first interior door, wondering if anyone actually lived in the building, it opened – and a frightened-looking old man stared out at him.
“What’s going on out there?” the man asked, his voice shaking. Hackworth noticed he had a hammer in the hand that wasn’t holding the door.
“Chaos,” said Hackworth. “That’s what’s going on.”
The old man looked confused for a moment, as though the words coming out of Hackworth’s mouth were being received but not registering. Then the man backed off a step, staring out uneasily at him.
“Some sort of uprising,” said Hackworth, sensing the hostility and realizing that to this person, he was just a thug who had smashed the front door down. “Is there a back door out of here? We just want to—”
But the old man slammed the door before he was able to finish. Hackworth looked around, and shifted so his back was to the wall, making space for the rest of the Tunnelers to move quickly past him. But soon they were having to crowd in. The downstairs of the block of flats was not spacious, and they were too many to fit into such a small area.
“Everybody keep moving and get to the back,” he shouted. “And try to find the rear exit.”
It was only then that he noticed the woman on the stairs, pointing a gun at him. His heart jumped a beat, and he raised his hands. He hesitated. Zombies going for him he was used to, but someone holding a gun on him was not a threat he knew how to react to.
“Lady, I—”
“I just need to get out of here,” she said, her voice high, and sharp. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Us too. You don’t need to shoot anyone. We’re not—”
“I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone,” Rebecca said, interrupting him again.
“I got the back door!” shouted Colley. “But it’s locked.” Hackworth turned to look at him, but didn’t take a step, or lower his hands. He eyed the gun warily, and wondered if the woman would use it in panic if he moved. “Just smash the thing in,” he called.
“I can’t,” shouted Colley, “It’s steel-reinforced.”
Hackworth heard a thud, thud from back down the corridor.
“I’ve got a key,” said the woman on the stairs, seeming to snap out of whatever fears she had had a moment before. She hurried down the last few steps and past him, glancing out the open front door at the chaos outside, and watching as two soldiers ran by, firing toward the relocation center. There was no way she could go out there, and she could hardly blame the crowd of people in her hallway for feeling the same.
She shoved the gun back in her bag as she pushed her way through. When she finally made it to the rear entrance – a steel-reinforced door that had been put in six months ago to stop thieves breaking in from the alleyways at the backs of the houses – she spotted Colley, taking huge breaths and leaning on his knees, sweat pouring down his face.
“Sorry lady,” he said. “I can’t get this damn thing open.”
Rebecca rummaged through her bag, finally found the key, then fumbled to use it. Finally the lock snapped open and the door swung outward. Colley stepped past her, reaching for the ax slung on his back as he did so. He stepped out into the alley and glanced both ways.
He had been expecting a back yard, or something similar, but the flats had been built on a small plot of land, so the back doors let out only onto a narrow alleyway. This ran between the backs of two rows of buildings, their rear doors opening onto it from either side. There was no one in sight, and the long and narrow stretch of path was deep in shadow – dim even in the daytime.
“It’s clear,” Colley said, and moved down to his left.
Rebecca followed him, thinking she could get part of the way to the school, or at least out of the neighborhood and the immediate danger, by hiding amongst these people. Then she found that she recognized some of them.
It’s the tunnel survivors, again, she thought.
“Where to?” Colley asked, turning back as Hackworth moved past the rest of the group, now flooding out into the alley.
“Just out of this fucking place,” said Hackworth, pausing and glancing both ways.
“There’s a military outpost near the school,” said Rebecca, thinking quickly. If she could get these people to head for the school, she would have an escort all the way to her boys. “A CentCom patrol base. If we get there, they can call in help.”
Hackworth frowned, and sized up the woman. She knew a lot for a civilian. “There’s enough soldiers out there now,” he said, nodding toward the street. “They already know about this.”
“Yes,” said Rebecca, thinking fast, “but the school is guarded, and there are no real food supplies there, so it won’t be a target. And if we go back that way,” she said, pointing to the right, “The alley just runs back out into the road where the fighting is.”
Almost as a reminder that they needed to think quickly, a loud whump came from the other side of the h
ouse, and most of the Tunnelers crouched down, reacting instinctively.
“Okay,” said Hackworth. “Anywhere but here is a good plan right now, and the school is as good a place as any.”
Rebecca nodded, and got moving quickly. Behind her, Hackworth, Colley, and the rest followed, looking nervous and glancing at the darkened doorways that lined the dirt path.
“You’re the ones who escaped the tunnel, aren’t you?” Rebecca asked as they passed an intersection of alleys. There was no movement down either way, so she darted across the gap and kept walking, her hand resting upon the comforting shape of the gun in her bag.
“Yes,” said Hackworth, a little surprised at being recognized.
“You’ve been on the news a lot lately. They have a TV where I work. You’ve been all over it, along with the outbreak.”
They finally reached the end of the alleyway, and Rebecca indicated the road opposite.
“Just down there, about a quarter of a mile,” she said. “It’s a pretty straight run, but we should probably take the road around the park.”
They crossed the street, slipping between abandoned cars. Hackworth glanced back down the road as he ran. The relocation center was about 400 yards away now, and the chaos of the last few minutes seemed to have abated. The gunfire had stopped, but there was still a flood of people trying to escape the area.
Maybe the soldiers stopped the incursion, he thought. But then he saw bodies in the middle of the street. Dead soldiers.
As they followed Rebecca, keeping to the path beside the road and avoiding the piles of stinking rubbish collected on every corner, an armored vehicle roared by, followed by a dozen soldiers on foot, moving at a solid run. The group slowed as they watched them pass.
“Looks like those raiders are going to have company pretty soon,” said Rebecca.
“Yeah,” said Hackworth. “I wouldn’t want to be around when it all kicks off again. It’s going to get messy.”
They picked up the pace, moving into the residential area, still heading toward the school.