Surviving The Evacuation | Life Goes On (Book 2): No More News

by Tayell, Frank

  “There,” Olivia said. “Do you see?”

  “It’s only a thin plume,” Pete said. “That’s too small to be a gas tanker. Right?”

  “Definitely,” Olivia said, but he heard the uncertainty in her reply. “Probably a cooking fire. The soldiers are keeping themselves warm and fed while they wait.”

  From the signage as they drew nearer to the smoke, Pete expected a roadside truck stop, perhaps a gas station, but what they found was more like a motel. The kerbside billboard advertised rooms for rent, kayaks for hire, and food for sale, with the note about gas way down at the bottom. The main building was a sprawling many-roomed restaurant. From the vast size of the parking lot outside, it was a popular haunt for tourists and the handful of locals. The gas pump, nestled in one corner, hung loose, and clearly wasn’t the source of the fire. Nor was the broken-down fuel tanker, still on the road. The smoke rose from a broad fire burning perilously close to the stalled tanker, where a road-adjacent shed merrily burned. Dotted near it, on the building side, were other pockets of burning fuel. Eight, Pete counted. The same number as the undead gathered around the single-storey row of chalets.

  No, nine small blazes. A burning rag tumbled through the air from the open ground-floor window of one of the low homes. The bottle, made invisible by the flame’s bright glow, missed all of the undead, and smashed on the well-maintained blacktop. The fumes erupted upwards and quickly subsided, leaving another burning puddle on the lot’s asphalt.

  “They must be out of ammo,” Corrie said, already reaching for the door. They jumped out.

  All hopes of the undead being distracted by the sound of the juggernaut’s engine had been dashed by the explosion of the breaking bottle and evaporated as quickly as the fumes. But the soldiers weren’t out of ammo. A burst of automatic fire erupted from the broken window.

  “Pete, Livy, watch the rear,” Corrie said. “Rufus, watch the zombies. Stay!” she added as the dog paced a cautious step towards the undead. “Watch from here.”

  She raised her rifle and fired.

  Pete turned a full circle, walking out towards the road. Where had the zombies come from? He turned back towards the chalets, and realised that two of the creatures wore uniforms. Some of them had to be the guard accompanying the fuel.

  Between the gunfire from the cabin and from Corrie, with the undead turning between the two sources of sound and death, the skirmish was over so quickly it barely deserved the name.

  “Coming in!” Corrie yelled after the last of the standing undead had fallen. She walked slowly towards the chalets. “Watch the road, the rear,” she added to Olivia and Pete, while Rufus fell in close to her legs.

  Even as woman and dog carefully picked their way around the burning pools, the door to a cabin opened. The door to the second cabin opened a moment later. Survivors came out. Soldiers. Not two groups, just two people, one from each cabin, both in uniform. From the first, a man with a rag-stoppered bottle in one hand, a lighter in the other. From the second, a soldier with a rifle held awkwardly in the hand not dripping blood.

  “Does that say ‘Press’ on your body armour?” the injured soldier asked. “Never imagined I’d be glad to see a journalist.”

  The other man put the bottle down on the ground, and the lighter back in his pocket. Pete turned back to the road, scanning for approaching undead, turning a slow arc that ended when he turned towards Olivia. She’d frozen, rigid, her mouth open in horror.

  Pete spun back to face the soldiers, and in time to see the second man draw his sidearm and shoot his injured comrade in the head.

  “Why’d you do that?” Corrie demanded, raising her rifle.

  “Relax,” the soldier said, holstering his pistol. “He was bitten. Infected. Better he die without realising.”

  No, Pete thought as he took another step forward. This man wasn’t a soldier. Despite the uniform. Despite the sergeant’s stripes. This man was very definitely a civilian. One he knew. One Olivia knew, too. One Olivia had recognised because she was now striding across the parking lot.

  “Mack,” she said.

  “Oh. You,” Mack said, frowning. “You’re still alive, are you?”

  “This is Morgan Mack,” Pete said to Corrie.

  “Since when are you a sergeant?” Olivia asked.

  “Since when are you press?” Mack replied.

  Pete thought Olivia was going to shout at Mack. Charge at him. Even, maybe, shoot him. But she didn’t. She just stopped, a dozen paces away. Rufus padded over, eyes on Mack, teeth bared, but not quite growling.

  “What?” Mack asked. “You’re not still mad about Thunder Bay?”

  Olivia shook her head. “We’ve got to get your tanker onto the back of our rig. Is everyone else here dead?”

  “Infected,” Mack said. “There was a whole nest of them in that motel. I think there are still some in there.” He turned around and picked up the glass bottle. And now, with his back turned, Olivia charged.

  She dived forward, rifle swinging, aiming low, knocking Mack’s legs out from beneath him. The man sprawled to the ground, trying to roll, but he was slower than Olivia. She pushed her rifle’s butt against his throat, not hard, but with enough force to stop Mack from squirming.

  “Hey! You can’t kill me!” he protested. “That’d be murder!”

  “Look at your arm, Mack,” Olivia said. “Look at your arm.” She stepped back, flipping her rifle to hold it by the grip, the barrel pointing at Mack as he raised his arm to his eyes.

  Pete saw the blood, the gash, the bite marks on the man’s wrist.

  Mack swore, closed his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “Pete, go swap out the rig,” Olivia said. “Corrie, show him how.”

  “Livy,” Pete began.

  “No. I’ve got this,” Olivia said. “Orders are to stop shooting the infected-living because some people are immune, Mack. So let’s see if that’s you. It might have been him, that soldier you just shot.”

  “Pete, come on,” Corrie said. She took her brother’s arm, and tugged with enough force to make him turn.

  “We shouldn’t leave them,” Pete said.

  “Yes we should,” Corrie said. “Trust me.”

  Each time he began to turn around, Corrie tugged on his arm. Increasingly frustrated, he was about to shake her off when, behind, there came a single gunshot. He tore himself free from Corrie and spun around. Mack was nothing but another corpse among so many.

  “He turned,” Olivia said simply. She knelt down, and quickly searched the dead man’s pockets. “That’s not what I was expecting to find, but maybe it should have been.” She held up a small black rectangle.

  “What is it?” Pete asked.

  “A remote detonator,” Corrie said. “I think we should leave the rest of the cabins alone. I’ll check the tanker while you get the rig closer.”

  “You remember the hamlet, the night after we were bitten?” Pete asked. “That can’t have been him who placed the explosives, could it?”

  “I’m absolutely certain he was responsible for Notre Dame,” Olivia said. She shrugged. “But what does it matter? He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  Part 4

  The World on Fire

  Canada

  12th March

  Chapter 36 - Prometheus

  Whitney, Ontario

  “Not bad,” Olivia said, dumping another load of trimmed branches among the trees.

  “It’s not good, though,” Pete said. “It’s still more like an obstacle course than a barricade.”

  “Yeah, but give us another week,” Olivia said. She stretched.

  “Assuming we’re still here in a week’s time,” Pete said.

  “True,” Olivia said. “And that’s exactly why we should build our defences like this. With the frontline always moving, and with us soon to move after it, we don’t have time to dig deep foundations and towering walls. No, we just need a barrier sturdy enough to slow the zombies until we can deal with them. An
d this will do for that.”

  Pete surveyed their morning’s work. The goal was to finish clearing the woodland around the hamlet. Eventually the stumps would be removed, the land ploughed and planted; a ditch would be dug, a crane built, and the trunks planted in a neat palisade. Eventually. For now, they were creating a wall of horizontal logs, with stacks of brush and branches filling the gaps between the trees they’d not felled. Against people, it wouldn’t be much protection. Against zombies? He hoped he’d never find out.

  That morning, just after dawn, a battered TAPV and two overloaded SUVs had arrived with twenty soldiers aboard. Though not all had served with armour before the outbreak, all had served, and they were the tanks’ new crew. Almost as soon as they’d arrived, the tanks the judge had repaired had rolled west.

  “Maybe we should have volunteered,” Pete said.

  “For what?”

  “To go with the tanks,” Pete said.

  “We’d have been in the way,” Olivia said. “We go where the judge goes, and if she’s been left here rather than sent to the front, maybe they’ve got enough proper mechanics now. Proper soldiers, too. Give me a hand with this tree trunk.”

  He grabbed hold of the rope and hauled the trunk into place, then helped shift the pile of cut branches. It was muscle-burning work, but deeply satisfying.

  Olivia whistled. Pete reached for his slung rifle, but saw she was pointing towards the hamlet. Rufus was bounding towards them, the two Christinas following at a more sedate pace.

  “We bring lunch,” Chrissie M said.

  “Or breakfast,” Chrissie K said.

  “Or brunch?” Pete asked.

  “Who cares, I’m famished,” Olivia said.

  Rufus yipped his agreement.

  “We did feed him,” Chrissie M said uncertainly.

  “A lot,” Chrissie K added apologetically.

  “He knows to stock up in the good times,” Olivia said. “Any word on the radio, or the phone?”

  The two women glanced at each other, as if uncertain who should go first.

  “It’s gone weird,” Chrissie M said.

  “The radio or the phone?” Olivia asked.

  “Both,” Chrissie M said. “The phone only connects to the next bastion west, and the radio is mostly static.”

  “The judge will be happy she’s got something to fix,” Pete said. He opened the lid of the plastic container, releasing a waft of steam. “Potatoes in… is that soup?”

  “Stew,” Chrissie M said apologetically.

  “And it’s good,” Chrissie K said defensively.

  “I’m not complaining,” Pete said. “It’s been a long time since I saw potatoes.”

  “It’s only three weeks,” Olivia said.

  “It feels like longer,” Pete said. “A lot longer. Do you think we could plant some?”

  “Not after they’ve been cooked,” Olivia said, taking a plastic box from the Christinas.

  “You know what I mean,” Pete said. “Is this good land for growing potatoes? We’d have to pull up those tree stumps. Shame the tanks are gone. They’d be perfect for that.”

  An odd sound filled the air, growing in volume from a distant hum to an everywhere-buzz. Pete turned towards the approach road before he thought of looking upward. A fighter jet, trailing a spreading plume of smoke, stuttered across the sky until it seemed to break apart. A dart shot upward from the plane, from which a parachute emerged, caught the wind, and slowed the descent of the ejector seat. The plane, however, drifted downward, tumbling, falling, until it disappeared among the distant trees.

  “I’ll get some wheels,” Olivia said. “Christina, watch that parachute. Pete, get the judge.”

  Five minutes later, two vehicles bounced along the road, heading west, towards the now lost parachute. In front, aboard a battered RCMP four-wheeler the judge had been repairing, were the Christinas and Benton. Behind came Pete, Corrie, Olivia, and Rufus, in the TAPV that had arrived with the tank crews earlier that morning. Tape-V would be a better name for the vehicle, Pete decided, since half the interior seemed to be held together with electrical tape and dime-store glue.

  Ahead, the four-by-four swerved left, pulling off the road onto a logging trail.

  “Hold on,” Corrie said, dragging the TAPV after them.

  After five hundred metres, when the trail met a firebreak, the truck stopped.

  There was no sign of the pilot.

  “It came down here,” Chrissie M said. “I’m sure it did.”

  “I’m certain it did,” Chrissie K added, though her tone was unsure.

  The trees were far from silent. Leaves rustled. Birds chirruped. Insects buzzed in a sunbeam warm enough to make Pete think spring really had arrived. But there was no sign of the pilot or the crashed plane.

  “Find the pilot,” Olivia said to Rufus. “Go on!”

  The dog looked at her, the woods, then her again, before taking a tentative step towards the trees. A cautious sniff was followed by a more certain bound into the woodland.

  “Christina, Christina, watch the road,” Benton said, already hurrying after the dog.

  They didn’t have far to run. Rufus found the crashed pilot at the edge of a sloping clearing, barely two hundred metres from the road. The parachute had caught in the trees during the descent, then torn, leaving the pilot to plummet the last dozen metres to the ground.

  “Can you hear me, son?” Benton asked, checking for a pulse. “Have you got a first-aid kit?” she added, turning to Corrie.

  The pilot reached out, gripping the judge’s hand. “I need to get a message to Benton. Judge Benton.”

  “That’s me,” Benton asked.

  “I found you?” the pilot asked.

  “You did,” the judge said.

  “The general… the general sent me. Told me to find you. Last message. Warn the judge.”

  “Warn me of what?” Benton asked.

  “Mushroom clouds,” the pilot said. “Ottawa. Montreal. They’re gone.”

  Benton swallowed. “And the general?”

  “I was flying air patrol. Saw the clouds. Got a message. Last message from anyone. Warn you. Warn the judge. She says you’re in charge. Says…” The words trailed to silence.

  “Is he dead?” Olivia asked.

  “Unconscious,” the judge said. “Help me carry him back to the car.”

  “Mushroom clouds mean nuclear bombs, don’t they?” Olivia asked.

  “Yep,” Benton said. “So, help me move him.”

  “It won’t only be Ottawa and Montreal,” Corrie said, as they strapped together a pair of long branches into a stretcher.

  “Before the plane was spotted in the sky, we lost communications,” the judge said. “The hard line failed beyond the next fort. The radio is nothing but static. I think you’re correct. I think this is more than just our corner of Canada.”

  “I thought phone lines were designed to survive a nuclear blast,” Pete said as they hauled the pilot back to the trucks.

  “Nothing survives the blast,” Corrie said. “But the copper wires will survive an EMP. The switchboards and exchanges won’t.”

  “Okay, but why bomb Ottawa or Montreal?” Olivia asked.

  It was a question echoed by the Christinas as they laid the dying pilot in the back of the truck.

  “Either it was a rogue nation, conducting a terrorist attack,” the judge said, “which is unlikely. Or it was an accident. Someone was trying to kill the largest concentration of zombies possible. On some satellite image, they saw the undead the general had gathered.”

  “No,” Corrie said, and Pete had to agree. “No, sorry, Your Honour. The military satellites are down, which means no guidance systems, and almost certainly no surveillance. The missiles were fired blind, on a mathematical trajectory calculated in a bunker on the other side of the planet. They weren’t aiming for Ottawa or Montreal or the general. Perhaps they were aiming for New York, but wherever they hit wasn’t the original target. That means only one
thing for certain, that these weren’t the only missiles that were fired.”

  “Does that mean—” Chrissie M began, but the judge held up her hand.

  “No, that is logical,” Benton said. “We must assume that you’re correct, and that New York was the logical target. We need to organise a retreat from the Saint Lawrence to Wawa, or even Thunder Bay. To Nanaimo if necessary.”

  “They need to be warned,” Corrie said. “We’ll go. We’ll go now. Tell them you’re coming. Tell them to get ready, and get ready to send help.”

  The judge nodded. “But tell them to send no one until I send word. Until we know how bad this is, how many there are to be saved…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Act now, think later,” Olivia said, walking over to the TAPV. To the back were strapped six fuel cans, left there by the tank crew. She loosened the webbing enough to raise one a few inches and give it a shake. “Nearly full,” she said.

  “You have ammo? Food?” Benton asked.

  “Here,” Chrissie M said, opening the other Christina’s pack. “The lunch for the other sentries.”

  Pete took the still warm plastic boxes of potato stew. “That’ll see us to Wawa.”

  The judge nodded. “And if…” She shook her head. “Tell them… no. Whoever launched these missiles, they must have been aiming at New York. They must have been. We’ll retreat to the Great Lakes, away from the fallout, all the way to British Columbia if necessary, where we can be resupplied from the Pacific. Make sure they know what’s happened, then tell them to prepare, and tell them to get word to the Pacific to send help.”

  Chapter 37 - Revelation

  Ontario

  “Do you know the way?” Pete asked, as the TAPV rattled along the road.

  “West,” Corrie said, tapping the compass.

  “It says we’re heading south,” Olivia said.

  “Yep,” Corrie said. “But I think… yes, ahead. There’s a firebreak. We’ll take that west as far as we can.”