by Frank Tayell
“What is it?” Chester asked, as the two men hurried over to her side.
“Tyre marks,” Locke said, crouching down. “I’d say… four sets. No, five. I think. At least five. You see here, the rain’s filled some of the deeper indentations.”
“They look pretty fresh,” Chester said, crouching next to Locke.
Bill peered along the railway, north, then south. “Which way were they heading?”
“North,” Locke said. “It has to be north. Mr Carson?”
Leaning forward, bent nearly double, his eyes fixed on the ground, Chester followed the tracks to the edge of the bridge. “Assuming most of the weight is on the rear tyres, I’d say I was seventy percent sure they were going north.”
“It has to be Cavalie,” Bill said. “It makes sense. After we destroyed Adrianna’s watchtower, Cavalie knew he couldn’t go to Creil. With Dernier and that team in the bell-tower dead, no one would reply to any radio calls. Cavalie would take the rest of his people and do his best to get away.”
“We’re forty kilometres from Clermont, sixty from Creil,” Locke said. “It could be someone else.”
“Travelling north, along this railway line, in the last day?” Bill said. “Possible, but not likely. All those zombies we saw at the side of the railway line, and those we crushed, they were woken by something. It was the passage of these people, their engines, not ours.”
“I saw some dirt bikes in the garage at Adrianna’s watchtower,” Chester said. “Don’t think there were five, mind you. Thought it was only three. Not to say I couldn’t have missed some, or they couldn’t have stashed them somewhere else.”
“And though we burned down the main house, the garage might have been spared from the fire,” Bill said. “That settles it. Tomorrow, we won’t go to Amiens. I bet that’s where they’ve gone. Headed to a city where they can hide in the ruins. Ms Locke, can you check this road we’re beneath? Ten minutes east, ten minutes west, see what state it’s in, and whether there’s an easy route up through those fields there to the southeast. That incline appears less steep than any other I can see. I know it’s supposed to be an all-terrain vehicle, but I’d rather not push my luck. Chester and I will follow the tracks up the railway line for a bit, confirm these bikes kept going, then double back to…” He turned another three-sixty, taking in the three visible rooftops. “That house there, to the west, near the top of the bridge. Looks to be the biggest property. We’ll find a ladder, meet there, or back here, no later than sunset.”
Locke nodded, slid the safety off the suppressed SA80 Chester had originally brought from Anglesey, and walked back down the tracks towards the scruffy hedgerow separating the field from the railway.
Bill grabbed his bag and shotgun, and closed the door to the cab. “I feel like I should lock it.”
“Old habits are hard to lose,” Chester said. “Like taking our bags,” he added as he grabbed his own. “Locke left hers.”
“Leave it, we’ll be back in a bit. Leave yours if you like.”
“Nope. I learned my lesson the hard way. My gear stays with me.” He took the AK-47 he’d been given by Adrianna, and closed the door. “Any zombies ahead?”
“Not that I can see,” Bill said.
“Well, here’s hoping the sound of the storm has confused them,” Chester said. “We won’t find more ammo this side of Belfast.”
“And we’ll need it at the beach,” Bill said. “From now on, we’ll avoid fighting if we can.”
“Yeah,” Chester said. “But how often have you said that to yourself, and how often has it come true?”
The tyre treads skidded a disorderly trail on the right-hand-side of the tracks, occasionally disappearing behind trees before briefly vanishing as they crossed the rails, only to reappear on the left hand side of the railway.
A grey-feathered goose took off from a tree a quarter mile ahead of them.
“Bird,” Bill said.
“Zombies?” Chester asked.
“No, I think it was us. It’s settled on a broken spar another hundred yards away. I think we’ve gone far enough. These tracks continue north as far as I can see. We’ll be safe tonight. Let’s head to that farm. Or is it a house?”
Constructed in an old style, the lines of the roof and shape of the windows suggested it was a recent build. Though the three-storey house was surrounded by fields, behind it was a strip of garden ringed by trees and hedges in far better condition than the weedy shrubs dotting the railway line.
“You know where they’re going, don’t you?” Chester said.
“The zombies?”
“Dernier’s people. Or Cavalie’s. They might shelter in a city tonight, but there’s only one place they’d go, Dunkirk. Didn’t Tam tell you that everyone knew about the boats there?”
“He did,” Bill said. “Yes, Tam said that everyone in Creil, and everyone who came through, knew where their flotilla from Ireland came ashore. Not much we can do it about it except to stay vigilant, get an early night, set off at dawn, and hope we beat them to it. Looks like a gate there, between those two pines. That’s our way in.”
A neglected fence and overfull ditch marked the boundary between a paddock and railway. On the far edge of the paddock, separating it from the house’s garden, was a row of flourishing pine trees. Rain dripped from the verdant green branches onto a drift of needles surrounding both sides of the gate. There was no lock, and only the simplest of latches, but it took a shove to open the partially buried door. Beyond, a leaf-covered stone path led down a tree-lined avenue until it reached a covered patio next to the house. Ten metres from them, however, the path branched into a jungle of bushes. As they approached, Bill saw a low building with peeling paint and a moss-covered roof.
“Might be a workshop,” he said.
“Good place to look for a ladder,” Chester said.
“No lock on the door. Makes sense, I suppose. This is pretty remote.”
They stood by the door, listening.
“Nothing,” Bill said. Even so, both men raised their weapons as Bill flung the door open.
“Empty,” Bill said after the briefest glance. “It’s a workshop. Some tools. A few ropes, they might be useful. No ladder, though.”
Chester pulled a felling axe from a wooden rack close to the door. “A tad rusty, but the wood seems sound.” He put it down. “I’ll come back for that later, and look for a sharpening stone. I do miss my mace, though.”
“From the Tower?” Bill asked as they headed up to the house.
“These machetes of Rahinder’s are all well and good, but it’s not the same as a club made for a king. It’s a bigger house than I realised. A farmhouse, do you think?”
“Must have been built after the railway was established. I can’t think why someone would build it adjacent to a train line unless it was because they owned the land either side of the tracks. About seven bedrooms, assuming those are rooms up in the loft. Probably built with the compensation from the railway company.”
The windows were uniformly small except for the set of patio doors. To the western side was a double garage with an external staircase.
“I think there’s an apartment above that garage,” Bill said. “The windows are curtained. We could rest there tonight. It’d be safe from the undead. Speaking of which… no, I can’t hear them. And there are no footprints on the staircase.”
“Find the ladder first,” Chester said. “Let’s try the garage.” He opened the narrow door almost hidden behind the staircase. “Ah, dark. Hang on, knew I brought my bag for a reason.” He fished in his pack for his torch. “Got it. You check upstairs, I’ll have a look for a ladder. Scream if you get eaten.”
“You can bet on that,” Bill muttered as he climbed the steps. He doubted zombies lurked above or below, but his mind was so abuzz with worries about the horde, the radio, the helicopter pilot, Dunkirk, and so much else that it would be as easy to slip into complacency as on the moss-coated wooden stairs.
There
were no undead in the apartment, and it didn’t take long to check. Bedroom, bathroom, living-room-kitchen that ran across the length of the garage. The decoration was minimalist and cheap. The treacherously steep steps told him this wasn’t a granny-annex, and the spartan furnishings suggested it hadn’t housed a teenager. A gardener, perhaps? Regardless, they’d emptied the small kitchen before they left.
He went back downstairs and into the garage.
“Nothing much up there,” Bill said.
“I’ve had a bit more luck,” Chester said. “I’ve found us a ladder. There’s a car that was a wreck before the outbreak. Lots of woodworking tools. Useful stuff here, but nothing we need other than the ladder. Plenty of wood to keep us warm during the night, mind you.”
Bill crossed to the gates at the front of the garage. They were electric and immobile. A smaller latched door was set to the side. The driveway beyond was empty of cars, but full of trees. Two towering beeches had stood sentry where the drive met the road. The tree to the west had fallen first, collapsing sideways into the tree to the east. Where the first tree had landed across the drive, with its topmost branches shattering the house’s ground-floor windows, the second tree had smashed into the house itself. Somehow, the roof was still intact, but beneath it, twelve feet of brick wall had been demolished, revealing a bathroom and most of a pink-painted bedroom.
“It’s hard to tell whether they were blown down or knocked over,” Chester said, as they picked their way between the branches.
“Maybe there’s a sinkhole,” Bill said. “Wait, no, there’s a chain around the trunk. Someone toppled this first tree over deliberately. No chain on the other one. I suppose they were trying to create a barrier in front of the house. Or maybe across the road. Mistimed it, and ended up demolishing the house. Pity, why ever they did it, they’ll have looted the kitchen.”
“We’ll have to let Locke do some foraging,” Chester said, as he forced a path through to the front door. “The door’s been broken open.” He gave it a kick. The door moved an inch, then slammed closed. “Something behind it.”
As he spoke the door creaked open an inch, then slammed shut again.
“Zombie,” Bill said.
“I’ll give it a kick,” Chester said. “Knock the creature down. If there’s more than one, fall back to the left, and I’ll shoot them.” He slammed his boot into the door. Again it moved an inch, before being shoved back. “Damn thing’s heavy, strong,” Chester said. He drew the machete and rammed it into the frame adjacent to the topmost hinge. He pushed, heaved, and tore a divot out of the dirt-smeared wood. Chester jumped back as the door pivoted and fell on top of the zombie. The creature was knocked to the floor, the door on top, which turned as the zombie thrashed.
“Only one,” Bill said. “Can’t see any more in the hallway.”
An undead arm curled around the door, pushing it aside as the zombie eased out, almost managing to stand, before Chester slammed the machete down on its skull. “Same again? You go upstairs, I’ll check downstairs?”
Five minutes later, they were both back in the hallway, next to the corpse.
“There’s clothes upstairs, already packed,” Bill said, hefting a bag. He reached into his pocket. “And I found these.”
“Glasses? Ta.” Chester took them, tried them on, and sighed. “I think they’re reading glasses, but far better than nothing, thanks. The kitchen cupboard doors were open and empty.”
“They packed the food and clothes, but after they’d filled the car with food, they’d no room for the clothes,” Bill said.
“Maybe,” Chester said. “I found out where we are, though. Chateau des Fleurs, Chemin de la Grimpette. That’s castle of flowers, right?”
“And chemin is another word for road,” Bill said. “I’ve no idea what grimpette means.”
“A small grimpe? Shall we get that ladder down to the ATV, get it set up, ready to climb, get Sorcha, and get a fire going? I’d like to get us barricaded inside before the light completely goes. It’s starting to look decidedly creepy out there, not to mention cold.”
“It does feel like the temperature’s dropping, doesn’t it?” Bill said. “It’ll be another chill night. And tomorrow we’ll be at sea. Let’s hope those suitcases have some warm clothes in them.”
Chapter 16 - A Missing Locke
Chateau des Fleurs, Chemin de la Grimpette
“How much mud do you need before you can call it a swamp?” Chester asked. He’d leaned the ladder against the bridge’s wire barrier, where it had sunk halfway to the second rung in the gloopy soil. “The drainage channels must be blocked. I’d guess the entire bridge-way becomes a river when it rains.”
“No zombie tracks,” Bill said, quickly scanning the gluey silt. “Then again, after that downpour, I wouldn’t expect them. But there’s a zombie down by the ATV. Only one I can see from up here. Can’t see any others, though there’s a holly bush moving about three hundred yards back. Might be nothing.”
“Might be something,” Chester said, fishing in his pack for the wire-cutters. “Can you see Sorcha?”
“Not yet,” Bill said. He scanned the road to the east, then to the west of the bridge, before trudging across to the opposite side and scanning the railway to the north. “A river when it rains? Give it a year, and this bridge will collapse.”
“Not even a year,” Chester said as he snipped the wire. “One hard frost, this mud will freeze, the outward pressure will crack the walls and the drainage channels. It’ll crumble in the next few weeks, collapse before the spring.”
“Or enough pressure will be relieved that it won’t tumble at all,” Bill said. “Some of the Roman bridges lasted centuries, and plenty of Victorian bridges are still sound.”
“Without any maintenance at all?” Chester asked. “Roads and railways will soon be gone, best we face it. And if there’s a horde to fret over in Europe, what does it matter? Even if there wasn’t, what are the odds we’d ever want to come this way again?”
“True, but if Professor Fontayne is correct, if the zombies are dying, then in a couple of years, people will venture out to explore, to settle. It doesn’t hurt to think about what the world will be like then, and how we’ll live in it. Ponies are the answer, I think. Rather, they’re the only answer I can think of right now.”
“The ponies on that island in Connemara, you mean?” Chester asked.
“That’s them,” Bill said. “I doubt they’ll survive the winter without help, and we can’t take the risk of them dying. We’ve seen so few animals. I’m sure some have survived, up in the hills, the mountains. Or I hope they have, but we can’t risk being wrong. Lose those ponies, and we’ll be down to Shanks mare across the rough ground. By the time the zombies are gone, we could have bred up dozens. Maybe hundreds. Maybe enough to leave some grazing every grassy island around the coasts of Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, and Canada. We’ll have transportation and food close to wherever we need it.”
“Sounds ambitious,” Chester said.
“Not compared to building a railroad.”
“You’ll need volunteers to stay on the islands to look after them,” Chester said.
“We can provide them with a wind turbine for electricity,” Bill said. “And the wind turbines could double as radio masts. It wouldn’t be a bad life, all told.”
“No, not compared to the alternatives. Depends on the weather, though, don’t it? If we’re getting blizzards here in France, I can’t imagine what the weather’s like on an Irish island out in the Atlantic. There, that’s the ladder tied off at this end. Still only one zombie?”
“Looks it,” Bill said. “The ladder’s not long enough. The base is— There, do you hear it? The base is knocking against the bridge. We need some cord to secure it to the ATV, otherwise that noise will summon the undead.”
“You fetch it,” Chester said. “I’ll take care of that zombie down there.”
“You’re going to try the ladder?”
“No fear.
I’ll take the scenic route down through the field,” he said. “No sign of Sorcha?”
“Not yet,” Bill said. “I don’t think she’ll head off on her own. Not now.”
“That’s not what’s worrying me,” Chester said.
Bill walked slowly, stiffly, back to the house. He tried to keep focused on the ever-present danger of the undead, but his mind drifted, replaying the events of a long day that had followed on from an even longer week. That morning, they’d fought a battle at Adrianna’s watchtower, though his part had mostly been behind the wheel of the ATV. In itself, that had been more exhausting than yesterday’s battle at the bell-tower, compounded by the day’s driving since. When had he last driven? London, during the escape from Kew? No, driving from Wales to the Masterton family estate in Northumberland, though he’d been so focused on the goal he barely remembered the journey. There’d been a few times in a golf-buggy on Anglesey, but that didn’t count. Had he driven in Ireland? He stopped in his tracks. He could remember finding Kim after he’d thought she was dead, but the rest was already a blur.
“Find some cord,” he muttered, though his mind went back to a long-forgotten history lesson about when England and France had the same king. He could remember sitting in a stifling classroom, a textbook open in front of him. He couldn’t remember a single thing the book had said. Had this area of France been forests before the age of agriculture, or had it been plains? It didn’t matter. Without animals to chew on the saplings, it would become a forest soon enough. They couldn’t breed up ponies quickly enough to prevent that from happening. And if he was honest, there was little chance they’d be able to breed enough ponies to do more than keep that small herd alive. That wasn’t to say they shouldn’t try. Despite the horde, the need to rescue the people of Creil, the dangers inherent in finding their way back to Belfast, this nightmare would soon be over. Within a month, they’d arrive at their new home. Perhaps not their final home, but a place to rest for a season, a year. The time was coming to think of the future beyond that.