Zombies didn’t breathe. They had no air in their lungs. Therefore they wouldn’t float. She ran through her reasoning, and then compared it to her experiences in the Tower, but that was replaced by the memory of a brackish river on their trek from Cumbria to Hull. There’d been a corpse floating on the surface, a corpse that moved. She didn’t think zombies breathed, but perhaps she was wrong. Zombies did suck air into those necrotic lungs, producing that vile, whistling wheeze as it was expelled. And the undead could traipse across a riverbed to emerge on the opposite bank; they’d seen that at the bridges across the Swale near Sheppey. Would the out-going tide carry the zombies along the riverbed, or just below the waves? She simply didn’t know. All she knew was that the undead were coming, dragged along Old Father Thames almost as fast as their roped-together river-caravan.
Lorraine led the way, her boat’s sails flapping at a bucket less than a billow. The occasional buzz of her motor interrupted the splash of the oars from the two rafts towed behind. The children were aboard Lorraine’s boat, as were Aisha, Kevin, and the submariner, Norman Jennings. The remainder of the adults were crammed onto the two rafts. Most clutched an oar, but they were being used for steering more than rowing, keeping the rafts in the faster flowing channel at the centre of the river. Motion was provided by tide and wind, and it wasn’t nearly fast enough. She corrected herself. Mostly the oars were only being used to fend off plastic, wood, and the other floating detritus carried just beneath the river’s surface. That was clue enough that something had changed upstream. For the past few weeks, the river had been flowing more freely, more clearly. Now it was as scum-ridden as it had been during the early autumn.
She thrust her oar at a lime-green oblong of plastic, nearly as big as a coffin. Where had this debris come from? There was an obvious answer. Zombies didn’t float. They didn’t breathe. They trudged along the bottom of the river, churning the silt, releasing the rubbish from time’s muddy grip. She could almost see their withered arms reaching up from the murk, ready to grasp her oar if only she lowered it another inch.
Ahead, the sailing boat’s motor chugged into life.
“Raise oars,” Nilda said.
With a jolt, the rope grew taut, and the raft picked up speed. They still weren’t travelling fast, not when judged by the speed at which the buildings on the shore drifted past, but they were travelling faster than the current. Was that faster than the undead?
Trying to ignore the river, she fixed her eyes forward, looking for a landmark that would tell them where they were, though that wouldn’t give them any clue as to how far they had left to travel. Only George faced backwards. It was the same in the other raft where Tuck, alone, sat without an oar, her eyes alert for peril hidden within the waves. If the undead did catch them, Jennings had been instructed to cut the ropes attaching the rafts to the yacht. If he didn’t, then George and Tuck would. Unencumbered, the yacht, and so the children, would speed eastwards. Until the fuel ran out.
A caw erupted from the carry-case at her feet.
“Ethelred doesn’t like being away from the Tower,” Felicity said.
“Ethelred?” Nilda asked.
“That’s what the children named her,” Felicity said. “They named all the ravens. More fool me for trying to teach the kids a little ancient history.”
“It’s as good a name as any other,” Nilda said. “No, I like it. I like that we’re taking a little bit of England with us.”
The departure had been so rushed the carry-cases had been thrown into the rafts before she’d decided whether the birds should be left behind. There hadn’t even been time to get Jay safely aboard Lorraine’s yacht.
She looked across at her son, scooping rainwater from the bottom of their boat with a souvenir tin cup from the Tower’s gift shop. He wasn’t throwing it over the side, though, but pouring it into a plastic jug. She wasn’t sure how much water they’d brought, or even if they’d brought any. Nor had there been time to count how many bags Simone had brought, let alone check what was in them. More importantly, she didn’t know how much ammunition everyone had packed. The ammo had been distributed last night, along with a firearm apiece. There hadn’t been time to distribute food or water. She’d planned to do that after Leon’s boats had arrived and she’d assessed their size. Instead, Aisha had madly scrambled through the kitchens, filling as many boxes and bags as she could, half of which they’d ended up leaving behind. And if they didn’t regret that in the days to come, she’d not learned anything from the last few months.
While she was doing her best to bring some order to all of that chaos, George had used the sat-phone to call Kallie. From what George had said as they’d piled into the boats, today’s satellite images were inconclusive. The part of the horde still north of the Thames had changed direction, and was, as of yesterday, following the river eastward towards London. Kallie wasn’t sure how many zombies had made it into the river, but guessed at thousands.
George was also unsure whether the river had truly been dammed by the corpses, or whether this was simply speculation. In turn, Nilda wasn’t sure whether George was telling her everything he knew or simply trying to reassure her. Ten million zombies had trampled Birmingham into dust. She found it utterly impossible to visualise that number, but it was surely more than enough to dam the river upstream. In an hour, perhaps two, the water level would drop, and the boats would be stranded on the riverbed until the tide came in. But they wouldn’t survive until the incoming tide. Unable to trudge to safety through the thick silt, they would be trapped, stranded, torn apart.
Ahead, the yacht’s engine died.
“Oars,” Nilda said. “Oars! Keep us steady. Keep us straight. Not long now.”
She plunged her oar into the water, and almost had it torn from her grip. Her heart skipped, but the oar had only tangled in a strip of plastic netting. She tugged it free and forced herself to breathe. The Thames was fed by many different rivers and tributaries, albeit most had been subsumed into the sewer system. During the spring, the tide had dragged unmoored boats to Teddington Lock, forming a dam which had made no noticeable difference to the water level. No, the Thames wouldn’t suddenly dry up. And no, even now, there couldn’t be a legion of the undead silently marching beneath the waves. Not yet. As for zombies being dragged along the surface, there was nothing she could do but fend off obstacles, and keep the raft straight.
“Zombies,” Jay said.
“On the bank,” George added quickly.
“They’re following us,” Jay said.
“Great,” Nilda said. She told herself not to look, that it wouldn’t help, but she couldn’t stop herself. Over twenty of the undead were on the northern bank, staggering eastwards along a waterfront path. Were they really following? Perhaps, perhaps not.
“That’s Canary Wharf ahead,” Felicity said.
“Once we’re beyond there, we’ll go ashore,” Nilda said. “Somewhere along the Greenwich Peninsula, I think. We’ll wait there for Leon.”
She still had no idea where he was. Lorraine had the sat-phone, but if Leon was close, Lorraine would have signalled to the rafts. Besides, the same tide that dragged them eastward would be acting against Leon as he travelled west. Get to the Greenwich Peninsula. Get there, and get ashore. Find somewhere secure until Leon arrived. Hope the Isle of Dogs and the river’s other promontories acted as a breakwater that would stop the undead.
“Zombie,” Jay said, this time more quietly. “In the water, there.”
“It’s dead,” George said. “And if it’s floating, it probably wasn’t a zombie.”
But as Nilda turned to look, the same waves that had brought it to the surface dragged the corpse back beneath the foam. As the creature rolled onto its side and then its back, its arms rose above its head. Perhaps that was caused by the motion of the water. Perhaps. Perhaps the best they could hope for was to go ashore, find a tall building, and tell Lorraine to make for the open sea. Perhaps, but they certainly couldn’t stay in the ex
posed rafts for much longer.
“What’s that noise?” Jay asked.
“What noise?” George asked.
“Can’t you hear it?” Jay said. “It’s… I don’t know.”
“It’s an engine,” George said. “It’s an engine!”
“It’s Leon,” Nilda whispered.
Chapter 5 - A Sailor’s Life For Me
The Thames
Nilda was the last to climb the rope ladder and board the large, but now crowded, yacht.
“Welcome to my fleet,” a tall, grey-haired man said. His weather-beaten face matched his clothes, but his chin bore a nick from a recent shave and his trousers held the memory of a crease.
“Leon? Hi,” she said. “You won’t believe how welcome a sight you are!”
An old woman pushed herself through the crowd filling the deck. “Les enfants?” she asked.
“The children? They’re on Lorraine’s boat,” Nilda said. “You’re Giselle Dupont?”
The old woman gave a smile that Nilda had seen before, though only on a much younger face.
Nilda smiled in return. “Simone’s safe,” she said. “She’s on Lorraine’s boat. Insisted on bringing the crown jewels. Wouldn’t let us leave them behind.”
Giselle Dupont’s smile crinkled. She clearly didn’t understand the words, except for the name.
“Bien,” Leon said. “Your raft, we can not bring it.”
“And I suppose we don’t need it now,” Nilda said.
Leon gave a curt nod, pulled the ropes free from the cleat, and set the raft adrift. “Now we leave.” In brisk French, he ushered the civilians below decks. Nilda hung back, leaning against the rail, watching the raft drift away. Miraculously, wonderfully, they were safe. All of them. Those on the other raft had disembarked onto a second yacht. Tuck stood by the rail of that boat. The soldier saluted. Nilda waved back. Two more boats, still unencumbered with passengers, bobbed a hundred metres further downriver. To Nilda’s eye, the vessels looked identical; mostly white, mostly fibreglass, with slack sails and sleek lines. That the boats had reached them was all that mattered. She turned her attention back to the Thames. The slight elevation, and the sudden banishing of her earlier terror, made her see it anew. There were corpses floating in the water. Lots of corpses. And did that body just swing an arm towards her, or was that the waves?
“Excusez-moi,” a woman said.
Nilda turned around. The woman was younger than her, but only by five or six years. Taller by an inch, wearing a blue and red jacket marred by a jagged tear hastily stitched with yellow thread. A red hat hid most of her clipped-short hair, but nothing could hide the exasperated, and slightly exhausted, smile.
“Hello. And thank you,” Nilda said. “You pulled our bacon straight out of the fire. Out of hell. It looks so much worse from here.”
The woman gave a polite, yet frustrated, smile. “Oui. Yes. Hello. Ah… Camille Goosens. Hi.”
“Hi, thank you,” Nilda said.
“Oui,” the woman said, her smile slipping, the edge of frustration growing. “I need to work.” She gestured at the sails, the small engine at the boat’s rear, then at the cockpit.
“I’m in the way. Understood, sorry.” Nilda ducked into the cockpit.
There was barely enough space to stand, but all the seats were occupied. George sat on the bench by the door, a sat-phone pressed to his ear. Leon stood by the wheel, talking softly into a radio. Felicity handed a bag to Jay who was at the top of a set of steps filled with people, slowly waiting for the passengers ahead to find space in the already over-crowded cabins. Jay handed the bag on and down, then took the raven carry-case Felicity held out to him next. From below came words, but no real conversation. Stiff from rowing, exhausted from the tension of the last few hours, drenched by the rain, everyone wanted a few square feet of their own in which to let the reality of their rescue settle.
The raven cawed, loud enough to cut through the muted chatter. Leon gave a rueful shake of his head, and then returned to speaking through the radio.
“Nilda,” George said. He eased over on the narrow bench-seat, making room. Nilda squeezed in next to him. The old man kept the sat-phone pressed to one ear, his other hand covering his free ear as he listened, rather than spoke. Leon did the opposite, barking in rapid-fire French into the radio’s handset. Nilda closed her eyes, grateful she couldn’t understand what was being said, and therefore had no new worries to add to the old.
With a jolt, she sat up.
“You okay there, Nilda?” George asked.
“Was I asleep?”
“Only for ten minutes or so,” George said.
“We’re underway?” She glanced out the window to confirm it. They were moving slowly, under sail. Camille was still on deck, hovering near the cockpit door, her eyes on the lines above her. Leon was at the wheel. Jay was perched on a backless seat, a book in his hands. That was almost enough to make her think she was still dreaming. Felicity sat on the topmost step of the ladder-like stairs, snoring softly. Below her sat the elderly couple, Pierre and Giselle Dupont. Below them, from the small yacht’s smaller cabins, came the sound of quiet conversation, not so quiet cawing, and the buzz-saw snores of those who’d fallen asleep.
“Um… Leon…” Nilda began. She searched her mind trying to recall any words of French she might once have known. “George, I don’t know any French, do you? I want to know if they used the diesel engines to reach us, whether they have any fuel left in reserve.”
“Of course,” George said. “Every Englishman knows how to speak French, well known fact. Le-on,” he added, deliberately pronouncing each syllable, while speaking a decibel louder. “The die-sel! Did you use it all?”
“Every old man thinks he is a comedian,” Leon said. “I speak English. I prefer the language of love to that of war, but understanding English was an operational necessity. Yes, we used diesel to battle against the tide. We are under sail now.”
“But when the tide turns, the sails will only keep us in place,” Nilda said. “Did you use all the diesel?”
“Not all, but how much we have left doesn’t matter. We cannot get more. The wind is in our favour. We will outrace the tide.”
“I was thinking about the—” Nilda stopped, aware that the conversation below had ceased. The snoring hadn’t, but those who were awake were listening. Better not to mention the undead. “We went to the Isle of Sheppey. Do you know it?”
“A nest for pirates and reavers who plagued the coast of my homeland for centuries? I know the island, yes.”
“There’s a car-import lot on Sheppey,” Nilda said. “We found fuel there.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Oh, of course, the sat-phones,” she said. “If we go to Sheppey, we can refuel.”
“Bien. We will need somewhere to anchor tonight.” A drop of rain splashed against the forward window. Then another. “Ah, rain,” he said. “Even better.”
“It is?” she asked.
“We expected to provision at your castle. We are low on water. We should gather the rain.” He turned to Jay. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, it’s a book on Neville Chamberlain. I’m just getting to the bit about the Norway debate.”
“Pah!” Leon exclaimed. “You want to read about a real politician, read about De Gaulle. You want to read about a real leader, read about Napoleon.”
“Oh, I know about him,” Jay said. “Mum has a book. But Napoleon lost.”
“Lost? He was betrayed by fate, by the weather,” Leon said. “A freak circumstance, nothing more. Do you know how to steer?”
“Not really,” Jay said.
“I’ll show him,” George said.
“Bien. Madame?” Leon gestured at the door.
“In the absence of coffee, fresh air will suffice,” Nilda said.
Leon handed her a bucket, then picked up a length of plastic sheeting, and opened the door. Nilda stepped outside, noticing the cold first, the ship’s movement second.
“Camille, surveille,” Leon said.
The woman nodded, and went inside. Leon closed the door behind her.
“I didn’t know that the French army recruited women for their Special Forces,” Nilda said.
“Camille? She was a teacher. In Lille. Her family were farmers. She became a teacher. After the outbreak, she became a soldier. Now she is a sailor. Soon, we will all be farmers. The undead are dying, you heard?”
“About the hospital in Dundalk, yes,” Nilda said.
“It is ending,” Leon said. “Finally, it is ending, but what will begin? Wait here.”
Nilda needed no second invitation, but leaned against the door as Leon set up the plastic sheet. He tied one side to the cockpit. He screwed the pole into a recently drilled hole in the deck, and tied one of the sheet’s other corners to that, creating a ramp down which the rain could run, to the fourth corner, which he placed in the bucket. It was a task that barely required one person, leaving only one reason Leon had asked her for help. He didn’t waste any more time getting to the point.
“Does Simone know?” he asked, his voice low.
“No,” Nilda said. “I couldn’t think of a way to tell her without her asking questions that had no easy answers.”
“And do you think she is Pierre and Giselle’s granddaughter?”
Nilda shrugged. “Maybe. There’s certainly a resemblance. I thought you knew the family.”
“I knew Giselle and Pierre. Their daughter…” He hesitated. “She moved away before Simone was born. It is an unhappy story but in the worst sadness we often find joy. It is good we have this news. Cornwall is radioactive.”
Surviving The Evacuation (Book 15): Where There's Hope Page 5