by Frank Tayell
“Her education is sadly lacking,” Scott said, turning the CD player off. “Did you speak to the professor?”
“And the Assembly,” Salman said. “Or I listened, they yelled. They’re not happy that Bill, Chester, and Sorcha have taken that ATV north, but there’s nothing they can do about it.”
“What about the engineers?” Amber asked.
“No one knows they’re dead,” Salman said. “The general belief is, after giving that false report about an attack at the airfield, they fled. There’s to be a guard on these vehicles tonight. I volunteered us for it.”
“I guess sleeping here will be as comfortable as in a trailer on the island,” Amber said.
“Are we still a go for tomorrow?” Scott asked. “Did they tell you the plan?”
“As punishment, we’re the rear guard, travelling right at the back,” Salman said. “Do you think this coach can make it?”
“To the Pyrenees? Maybe,” Scott said.
“The rendezvous is ninety kilometres east of here, a place called Château-Thierry. Can we make that?”
“Should do,” Scott said.
“Good. We’ll drive this coach, then. Adrianna’s also bringing up the rear. There will be others. Soldiers in military vehicles, so we won’t be travelling alone.”
“You mean we’ve got guards making sure we don’t drive off,” Amber said.
“Hard to say,” Salman said. “I can’t see why they’d care. Empty your bags.”
“Our bags, why?” Scott asked.
Salman opened his. “Ammo. As much as I could carry. We’re leaving a lot behind at the airport, so I’m going to go get us some more. Scott, can you get us some fuel? They’ve got six tankers riding with us, but they’ll be up front. Tell them we need it in case there’s a breakdown. Private, this vehicle is now the property of the US Marine Corps. No unauthorised personnel come aboard. Understand?”
There was another knock at the door.
“It’s Starwind,” Amber said. “Is she authorised?”
“Looks like she’s got dinner,” Scott said.
“Civilians,” Salman muttered, and opened the door.
Day 258, 26th November
Chapter 2 - Lost En Route
Creil to Château-Thierry
“Absolute right exists,” Starwind said. “And so does absolute wrong. This is why we must have an absolute punishment.”
“But there’s a difference between murder and an execution,” Amber said.
“Death is death,” Starwind said. “And you come from America. You kill people all the time.”
“Not me personally,” Amber said. “And I’m not against the death penalty as such, but there has to be justice, which means laws, which means courts, trials, judges, juries.”
“And what of natural justice?” Starwind replied.
“Strewth, knock it off, you two,” Scott said, opening his eyes. “Can’t a bloke get a bit of shut-eye?”
“Sorry, Scott,” Amber said.
“It is important,” Starwind said.
“You remind me of my daughter,” Scott said. “She and her friends would stay up all night putting the world to rights, but come the next day, the sunrise looked much the same as yesterday’s.”
“Le soleil se lève toujours,” Madame Bensayed said. Scott didn’t know what that meant, but from the way Starwind sullenly folded her arms, he took it to mean the older woman agreed with him. Silence was restored to the interior of the coach as it rumbled eastward.
Madame Bensayed drove the coach. Of all Adrianna’s people, she was the oldest, but she wasn’t old, not by Scott’s reckoning, having only a few years’ advantage on him. Salman Khan rode shotgun, albeit holding his suppressed SA80, in the jump seat next to the doors. Madame Bensayed had spent the trip conversing with the sergeant in a quiet mix of Arabic and Urdu. Scott had travelled widely enough to recognise the languages, though not broadly enough to ever learn either.
The first two rows of passenger seats had been claimed by Amber and Starwind for their impromptu debating society. Scott’s mistake had been taking a pair of seats behind them, with the row on the other side of the aisle occupied by his bag of tools and many bags of spares. Behind him were a swathe of empty seats, and then, clustered near the back of the vehicle, the eight survivors they’d already collected in the hour since leaving Creil. Those eight hadn’t been travelling together, but had broken down a bare two kilometres apart, and less than three kilometres from a panel van. He’d been able to repair the van, but not the cars, and after a few minutes of trying, after Salman had already shot three of the approaching undead, their passengers had been pushed aboard, and the coach had continued heading east.
Ahead, visible through the coach’s wide windscreen, was Adrianna’s up-armoured yellow minibus. Behind them, bringing up the rear and marking the end of the now very extended column, were two French Army PVP armoured cars. To either side were the undead. In fields and front yards, trampling through gardens and traipsing across industrial estates, and always heading towards the road, summoned by the sound of so many vehicles ahead. And the walking corpses were ahead of them, too, often in the road. Scott watched the minibus swerve left, not to avoid the creatures, but so Adrianna could be sure of a solid hit as her sheet-metal plough carved into one of the staggering monsters. That had been why Scott had spent most of the journey, save for when they’d stopped, with his eyes closed.
“Where’s the map?” Scott asked, tearing his gaze away from the gore and broken limbs splattering across the road.
“Here,” Starwind said, tapping her finger against it as she handed it to him. “Nous sommes ici, Trocy-en-Multien.”
“That’s us? So we’re about fifty kilometres from Creil,” he said, measuring the distance with his finger. “And we’ve another forty kilometres to burn before we reach the rendezvous at Château-Thierry.”
“We’re making good time,” Amber said.
“We’re not,” Starwind said. “It is over an hour since we left. And two hours since the column began leaving Creil. Four hours since the scouts departed. We will not reach the Pyrenees until tomorrow.”
“Nope,” Scott said. “But it was always a moon-shot in a microlight that we’d get there tonight. Stay positive. It’ll make as much difference as being negative, but does your soul more good.”
“C’est vrai,” Madame Bensayed said.
“C’est un avis,” Starwind said.
“We’re not taking the most direct of routes, or the widest roads,” Salman said, ending the debate before it could properly begin. “We are making good time. Very good time compared to walking. The ice and snow might be melting, but we’d struggle to make more than twenty kilometres a day out there, while the horde could manage forty. If we’re fifty kilometres from Creil, we’re safe.”
“But not from the zombies ahead,” Starwind said as the minibus swerved again, cleaving through another of the living dead.
“Did your mum clear this road?” Scott asked. “That’s why we’re taking this route, isn’t it? Someone’s already pushed the stalled traffic onto the verge.”
“That was us,” Starwind said. “We did this. We are not far from my watchtower. The professor knows this. It is why she chose this route. We told her that she would need a way to escape Creil. We told her she needed more watchtowers. She didn’t listen to me. She listened to my mother instead.”
“That’s us old folks for you,” Scott said. “We find it hard to take words of wisdom from our children. You did a bonzer job, though, and it looks like you were listened to just in time. The temperature is rising fast, and the thaw will come just as quickly. The ice in the fields on either side is melting. That stretch of ditch is already flooded. This road will be submerged by the weekend, maybe washed away the day after, and impassable a few days after that. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I prefer flying.”
“It is already Friday,” Starwind said.
“Mercredi,” Madame Bensayed said.
“Non, vendredi,” Starwind said.
Madame Bensayed shook her head, but didn’t continue the argument.
To their left, the melting snow had revealed a lake where a field should have been. Was there a crater beneath the water? They had no Geiger counter aboard to assuage his fears, but the soldiers bringing up the rear in the PVP carried one, as did those at the front of the column. If there was danger, someone would have said, and found a new route. He hoped. Unless this was the least worst route they could take. Since it would be near impossible to turn around, it was better not to know. Following that dictum, he turned back to the map.
“Château-Thierry is east-southeast of Creil, and almost due east of Paris. If we turn south there, we’ll avoid that city. Did you go there?”
“Paris? Yes. It is bad,” Starwind said. “But is anywhere good?”
“Fair point,” Scott said. “From Château-Thierry we head southwest towards Vierzon, picking up the A20 until we reach the Pyrenees. Did you clear the roads near there?”
“Non,” Starwind said. “Not all the way.”
“Our ultimate goal is near…” Scott had to raise the map close to his eyes to read the small name ringed by a large circle. “Near Gourette. That’s a tourist village, yes? A ski resort? And it’s due south of Lourdes. Now, let’s find airports.”
“Why do you want an airport?” Starwind asked.
“Because that’s where you find planes,” Scott said. “Helicopters, too, but I know planes. I know airports. I think the nearest is north of Lourdes, in Tarbes. I never landed there, but it was the alternate when we were flying to Pau, that’s to the northwest, and a little deeper into France. Otherwise, we’re looking at an airport in Spain. Bilbao would be the best. That city is by the coast, and so a logical place for the ship from Belfast to come, but it would mean crossing the mountains. And, of course, Bilbao is a big city with a big harbour. Refugees would have gravitated towards it, particularly those who were on foot, taken one look at the mountains, another at their feet, and decided getting a bit wet was better than a slog up a cliff face. Biarritz could work, I suppose, but that’s in France, and so is the horde.”
“Work for what?” Amber asked.
“If Bill finds a sailing boat along the first stretch of coast he reaches,” Scott said, “it’ll still take them a week to slog their way to Ireland. Say another three days for a ship to travel to the Bay of Biscay. Ten days, at the earliest, before they’ll be dangling their feet in Spanish waters. They’ll check out at least two harbours for fuel and other supplies. If we pick the right one, we could be there, waiting for them when they arrive.”
“And if we pick the wrong one, they will sail away without us,” Starwind said.
“Which is where the airports come in,” Scott said. “Perhaps we’ll find a plane, but a helicopter is more likely. Somewhere to land the convoy’s helicopter is likelier still. Keep that chopper in the air, and the ship will see it, and thus will know where to come looking.”
“In ten days,” Starwind said.
“Two weeks is more realistic,” Scott said. “That’s when the ships will arrive, not when they’ll leave. Call it three days in harbour. So two and a half weeks, at least. Assuming Bill can find a decent boat. If he can only find a poor one, he might end up sailing to Kent, then travelling the hard way across England over to the Irish Sea. That could add another week to their journey.”
“Then time isn’t an issue?” Amber asked. “For us, I mean?”
“Not really,” Scott said. “We’ll get to Gourette tomorrow night, and need another day to deal with the undead that followed. While the professor is working out the next steps with the Ukrainians, we want to move west, towards the coast. Yep, we’ve got time.”
“Not yet we don’t,” Salman said. “Adrianna’s signalling. Someone’s broken down. Starwind, pass the word to our passengers. Everyone’s to get ready to get out and fight, but they’re to stay on board until I order otherwise.”
Starwind made her way down the aisle towards the passengers, dispersed among the rear rows.
“Wish we had radios,” Amber said.
“If that woman, Cavalie, was communicating with VanHausen, she might be listening in,” Salman said.
“Do you think that’s likely?” Amber asked.
“Nope,” Salman said. “But the orders came from above. And since neither we nor Adrianna have a radio set, it’s a hard command to disobey. When we stop, same procedure as before. Private, you go up to the roof of the coach, watch our flanks for the undead. If they get within a hundred metres, yell. I count dozens out there, and there are hundreds more following. Scott, you go to the stalled vehicle. I need to know two things: can it be repaired, and how long will it take.”
“Gotcha,” Scott said.
Starwind returned as the coach slowed.
“Starwind, you stay by Mr Higson’s side,” Salman said. “Keep him alive, understand?”
Ahead, the minibus stopped just beyond a small car outside of which stood four people. While there was room for the minibus to scrape by, with a rusting truck on one side, a wrecked minivan on the other, there was no way the coach would squeeze through.
“I told you that car was a lemon,” Amber said.
“Lemon?” Starwind said. “Ah, citron. No, that is a Fiat.”
“She means it’s a junker that was destined for the scrap heap,” Scott said. “Instead, it’ll have to make do with the roadside.”
The coach’s door opened before the vehicle had come to a proper halt.
“Go!” Salman called.
Scott followed Salman and Amber outside. Salman ran to the rear of the coach while Amber pulled herself up to the roof. Scott glanced behind, but there was no sign of the PVP armoured cars. A hand pushed at his back as Starwind urged him onward.
Anais, one of Adrianna’s people who was dressed entirely in red, had climbed onto the roof of the reinforced minibus. Adrianna had run to the vehicle’s front, her assault rifle raised. Like the weapon Anais carried, it was a French FAMAS assault rifle from the supply cache at Creil’s airport.
Adrianna raised the bullpup rifle and fired past the stalled car. The shot’s echo was drowned by a second, then a third as the stalled vehicle’s passengers ran towards the coach.
“Tell them to wait,” Scott said to Starwind. “We might need them to push. And ask them what happened,” he added as he pushed his way through the running passengers, barely noticing the shotgun, knives, and improvised club in their hands.
Before Starwind could ask a question, let alone before she could translate an answer, Scott had cracked the hood, and seen the damage for himself. A bullet was embedded in the radiator.
“Scott!” Adrianna called.
He heard the urgency, and then heard another shot, and knew there was no time.
“Shoulders to the grindstone, everyone,” he called. “Push!” he added, running to the window, checking the handbrake. “We need to move it off the road.” He slammed his shoulder against the rear of the car, wincing as a bolt of lightning ran across his head.
“We can’t drive?” Starwind asked.
“Bullet in the radiator,” Scott said, wincing against the fading needle in his brain. It didn’t hurt, not as such, but it was a sensation far beyond pain. A result of the plane crash, he guessed, but could barely think beyond that. “Push,” he hissed.
The passengers and Starwind did. With the six of them, or five since Scott was doing little more than leaning against the car for support, they shoved the Fiat towards the verge. Not far towards it, as there was a minivan in the way.
“More,” Scott hissed. “Need to get the coach through.”
The bumper pushed against the van’s front panel. Plastic cracked and metal scratched. Gravel ground against the ice-worn road, as car and van moved by an inch, a foot, a metre.
“Scott! Now!” Adrianna called.
“Good enough,” Scott hissed, hoping it was. “Board the coach. Move t
hem, Starwind.”
She yelled in French, louder than a sergeant major and with just as vinegary a tone, but it got them running, while Scott walked back to the coach.
“You all right?” Salman asked.
“Just my head,” Scott said. “It’s clearing.” He clambered aboard.
“Private Kessler!” Salman called, and Scott realised she was still on the roof. “Amber! Inside! Now!”
The young woman dropped down and climbed aboard, a satisfied grin on her face. Salman climbed in last.
Madame Bensayed closed the door. “Hold on,” she said. That she spoke in English had Scott gripping the metal bar in front of the seat even more tightly as they drove along the road, following the yellow minibus. With a crunch, they reached the stalled Fiat. And with a paint-gouging grind, they scraped through, accelerating as they reached the empty road beyond.
“Are you okay, Scott?” Salman asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Scott said. “Pulled a muscle in my brain, that’s all.”
Salman watched him for a moment before turning his attention to their four new passengers, who sat together in the middle of the coach. The sergeant lowered himself to his seat, then lowered his voice. “The PVPs have gone.”
“The armoured cars?” Scott asked. “Our escort?”
“Amber, did you see them from the roof?” Salman asked.
“I saw nothing but zombies, Sarge,” she said. “In the road, the fields. They were everywhere.”
“And the PVPs?” Salman prompted.
“No, Sarge.”
“They were behind us ten minutes before we stopped,” Salman said.
“Do we go back?” Amber asked.
“We can’t turn around,” Salman said. He bent to peer through the window. “And there are far too many zombies for us to reverse. Far, far too many. Odd. Very odd. I’d expect the zombies to be on the road.”
“Why do you say that is odd?” Starwind asked.
“Because,” Salman said, “if we’ve got twenty thousand Ukrainians, plus a thousand people from Creil all driving towards the same rendezvous, I’d expect the zombies to be heading in the same direction, finding the path of least resistance. In this case, the road.”
