by Frank Tayell
“How many of you survived here?” he asked.
Before Rigmor could answer, or avoid the question, the door opened, and the older woman entered. She spoke first to Rigmor. Sholto didn’t follow a word of what she said. Rigmor sighed, reached beneath the counter, and lifted up a long black case. Sholto had owned a few of those in his time, and knew a rifle would be inside. A high-powered, high-calibre, long-barrelled weapon. There wasn’t enough light to tell the make, but it had the appearance of military issue. Rigmor, despite her new metal armour, handled it with practiced fluidity.
The older woman took off her helmet, and held it out to Rigmor. With even greater reluctance, the younger woman took the piece of modern equipment.
“You’ve been detailed to take care of the undead by the bridge?” Sholto asked.
Rigmor shrugged. The older woman said nothing. Sholto hoped that meant yes.
“This way,” the older woman said. She opened the door, and ushered them out into the shrouded afternoon.
The rain was slackening, but the wind was rising, turning the downpour into a horizontal swipe, lashing at the few inches of groundward-facing skin that had so far remained untroubled by the storm. But they didn’t have far to walk, not if the glowing light was their destination. It came from across the forecourt, across a road, and from inside a small store.
“Inside,” the older woman said. Adding a fraction of a second later, “Please.”
“Better than being outside on a day like this,” Sholto said cheerily.
The older woman closed the door behind them, letting another heavy curtain fall so as to conceal the light from outside. She gestured at another curtain at the far end of a long corridor. Doors led off, with signs on the wall. Official notices, he saw, before he was ushered into a cosily warm room. Automatically, he looked around for the fire. There wasn’t one. There was a hint of something in the air. Not smoke, but cooking. He couldn’t place the scent, though it was oh-so-familiar.
The room was…
“This is a post office,” Siobhan said.
“It is,” a voice behind them said. It belonged to a man with shaped stubble that had a few splashes of red but no grey. His head was similarly shaved close. About thirty-five, and certainly no older, wearing a grey t-shirt that was clean, though it had a noticeable repair on the shoulder. He was tall, or he would have been if he wasn’t leaning on crutches. The left leg of his tan utility trousers had been sewn up, just below the knee. Balancing on the crutches, he limped his way out of the doorway, and across the room to an armchair, where he eased himself down.
“Please,” he said, indicating a pair of metal folding chairs opposite. “Have a seat. I would offer you the sofa, but your damp clothes, you understand? I would suggest you take them off, but this meeting won’t take long, and you will want to return to your friends, yes? They are in Tórshavn?”
“They are,” Siobhan said, taking a seat and leaning the rifle against her leg.
“An SA80? A British weapon. You are from Ireland. And you are from America.” His accent was different to the older woman’s, and to Rigmor’s. Scandinavian, certainly, but Sholto couldn’t place it any more firmly than that.
“We’ve come via Anglesey,” Siobhan said. “And the weapons came from a British Army cache. The suppressors we made for ourselves.”
“Ah.” The man smiled. “Gunnar Niclasen,” he said. “My name. You have met Rannvieg, of course. And Rigmor is… ah…” He paused, and waved a hand towards the wall and the bridge outside. “She is our devotee of very old legends. You would like to winter on Faroe, is that correct?”
“We didn’t know anyone was still here,” Siobhan said. “We hoped, of course, and we’ve found survivors across the Atlantic, but as the months have gone by, the number we’ve found has dropped.”
“Across the Atlantic?” Gunnar said. “Not just in Britain and Ireland?”
“From Cape Verde as far south as Ascension Island, and across to Puerto Rico. And Thaddeus escaped from Maine. We even found people up in Svalbard. That’s why we’re surprised to find people here.”
“Svalbard? Really?” Gunnar said. “Why, out of all those places, would you want to come to our islands?”
“For the hydroelectric plant,” Siobhan said. “For electricity. For light and heat, and for running water. We had it on Anglesey for a while. And with it, we have hydroponics and sanitation. Without it, we’ll struggle to keep humanity alive. We know of survivors in France. Twenty thousand of them. And we know there’s a thousand more between Germany and Ukraine. We need a base of operations in Europe. Somewhere the children will be safe while our soldiers and sailors make contact with these other groups.”
“For how long?” Gunnar asked.
“Until the spring, I suppose,” Siobhan said. “Longer, perhaps. The zombies are dying. Did you know that? They are dying, and in a few months, they’ll be gone.”
Gunnar shrugged. “We all hope that. We have all hoped that since it began.”
“Sure enough,” Siobhan said. “And now it’s happening. But there is bad news, too. Across Europe, most of the undead have gathered into one giant horde, perhaps as many as a hundred million strong, and they were last seen heading towards the Alps. That precludes us settling on the mainland for now. In a few months, in a year, it might be different. Until then, we need a secure home for the children, an island with electricity, while we search for other survivors.”
“Indeed,” Gunnar said. “Interesting. Very interesting. It is not I who will make the decision. It will be the Løgting, our parliament. I have some questions they would like answered.”
“Of course,” Siobhan said.
Sholto looked around, wondering if the parliament were listening. If they had electricity, why not radio?
“You arrived by ship, but your ship didn’t stay, no?” Gunnar asked.
“It continued north, but it’ll return in a few days,” Siobhan said. “Earlier if we call and ask.”
“You are in contact with them?” Gunnar asked.
“Of course,” Siobhan said.
“I see. And you came ashore in Tórshavn?”
“We did. We’re staying in a hotel for now,” she said.
“But you wanted to know if the hydroelectric plant was still functional,” he said. “Why go to Tórshavn?”
“We didn’t know where the power plant was,” Siobhan said. “We only had a few old books to go on, and they didn’t say where we’d find it. That’s why we went to Tórshavn.”
“But then why did you come here?” he asked.
“I don’t understand,” Siobhan said. “We thought the control room was to the north of here. On this island.”
“I mean why didn’t you use the tunnel?” Gunnar asked.
“What tunnel?” Sholto asked. “There’s a tunnel?”
“Yes, there’s a tunnel linking Streymoy and Eysturoy.”
“Our books didn’t mention it, but they are very old,” Siobhan said.
Gunnar nodded, and Sholto wasn’t sure he believed them. Certainly there was something making the man cautious, something to do with Ireland.
“You have soldiers and sailors and large ships,” Gunnar said. “There are ten thousand of you, and twenty thousand more in France, with others across Northern Europe. You want a safe harbour, homes, until spring. You want electricity and drinking water, yes? And what will you give us in return?”
“As I said, we didn’t think anyone was here,” Siobhan said.
“And yet we are. These are our islands. Our homes. Our homes that you wish to take. What will you give us? What will you pay?”
“Is cash all right?” Sholto asked. “I lost my credit card somewhere in Pennsylvania.”
“Hmm,” Gunnar said. It wasn’t a laugh.
“How about a future?” Siobhan said.
“A threat,” Rannvieg said, finally breaking her silence.
“No,” Siobhan said. “It’s not a threat. We can give you information about e
verywhere across the Atlantic, and it’s all as bad as everywhere else. Let’s assume the best-case scenario, and the zombies die off this winter. We know of about thirty thousand people across the continent of Europe. Extrapolate that across the planet, and it’s a few hundred thousand. That number will fall before it’ll rise. You can’t have more than a few hundred people. How many are doctors? We have doctors. We have nurses. We have large ships with room for all of you aboard. You’ve noticed the weather has been erratic. You can’t have missed it. How will you escape if these islands become icebound next year or the year after? There’s no safety in isolation. But if that’s what you want, we’ll leave you to it. As I say, there are twenty thousand people stranded in southern France. Our focus has to be on saving them, on saving the greatest number of lives. Offer us a safe harbour, and we’ll take it. We’ll pay in medical treatment, in supplies found on the mainland, in whatever else we can agree is reasonable. What we don’t have is time. So if you’re not the guy who’ll make the decision, then I should speak with whoever can.”
Gunnar nodded. “I will speak with them. I won’t be long.”
He grabbed his crutches, swung himself upright, and out of the room. Sholto heard a door closing, but he didn’t think it was one leading outside.
“You don’t like people from Ireland,” Siobhan said, turning in her chair to face Rannvieg. “Why not?”
“Where are you from?”
“In Ireland? Cork,” Siobhan said. “Is it something to do with the EU sending military units there after the outbreak and before the nuclear war? We have some of those soldiers among our number. French Special Forces for the most part, and I don’t think there’s anyone from Denmark. I know there are none from Faroe. We did ask, before we set out on this expedition.”
“Cork is in the south?” Rannvieg asked.
“Yes. And the EU units landed outside of Dublin. They headed south from there, before turning to the coast, and making for the sea, which is how they ended up in Wales, on Anglesey. It’s more or less how everyone did. But that’s not why you’re distrustful of people from Ireland. You met someone, didn’t you? Someone came here? Because of that, you’ve stayed close to home. You have ships, boats, and you have fuel for them. But you haven’t ventured far, or we’d have come across each other, heard the radio chatter. You don’t use the radio, do you? This is a post office. An old post office. He’s gone to use the phone, yes? To phone your parliament because you trust phones, but not radios, and not people from Ireland.”
“You are a police officer,” Rannvieg said with a specific dislike. “Always asking leading questions.”
“If you don’t like the questions, give me an answer,” Siobhan said.
“You know of a place called Malin Head?” Rannvieg asked.
“In the far northwest of the Republic, sure, I’ve heard of it,” Siobhan said blithely.
“A group arrived from there,” Rannvieg said. “Months ago. By boat. They brought ideas with them. Bad ideas.”
“You fought? People died?” Sholto asked, deciding he better take over the questioning unless Siobhan let slip she knew a lot more about Malin Head than its geographic location.
“No one died,” Rannvieg said. “But Gunnar lost his leg. We sent them away. But yes, we fought first.”
“If they didn’t die, what happened to them?” Sholto asked.
“They left,” Rannvieg said. “They were banished. None have returned.”
A clipping thump outside marked Gunnar’s return. “Parliament will meet this evening,” he said. “They will discuss what you have said. We will have a decision for you tomorrow. You will come back, and we will tell you. I’m sure you wish to get back to your friends now.” He smiled, but it was obvious they were being dismissed.
The storm had dropped, but it felt like a lull rather than the beginning of the calm. Rannvieg led them back to the bridge, and up to the shipping containers. Rigmor stood beneath the scant shelter of a narrow lean-to that was more a hide than a sentry box. The rifle was propped on a ledge.
“All is clear,” she said.
“See you tomorrow,” Sholto said, again as cheerily as he could manage, but it was far less than during their first meeting.
“What time tomorrow?” Siobhan asked Rannvieg. “No one said.”
“In the morning,” Rannvieg said. “We will be here.”
The searchlights had been switched off. Beyond, there was enough light to see the bodies, but no movement. Siobhan stood at the top of the ladder, her rifle raised, as Sholto climbed down first. The rain might have lessened, but it was still showering down, splashing into puddles black with the spilled gore of dozens of corpses. He stepped around and over them, pausing when he reached the car door. He couldn’t see a single arrow. Rigmor must have retrieved them. He continued to the rear of the car, waved at Siobhan, then kicked and rolled the dead zombies out of the path of the wheels. He was by the last of the undead that would have to be moved when Siobhan reached him.
“She removed the arrows,” Siobhan said.
“Yep, but not the bodies,” Sholto said, putting his heel against the corpse’s shoulder, and rolling it up, over, and out of the way.
Siobhan leaned a hand on his shoulder, then pointed into the distance as she moved in close. “Say nothing in the car,” she whispered. “Nothing important. Nothing significant. Okay?”
“Nothing?” Then he slipped back into the paranoia that had kept him alive for so many years. “Of course. How long since these were infected? Weeks, not months, right?”
“Right,” Siobhan said. “I think we can get out of here. Shall we?”
She drove, and he sat, steaming, enjoying the heat spilling from the vents. She said little, and he said less, until they reached the village of Kollafjørđur, and the boat with its solitary mast. “We’re the first,” she said.
“We should have asked,” he began. He stopped, but decided it was best he finish the sentence. “We should have asked for some hospitality. There was something cooking.”
“Mutton seasoned with coriander.”
“That was the smell?” he asked.
“Think so. I want to check out this village while we’re here,” Siobhan said, turning on the indicator, then staring at her hand. “Old habits. Muscle memory. We might as well look around in the car.”
She turned the car inland, passing one house then another, then aimed at the far wider, taller, newer building that was clearly not anyone’s home. It had been their store. A small supermarket, again with an empty car park.
“No cars,” Siobhan said. “Let’s check inside anyway. I could do with something to eat.”
The store’s doors were closed, but a key was in the lock. Other than the shelves, it was the only thing that remained.
“They stripped the shop,” Siobhan said, brushing aside a cobweb. “Of course they did. Never mind. We can talk now.”
“You think they bugged the car?” Sholto asked.
“Wouldn’t you?” Siobhan asked.
“I guess I’d consider it, though I’m not sure how they’d go about it. How much surveillance equipment would police on this size of island have? And would they keep that kind of gear at that barricaded bridge?”
“You think I’m just being paranoid?” she asked.
“Paranoia isn’t always unjustified,” he said. “I’m living proof of that. But your first instinct was that they bugged the car. You don’t trust them?”
“Do you?”
“No, and they don’t trust us. They have a working phone system. What else do we know?”
“There are tunnels linking the islands,” she said. “And if those three were guarding the bridge, others must be guarding the tunnels. How many people do you think were there at the bridge?”
“Maybe six,” he said. “No more than ten.”
“Agreed. There were five chairs in that room in the post office, each with a stack of books next to them, and a chessboard on the table in the corner with a gam
e half-played. They’ve electricity, and so heat and illumination, but they’re cautious about lights being seen. They’ve washing machines as well, I think, which would explain why some of that clothing was left in Tórshavn. They’ve food, and they have enough people to spare sentries to watch a barricaded bridge.”
“And then there’s Malin Head,” Sholto said.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, there is. But let’s leave that until later. I’ll have to go through it again with everyone when we get to the hotel. Speaking of which, I suppose we should return to the road, and await the sergeant.”
“Unless you fancy going to look for him,” Sholto said.
“You think that’s best? No,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Not yet. We don’t want to miss each other, and for him to end up at the bridge. We’ll give it an hour.”
That hour was nearly up when Toussaint’s car drove through the thinning rain, coming to a halt next to theirs. Sholto and Siobhan climbed out, and waved Toussaint and Torres back into their vehicle.
“Broken down?” the sergeant asked, as Siobhan and Sholto climbed into the back.
“No,” Siobhan said. “We met people, and I’m worried they bugged our car.”
“Are we in immediate danger?” Toussaint asked.
“I don’t think so,” Siobhan said.
“Then you better tell me what happened.”
“What did you find at the airport?” Siobhan asked when she’d finished a brief summary of their meeting with the Faroese.
“Cars,” Torres said. “We found the cars. But first we found there’s no bridge. It’s a tunnel. That’s where the cars were. About a hundred. Parked bumper to bumper. There was barely enough room to drive through.”
“And the airport?” Sholto asked.
“There’s a 737 crashed at the far end of the runway,” Toussaint said. “Must have been full of fuel when it came in. The fireball wrecked a lot of the smaller planes that had arrived before, but there’re a couple of prop planes, and a pair of small jets that might fly again. Should be able to repair the runway easily enough. Halfway between the tunnel and the airport, there’s a vehicle depot containing lots of heavy construction equipment. Must belong to the government. We can use the tractors to clear away the debris. We found cement in one of the sheds with which we can patch the runway. Won’t be perfect, and won’t last that long, but it’ll do for a few landings and take-offs.”
