by Frank Tayell
“Not that the admiral’s told me.”
“I suppose we better not ask. Maybe Sorcha will find her friend in Ireland. When does she arrive?”
“Tonight. She’ll look for O’Reardon tomorrow.”
“Then let’s hope she finds her, or finds something positive to report.”
Day 275, 13th December
Chapter 5 - The Mass Graves of Killarney
Killarney, Ireland
While Tuck guarded the muddy track, Sorcha Locke nimbly vaulted over the roped-closed gate and squelched onto a patch of field worn bare by the repeated passage of a wheelbarrow. There were as many semi-submerged ruts as there were waterlogged footprints, all of which were made by the same set of boots.
They’d brought a map with them on which was marked the route Heather Jones had taken when she’d searched for Phyllis O’Reardon. Locke had even brought a copy of Bill’s journal in case too many washed-away roads made the map untrustworthy. She didn’t need to look at either to know this was the right place. Before her were graves. The uneven rows made any estimate inaccurate, but there were at least five hundred in this field alone. Most of the hand-dug burial pits were covered with loose soil, an occasional rock, and a few clumps of exceptionally hardy weeds, except for the eight closest to the gate. She checked each one in turn, but they contained nothing but leaves and water. It had been the same in each of the neighbouring fields. Most had been deeply dug and hastily filled, but in each, between five and twenty graves remained unoccupied.
She and Tuck had first visited Phyllis O’Reardon’s house. Rather, the house that Bill had suspected belonged to Phyllis’s parents. It was a burned wreck. The ashes were cold, but Heather hadn’t mentioned the house having been destroyed. There was only one explanation.
She slogged her way through the sticky mud, back to the gate, and climbed over.
“The same?” Tuck signed one-handed.
“The same,” Locke said. “It’s time we went back.”
“Back?” Tuck signed. She glanced up and down the leaf and mulch-strewn track, then slung her rifle. “Back to the ship?” she signed, this time with both hands.
“Phyllis has gone, and she could have gone anywhere,” Locke said. “The house was intact when Heather came here, but now it’s a burned ruin. If we were to find a bookie’s in the next town, I’d put all your money on Phyllis having seen Heather arrive. She hid, waited until Heather left, then burned the house down prior to leaving for good. Now, she’s gone.”
“My money?” Tuck signed. “Not your own?”
“I’m a wise-enough woman never to gamble my own wages, even on a dead cert. And that’s what it is. A certainty. But is it a dead one?”
“Why?” Tuck signed.
“Why would she hide, why would she leave, or why am I so certain?” Locke asked. “It’s the same answer, I suppose. She came here because that was her parents’ house. Her family home. She buried her parents, and then continued burying the dead. Perhaps she ran out of zombies to bury. I should have asked Heather how many they came across when she ventured up here. Or perhaps whatever was compelling Phyllis to bury these bodies was replaced by some new all-consuming desire. She is gone. She doesn’t want to be found. If we look, the best we can hope is that we find her body. I would get no comfort from that, but I might in believing she is, still, alive.”
Tuck nodded. “Empty graves,” she signed, pointing at the field beyond the grave.
“Yes, they’re empty, too,” Locke replied. “There are eight vacant graves in that field.”
“No,” Tuck signed slowly. “The graves are empty. Empty graves in that field.” She pointed further down the track, the way they’d come. “And in that field. And in that field. She dug graves which were never filled.”
Locke stared blankly at Tuck’s hands for a long second before comprehension dawned. She smiled. “Ha! Then she is alive! She left because there were no more monsters to slay. Wonderful.”
“Still want to return to the ship?”
“I think so,” Locke said. “But shall we take our time? I can show you a little of Ireland as the colonel and captain settle the fate of that submarine.”
As the raven flew, the graveyard was fifty kilometres from Kenmare Bay where the Courageous was anchored, the Harper’s Ferry rusted, and the submarine waited for its fate to be finally decided. The former soldier and former socialite had travelled closer to seventy kilometres over increasingly treacherous terrain. Roads were buried in mud and the muddy run-off from fields, in rotting leaves and windswept debris. Half-buried cars, road signs, streetlights, and crash barriers were the only evidence that hardtop lay beneath their bicycles’ wheels. But for all that, and for all that they’d returned to a zombie-infested island leaving an increasingly tense stand-off between submariners and Special Forces in the bay, it had been a pleasant day. The weather was fifteen degrees better than Faroe, damp rather than freezing, misty rather than raining. There was no mistaking Ireland for the tropics, but there was a soothing warmth in the sodden air.
A tapping of metal brought Locke back to the immediate present. Tuck had knocked her rifle’s barrel against her handlebars.
“You still here?” the soldier signed.
“Sorry,” Locke said. “Yes, I drifted off for a moment. Forgot myself.”
Tuck nodded, then tapped the butt of her now slung rifle.
“Agreed, that is a dangerous thing to do,” Locke said. “But this is Ireland. Nowhere is far from anywhere, and I grew up not a million miles away. Everyone knew someone who came from everywhere. With politics and history so fraught, it was geography that bound us together. And this is all so similar to the geography I remember from my childhood.”
Tuck made a one-handed writing motion in the air.
“Ah, yes, sorry,” Locke said. “I’ll tell you about it later. Shall we?”
They meandered on in companionable silence, their compass keeping them on a southerly route, but it was the condition of the roads that ultimately determined their direction.
Locke had picked up some sign language on the way to Denmark, and some more since, but she was still at the vocabulary and alphabet stage. It was often quicker resorting to pen and pad than spelling each word a letter at a time. More often than not, they used mime. But it worked.
They reached a river that hadn’t existed a year ago, but which cut across where the road used to be.
“We can’t ford here,” Locke said. “But I saw a side road a quarter mile back.”
Tuck gave a half shrug. “And then?”
“A very good question. I’d like to go to Tralee, but we’ll have to wait for someone to build a bridge over this new river. There’s a delightful little bed and breakfast in Dunloe, but the last time I was in the neighbourhood, they were booked up. We should call ahead, see if they’ve a vacancy.”
“A hotel?” Tuck signed. She took out their map. “Where? Why?”
“A looter might have searched the restaurant and the kitchen, but did they take the tea and coffee from each of the bedrooms?”
“Dunloe? Here?” Tuck asked, pointing at the small hamlet west of Lough Leane, and thirty kilometres due north of Kenmare. “Aren’t these mountains? There’s no road through them.”
“There’s no road ahead of us,” Locke said. “Besides, are you really in a hurry to get back?”
They travelled along tracks, roads, and narrow country lanes above which fields towered and into which the mud had spread. Often, they found better going cycling through farmland. When they did find solid ground again, Locke switched from following the map to following the compass. Her mind turned to where, closer to Kenmare and to the main roads, they might find somewhere safe to sleep. But that brought up memories of a distant, pre-Kempton past when an off-season, last minute, bargain night at a nearby B&B was a luxury to be saved up for.
A clatter from behind tore her back from bittersweet recollections. Locke twisted as she braked, nearly losing control of the bike. Tu
ck had fallen from hers, a zombie tangled in the spokes. The soldier had one gloved palm pushing at the creature’s head, while her other tried to reach her belt.
Locke jumped from her bicycle, dragging her knife free as she ran to the fallen soldier, but Tuck found her sheath first, drew her bayonet, and slammed the blade through the zombie’s ear. Locke heaved the corpse off Tuck, then helped the soldier up.
“A woman,” Locke said. “Infected six months ago, at least. But the first zombie we’ve seen.”
Tuck shook her head, and pointed at the bike’s rear wheel. It was buckled.
“Not a penguin’s chance in the Serengeti we’ll get back to Kenmare Bay tonight,” Locke said. “Or to the bed and breakfast. You’ll need a new wheel.”
“A penguin’s chance in where?” Tuck signed.
“Sorry, what was that?” Locke asked.
Wheeling their bicycles, signing words one letter at a time, they continued south.
Where cycling had been arduous but invigorating, walking was a slog. Encumbered by a broken bike, alert for the undead, watching for a wisp of smoke that might, just might, allow them to stumble across Phyllis O’Reardon, they trudged onward. But their luck only held as far as finding a rusting bicycle chained up, half buried in leaves, outside the rear of a pub.
“Where are we?” Tuck signed.
“Milltown,” Locke said. She knelt and inspected the padlock. “I think we were walking more west than east. Well, clearly we were to end up here. Nice enough place, or it was, but we’re nowhere near where I wanted to go.”
The deaf soldier tapped her shoulder, then pointed at her lips. “Say again,” she signed with oft-repeated patience.
“Sorry,” Locke said, and repeated herself. “There’s too much rust to pick the lock, but a hammer and screwdriver work just as well as a key. I’d say it’ll take an hour to change the wheel, so we’re staying here tonight.” She stood, and looked up and down the empty street. “Shall we see if this pub serves food?”
The pub was empty, but well and truly looted. Lying amid the thick ashes in the main room’s fireplace, they found a quartet of empty bean tins.
“Light a fire,” Tuck signed. “I’ll be back.”
“You’re off to fight time-travelling robots from the future?” Locke asked.
Tuck frowned, shook her head, and left without any further explanation.
“No one has a sense of humour anymore,” Locke murmured to herself as she began a second, more thorough, search of the pub. It was of the three-room variety. The saloon and public bars were from its original build, while the restaurant, larger than both and with a glass ceiling, was much newer. The shelves were empty. In the kitchen, so were the cupboards. Upstairs, she found the bedrooms of the owners. Someone else had been sleeping there more recently, and had taken their pick of the better clothing before they finally left.
She returned to the front room, cleared the grate, and busied herself breaking furniture for firewood.
“Find what you were looking for?” Locke asked when the soldier returned.
Tuck opened her bag and took out a pair of lipstick cases.
“Make-up?” Locke asked, taking out the lipstick tube. “Tangerine orange. The colour’s a little young for me.”
Tuck rolled her eyes, reached into the bag, and retrieved a small plastic package. “Noodles,” Tuck signed. “It was a teenager’s bedroom.”
“In the house opposite?” Locke asked. “Back from university?”
“In her bag, yes,” Tuck signed, as she unpacked some needles, thread, and tape.
“What do you want all that for?” Locke asked.
“Fire, water, food,” Tuck signed. “And wait.”
“A mystery, isn’t that what every woman craves?” Locke said as she returned to breaking firewood. “Right up until she finds herself neck deep in one.”
By the time the fire was lit, and two saucepans, retrieved from the house opposite, were in the middle of the road, filling with misty rainwater, Tuck had nearly finished.
“Now will you tell me what you’ve been working on?” Locke asked.
Tuck held up a glove to which she’d sewn and taped the small mirror removed from the inside of the lipstick case.
“Rear-view mirrors?” Locke asked. “Smart.”
Tuck nodded. “Now let’s fix the bike.”
It took twenty minutes to remove the broken wheel and attach the rusting spare. It took longer to find oil, but only because they took their time searching the houses. Dusk had settled, and night was tucking it in, when they retreated back into the pub, bringing their bikes in with them.
“No zombies,” Tuck signed.
“None except that one who nearly called you dinner,” Locke said. “Speaking of which, where’s that soup?” She opened the bag that contained their meagre haul and found the box of instant soup. Like the noodles, it had come from the student’s bedroom. “Instant soup, instant noodles. Salt, sugar, and MSG. This will play a merry dance on our digestion.”
“It’s not fish,” Tuck signed.
“It’s not fish,” Locke agreed.
Tuck hung her torch from one of the low beams and stretched out in a chair while Locke added the soup mix and noodles to the boiling water.
“It won’t win me a rosette, but it will fill a hole,” she said, dishing portions into two of the closest-to-clean bowls they’d found. They ate in silence, and with increasing rapidity as the unfamiliar sugars surged through their systems.
“Tomorrow, we go back to the ship?” Tuck signed.
“I think so,” Locke said. “There’s no point lingering. And there is the danger of missing our boat if we dally.”
“You don’t want to look anywhere else for your friend?” Tuck signed, and had to repeat it before Sorcha understood.
“No, what would be the point? Looking for her was penance. Punishment. Payment. But it wasn’t pointless. I laid an old ghost to rest. Many old ghosts.”
Tuck nodded. “I wonder how many people are out there, wandering alone, unwilling to be found, but unable to give up the search for an unattainable peace.”
“I’m sorry, you lost me,” Locke said.
Tuck shook her head, but didn’t repeat it. Instead, she signed, “One zombie. All day. Only one.”
“Only one. That was thanks to Phyllis. Or Heather. Thanks to the two of them, there can’t be a zombie left between here and Kenmare Bay. Captain Mills did warn me that more were spotted close to Elysium before it was abandoned. Hundreds of them arrived while the Ocean Queen was being loaded. Hundreds is far less than the millions I saw around Birmingham.”
“Pity, really,” Tuck signed.
“A pity?”
“The submarine,” Tuck signed.
“Ah, yes. We’re scuttling a nuclear power, nuclear-armed vessel in waters that were far from tranquil, but still teemed with promise. We’re leaving so much behind, bicycles and fishing boats, clothing and machinery, and there’s even more left in Elysium. But Anglesey is a radioactive sump contaminating the Irish Sea, while the waters further south are being polluted by whatever horror was inflicted on Cornwall. Yes, it’s a shame we will be saying farewell, forever, to these shores, and it’s inevitable. Even if the submarine isn’t scuttled, it will be sunk by the winter storms. No, the Vehement needs to be destroyed. Better it is done by us, without the loss of all-hands.”
“All-hands?” Tuck signed. “Or almost all-hands? Should Mister Mills be killed if he continues to refuse?”
“I don’t think it’ll get that far,” Locke said. “I always thought it absurd that a captain should go down with their ship, but if that is what Mister Mills wishes to do, who am I to tell him no? With a submarine, this presents a problem since it can rise to the surface again, and we can’t have that with something that still contains a nuclear arsenal big enough to destroy what’s left of the world.”
“You wouldn’t keep the warheads?”
“To what end?” Locke asked. “Our futu
re enemy will be like Cavalie at Haderslev. Without a satellite guidance system, how can the missiles be aimed? As for being a deterrent, we’d first have to inform our enemy we possessed the weapons. Do that, and they’d try to take them for their own. For all the government propaganda about command, control, and failsafes, reprogramming a warhead hardly requires a computer science degree. Well, no, perhaps a degree and something more, but I spoke to those programmers. They all seem confident they could manage it. That’s when I spoke to the admiral.”
“You told her to send Leon here?”
“No, but I made it clear the submarine was just too dangerous to be left afloat. She was already of the same opinion.”
Tuck nodded. “If Mister Mills won’t sink his boat, Leon will do it. He will kill Mister Mills.”
“Yes, but what other option is there? The man was ordered to scuttle his submarine, and he promised to do so. Yet the boat is still there. We can’t wait and hope the weather will do the job for us. Are you saying you disagree?”
Tuck shook her head. She began signing, stopped, shook her head again, and walked over to the small bookcase built into the wall.
“What are you looking for?” Locke asked. But the soldier didn’t see her lips. She turned away from the shelves, empty-handed.
“I’ll be back,” she signed, and unhooked her torch from the beam.
This time, Sorcha kept the quip to herself, but she went to the front door, watching as Tuck cautiously crossed the street and entered the house opposite. From the light moving across the curtained windows, the soldier’s progress was easy to follow. Less than five minutes later, the light reappeared in the doorway, and the soldier returned, a book in her hands.
