by Frank Tayell
Behind them, to the south of the bridge, smoke billowed from a trio of fires. There was no movement. No sign of any people. And no sound of bullets impacting stone.
Locke lowered her rifle even as she turned around and saw what was coming towards them. Figures. Running. Armed.
“New World!” the lead figure yelled. “New World.” It was Leon, his left arm a mass of blood, held tight across his chest.
Locke lowered her rifle, unfired.
The colonel slowed to a walk as he neared the tank, the rest of his squad fanning out around the machine.
“Where did you come from?” Locke asked.
“The destroyer,” Leon said tersely. “It has sunk.” He glanced behind. “Or it will. Where’s your boat?”
“On the beach, over there,” Locke said. “There are hostiles ahead.”
“And more behind,” Leon said. “Does this machine work?”
Tuck shook his head.
“Then we run,” Leon said. “Allez!”
“Where’s the rest of your team?” Locke asked.
Leon frowned. “At home. At peace,” he said.
Chapter 12 - Distant Battlefields
The Faroe Islands
“The mission was a success,” Captain Fielding said, her voice oddly distant as it was broadcast through the small speaker set up in the ground floor of the hotel. Next to the barrage of computers the programmers were using to bring us the feed, a large TV displayed the image from the satellite. Smoke billowed from the harbour, from the city, but, most importantly, from the Russian destroyer. That dark cloud had been churning upwards for over an hour, but we had lingered in the hotel lobby, waiting for confirmation from Flora Fielding that the shore party had returned.
“How many casualties?” the admiral asked.
“Nineteen,” Flora said. “Sixteen KIA. Three walking wounded. They’ll recover.”
“Sixteen people died?” Kim whispered.
“How did we lose so many?” the admiral asked.
“Mister Mills and his eight submariners were killed after the harbour-side tank they seized was shelled,” Flora said. “The other fatalities were among the French Special Forces during their direct assault on the ship. Enemy casualties are much higher. We’re still collating the accounts, but over fifty enemy combatants were killed.”
“Fifty?” Kim whispered. “I was expecting only as many as could fit in a tank.”
“Are we sure they’re cartel?” the admiral asked.
There was a disconcerting pause before Flora answered. “Yes,” she said. “A tattoo was found on one. She was wearing a white coat, as were one-fifth of the hostiles. Two of my captors, when I was held prisoner, were dressed in a similar fashion. It’s possible the style has spread. They carried AK-74s, straight from a store-house.” There was another brief pause. “And there are the tanks, of course.”
“Of course,” the admiral said. “Thank you, Captain. And give all our thanks to the shore party and your crew. I’d like you to set sail for Kenmare Bay to collect the last of the reserve guard. We will discuss your onward journey later.”
“There’s one more thing, Admiral,” Flora said. “They were gathering supplies from Calais, readying the ship for departure.”
“Then we acted just in time,” the admiral said. “Thank you, Captain.” She ended the call.
The lobby remained silent. Marines, programmers and their newly recruited students, a handful of earlier-than-us risers who’d spotted the bustling activity in the hotel during their pre-dawn stroll, no one said a word.
“A heavy price has been paid,” the admiral said, “but I’ve served long enough for history books to be written about the conflicts in which I played a part. Time, distance, and research don’t always provide more complete answers than those we can gather from the first report. The mission was a success. Remember that, and remember the fallen as you go about your day. Dismissed.”
Kim and I gratefully took that as our own prompt to leave. Before dawn, we’d woken the girls and taken them to the school, where Mary and George had also been up most of the night, waiting for news. We’d promised to bring it to them as soon as we had it.
The school was filling up as we arrived, so there was no chance to share more than just the bare bones. Though nothing had been said prior to the assault, its outcome was not being kept secret. That was why, in lieu of a fourth estate, early-rising passers-by had been invited in to the hotel’s lobby to watch. But a school wasn’t the place to discuss war. Kim and I made our excuses, and drifted off into town.
There were more people about, more activity than usual. Barricades had gone up around windows, and across some streets. Sawing could be heard coming from inside homes where, a few days before, we’d heard music.
“Are the barriers to stop the undead, stop a speeding car, or just to stop boredom?” I said as we threaded our way through a maze-like zigzag of furniture near the library.
“All three,” Kim said. “Do you…” she began, but shook her head and remained silent. There were too many people about. The library had become a hub for swapping and exchanging, which was edging towards bartering. Inside, board games were played with a ferocity barely matched by the brief sets played in the corner of the sports centre Reg hadn’t turned into his theatre.
I saw Markus walking towards us, or towards the library, most likely. He had a heavy bag on his back, and a folding table in his hands. I gave him a nod, and he gave us a cautious one in return.
“We need to sort out the currency,” I said. “I’ll speak to Mirabelle later.”
“Hmm,” Kim murmured, barely listening. “Let’s go up to the hill. That spot overlooking the bay. It’ll be quiet there.”
Lost in our thoughts, we threaded our way through the town.
Beyond the lighthouse, erosion had taken a narrow bite out of the hillside. In the far distant past, someone had added a rough stone wall to prevent further landslips. More recently, that had been reinforced with concrete, cement, and a sloping wooden roof. The roof was covered in withered winter grass, but we were more interested in the narrow wooden bench. The shelter was mostly out of the wind, and nearly out of the weather, and it was ours to share, alone. At sea, a small fishing boat rose up a mountainous wave, and slid down the other side.
“Better them than me,” I said.
“They need danger money,” Kim said. “You said you’re going to launch the currency?”
“I think so. If I wait until I sort out all the details, we’ll never get it done. We’ll give everyone an allowance, and see what kind of market develops. That’s easier when no one has anything to sell. We’ll give the fishing crews double. Call it danger-pay.”
“And the soldiers,” Kim said.
“And them,” I said.
“The admiral asked whether Captain Fielding was sure the enemy in Calais were the cartel,” Kim said.
“And they were,” I said.
“Yes, but we rushed in before knowing for sure,” Kim said. “They could have been prisoners, like Flora, who’d escaped from some slave camp inland, taken the equipment to hand, and fled to a place they’d heard their captors talking about.”
“But they hadn’t,” I said.
“Probably not, no,” Kim said. “I’m not questioning whether we did the right thing, I’m just thinking about the future, how this changes things. Or is it how everything has changed and we didn’t really notice? In future, we need to be careful. We’re not a global police force.”
“For one thing, we don’t have the equipment or people,” I said.
“Or the moral right,” Kim said.
“The ship was getting ready to depart,” I said. “The tanks, the equipment, the tattoos, it was the cartel. You heard what Chester saw up in Denmark. You know what happened to Flora. I’ll agree that people can change, but not so completely, not so quickly.”
“No, it’s not that, it really isn’t,” she said. “I agree we did the right thing, the only thing we cou
ld. The alternative was doing nothing, and the risk was far too great. I’m thinking about next time. You’re right, Bill, we don’t have the equipment to do this again anytime soon. You remember the rule we had on Anglesey, that what people did to survive the outbreak, and what they did before, wouldn’t be held against them?”
“Every day,” I said.
“It’s got to remain true, doesn’t it? If, in a year, we went back to Calais, and found people there, would we assume they were evil? In two years, if we sail into Athens, and find a banner flying over the city showing a branch with three leaves, do we shoot first? In ten years?”
“I’ll worry about it then,” I said.
“But we have to worry about it now. Maybe we should have captured a prisoner, interrogated them.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t mean torture,” she said. “I just mean ask them questions.”
“What would we do with them afterwards?”
“Right, exactly. This is something we need to think about.”
“In a few years, perhaps,” I said. “Not now.”
“No, now, because of the Ukrainians. We think they went to the Alps, yes? What if it was because of the horde? They wanted to get out of its path as quickly as possible. Other than the ocean, the mountains are the only possible defence. But what if they followed the mountains south, followed the Mediterranean coast to Spain, then followed the Pyrenees to the Bay of Biscay?”
“They can’t,” I said. “That would take them through Marseilles, and we know that was nuked.”
“Which doesn’t mean they won’t drive around it,” Kim said. “But if I were looking to avoid a horde, I would consider travelling along the top of the mountains. I found a hiker’s guide in the library. It was in Norwegian, but it marks out the trails and roads. At that altitude, it would be relatively safe from the undead. They know where that military depot is, on the French side, and they might expect to find us waiting to rescue them.”
“That’s a lot of ifs,” I said.
“And there were a lot more people in Calais than we were expecting,” Kim said. “What do you think the cartel will do now? Where will they go? I’m not being rhetorical. Could they know about this military depot in the Pyrenees?”
“I don’t know. They had spies in Creil, so it’s possible.”
“Which is why I was thinking about prisoners. They have tanks. Away from Calais, we assume they don’t have any fuel. But we’ve found fuel, so we should assume they will, too. In the last few weeks, we’ve attacked them three times. Their guard will be up. Would they go to the Pyrenees, to find that depot? Would they then go to Kempton’s retreat in Portugal, or would they assume we might be waiting for them there? Would they, instead, head to the Mediterranean? They have tanks, so they could make it.”
“Meaning you think we should avoid the Mediterranean?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “Our situation is desperate. What’s just happened in Calais changes how we assess the tough choices ahead. If our future contains more battles, we need to prepare for them. But we came here looking for farmland. If we try to do both, what will we become? Vikings? Pirates? Gangsters no better than the cartel?”
“We’ve got time to discuss it,” I said. “We’ve a few more weeks before we have to decide anything.” I stood up. “What we need is more information. We’ve still got the satellites, so let’s see if Mirabelle can re-target them, follow the tanks as they leave Calais. I bet the admiral’s already thought of that. Anyway, it looks like rain. We don’t want to be caught outside when the storm arrives.”
“I think we already have been,” Kim said, taking my arm. Together, we walked back down the hillside, but had barely made it back to the road when we saw Colm running towards us.
“What is it?” Kim asked.
“Siobhan’s back,” Colm said. “The admiral needs you both. Now.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
“Not me,” he said. “I’ve got to get the patrols out, make sure everyone’s watching.”
“For zombies?” Kim asked.
“For the locals,” Colm said. “Just go. Siobhan will explain it all.”
Siobhan was in the hotel, alone in the admiral’s office, spreading mud onto the sofa on which she sat, eyes closed.
“What’s happened?” Kim asked, as the admiral entered behind us, closing the door.
“I’ve spoken to Captain Fielding,” the admiral said. “She thinks it will be quicker to return here via the Atlantic than the North Sea, so she’s returning to Kenmare Bay, but at full speed.”
“Did you tell her why?” Siobhan asked.
“Not yet,” the admiral said. “There are too many people in the hotel looking at those satellite images. We don’t want this news to be widely known until we’re certain what it means. Bill, Kim, you better sit down.”
Kim pulled out the chairs from opposite the admiral’s desk so that, seated, we could see both Siobhan and Admiral Gunderson.
As if she was dragging herself up through thick treacle, Siobhan pulled herself forward to the edge of the sofa. “I went back to the farm that Commander Crawley was using to plot his mutiny, and where Michael Jollif found the alcohol,” she said. “The tractor-sheds were being used as a storeroom for every bottle and can of beer, wine, and spirits in every store, hotel, and restaurant in this town. It wasn’t set up as a bar. The bottles were boxed and crated. From a brief examination outside, our conspirators didn’t help themselves to much. Some of the bottles had been drunk and dumped in a midden, a half-dug trench behind the main house. It was covered in mud and leaves. I got the impression those bottles were dumped there before we arrived on these islands.”
“Drunk by the locals?” the admiral asked.
“Surreptitiously, I think,” Siobhan said. “They came, got drunk, dumped the empties, and left. That struck me as peculiar. If you were going to steal something from a cache established there to keep it beyond temptation’s reach, then why drink it there? Why not take it to any of the hundreds of other empty houses? If you’re a local, why not take the bottle back to your own home? Well, it was possible our secret drinker was the owner of that farm, but I checked inside. The wardrobes were too full. If that was my house, and I was going to check up on it and have a glass of wine on my way out, I’d have taken some clean clothes.”
The admiral picked up a map from her desk. “This is the farm, here, just north of the ferry?”
“Yes,” Siobhan said. “A tractor and two trucks, clearly farm equipment, had been moved out of the shed to make room for the booze. They had dead batteries. So did the runabout and the four-by-four inside the garage. I looked for tyre marks, and found some on the road, but not in the farm.”
“That’s not where Jollif got the car from?” Kim asked.
“No, but the tyres had left a clear trail,” Siobhan said. “I followed them, wondering if the car had been parked by some other storehouse. Perhaps containing medicine. Perhaps containing an emergency reserve of food. Did our Faroese secret drinker, on a regular check of those stores, pop back to the farm for a glass or three? And perhaps, on the three most recent occasions, they’d been too drunk to drive home. Since the locals hadn’t raised the issue of our conspirators at that farm, they didn’t appear to be watching us closely. In which case, they were unlikely to find me wandering beyond bounds. And if they did find me, I am a police officer investigating a drunk-driver and a mutiny. That would be my reason, should I need to give it, but I didn’t. And I didn’t find any other storehouses, but I did learn why we’re not supposed to stray far from the town. I found bodies. A grave. A mass grave.”
“Of zombies?” Kim asked.
“People,” Siobhan said. “I followed the tracks, and the road, south beyond the ferry until I reached another hamlet. On the road, more or less parked, were cars. Some were four-wheel drive, but most were short-range runabouts.”
“It was a vehicle store?” Kim asked.
“I think so. The
keys were in the engines or on the driver’s seats. I counted twenty-two cars, with some more parked outside the houses. About eight or nine dwellings, with a similar number of smaller buildings that could have been workshops, sheds, or garages. I followed the footprints. I’m positive they belonged to Jollif. There were others in the mud, filled with water, but his were the most recent. The hamlet is set back from the coast road, with a small paved track running along the houses, and up the hillside, towards the mountains. That’s the direction Jollif’s footprints went. I can guess why. After his confrontation with Crawley, he’d had a few drinks, and then he was heading home, in a straight line.”
“Over the mountain?” I asked.
“Like I said, he’d had a few drinks,” Siobhan said. “The paved track turned into an unpaved trail just before the graveyard. I lost his footprints there, but I would guess that when Jollif saw the bodies, he turned tail, ran to the cars, found one with a live battery, and drove back to town. Admiral, do you have the phone?”
“There are pictures?” I asked.
“Of course,” Siobhan said. “I made sure to bring back proof.”
“I don’t think I need to see,” Kim said. “There’s a grave, so what? Didn’t you find one near the bridge?”
“That was a gravesite for the undead. These weren’t zombies. Jollif must have thought they were. I found a bottle at the edge of the grave. I didn’t bother checking for prints, but I’m sure it was his. But no, you’re right, a grave in itself is nothing unusual. It’s who’s buried there that causes me concern. You remember Malin Head? How the Faroese said the people there came here? I found Mark’s body.” She swiped through the pictures on the phone, then handed it to me.
“This is him?” I asked. “This is Mark?”
Kim glanced at the phone. “Are you sure? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I wouldn’t recognise him.”
“It’s him,” Siobhan said. “If you swipe forward, you’ll find a photograph of his hand.”
The arm was still partially buried, and the hand was covered in mud and missing the ends of its fingers.
