by Frank Tayell
Day 282 - 20th December
Chapter 14 - Snow Fishing
Savage Cove, Newfoundland
“There, it’s midnight,” Nilda said, glancing at the clock before turning her eyes back to the radar screen. “Tomorrow is officially today.”
The bridge was empty except for her, Chester, and the ship’s cat. The New World lay quiet, asleep, as the waves tucked around her keel dragged the vessel northward. When frozen sleet had accompanied nightfall, they’d cut their speed and the number of sentries on deck. One remained at the stern, one at the prow, both doing a four-hour shift unless, or until, their searchlights spied some approaching disaster that required the entire ship be woken.
“And I know what midnight means,” Chester said, pulling on his not-warm-enough coat, and far-too-thin gloves; the thicker pair didn’t give him enough grip on the icy rails.
“You could use the intercom,” Nilda said.
“That’d tell us they’re awake,” Chester said. “I want to know they’re alert as well.” He glanced at the cat. “Don’t suppose you fancy coming with me?”
She lazily licked a paw with studied disdain.
“If cats had eyebrows, she’d just have raised one,” Nilda said.
“Calling her Commodore Tabitha? Daft name for a cat,” Chester said, “but I suppose that means she outranks us both. Back in five.” Grateful the upper, and more luxurious, decks had stairs and not ladders, he descended to the promenade deck. Bracing himself for the onslaught, he heaved himself outside. The wind howled around his ears, sucking away even the memory of warmth. A shower of frozen rain spattered his coat, weighing down arms and legs until a tall wave smashed against the ship, washing him with salt-laden spray.
“Get a move on, then,” he muttered. Hoping the salt water would prevent his coat freezing rigid, he made his way to the front of the ship. Private Maya Torres was on duty at the prow, moving the searchlight back and forth across the storm-tossed waves. For shelter, she had a three-and-a-half-sided sentry box, extending beyond the deck of the ship. Originally it had been designed for whale watching, or so Sorcha Locke had said. But though the shelter kept off the rain from above, it couldn’t stop the wild winds tossing fistfuls of water through the wide opening designed for cameras and in which they’d rigged the searchlight.
“All well?” he asked.
“Remind me, why did I think leaving sunny California was a good idea?” Torres said, ankle deep in the freezing rain. “Can’t see a hundred yards in this murk. But all I can see is angry but empty sea.”
At the stern, Norm Jennings had drawn the long straw. The Vulcan cannon, originally from the Courageous, had been attached to the very rear of the promenade deck on an out-jutting diamond-shaped platform just above the winches to which the launch was attached. What they’d lacked was a cover for the weapon, a deficit the chief couldn’t abide. He’d built his own, and then built an extension, and another, until he’d created a bulky, waterproof hide. Inside was a padded seat, a lever allowing the searchlight to be operated without going outside, and a heater attached to the same cable that powered the searchlight. The bridge-facing side was made of plastic panels originally separating the galley and the mess hall, and there the chief’s engineering skill had faltered, though not entirely failed. The seal between the panels wasn’t perfect, but with the heater roaring at full blast, it was an oven compared to the open deck.
“Oh, that’s a welcome change,” Chester said, pulling the door shut behind him. “Anything to report?”
“Nothing but the wind,” Norm said, slowly turning the lever that rotated the searchlight.
“All’s quiet, then?”
“You were expecting a whale? A giant squid? A kraken?” Norm asked.
“I’m always expecting something,” Chester said. On the shelf where the chief kept his binoculars, mug, and a bird-spotter’s guide, was a new book: a notebook with a pencil keeping the place. “You’ve been writing?”
“It’s not sensible to keep staring at the light,” Norm said. “But I know my duty.”
“I wasn’t criticising,” Chester said.
“It’s a few stories of life below the waves,” Norm said. “Of our lives before all this began.”
“Ah. I’d like to read that.”
“When I’m done,” Norm said. “I thought it could be added to the history Mr Wright was creating.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chester said, and stood in awkward silence for a moment longer. “I’ll leave you to it. Change over at two.”
“Aye, aye,” Norm said, and Chester heaved the door open, and returned to the blistering bluster of the open deck. He wound his way back around the ship on an incomplete inspection before climbing gratefully back into the warm and dry of the bridge.
“Compared to the sentries, we’ve got it easy,” he said, tugging off his coat, and hanging it to drip near the bridge’s door. The cat hissed as a few spots of water flew close to her basket. With studied deliberation, she padded over to Nilda, where she jumped up onto her lap.
“I think I preferred it when we were out on the open sea,” Chester said.
“When it was snowing?” Nilda asked, glancing at the radar screen. “That was fun at midday, but terrible at midnight. But I know what you mean. I thought a life at sea would be more fun.”
“More sunshine?” he asked.
“Less tension. I blame Hollywood.”
“Films don’t convey the smell, do they?” Chester said. “That pervasive rotting seaweed stench. That tang in the air I’m pretty sure is rust. The sweat, the vomit.”
“That’s me, I think. Sorry,” Nilda said.
“I thought it was the cat. Your morning sickness is back?”
“Or my body just doesn’t like beans. I’m going to stick with spinach from now on, and dream of slightly burnt toast.” She lifted the cat down to the floor, and walked over to the wide windows.
“I wish there was something I could do to help,” Chester said.
“I know.” She smiled. “Did you speak to Norm?”
“He’s awake,” Chester said.
“You know what I mean,” Nilda said. “Sometimes we forget, or I do, that they were a family before the outbreak. The sailors, the submariners, the French soldiers, they worked together, they lived together.”
“And Norm quit that particular family when he volunteered to come to London with George,” Chester said. “As for the chief, he came ashore to run the power station on Anglesey. They didn’t want to stay with Mister Mills and his… his… I’m not sure what you call it.”
“Guilt and regret,” Nilda said. “That’s what it was. Because he’d turned traitor. History won’t write it that way, but only because we’re the ones writing it. I’d like to get some more details about the attack on Calais, but I suppose that will have to wait until we see Tuck. I wonder if that’s what Mills was doing in France, repenting for what he did, what he’d failed to stop others from doing.”
“We’ll ask Tuck,” Chester said. “Until then we’ll all keep an eye on them, and on each other, just as we’ve done so far.”
“You mean I’m worrying about nothing? Fair enough. Fancy a game of cards?”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Oh, I forgot to ask what you told the admiral when you called Faroe earlier.”
“About the ship we found? That it was floating empty, without a crew. I said we salvaged a few cans, and we’ve put them aside.”
“And what did the admiral tell you?”
“That life goes on,” Nilda said. “It was Bill I spoke to, not the admiral. She’s busy dealing with the fallout from Calais.”
“Fallout? People aren’t taking the news well?”
“First the car crash, and then the deaths in Calais. Things sound tense,” Nilda said. “But I think there’s something else going on. Something we’ve not been told. What, I don’t even want to guess at, but Bill seemed to perk up when I said that we’d found those few tins of food aboard a zombie
-infested ghost ship.”
“Maybe they’re short of food on Faroe?” Chester said.
“And we know they are, but if it was just that, he’d have said. Maybe it’s nothing, but I think we should go ashore tomorrow, even if we don’t find a harbour, just so we can call them to say that we did.”
“I count ten rooftops,” Chester said, adjusting his glasses while holding the binoculars and simultaneously trying to maintain his balance as the ship rose and fell with the waves.
“There’s fifteen,” Jay said, with eager glee in a victory only he’d been contesting.
“What else is there?” Chester asked. “Snow. A fishing jetty. More snow. Rooftops. Lots of trees. Lots of snow. Is that a… a…” He gave up, and finally lowered the binoculars, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Is that a vehicle, upturned, in the middle of those trees?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jay said. “Yeah, I think it’s a lorry. Like a long-haul one. In the distance, on that hillside, there’s more rooftops. Five or six, all with red roofs. I think there’s some more hidden behind the trees to the north, which means, I think, there’s a road there, following the coast.”
“That would be a good place for a road,” Nilda said. “I can’t believe that was only a few hundred metres away all night.”
“Not all night,” Sholto said. “I think we were dragged most of the way here.”
“We were lucky not to be dragged all the rest,” Jay said. “Shall I go wake the sergeant? You said we were going ashore, didn’t you, Mum?”
“Don’t wake the sarge,” Chester said. “This is just to tell Faroe that we’ve been ashore in North America, isn’t it? Help boost their morale a bit? Thaddeus can drive me. We’ll tie the launch up at that jetty, I’ll pop down to that house by the water, then come back before the sarge would have had time to gather his gear. We’ll be moving again before dawn’s properly arrived.”
“I’m going, too,” Jay said. “Oh, come on, Mum. There’s nothing there. Like literally nothing. And it’s Canada. And I didn’t get to go ashore in Iceland or Greenland.”
“Chester, what do you think?” Nilda asked.
Chester tried to read her expression, but found he couldn’t, so opted for honesty. “There’s thick snow ashore. It’ll be as much a hindrance to zombies as to us.”
She shrugged. “Then be back in an hour.”
And he couldn’t tell if he’d given the right answer.
“This is more like it,” Sholto said, behind the wheel of the launch as they skimmed across the waves.
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Chester said, gripping the handrail.
“Maybe you’ve got what Mum’s got,” Jay said.
“What d’you mean?” Chester asked.
“She wasn’t feeling well,” Jay said.
“Oh, yeah, maybe,” Chester said. He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the waves rise and fall as the launch ploughed over and through them, speeding far too fast towards the shore. Only when the launch suddenly slowed did he open them again, suppressing another wave of nausea as his stomach settled back into place and his vision cleared. “Need some new glasses, that’s all,” he said.
“There’s no snow on the shore,” Jay said. “I mean there is, but not near the water. That’s good, right? It means it’s not so cold that seawater is freezing.”
“There’s still plenty of snow out there,” Sholto said. “And I don’t think it’s as deep as we first thought. Less than a foot, I think, and the jetty doesn’t look too bad. Get ready with the rope.”
“I’ll do it,” Chester said, lumbering out of his seat.
“No, it’s cool,” Jay said, nimbly leaping onto the deck. Before Chester could stop him, Jay had, less nimbly, jumped ashore. For a heart-stopping moment, Jay lost his footing on the ice-slick cement, then righted himself, stood, and appeared puzzled.
“Forgot something, didn’t you?” Chester said, threw him the rope, and clambered ashore, unslinging his rifle as he adjusted to the weirdly swaying land. “This is going to take a bit of getting used to. Looks safe enough, though. Empty enough.”
He lowered the rifle as Sholto killed the engine, and joined them on the jetty.
“Finally,” Sholto said. “Land.”
“Not yet,” Jay said. “End of the jetty is land. Bagsie, I’m first.”
“Hang on,” Chester said. “Let’s sort out what we’re doing.”
“That building closest looks like a store,” Sholto said. “Might be a good place to start, so you two start with that. I’ll trek over to the road, and that crashed truck. See if I can find out where it came from.”
“Gun shot is the signal for trouble?” Chester said.
“It is usually is,” Sholto said.
“So now can we go properly ashore?” Jay asked.
The jetty was wide enough for the three to walk abreast, with room to spare on either side. Made mostly of concrete, decked with cracked and weathered planks, it stretched fifty metres out from the snow-capped, jagged rocks.
“I won’t call it dry,” Jay said, jumping up and down in the snow when they reached the shore proper. “But I will call it land. Blimey, it’s cold. Colder than the ship.”
“Put your gloves on, then,” Chester said.
“Left them aboard,” Jay said.
“We’ll see if we can find you a new pair. Half an hour, Thaddeus?”
“I’ll call if I’m going to be late,” he said. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he angled inland.
“I think this is a car park,” Jay said, jumping up and down again. “Bet it was a popular spot for fishing.”
“Must have been if there’s a fishing shop here. Let’s go take a look.” As they trudged across the car park, he scanned the snow. Abruptly, he stopped.
“What?” Jay asked.
“Jay, look at that!” Chester whispered. “Footprints.”
“Where?” Jay asked, spinning around.
“No, down there,” Chester said.
“What? Oh. Bird prints. You should have said it was a bird.”
“But it’s a good sign, I’d say,” Chester said. “And the snow isn’t that deep. Maybe six inches, a bit more where the wind’s dragged it.”
“How many people lived on Newfoundland?” Jay asked as they walked the last few yards to the shuttered tackle shop.
“A few hundred thousand is what Thaddeus told me.”
“More than Faroe? There’s no cars here, you see. No boats.”
“Fair point. You ready?”
“No smoke. No sounds,” Jay said. “I think we’re okay.”
“But we’re going to be cautious,” Chester said, as he unslung the rifle. “Here. You take this, and take a step back, but try not to shoot me, all right?” He unclipped his mace, and rapped it against the door. “Nothing,” he said. “Shuttered windows. A padlock on the door. No opening hours, but you’d expect it to be closed in February. Padlock’s unfastened. No key, but the owner must have done that.” He pulled out his torch. “Here we go.”
He pulled at the door, but the snow stopped it from opening more than an inch. He kicked the drift away, then tugged the door until it lodged at a sixty-degree angle.
The light cut through the frigid chill inside, bouncing off dusty glass and plastic-coated posters lining the grease-stained walls. “Yep, definitely a tackle shop.”
Three low aisles filled the main room, with a register near the door. Shelves, racks, and fridges lined the wall, but all were empty.
“I think that’s where the fishing rods would be,” Jay said, following Chester in.
“Where’s that?” Chester asked, sweeping his light around the gloomy interior. Other than the light from the wedged-open door, the room was entirely dark. The windows were covered from the inside. Not barricaded, just blocked by mismatched shelving units.
Jay fished out his torch and shone it on a wall. “There, next to the fridges.”
“You check those, I’ll check the backroom,” Chester said. �
��And take a look behind the register. I think the owner must have cleared the place out at the end of the season, then come back after the outbreak for whatever was left.”
The store wasn’t entirely empty, and nor was the stockroom. It contained an assortment of fishing and hunting paraphernalia, none of which they had an immediate use for. He returned to the front of the shop.
“Find anything?” he asked.
“A few maps,” Jay said. “Not proper ones, just line-drawn pamphlets. You?”
“Not really. There’s a box of hats, some fishing line, that kind of thing. Nothing we don’t have, nothing we need. What about the fridges?”
“Cleaned out. And I mean properly cleaned. Washed and everything. But the owner wouldn’t have sold all the soft drinks. I mean soda.”
“Soda?”
“Well, we’re in America now, aren’t we?”
“Canada,” Chester said.
“Which is North America,” Jay said. “Point is, not all the soda would have been drunk. Bet the owner took the excess home, and I bet that’s the closest house. Want to go look?”
“We’ve got the time,” Chester said.
But they’d only taken two steps from the front door before they heard footsteps quickly crunching through the snow. A moment later, Sholto appeared between two houses, some two hundred metres north of the direction he’d originally headed. He wasn’t running, not exactly, but he was moving as quickly as the snow allowed. His rifle was in one hand, and his other was waving at them, motioning.
“What’s he trying to tell us?” Jay asked.
“Nothing good,” Chester said. “Back to the launch. Quick now.”
Sholto caught up with them at the jetty. “Zombies,” he hissed.
“How many?” Chester asked.
“By the truck, partially buried in the snow,” Sholto whispered breathlessly. “About twenty, thirty.”
“We can handle that,” Jay said.
“Not if we don’t have to,” Chester said.
“We don’t want to,” Sholto said. “A bit further north, there’s a house. The door was broken open. A dead zombie lay half inside, an axe in its skull. There was another, squatting in the open garage, next to a truck.”
