by Frank Tayell
“We’ll have to,” Nilda said. “We need the chief’s help to secure the fuel supply today. Dr Harabi can lead the team searching the town for anything that might help our patient.”
Sholto thoughtfully swigged his coffee. “This isn’t bad. You’re not having any?”
“The smell is strong enough for me,” Nilda said.
“Did the patient talk at all?”
“A little. She came looking for fuel because her people have run out. And she came from Annapolis. I don’t know whether she means she was there during the outbreak, or that was where she recently began her search for fuel.”
“Annapolis in Maryland?” Sholto asked. “Maybe she came from the naval base.”
“Like I said, I’m a little unclear, mostly because so is she. I think she was in Annapolis at some time this last year. I’d like her to recover a little more, and tell us a lot more, before we decide to make that our next destination.”
“Sure, but we could reach Maryland from here,” Sholto said. “And it’s further south.”
“By which you mean warmer?” Nilda said. “I don’t know if we’d have enough fuel to return to Faroe. We’ll have to test what we found in the harbour, see whether we can refuel, and get a better idea of how much remains. We’ll know before nightfall. And we can assume what we found in the harbour wasn’t the main store, at least not of diesel.”
“How so?”
“Because we found two fuel tanks and neither contained petrol,” Nilda said. “Where are the storage tanks for the road-vehicles? Even if every local, and every service vehicle, used a diesel car, some visitors would arrive in petrol automobiles. Where’s the emergency reserve? Is it in a garage? I think it might be, and I think it’s somewhere close. Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s fuel left there, but we might as well look. Do you want your second cup now?”
Sholto glanced at his mug. He’d not realised he’d drunk it all. “Thanks. Let’s see if I’ve got this worked out. The locals barricaded the town, but they left by sea when the zombies outside the walls grew too numerous. I guess at least one of them ended up down south in Annapolis. Thus our survivor, Diana, knew there might be fuel still here. Unless she’s a local herself. And because everyone left Newfoundland, they didn’t use up the last of the winter food-reserve, or all the fuel.”
“And then there’s the zombies,” Nilda said.
“At least a thousand, dead, scattered around the harbour,” Sholto said. “But two which were alive by the beached ship.”
“It’s like the admiral said, inconclusive,” Nilda said. “I almost wish we’d not called her last night. But we had to, and she’s right. There were dead zombies in Ireland. In Denmark. Why wouldn’t there be some here in Canada?”
Sholto wrapped his hands around the mug. “I’m going to miss this when it really is gone. I don’t think there’s a hospital in the town. It just didn’t look large enough. This isn’t a city, just a town that grew up around a ferry port. I wonder if patients for cases as serious as our survivor’s would have been airlifted to the mainland, or to St John’s.”
“Do you think? Surely there’d be a clinic where they would be stabilised?”
“Isn’t that what Dr Harabi has done?” Sholto asked. “And then there’s the zombies. But it’s more than that. It’s the land, the landscape, the roads, the houses. Is what we’ve seen a reflection of the entire island, or is this corner of Newfoundland unique? We need to find out, so I thought I’d take a drive. Go and see for myself. Alone,” he added.
“Are you sure?”
“If the chief and his mechanics are hunting for fuel depots, and the doc and her medic are looking for medicine, you’ll need the Marines to keep an eye on them. Besides, one guy alone is often safer than a group, and I don’t plan to stray far from my car. I’ll take one of the spare sat-phones. If I get in trouble, I’ll call it in, and stay put until rescue comes. Anaesthetic and antibiotics, that’s what we want, right? Farming communities would need those, and not just for the people. I’ll check out clinics and veterinarians, and anywhere else that looks promising, and which might help tell us what happened here.” He downed the last of his cup. “Any chance of breaking the rules and getting a third cup to go?” he asked.
“Told you there’d be a map,” Jay said, jumping down from the container-truck’s cab. “There was this, too.” Together with the map, he handed a clear-plastic envelope of papers to Sholto, then continued walking up the ferry on-ramp.
“Where are you off to?” Chester called.
“To see what’s inside the container this lorry was hauling,” Jay said, pointing to the vehicle’s rear.
“Wait for me, then,” Chester said.
“It’s not going to be zombies, Chester.”
“Just wait, all right?”
Chester hurried after Jay. Sholto leaned against the cab, looking first at the map, then at the gently sloping ramp-road. During yesterday’s storm, and with their focus elsewhere, they’d not noticed the eight container-lorries parked on the ferry on-ramp. Parked and then abandoned, all facing inland, showing which direction they’d been driving. To him, it confirmed the locals fled by sea, first emptying the ferry.
“See? No zombies. Just… clothes,” Jay said. “Oh, this is cool. And it’s my size.”
“More like my size,” Chester said. “So I’ll have one for myself.” He walked back over to Sholto.
“Still plastic-wrapped?” Sholto asked.
“Awaiting delivery,” Chester said. “But there’s a lot of clothes there. That box is long-sleeved jumpers. Red, with a hood.”
“This is the delivery note,” Sholto said, holding up the piece of paper attached to the map. “The cargo was destined for Grand Falls-Windsor.”
“Where’s that?” Chester asked.
“According to this map, about five hundred kilometres away,” Sholto said. “Up in the north and middle of Newfoundland. How many identical sweaters were there? Of the same colour and same size, I mean?”
“How many? Hang on,” Jay said. “Twenty-four in this box, why?”
“I don’t recognise the recipient’s name on the delivery note,” Sholto said, “but it must be a department store or a mall. Either way, a place with that many customers is a place where a hospital could expect a similar number of patients.”
“You’re going to make that your destination?” Chester asked.
“Five hundred kilometres? I might make it today. Certainly should by lunchtime tomorrow.” He held out the map. “And whoever was driving this truck already had the route planned. Seems to follow the TransCanada Highway, and the coast, at least until I’m near the top of Newfoundland where the road turns east.”
“There’s got to be a more direct route,” Chester said.
Sholto grinned. “Ah, but the highway would have been built to service the major towns. Odds are I can find the medical supplies long before I reach that city.” He stuck the map in his pocket as Jay jogged back to them.
“Here,” Jay said, holding out a sweater. “It’s clean.”
“Thanks,” Sholto said, and began the slow walk down the on-ramp. Overnight, the temperature had hit freezing. From this distance, and from thirty metres above sea level, the horizon was a forested hill-scape, dusted white. But most of that would be ice, not snow, not yet, though the clouds gathering above had the angry yellow tint of a blizzard waiting to be unleashed.
“You sure you don’t want company for this?” Chester asked.
“One is easier,” Sholto said. “I’ve got the sat-phone, so if I get into trouble, I’ll call you for a pick-up.”
“Just remember to wait by your vehicle,” Jay said.
“Jay, did you remember to close the back of that container?” Chester asked. “Don’t want the damp ruining our new duds.”
“Oh. Hang on.” Jay jogged back up the ramp as Chester and Sholto continued their descent.
“I really do wish I was going with you,” Chester said.
“You’ve got to stay with your family,” Sholto said. “I understand that. And that’s why I’ve got to go. We’ve got to know what’s out there. One way or another.”
Both men’s eyes went to the corpses ringing the APCs. By dawn’s frosty light they could better see what had happened. The speakers told the rest of the story. There were well over two hundred undead corpses ringing the trio of armoured cars. Inside, there were no bodies, no ammunition, and nor, outside, was there evidence of any torn-apart defenders. There were torn wires leading to the vehicle’s roofs, and smashed speaker-stacks lying broken on the ground. The Canadians, before fleeing, had set up the vehicles and speakers to lure the undead away from the departing evacuation fleet.
The chief waited by the RCMP truck that had been chosen for the expedition mostly because it had been sheltering inside a garage on the far side of the parking lot.
“You’ve got a full tank, and three spare jerries in the back,” the chief said, as gruff as ever. “I’ve given you two spare tyres, a jack, and a wrench. Bust one, turn back, that’s my advice. You’ve got food?”
“Enough for a couple of days.”
“And the phone?” the chief asked.
“Yep,” Sholto said.
“Then you’ve no excuse not to bring this truck back. It’s a good engine, a solid chassis. We don’t want to lose it out there in the ice.”
“Understood,” Sholto said.
The chief stormed off to check on his mechanics who were inspecting the quality of the oil found in the fuel store’s secondary tanks.
“I think he’s starting to mellow,” Chester said. “Almost seemed friendly then.”
Sholto climbed into the cab. “Next stop, Grand Falls-Windsor. I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Good luck,” Chester said.
“Wait,” Jay called, finally having caught up with them. He came to a skidding halt on the ice. “Here.”
“A phone? Thanks. I’ll take some pictures.”
“It’s got music on there, too,” Jay said. “I found it in the departure hall. You need to charge it from the car’s battery, but I’ve got the cable, here. And you can Bluetooth it to the speakers. Want me to show you how?”
“I think I can figure it out,” Sholto said. He started the engine, and drove away.
Barely a kilometre later, the still bright signage for Timbits in the coffee-shop window brought back memories of his last time in Canada, which, in turn, almost brought him to a sudden halt. That trip had been with Grant Maxwell, before Sholto had persuaded him to run for the presidency. While the past could be remembered, it couldn’t be relived, especially with those who were now dead. He kept going.
The bridge he came to a minute later brought him to a complete stop. Reflex made him glance in the mirror, but he was alone. He picked up the map. Back in the harbour, he’d been more interested in where he was going than in where he’d begun. He checked the compass. Yep, he was travelling northwest, not due north, and he was on another peninsula. Which explained the bridge ahead of him. The highway followed the coast. Not closely, and often no closer than ten kilometres from shore, but it headed northwest before turning north. It really was the long route if he wanted to travel northeast, but finding an alternative wasn’t his immediate priority. The barricade ahead of him was. Across the bridge were parked four RCMP four-wheel drives, identical to his vehicle.
Wind whipped around his legs when he climbed out of his truck. The rising gale was saturated with enough salt from the stormy bay below that the bridge-way wasn’t frozen. Nor were the bodies. Not all of them. He grabbed the rifle, and made his way across to the barricade. Originally, the trucks had been parked in a tight M with corrugated steel sheets added to both sides. Something had pushed the vehicles apart, knocking half the sheets to the ground. From the casings, the broken skulls, the handful of pecked-clean bones, a battle had been fought here. But there were other corpses with undamaged skulls. Probably zombies. Probably. So had the gap been forced by the undead? Or by a vehicle trying to reach the harbour? Was it by the same vehicle they’d found at the hotel outside the barricade? It was impossible to tell.
He walked back to his truck, his gaze going to the hamlet on the southern shore of the bridge, and to the comforting familiarity of the coffee franchise.
“We really did change the world, Max. For good and ill.”
He got back in the truck, and drove.
He didn’t stop for an hour. The odometer told him he’d travelled fifty-three kilometres. The compass told him he was now heading northwest. His eyes said he wasn’t going to squeeze around the fallen tree. It lay on the highway in front. To his left, the west, he could see a river. To the east, what was either a large pond or a flooded field. From the near complete coverage of trees in the area, he doubted this was farmland, and the forest was too irregularly planted for it to be grown for the timber. The nearest house was at least a kilometre back, and though he’d slowed there, he’d not stopped. Half the roof had collapsed, with the remainder looking as if it was on the verge of following.
He was reluctant to leave the gloriously heated cab, but the only turnings he’d seen so far were narrow strips of black-top leading to solitary houses and lonely hamlets. Grabbing his rifle, he plodded over to the felled tree. Inland, with woodland shielding his flanks, the air was still, but the freezing chill was even more pronounced after the warm cocoon of the truck’s cab.
The tree was sawn through at the trunk. Deliberately felled on the road. By a chainsaw from the look of the cut. The bodies must have arrived afterward, or perhaps during the felling, drawn by the burr of the tool’s motor. Many were now just gnawed bones, but two were obvious corpses, partially decayed, partially putrefied, before the drop in temperature had paused decomposition. As he turned away, he caught sight of something in the frosty mud: a leather pocketbook whose white trim had been washed clean in the recent storm. The contents were turning to sludge, but the laminated driver’s licence was mostly intact. He ignored the photo, more interested that it was from the U.S., and issued in the state of Georgia. Someone had come all the way from Georgia only to die here. A stranded tourist? A trucker, delivering supplies? A survivor who’d died since the outbreak, or someone who’d discarded their worthless wallet and then kept running?
Carefully, he placed the pocketbook on the sawn stump. It took five minutes to attach the truck’s tow cable to the trunk, another ten to drag the tree far enough to the side of the road he could drive through. There was nothing he could do about the corpses except try not to think of whom they’d been as he drove over their mangled bodies and continued north.
He slowed a few times, and once stopped briefly when a white-winged, wide-spanned gull flew low over his truck, but he didn’t get out until he reached the bridge. It was a long and slow four hours since he’d left Port-Aux-Basques, and a tempting ten minutes since he’d seen the signs for Port au Port. What he’d not seen were any signs to a hospital, but nor had he seen any moving undead. He’d come across a few roads leading inland, and he’d been tempted by them, just as he’d been tempted by the idea of investigating Port au Port, but he’d stuck to the mission, and to his route, until now.
Ahead, a juggernaut had jack-knifed across the narrow bridge, blocking both lanes. The truck’s rear three feet had broken through the barrier, and now dangled above the raging torrent below. He wasn’t sure if that was a bay or a lake, because there’d been another bridge crossing it further south, signed for Port au Port. If he wanted to continue north, he’d have to go back to that bridge, then find a way around. Assuming there was one, since there didn’t seem to be many roads on this forbiddingly massive island. Or maybe the juggernaut, with a little encouragement, might be persuaded to topple over the side and down to the freezing foam below.
Increasingly reluctant, he left the comfort of his cab. On the exposed bridge, the wind turned the light sleet into icy daggers that stabbed at his cheeks and neck until he reached the relative shelter of the jug
gernaut. Four corpses lay around the closed cab door, washed clean by the rain, bleached by the salt-heavy wind, but they had probably been undead. Probably. One had a knife still embedded in its empty eye socket, the other three skulls had been crushed.
Had the truck been skewed there deliberately? Perhaps. That tree hadn’t fallen by itself. There was no way he was going to shift the juggernaut with his police truck. Not without risking losing his transportation, and it was far too long a walk back to the harbour.
He got back behind the wheel and turned around, weighing his options. Since he didn’t want to head back, he could go west, to Port au Port, or head east, taking Route 480 inland. The turning was, now, just ahead of him, though according to the truck-driver’s map, the road petered to nothing a few miles east. Surely it had to lead somewhere, even if it was to another road. He took the turning, wondering where it would take him.
He’d just decided the answer was nowhere when an amber-jacketed figure staggered out from the woods, a hundred metres ahead. Sholto braked, too hard and too fast. The truck skidded, turned, twisted ninety degrees. Glad he’d worn his seatbelt, he peered through the side window. The figure still approached. And… But no, it was just a zombie.
Sholto checked the mirrors, then each window, but the creature appeared to be alone, and now was only fifty metres away. Slowly he climbed out, picked up the rifle, and took aim. Yes, just one of the living dead, and when it reached twenty metres from the cab, he fired, and it was just dead.
But it was an unusual corpse. The kind he’d not seen in months. The jacket was clean. The boots were both laced. The jeans were muddy, but no more so than from a day’s hike.
He followed the path the zombie had walked, but lost the trail in a quagmire just north of the road where a lake had turned an acre of forest into a semi-submerged swamp. He returned to the zombie, and gave it a quick search. There was no wallet, no military tags. A belt beneath the coat had a sheath, but the knife was missing. There was no obvious wound, and it took him a minute cutting the clothing with his own knife to find the bite hidden beneath a homemade linen bandage. Who was he? How had he been infected? And had he killed the zombie before he’d turned?
