by Frank Tayell
When Sholto got back behind the wheel, his hand went to the bag, and the sat-phone therein, but all he had to tell the admiral were questions. No, he’d wait a few more hours in the hope he might be able to give her an answer or three.
He found more than that, half a kilometre down the road, when he reached the fort.
It was a new construction, built in an oval on woodland. Those trees had been chopped down, sawn up, sharpened, and rigged to form a palisade. There was a gate of sorts, beginning five feet above the ground, next to which hung a ladder, partially suspended in the air. The top was attached to a rope, which in turn was attached to a lever that presumably was tied to a counterweight on the other side of the head-height wall. Beneath the dangling ladder sprawled a zombie whose skull had recently been crushed. Not within the last week, but maybe within the last month, and certainly not much longer ago than that.
He grabbed the ladder and hauled it down. From the other side of the wall, a bell jangled.
“Hello!” he called, causing a bird to take flight from the cabin’s roof, but otherwise there was no reply.
He climbed up the ladder to the gate, a hatch three feet square. It swung outward easily enough, but he’d have to climb through head-first, presenting himself as a plum target. Something told him he wasn’t in any danger.
The property inside the fort was a one-storey that had been extended horizontally at least twice, but was still more a cabin than a house, though it had been the dead man’s home for nearly a year. Sholto was certain it had belonged to the man he’d killed, and that he had been a pilot.
There were ten pilot’s licences in total, three of which had photographs potentially belonging to the man he’d just killed. Further convincing him the man had arrived by air was the small collection of individually wrapped cookies, whisky miniatures, and miniscule packs of peanuts. But that wasn’t what had sustained the dead pilot. He’d been eating deer. The rotting remains of a roasted haunch filled the cabin’s kitchen, and it was that which caused Sholto to cut his search short and return outside. He found more bones in the midden. Not human. Perhaps deer.
A pilot, then, who’d flown here with nine others. Not here, precisely, but somewhere on Newfoundland. Had the miniatures and handful of snacks been the only food they’d been able to grab before a rushed departure? What had happened to the other nine pilots?
Behind the cabin was a truck with an empty gas tank. Inside the garage was a generator that was just as dry. On the workbench were a dozen arrows, and the half-finished makings of a dozen more. That man had lived here, and almost survived. Almost.
Sholto looked up at the sky. Midday was long over. The sun was heading to the horizon, but it wasn’t dark yet. He could stay here and find some more answers, or continue on for another hundred kilometres. It was no choice really. Not when, so far, he’d found so little. He wouldn’t make it back to Port-Aux-Basques tonight, let alone get anywhere near Grand Falls, but he might find a gas station. Not one with any fuel, judging by the state of the generator, but he was more interested in information. He wanted to know what had happened here before the pilot arrived. With that, he might get a better understanding of how much danger, or safety, they were all now in.
But as he drove, his mind strayed to the idea of ten pilots having found their way here. Nine had died. One had survived. Almost survived. Why ten? Why only pilots? What had happened to the ground crew? Some of the licences had been Canadian, some were from the U.S., but he couldn’t recall how many of each. Did it matter? Probably not. Probably they were civilian pilots held at an airport by a military commander, there to provide support to the air force after the outbreak. After Prometheus, they’d escaped. Probably. Maybe.
He slowed to navigate around a solitary tyre abandoned in the middle of the road. The pilot was a distraction, a footnote for one of Bill’s journals. They had a living survivor back at the harbour. If she stayed alive long enough to properly talk, what she had to say was infinitely more useful than whatever guesses he could make. He had to detour around another tyre, then stopped as the traction beneath his own wheels changed.
Opening the door, he stepped out. Beneath a thick layer of pine needles, fallen from the trees on the southern slope of the shallow hillside, were two inches of grainy mud. Beneath that was metal. Nuts, bolts, small fragments he couldn’t identify, and large sheets so charred and twisted not even the chief would be able to name them. Not just beneath the tyres, but covering every inch of road against which he scuffed his heel. Not just on the road.
As he’d driven east, he’d been so focused on the rising hillside to the south, down which a zombie might tumble towards his truck, he’d barely given the north a glance. Beyond the road, the forested hillside plateaued before continuing down to a void that must be a river, but it wasn’t the only void in the trees. There was a wider one, extending beyond the plateau, and from which something glinted in the setting sun.
He walked back to the cab and checked the Geiger counter. Reassured, he retrieved his rifle and the smartphone Jay had given him. Cautiously, he walked out along the road.
The tyres and the wreckage belonged to a plane. A large one, by the look of the cockpit that lay upside down a hundred yards from the road. An engine taller than he was, detached from its wing, lay five hundred yards further north. The plane had scythed through the trees, knocking down scores as the fuselage was ripped apart.
There was no way anyone could have survived that crash, so it was unlikely the undead pilot had come from that plane. No, a crash as a result of an EMP was as likely an explanation as any other. Were those bodies down there, covered in pine needles and mud? He snapped a string of photographs. The mud was thick and uneven, cut with rivulets that seemed to run beneath the road. There would be no easy way down, not from here, but if that plateau was farmland, there’d be a turning up ahead.
He got back in the truck and drove along the winding, curving, debris-strewn mud-top. He’d managed less than a kilometre, realising there was far more debris than could have come from one plane, when he saw the second. This aircraft was mostly on the road, lying on its belly. The port wing had been ripped clear, but the fuselage otherwise looked intact. A bright orange-red banner hung from the rear, another near the front: the emergency escape chutes. Around them, beneath them, dirt had gathered in mounds.
Dirt?
He turned on the headlamps, but still wasn’t sure. Checking the safety was off, he grabbed the rifle, climbed out, and picked his way across the debris, over to the wrecked aircraft.
The mounds were corpses with the partially decayed features of the undead. Why had they gathered there? He glanced up at the dark doorway; it gave an answer, but posed another riddle. Where had the zombies come from if they were able to gather here so soon after the planes crashed? It truly was the middle of nowhere, yet over twenty bodies were gathered beneath the tail with a similar-sized mound at the front of the plane. Well over forty zombies, and where there was one…
He continued walking to the front of the plane, picking his way around the creaking machine, intending to climb aboard to see what facts he could find in the cockpit. As he reached the rusting void where the wing had been torn clear, he saw another aircraft ahead. The tail was barely fifty metres away, but the plane had cracked apart on impact, with most of the cabin turned ninety degrees to the road. Had the zombies come from that plane, then?
Lying partially buried in the mud, more corpses were mixed with pecked-clean bones, rotting clothing, and un-decayed plastic. He took a few photographs, then a few more, and kept walking. The daylight was fading, but he wanted this mystery answered before dark, and not just because he didn’t fancy spending a night out among these shattered wrecks.
Ahead, the hill’s slope became shallower as the road descended. The trees to the north thinned, and he saw more aircraft. Another two planes had landed on the road, and these had both managed to stay on their wheels. Dozens more had crashed on pasture between the road and the w
ide, snaking river.
He’d already revised his opinion of the cabin-dwelling survivor. He was as likely to be a lifelong local as a pilot or passenger. What was more important were the living dead, and whether, now, here, they’d died or been killed.
On the nose of the nearest plane, something had been added in spray paint, but he couldn’t make out what. Again, the emergency chutes had been deployed. And again, around them, beneath them, were gathered mounds of corpses. Twenty here, thirty there, all unmoving, and all, certainly, zombies. Among them lay the rain-washed bones of the torn-apart immune refugee-passengers.
He clambered down the incline and into the pasture. The earth was waterlogged, turning to a swamp. Water lapped around his ankles, seeping into his boots, but he ignored the minor irritation. There was something lodged against the plane nearest to the road: a ladder.
The escape chutes had thrown him, confused him, made him misjudge what he was seeing. By torchlight, as he shone it on the nearest, he saw how relatively clean the orange inflatable slide was, at least compared to the ragged corpses beneath. The chutes had been deployed long after the crash. Probably by the cabin-dweller as an easy way to bring down loot from the plane, or to mark which planes had been searched. Perhaps just for fun since he couldn’t have seen any living souls since Port-Aux-Basques was evacuated. As for the undead, they’d gathered beneath the open doors where the passengers on the planes waited, hoped, prayed for a salvation that never came.
If he was correct, these zombies had been dead far longer than that cabin-survivor had been undead. But how to prove it? He checked the ladder was stood on firm ground, and climbed up.
There were bones aboard, most gathered beneath seats. A quick count suggested about twenty passengers had stayed on the plane rather than risk near certain death outside. But how many people had been aboard this plane when it had departed? It was a U.S. carrier, a twin-engine that would be as much at home in Canada as in the United States. The overhead lockers were open, the contents strewn about the seats below, but not around those where a body rested. The bags had been looted, then, not fallen during the crash. Searched by these survivors for weapons? For food? Or by the cabin-dweller? Whichever, he doubted much had been found.
And he found little else in the cockpit, other than the flight log. Originally, the plane had been scheduled to fly from Hamburg to L.A. via Atlanta, with the stopover timed for an hour after the outbreak. There were no prizes for guessing it had been grounded there. Days, or weeks, later it had come here.
He scanned the cockpit, but the light was fading fast, and his torch wasn’t powerful enough to penetrate the gloom. It barely cut through the fractured windows, but outside on the nose, he saw spray-painted words. Upside down, with the light fading, he couldn’t read them. He made his way back through the cabin, climbed down, grabbed the ladder and staggered and splashed his way over to the next plane.
Again, there were bodies in the cabin. This time some were buckled to their seats. The head of one hung low, a stiletto heel embedded in its eye socket, dangling low over its lap.
No weapons allowed on a plane, he thought as he made his way to the cockpit. There were no bodies there, but he found the flight log. Vancouver to Barcelona, again via Atlanta. At the bottom, scrawled more than written, was a half-finished entry. Phoenix Air, Atlanta to… but with no final destination. He shone the light outside. Yes, on the cone, that spray-painted graffiti might read Phoenix Air. He knew enough, and as much as he was going to learn today. There would be time to confirm his hunch. Yes, more than time enough.
He walked back to the open doorway at the rear of the plane, unscrewed the suppressor from the rifle, aimed the weapon up into the night sky, and fired. He listened to the report echo. He listened to the echo fade. He listened to the silence settling around the graveyard. Only then did he climb back down to the flooded pasture, and begin his slow trek back to the road.
Night had fully arrived by the time he reached his car, but nothing else had. He was still alone. His legs were soaked. His skin was numb. His eyes were tired. His knee was throbbing again. But he was alone. He was alive. While the zombies were finally dead.
He drove slowly back to the cabin; it was the only alternative to a spending the night in the car. There, avoiding the kitchen and the remains of the rotting deer carcass, he set a fire in the garage. A chair to sleep in, blankets for warmth, and a fire for company; life could be much worse. He looked back through the photographs he’d taken of the motionless living dead. A lot worse.
He took out the sat-phone. It was time to share the marvellous news.
Day 285 - 23rd December
Chapter 20 - The Calculus of Survival
Port-Aux-Basques, Newfoundland
Chester wrapped his gloved hands around the insulated mug and raised it to his face, enjoying the steam as much as the smell. “New clothes, shelter from the wind, and a mug of tea. I never thought I’d be so easy to please. Do you want another cup?”
“Of spiced ginger? No thanks,” Jay said. “If it was proper tea, maybe.”
“You heard the captain, we can have tea, or we can have coffee, but not on the same day. And you don’t want to cross her, or she’ll make you walk the plank.”
Jay gave an overly theatrical roll of his eyes, a habit he’d learned from Tuck. Chester grinned, and stretched out his legs. Beneath him, the lawn-chair creaked. They’d brought two to the sentry box. Situated by the road, at the entry to the harbour, the glass-sided booth was large enough for two chairs, though Jay stood, leaning against the window. The chairs, like the tea, had come from the previous day’s search of the peninsula-town.
“It’s not a bad haul, though, is it?” Jay said.
“From the town? No,” Chester said. “Best we’ve found since the summer, I think. I mean all of us, not just us who were in London. From what Thelonious was saying, there’s more here in this one town than there was in the entire city of Belfast.”
“Do you think all the other towns in Newfoundland are like this one?”
“Time will tell,” Chester said, reaching for the flask.
“Or Thaddeus will,” Jay said, pointing up the road. “Because I think that’s his car.”
“You think? Who else were you expecting?” Chester said, coming over to join Jay by the wide window. “You better go get your mum and the sarge. Quick now.”
As Jay ran off towards the dockside, Chester reached into his pack, retrieved the small jar of partially congealed powdered coffee they’d found alongside the quarter-box of herbal tea, and chipped a lump into a mug he’d brought for this purpose. With no small measure of reluctance, he added the last of the hot water. By the time he stepped out into the road, cup in hand, Sholto had brought his truck to a halt.
“Welcome back, mate,” Chester said. “Coffee?” He held out the mug.
“This is the kind of welcome I could get used to,” Sholto said.
“We found more food,” Chester said. “A lot more. Well, no, sorry. I don’t want to get your hopes up. But it does look like they fled this town soon after the outbreak. Most of the kitchen cupboards have something in them. Fish is still going to be the mainstay of our diet, but it won’t be all we’re eating this side of spring.”
“That’s good. That’s great,” Sholto said, sipping at the coffee. “Did the admiral call you?”
“She did. And filled us in on what you found. Do you want to come inside, wait out of the wind? Our plans have changed a bit.”
“How so?” Sholto asked, following Chester into the glass-windowed booth.
“Our patient woke,” Chester said.
“The Canadian survivor?”
“Yeah, there’s a clinic here in town. We found more or less what we needed. The operation went ahead.”
“And she’s recovered?” Sholto asked.
“Not quite,” Chester said. “She’s stable, and she’s had a few lucid moments. Ah, there’s Nilda. She’ll fill you in.”
Nilda wasn’
t running, but she was walking at a brisk clip, Jay at one side, Sergeant Toussaint at the other, while the chief ambled along at his own pace in the distance behind them.
“Thaddeus!” Nilda said warmly. “It is good to see you, but we were expecting you a few hours ago.”
“There’s a weather front moving in,” Sholto said. “The admiral told you about the planes? This morning I headed back that way, took a few more photographs, headed a little further east along that road. Here.” He fished out the smartphone, which was grabbed by an eager Jay.
“Since you’re that keen,” Nilda said, “can you make copies of those pictures, Jay? I’d like a set for us. Go on.”
“But I wanted to hear about the planes,” Jay said.
“There’ll be time enough as we travel,” Nilda said.
“What did you say about a weather front?” Toussaint asked.
“Snow started falling as I was taking the pictures,” Sholto said. “I tried calling the admiral, but couldn’t get a connection. This was maybe an hour after dawn. I drove west as fast as I could, but it was only when I reached the TransCanada Highway and turned south, I managed to outrace the storm. I’d guess it’s heading in from the Arctic, but right now, it’s heading east to west.”
“Tell me about the pictures you were taking before the blizzard,” Nilda said.
“There are more planes than I first thought,” Sholto said. “Some landed on the road, more crashed either side. On each, as far as the mud allowed me to tell, they’d been rebranded Phoenix Air.”
“When you say rebranded, what do you mean?” Nilda asked.
“Someone sprayed the words onto the nose cones, wings, or cabin. It was definitely on twenty of them. I’m not sure of the others, or the other jets further down that road.”
