by Frank Tayell
“How many in the north?”
“Thousands,” she said. “From what Diana said, they came from every direction. Must have breached the wall in a score of places.”
“And with everyone working the harvest, we’ve not got enough people watching,” Jonas said.
“What good would watching have done?”
They’d reached the house. Jonas climbed up to the porch, surveying the field, and the clearer view of the undead approaching along the road. “There’s a truck out front,” he said. “And there’s fuel in the basement.”
“Do you honestly think, after all I went through, I’d leave you here?”
“Nope. But I prefer running to being torn apart. We’ve got about a minute. I’ll be half that.”
Leaving Martha to stand guard, he went inside.
It wasn’t just diesel he’d stashed in the house. Over a million refugees had found their way to Nova Scotia, and many had arrived armed. He descended the stairs down to the basement where he’d stored the confiscated arsenal. Grenades did little good against the undead and would have done a lot of bad to the living. But it wasn’t that he’d come down for. Nor the flamethrower, the shoulder-mounted anti-aircraft rocket, or the C4, not yet. He wanted the Browning .50 calibre M2 machine gun. The weapon had arrived bolted to the back of a Harley ridden by an overzealous biker who’d, fortunately for him, not found a passenger willing to lethally test the laws of motion.
Jonas had taken the machine gun, and the three drums of ammo, and stashed it away, uncertain they’d ever find a use for it against the undead, but that use had now found him. He hauled the gun upstairs, reaching the wood-slatted veranda as Martha opened fire with her shotgun. The slug took the approaching zombie in the neck, decapitating it. She pumped a new round, firing again. The zombie slipped as it stepped from the road down to the drainage ditch, and the slug went wide, ripping off its wildly flailing hand.
“Try this,” Jonas said, slamming the machine gun down on the table.
“Jonas Jeffries, I thought you said this house was going to be for our retirement?”
“Man’s got to have a hobby,” Jonas said.
“Home brewing is a little more usual. How does it work? No, I’ll figure it out. You buy me a minute.”
He drew his pistol. There were plenty of targets. Plenty of targets and more each second. He fired, emptying a magazine. One shot, one hit, and he didn’t pause long enough to count how many were a kill. He was three shots into his second mag when Martha opened fire. A short burst, and the gun nearly jumped from the table.
She pulled a chair closer. “Let’s try that again.” Seated, she began methodically sweeping the field with successive short bursts as she turned the gun in a tight arc. An arc that wasn’t tight enough. The last three slugs tore a chunk out of the wooden pole supporting the veranda.
“This isn’t going to work for long, Jonas.”
“Nope. And it’s only half the plan.” He ran back inside and back down to the basement. He filled a small bag before he grabbed a block of C4 and a remote detonator. That was something he’d brought from Maine, something that had come from Tom’s old cabin. Something he’d almost left behind, almost thrown over the side of the boat, but he’d kept it. His last secret plan if a quick death was all he had left to give the children. A secret he’d nearly forgotten when they’d found a welcome in Canada.
He ran back upstairs, setting the explosive in the front room he’d been using as his fuel store. He grabbed his rifle, an old Winchester, and darted back onto the veranda where he almost tripped on the crawling monster. The creature curled its hand around his foot, tugging. He kicked his leg free and stamped his heel down on its skull. Behind him, oblivious, Martha kept firing one short burst after another. In front, coming from the side of the house, was death. He dropped the bag, wincing as it hit the wooden boards, raised the rifle, firing one shot, and another, forcing himself to take his time, because he needed to buy at least a minute of it.
Three zombies down, and that would have to do. He grabbed the bag and turned, tapping Martha on the shoulder.
“What?” she yelled.
“Time to move!” he said.
“They’re still coming,” she said.
“Exactly. Bring the machine gun.” She was on the second drum. He grabbed the last and threw it into the bag, and threw that over his shoulder.
Beyond the veranda, the vibrant field had been turned into a blackened killing ground. Sprayed gore and brain coated the stalks, poisoning the ground beneath. Dozens of zombies were dead. Hundreds. But more still came, and they were coming from every direction.
“Where are we going?” Martha called.
“The truck,” Jonas said, running down the steps and out to the side of the house, but the undead had beaten him to it. They were by the truck already. At least ten, coming from the south. There was no time to worry and wonder over what nightmare had occurred to bring the undead from every direction, nor how many of his new Canadian friends had died. He raised the rifle and fired. Five shots, and this time he was sure it was five kills. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He reached to his pocket, but found it empty. There wasn’t time to search for more rounds. There wasn’t time to reach for his handgun, not when the nearest zombie was only five yards away. He reversed the rifle, swinging it like a bat just as the zombie staggered on.
The stock slammed into the creature’s arm with a sickening crack as bone broke. The impact pivoted the zombie sideways, turning it one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, but it spun back nearly as quickly. He swung again, this time lower, aiming for its knees, bringing it down in a thrashing mass of clawing hands.
With a loud ripping roar, Martha opened fire. Bullets tore through the air, into the undead, and far too close to Jonas for comfort. He dropped the rifle and drew his pistol, but it was too late for the truck; a stray bullet had burst a tyre.
“The combine! Go!” he yelled.
“I knew someone who tried to make a getaway on a tractor!” Martha said. “Guess what happened to her?”
“We don’t need to get away,” Jonas said. But his plan was already falling apart.
He clambered into the combine as Martha fired another burst from the hip. The roar of gunfire was partially drowned out by the growl from the engine as the tractor started.
“Get up!” he yelled.
Martha climbed up, and held onto the back of the seat as he drove out into the field, ploughing through the dead zombies, churning bone and gore. The combine’s burring rumble turned to a whining buzz, which became a creaking drone that, after another dozen yards, ended in an explosive bang.
He killed the engine. They’d made it a quarter of the way into the cornfield.
“What now?” Martha asked.
Jonas reached into the bag and pulled out the detonator. “The explosion will kill some. The sound will bring more. Everyone else will have a chance to get back to the wall. I don’t know how loud it’ll get. I don’t know how big the blast will get. Run if you want.”
“My running days are long behind me,” she said. “I’ll take my chances. I took them with you, didn’t I?”
“So much for a second retirement,” he said, and pressed the detonator.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it again.
“We’re out of range?” she asked.
“Must be,” he said.
Around them, the unploughed corn waved as the undead weaved through it, trampling the grain as they lurched towards the tractor.
Martha braced the machine gun on the cab’s door, firing left, then right, aiming at the snaking trails. “There’s too many. Far too many,” she said.
Jonas reached into the bag. All he had left were a few grenades. “Time to run,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
“Which direction?” she asked.
It didn’t matter, but reflex made him look, and he saw the dust cloud above the road. More zombies were coming, so better she head awa
y from them. Except the cloud was moving fast. Very fast.
“The road!” he yelled seeing salvation, seeing one last chance, not at retirement, but at life. “Now. Quick.”
Hauling the machine gun, she jumped down to the field. He followed a few steps behind, close enough he didn’t see the zombie until it staggered out of the corn, straight into her. Its arms caught around the M2 machine gun, tearing it from her grip.
Jonas pushed her on. “Leave it! Run!”
“Hell, no!” she said, tearing the handgun from his belt. She fired twice. The second bullet slammed into the zombie’s temple. But the corn behind wavered and shook as more of the undead forced their way through.
“Too late!” Jonas said, pushing her forward, leaving the machine gun behind.
The car had stopped before they reached the road. Kaitlin had climbed out, rifle raised. She waited until they were behind her before she opened fire.
“Where’s everyone else?” Jonas asked. Diana Fenton was behind the wheel, but otherwise, the car was empty.
“They’re all fighting for their lives!” Kaitlin said.
Day 287 - 25th December
Chapter 28 - Are They Dead?
Digby, Nova Scotia
“It was a good thing he didn’t detonate that explosive,” Napatchie said as Jonas finished his story. “It would have caused the undead to cluster, and so when they turned west, they would have reached our wall in one large mass.”
“Just like in Europe,” Sholto said.
“And like happened with our outer wall,” Napatchie said. “It’s how, and why, it broke. The undead came, and so we fought. We killed them. But there is no quiet way of hurling a rock from a rampart.”
“We had too many people harvesting,” Jonas said. “And too much faith in how strong those walls were.”
“Whatever our error, we have learned from it here,” Napatchie said. “We watch from a distance, and we maintain an exclusion zone.”
“What happened next?” Nilda asked. “How did Diana end up in Newfoundland?”
“She knew where the diesel was,” Jonas said. “She went to fetch it, then took our last boat north. It’s plain as that. When she wakes, all I want to ask is whether she took any of the other diesel. There was more stashed near the wheat fields.”
“By the time Diana left,” Napatchie said, “we had no diesel left within the walls.”
“None at all?” Nilda asked.
“It was consumed during the rescue, the retreat,” Napatchie said. “Now that is a story worth telling, but it can wait until after dinner. Essentially, yes, after the wall broke, many of those working the harvest died, some managed to find a ride back to the wall, but most were stranded on foot. Their return, in ones and twos, and occasionally in the back of any tractor and trailer we could keep on the road, sealed our fate. It brought the undead here, to our final wall. But they are dispersed over its entire length, dotted throughout the woodland. As long as we keep quiet, the danger is low.”
“Does that mean there are no zombies beyond them?” Chester asked. “That we’ve got a mile of zombies here, right outside, and then no more anywhere else?”
“How could we know without venturing outside?” Napatchie asked. “But to do so risks bringing an attack.”
“Did you say that you were harvesting in the middle of September?” Nilda asked. “So, other than Diana, no one has been far beyond the walls for three months?”
“We saw some moving before the rain,” Jonas said. “We’ve had little movement since, but that’s not long enough for me to want to go out there and test it. Besides, didn’t you say there were zombies around the Frobisher when you found the ship?”
“Exactly,” Nilda said. “The time for speculating and hypothesising is over. The zombies are dying. Many are dead. But it only takes one to kill you. Did I understand you correctly, that you’re out of ammunition? So are we, more or less. We’re not equipped for a battle.”
“And we couldn’t risk one,” Napatchie said. “Ours is a precarious situation. If we lose our road-link with Annapolis, we will almost certainly lose the electricity supply.”
“Can I make a wild assumption?” Nilda asked. “You’re prepared to share what you have with us, right?”
“As long as you are willing to do the same,” Napatchie said. “I thought that was why Tom came back, and why you came with him. We are willing to trade our past for a future, our harvest for passage to safety.”
“Good. I just wanted it out in the open,” Nilda said. “Then I think things are looking pretty bright for all of us. We have ships. Or a ship, the Ocean Queen, which could transport everyone here to Newfoundland if that becomes necessary. And if it is necessary to evacuate everyone from here, we know Newfoundland is relatively safe. As to food, how much do you have?”
“For all of us? Enough until summer,” Napatchie said. “We will have to tighten our belts through harvest, but we’ll survive. You mentioned people from France and Ukraine. I have not included their numbers in the calculations.”
“We’ll worry about how we’ll feed them after we’ve found them,” Nilda said. “We’ve almost enough food.”
“And farmland,” Sholto said. “Assuming that the land to the north will still be bountiful come spring.”
“Good point,” Nilda said. “But there’s no way of knowing until the snow melts. And right now, our only alternative is Newfoundland, and it’s just as covered in snow. Essentially, we’ve got to wait. Precisely how we live between now and then is something to puzzle over during the next few days. Maybe some of our people should come here for a week at a time. Or maybe you’ve got some people who’d like to go to Newfoundland to help us set up. I’m very happy to say that sounds like a problem for Bill to discuss with you. For us, I think we have to go south.”
“South?” Chester asked. “Where in the south?”
“However far we can reach,” Nilda said. “The reason we came on this expedition, via Iceland, via Greenland, via Labrador, was to prove there was no point in any future expedition going that far north. Despite this wondrously unexpected discovery of a welcome here, the principle of the mission remains. We know what lies to the east and north, but what about the south? Someone needs to go see. That none of your missing ships returned suggests there’s nothing to be found, but we should look. And we’ll look for something else. If the zombies are all dead, then… well, everything changes. I won’t say the entire world is open to us, but maybe the entire continent. If they’re not dead, or not yet, then in a few weeks, we can turn all our efforts towards farming here, or on Newfoundland.”
“You won’t find better farmland from the deck of a ship,” Jonas said.
“We might find a harbour,” Nilda said. “One we can use over the coming months as a base for venturing inland in search of everything else that we need.”
“Such as what?” Napatchie asked.
“Ammunition,” Nilda said. “Or the machines to manufacture it. Antibiotics, or the formula to create them. Oil, or where we can drill for it. Information, essentially. That’s what we need. And we should look for it before the snowmelt turns to a flood, the old roads are washed away, and the old buildings collapse.”
“Oil?” Napatchie asked. “As in petroleum?”
“That was Bill’s idea,” Nilda said, nodding at Sholto. “Thaddeus’s brother. Over the long term, we need diesel for tractors and trucks, for our ships, for generators until we can figure out how to build wind turbines. I suppose we’ll need it for plastics, too.”
“Canada has oil,” Napatchie said, also looking at Sholto. “I thought you worked in the government.”
“Sure, I know about the tar sands, but that’s in Alberta.”
“There’s oil in Newfoundland, too,” Napatchie said.
“Off-shore, right?” Sholto asked, a little uncertainly.
“But onshore as well,” Napatchie said. “There’s a peninsula called Port au Port. You must have sailed by there. The oil is
mostly offshore. However, a century ago they drilled for it onshore. The field was abandoned as being too unproductive to be commercially viable, but its existence was cited as precedent for a major off-shore excavation.”
“How much oil is there?” Nilda asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.
“My interest lay more in protest than processing,” Napatchie said. “But I think it was somewhere under fifty barrels a day.”
“How many do we need?” Chester asked. “How big is a barrel?”
“Where do we find out more about this oilfield?” Nilda asked.
“St John’s,” Napatchie said. “Perhaps the home of a local representative.”
“Newfoundland really is Eldorado,” Sholto said.
“Let’s not celebrate just yet,” Nilda said. “We still need—”
The door swung inward as Kaitlin flung herself into the room. “The Christinas went through the gate,” she said. “All three. I just saw it on the screens.”
“Which gate?” Chester asked.
“Why would they do that?” Napatchie asked.
“Search me,” Kaitlin said, answering the politician first. “Maybe they want to see whether what’s true in Newfoundland is true here, too.”
“Should you call out the guard?” Nilda asked.
“They are the guard,” Jonas said, already re-buckling his weapons belt. “I’ll make sure the gate’s closed.”
“We’ll give you a hand,” Sholto said.
“I might have to go out there, after them,” Jonas said.
“We’ve done that often enough,” Chester said.
“Did you call Annapolis?” Napatchie asked.
“They’ve been alerted,” Kaitlin said. “Everyone who’s awake in the main barracks is on their way over.”
“The Christinas won’t make any friends today,” Napatchie said. “But they had few yesterday, so I doubt they’ll notice. Shall we?”
Outside, the frozen parking lot reminded Chester of France, and of how quickly things could change. One minute you were in a warm room, listening to an old story; the next minute, violence raised its blood-soaked head. He had his mace, like Nilda had her sword, and Sholto had hatchet and hammer. And they each had a belt on which was a sheathed bayonet and a handgun. What he wanted was a rifle and, if he was picking gifts, a Marine to carry it, and an armed squad at his back. But the Marines were on Newfoundland, and their rifles were still aboard the ship. For that he had no one to blame but himself. They might have planned a quiet, but cold, morning’s survey of a defensive wall, but since when did life ever go according to plan?
