Surviving the Evacuation, Book 17

by Frank Tayell

  “I’d say so,” Chester said.

  “Other survivors would have thought of that, too,” Jay said. “I mean, like everyone. Everywhere. When Tuck and I were heading to London, when you were out wandering England and France, how many people did we miss because they were using a generator?”

  “I dunno, mate,” Chester said, “but it’s not like we didn’t look.”

  “They’d have got the fuel from cars,” Jay continued. “And a car’s engine’s basically the same as a generator, right? We didn’t look hard enough.”

  “We looked as hard as we could, as far as we could, and as long as we could,” Nilda said. “Even if we didn’t find as many people as we wanted, or as soon as we could, we did all find each other. It’s a nice bat. Can I?”

  “Oh? Sure,” he said, and held it out. “I don’t think it’d be much use against zombies.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t use this as a weapon,” Nilda said, giving a practice swing. “That would be sacrilege. Not a bat signed by Jackie Robinson.”

  “Yeah, it’s probably not a real signature,” Jay said.

  “I think it is,” Nilda said. “And, you know what, I think it was his bat.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Do you have a ball?”

  “A ball? In my bag,” Jay said.

  “Then go fetch it,” Nilda said. “We’ll have a game. I’ll bowl.”

  “In baseball, you pitch, Mum,” Jay said.

  “Then you can do that and I’ll bat first,” Nilda said. “Chester, you can catch.”

  “I can try,” he said.

  “You mean in here?” Jay asked. “Seriously? We might break the lights.”

  “That’s how we’ll know who’s out,” Nilda said. “Besides, the chief said the ship’s going to need a refit, but I think this is her last voyage. After this trip, I don’t think there’s anywhere we’ll want to sail her.”

  Day 290, 28th December

  Chapter 33 - Atlantis

  Atlantic City

  Daylight crept through the poorly curtained porthole window, washing over Sholto’s nest of blankets, but he didn’t mind. He’d been awake for hours, mentally building a new nation.

  Lisa Kempton had won. She was certainly dead, but enough people had survived to keep a small electrical generating plant operational in the continent’s extreme north. Enough power had been produced to provide a home for a few thousand, and to offer a home to a few thousand more. Thirteen thousand, give or take, who would restart humanity. Of course, there was Faroe and New York, too. There would be other communities with questionable intent, and others like Calais, against whom there was only one defence. To balance them there were the Ukrainians, wherever they now were, and if they were still alive. Yes, humanity’s future was secured. But what manner of future would it be? They would have to become a nation. One people. In Nova Scotia of all places.

  He’d shared an ultimately uneventful watch on the bridge with Nilda who’d asked him how to build a country from scratch. Not just a tribe, or a community, but an entire nation. He’d met people who’d done something similar, long ago, when the Eastern Bloc collapsed. And he, Bill, and Kim, had discussed the very same question back on Anglesey. It felt different now. When this ship returned to Canada, it would mark the end of something. The arrival of the Ocean Queen would mark the beginning. As to of what, there was a planet-sized canvas in front of him, his to fill however he chose.

  The prospect excited him. It was a task into which he could truly sink his teeth. A project that would take him the rest of his life. A purpose that would occupy him until he died. This time, they would do it right. This time—

  He was interrupted by a hammering on the door.

  “Mum wants you on the bridge!” Jay yelled.

  Grabbing his boots, weapons belt, and coat, he bounded out of bed, and ran, half dressed, to the bridge.

  “It’s not urgent,” Nilda said, her tone grim.

  “What isn’t?” Sholto asked.

  “We want you to confirm we are where we think we are,” Nilda said. “Just… just look.”

  He finished tugging on his boots, and walked over to the window where Chester and the chief stood either side of Nilda, looking at dawn wash over a sunken city.

  “Here.” The chief held out the binoculars.

  Sholto didn’t need them to see the tower blocks. Only three remained. One had collapsed onto another, leaning against it, though it surely wouldn’t stand for much longer. He raised the binoculars and examined the remains of the other towers. They truly had collapsed. Jagged spears of steel jutted out of fractured floors, while below, the sea lapped at the lower levels and completely hid the lower-rise buildings.

  “Is it Atlantic City?” Nilda asked.

  Sholto turned the binoculars back to the tower blocks, settling on the most intact of the three. “The Fifth Season Hotel and Resort. Yeah, that’s Atlantic City.”

  “The seawall must have broken,” the chief said quietly. “But that alone wouldn’t be enough to explain it.”

  “Was this an earthquake zone?” Nilda asked.

  “Not really,” Sholto said. “But maybe this explains what’s happening now in Long Island. Below the sea, the land has slipped. Something to do with the nuclear war, I guess. Atlantic City has gone. The effects have spread as far north as New York.”

  “How far north is that, exactly?” Nilda asked.

  “Hang on,” Jay said, pulling out the charts. “A hundred nautical miles. No, a bit less. Seventy-five. Did you know there was a town called Pleasantville just inland of Atlantic City? There was an actual, real place in the world called Pleasantville.”

  Not anymore, Sholto thought, but kept it to himself.

  “One thing we never asked,” Chester said. “Lisa Kempton arranged for most of those first-wave weapons to impact in the ocean. Where exactly?”

  “Was it near Boston?” Jay asked.

  “Or here,” Sholto said, scanning the shoreline again, counting the jagged concrete stumps around which the waves gently washed. “Offshore, somewhere close enough to create a tsunami, an earthquake, another tsunami, then a landslip, and a third tidal wave that washed away the city.”

  “How far did you say we are from Long Island, Jay?” Nilda asked.

  “About seventy-five miles,” Jay said, looking at the map. “There’s a place here called Margate City.” He walked over to the window. “Right there, south of Atlantic City, there’s a place called Margate. Or there was. A sailor from Kent must have named the place, right? They were homesick and lonely, and a world away from all they knew, and so called this place after it. And now it’s gone, utterly gone.”

  “And we’re going, too,” Nilda said firmly. “We’re going south. Sholto, what’s seventy-five miles south of here?”

  “Delaware,” Sholto said.

  Nilda walked over to the chart. “That’s this peninsula?”

  “Half the Delmarva Peninsula is Delaware,” Sholto said. “The other half belongs to Maryland and Virginia. To the north of the peninsula, you’ve got the Delaware Bay. To the south is the Chesapeake.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” Nilda said. “We’re close to D.C.?”

  “And Philadelphia and Baltimore,” Sholto said.

  “And Annapolis?” she asked. “I mean the Maryland Annapolis, where’s that?”

  “Here, on the Chesapeake Bay, close to D.C.”

  “Not that close,” Nilda said. “Hmm, no, it’s too far for us to reach, but we can reach this section of shore. How far is it? Fifty miles? That should do. We’ll head there. The northern shore of the peninsula, on the southern edge of the Delaware Bay. Are there any large cities, large military bases?”

  “Not a one,” Sholto said.

  “Good,” Nilda said. “That’s where we’ll head. We’ll go ashore once more. One last time. We can see for ourselves whether the damage extends that far south, and thus learn roughly where it began.”

  Chapter 34 - Hidden Rooms


  The Delmarva Peninsula

  “It’s here,” Nilda said. “This is the high-tide mark. How far away from the shore are we?”

  The jetty at which they’d tied up the launch was still visible, though noticeably more battered from this angle than when they’d clambered up its seaweed-covered steps and traipsed along the slime-coated walkway. The jetty joined a paved pier, which, in turn, became a parking lot they’d walked across as far as a road, where Nilda had finally stopped.

  “Are you sure?” Jay asked.

  “You can tell by the difference in the mud,” Nilda said, scuffing her boot along the thick layer of sediment. “Do you see the sand? So, how far above sea level are we? Two metres? Three?”

  “Is that good?” Jay asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nilda said. “Clearly, the sea rose, and there was a flood, but beyond that, I just don’t know.”

  Sholto rolled his gloved fingers across the cold grip of his rifle. The temperature was dropping as the northern winter stretched its icy fingers southwards. It was still well above freezing, but wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  “What do we do now, Mum?” Jay asked.

  “There’s a cop shop over there,” Chester said. “I’m reading that sign right, aren’t I?”

  “Let’s go take a look,” Nilda said.

  “A look for what?” Jay asked. “Woah, what’s that?”

  Everyone spun, looking for danger, but Jay was pointing up, at the top of a streetlight where a red bird watched them.

  “It’s a cardinal, I think,” Sholto said.

  “You’ve got red birds in America? Cool,” Jay said.

  The four of them had come inland, leaving the former professionals on The New World to keep watch for any ships approaching from Long Island. In Sholto’s opinion, pursuit was unlikely. From how overloaded the New Yorkers’ boat had been, they only had one craft. Besides, the New Yorkers had last seen The New World heading east, with a British accent aboard, and for all they knew, a full complement of Royal Marines behind the working cannon. No, the danger wasn’t in being pursued, but in the New Yorkers fearing a fleet was sailing towards them, causing them to flee, perhaps northwards to Nova Scotia.

  He sighed. Life had been so much simpler a few weeks ago. Then he laughed at the absurdity of such a wish.

  “What’s funny?” Jay asked.

  “Everything and nothing,” Sholto said.

  “How well do you know this place?” Jay asked as they re-crossed the parking lot to the small harbour-side police station.

  “Not at all, not really,” Sholto said.

  “Because that sign says Port Lewes. I thought this was Cape Henlopen. No way this town is big enough to have two names,” he added, in the tones of the recently seasoned traveller. “And no way is it big enough to be called a port. It’s smaller than Nieuwpoort.”

  “What do you think that translates to?” Chester asked as he pushed open the door. “Unlocked,” he said.

  “Nieuw-poort. Oh, I just got it,” Jay said. “But like I said, this place is smaller than there. Wow, that floor’s grim.”

  “Slime from the sea,” Chester said. “Must have seeped in. Oh, now there’s a thing.”

  On the counter were neat boxes of a kind Sholto had seen all too rarely since the outbreak.

  “Are those bullets?” Jay asked.

  “Looks it,” Sholto said, opening a box. “Nine-millimetre, straight from the factory. Very much my flavour.” He opened a box and began reloading his spare magazines.

  “There’s got to be a couple of thousand bullets here,” Jay said.

  “Have a look behind the counter,” Nilda said. “Are there any clues why the bullets are here?”

  “Nope,” Jay said. “I mean, there’s some handwritten notes, but they’re illegible. I reckon they left the bullets here so they’d be easy to reach if there was a battle.”

  “There’s no barricades outside,” Chester said. “No new barriers on the door. No stashes of food or other supplies. No tools. No clothes. Nothing any of us would have set by if this was somewhere we wanted to defend.”

  “Just boxes of bullets lined up on the counter,” Nilda said.

  “I’m going to go take a look at the cells,” Sholto said. But they were empty, and unlocked. “Maybe the bullets were left there by the local sheriff, for whoever came here with a need for them.”

  “Could be,” Nilda said. “But this proves one thing. The people from Long Island never came this far. And no one else has come here either. Not since the outbreak. Not the missing Nova Scotians, not the Long Islanders, not anyone else.”

  “Agreed,” Chester said. “It’s an obvious place to come ashore, isn’t it? Most people would take a look in a cop shop, not just for the ammo, but for clues as to where the people went.”

  “There’s a library,” Jay said, holding up a map of the town. “Are we still looking for one?”

  “We’re not in a rush to get back,” Sholto said.

  “You want to take a look at the library?” Nilda asked.

  “Not especially,” Sholto said. “I’m going to take a drive, like I did in Newfoundland.”

  “Why?” Jay asked. “Is it that you want to go back to Washington? You had friends there, right?”

  “In D.C., my friends died a long time ago,” Sholto said. “No, I don’t want to go that far, but I do want to find out whether the zombies are dead or not. Is Newfoundland a one-off? Might Nova Scotia be the same? Long Island didn’t tell us anything, but a drive westward might.”

  “But that’s not the only reason,” Nilda said.

  “No,” Sholto said. “No, it’s not. Lisa Kempton had a house less than a hundred miles from here. Not a redoubt, but a mansion. It’s a helicopter-hop from D.C. Ostensibly that’s the reason she had it built, and had it built there. Any photo shoot she did, it took place in that mansion. It was famous for its manicured lawns, pedigreed art, polished ceilings, and original features that she changed every season.”

  “I remember an advert of swans in a pond, and they turned into drones which flew up above the house,” Nilda said. “That was this place?”

  “It was,” Sholto said.

  “I still have no idea what she was trying to sell to me,” Nilda said.

  “The idea of the frivolous, eccentric billionaire,” Sholto said.

  “Then I’d say it worked. But that isn’t one of the addresses on Sorcha’s list.”

  “It’s not a redoubt,” Sholto said. “I don’t think it even has a proper wall. It was a place she could fly to from D.C., and from where she could then disappear to wherever she wanted. But she came to Maine looking for me because she knew she’d been betrayed. She couldn’t trust anyone, or any of her fortresses. Afterwards she went somewhere, and so there is a slim chance she might have gone there. Perhaps she, personally and unbeknownst to anyone, stashed some weapons and supplies there. She certainly would have kept clothes. Or perhaps she went there hunting the politicians who went hunting for her.”

  “You’re grasping at straws, Thaddeus,” Nilda said.

  “I know. But she came looking for me. She saved Jonas and the kids. Here I am, a couple of hours drive from somewhere she might have gone. I’ve got to at least try to repay the favour.”

  Nilda opened her mouth, clearly about to continue arguing, but then sighed. “Better you go now than Sorcha steals a ship to come look for herself. We can stay offshore tonight. Just make sure you’re back by tomorrow evening. Let’s go find you a car.”

  They found a truck. In fact, they found twelve, parked inside garages above the highest-tide mark, but it was the lucky thirteenth they managed to start. A quick pump of the tyres, a quick redistribution of the supplies they’d brought ashore, and Sholto was on the road once more.

  “Forgot the rifle,” he murmured after a mile. But he had his nine-millimetre and a box of ammunition taken from the police station. No silencer, but the sound of the engine was as loud as a gunshot. He checked the mirrors. No,
he was alone. Utterly alone on an empty road. Utterly empty. Utterly lifeless except for an occasional evergreen.

  The roads were in a far worse condition than in Newfoundland, but still driveable. Successive stormy gales had dragged litter and debris across the roadway, and across the front yards of the often tumbling-down houses. Fields were semi-submerged, or dotted with newly formed ponds around which the grasses were withered and dying. Was that due to the temperature, or because the swamps were the result of a saltwater flood? Or was it something else?

  “Should have brought the Geiger counter,” he murmured, but he hadn’t, so he pushed that fear aside. Instead, he slowed as he approached the nearest house, considered stopping, but decided a search for seaweed, flotsam, or other signs of an inland inundation could wait until he was on his way back.

  His slowly forming theory was that large swathes of the peninsula had been flooded, and from many different directions, cutting off Port Lewes, thus explaining why the ammunition had lain untouched for so long. The floodwater had eventually receded, but not until this corner of America was empty of people.

  “Should have brought the sat-phone,” he said. He could have asked whether anyone had any ideas what geographical clues he should look for. He considered taking some photos and soil samples. Another slow mile later, he changed his mind. It didn’t make much difference what had happened here, or when. A return to this peninsula was unlikely while New York was occupied, and he didn’t see that situation being resolved any time soon.

  He slowed at a crossroads where houses clustered on either side of the junction, but the windows were as empty as the horizon. There was no smoke. No lights. No signs of people coming out to investigate the engine noise. No signs of people having come this way in months. He drove on, giving the occasional houses a glance, and the rusting vehicles barely even that, until he saw a tow truck stalled halfway on top of the barbed wire ringing a solitary house.

  The house’s windows were boarded, with hewn floorboards nailed to an upturned table roped to the porch. Outside, the barbed wire had been run around the perimeter, following the line of the broken picket fence. The defences would have taken some time to create, but they were incomplete, and utterly inadequate. An act of terrified desperation, he supposed. But that didn’t explain the truck. He slowed his own vehicle and stopped on the road. Checking the mirrors first, he climbed out.