by Frank Tayell
Aisha and Stewart were already up and preparing breakfast.
“This brings back memories,” Aisha said.
“It does?” Nilda asked, setting a stack of bowls down on the counter. “Pleasant ones?”
“For the most part,” Aisha replied. “Of a holiday camp when I was nineteen.”
“A family holiday?”
“A summer job that got me away from the family. The pay was lousy, but then so was the accommodation. But the company was… yes, I suppose pleasant is the right word. A month long romance that I knew wouldn’t last, but…” She sighed, her hand falling to her growing bulge. “In its way, I suppose it’s all worked out.”
Nilda smiled. “And what about you, Stewart? What did you do before all of this?”
“Before?” Stewart seemed puzzled for a moment, as if it was difficult to remember. “Nothing much. Got by, I suppose.”
“Oh. No girlfriend?” Aisha asked.
“There was a girl,” Stewart said. “She died. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry,” Aisha apologised.
“Was that…” Nilda began, and stopped. But she did want to know. “Was that near Kew Gardens, just before Jay and Tuck found you?”
“It was before,” Stewart said. “Chris thought everyone was dead. The soldier had gone, you see. They were alone. Then Barrett found them. I found Liz. Everyone died. I didn’t want to. Except on the boat. That was different. I had to kill her. She’d been bitten, you see? I didn’t want to. But Barrett said we had to. It’s terrible what we had to do just to survive…” he trailed off, and stood stock still, his eyes glazed over. “Terrible,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Nilda said, brusquely. “I’m sorry. But it’s over now. Here, take these bowls through to the dining hall.”
Stewart nodded absently and carried them from the room.
“Is he all right, do you think?” Aisha asked.
“Honestly? No. But sometimes I wonder why more of us aren’t like him.”
It didn’t take long to finish preparing breakfast. A few of the children had gathered near the hearth, seeking its warmth. As Nilda hustled them outside, chivvying them towards the washroom, she saw the shape of an adult and two children next to the chicken coop. As she got closer she saw it was Constance with Janine and Marko. All wore a near matching expression of abject concern.
“What’s the matter?” Nilda asked.
“One of the chickens is sick,” Marko said. “Look at her.”
The animal in question sat listlessly just outside the coop. Other than being stationary, it didn’t look much different to those pecking at the ground around it.
“What about the others? Are they okay?” Nilda asked.
“They seem to be,” Constance said. “I’d isolate her, but I think that might upset them.”
Nilda nodded. She was out of her depth. “Perhaps she’ll get better later on,” she said, then discreetly went to check on the Geiger counter. The reading was the same as the day before. That was reassuring. A sick chicken, if indeed it was actually sick and not just having a lazy day, wasn’t a problem in itself. Animals did get sick and they died, just like people. The trouble came if whatever was wrong with it could be spread to humans. And again, she found herself outside of her realm of experience. No matter how much she told herself that she had enough to worry about without coming up with anything more, she couldn’t stop the phrase ‘bird flu’ ringing around her mind.
Half an hour later, sitting again in the infirmary, there was an almost intelligible groan from Chester.
“Chester? Can you hear me?” she asked.
There was another groan. This one sounded almost like “Yes”.
“Try not to move. You were shot,” she said.
“Shot?” The word came out low, grumbled, but it was discernable.
“Two days ago,” she said. “Do you remember?”
“Hana?”
“She died,” Nilda said, and the words came pouring out. About Graham, how Tuck went after him, and how Jay had organised the trip to the coaches. She realised she was babbling.
“Rest,” she said. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll get you some food. We’ve got lots. For the moment, at least.”
Chester growled what she thought was assent. Then he seemed to fall asleep again. As she headed back towards the kitchens, there was no flash of relief as there’d been earlier in the day, just an awareness of how little she could do to help him.
She brought back a bowl that was filled with more broth than stew, lifted his head, and spooned some into his mouth.
“We’ve got more than enough food now,” she said. “Enough to last us until Finnegan gets back.”
“Finnegan?” And this time the word came out clearly.
“He’s gone to Anglesey,” Nilda said. “He disappeared when everyone went to get that food from the coaches. He didn’t even tell Greta that he was going, just left her a note. She was furious. He might have reached Anglesey by now. Or tomorrow maybe.”
Chester’s head moved in what might just have been a shudder, but Nilda decided to take it as a sign he’d understood but disagreed. “I know, it might take him longer,” she continued, “but I think he’ll make it. He took all of those maps of yours. You know, the ones you’d left in your room with the routes marked out? Now eat.”
She was sure Chester tried to say something else, but then he fell asleep once more.
The work of the day had to continue. They had to finish emptying the apartment block and reinforcing the barricade across the road. Then they had to sort and store all the items they’d scavenged. Nilda was tempted to help with the fetching and carrying; it was a task with an easily identified goal, but someone needed to sit with Chester so she left organising those tasks to Greta, Jay, and Aisha. No one minded. Chester being conscious was the first piece of good news in days.
“Nilda?”
She looked up. “Chester? I’m here.”
“Finnegan. The maps,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “He took them with him. He’s gone to Anglesey.”
“No,” Chester croaked. “The maps. They were the routes not to take. They were…” the words were lost in another croak.
“Here,” Nilda said, raising the cup to his lips. “Drink. Slowly. There. That’s it. What do you mean the routes were the ones not to take?”
“Those were the places the hordes had been through,” Chester said.
“Does that matter?” she asked.
“The radiation. I worked it out. It wasn’t the wind. The zombies. They go through the fallout zones. The…” He coughed. “In the books. The impact site. Cae… Cae…” He coughed again. “Heavy isotopes. Last for years. Zombies walk through it. Spread it. Destroy land. Contaminate everything.”
She heard the words, but it took her a moment to work out what they meant.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Which book was this?” she asked. “One of the physics ones? Hang on.”
She got up, and was halfway to the room Chester had used in St Thomas’ Tower when she remembered that Yvonne had borrowed the books for researching the radio. They were on a table under the high window in the dining hall. She grabbed all that she could carry and returned to Chester’s sick room.
“Okay,” she said. “Which one is it?”
“Don’t remember.”
“This one?” Nilda asked, holding up the thickest of the texts.
“Take off the bandage,” Chester said. “Can’t see.”
“What?” No. Please no. “Chester? Can you see me?”
“Not with the bandage.”
“It’s only over your right eye,” she said.
“Blind,” he murmured.
“Fine. Fine,” Nilda said, almost robotically. She dropped the physics books to the floor, and crossed the room to where they’d stored the medical texts. She picked up one, flipped to the index, dropped it,
picked up another, and found the section on concussions and possible effects. Blindness was there. So was pretty much every other possible ailment.
“It’s temporary,” she said, deciding to pick the least, worst possible outcome. “It’s called Cortical Blindness. It’s quite common,” she turned the page. “Hang on. Don’t move.”
“Why? What are you doing?” Chester asked.
“Shining a light into your eye,” she said, holding Fogerty’s lamp close to Chester’s face. “It says if your pupil responds to light, then it’s temporary. Yes. There. The pupil is constricting. That’s proof. Your sight will come back. We just have to be patient.”
When Fogerty came to relieve her, Chester was asleep again, and that was a relief. She’d kept him talking as a way of distracting him from the fact he couldn’t see and in the hope that his eyesight would return. It hadn’t. Looking for some way of venting her fury, she headed to the wood store and began sawing away at table tops and cabinet doors.
“Mum? What is it?”
She put the saw down. “It’s Chester,” she said. “He’s blind.”
“What?”
“It could just be temporary,” she added.
“But it might be permanent?” Jay asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Well, maybe it won’t. And in another week or so the boat will get here, and they can take Chester back to see a doctor.”
“If the boat comes, which it probably won’t.”
“Why not?”
“There was something else,” she said. “Something Chester said about radiation. You know how the people on Anglesey spoke to us over the sat-phone when we were in Hull? They said the radiation was spreading, and that it was being carried by the winds.”
“So?”
“Well, Chester thinks they were wrong. That it was the undead that are spreading it. The horde tramples through the impact sites where the radiation is most concentrated. Their skin, their clothing, even the dead air in their lungs, it all becomes contaminated.”
Jay looked at her blankly. “But the readings we’ve been taking are safe, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They are.”
“So not all the zombies are radioactive?” he asked.
“No. Not all of them. But… I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t know.” She took a breath. “Okay, what do we actually know? Just that the area of radioactivity was spreading in Cornwall and near Birmingham. Anything more than that is just a theory. In fact, we don’t even know that. There was one brief call, and we only exchanged a few words. I think they said they lost contact with those people, so perhaps it wasn’t radioactivity. But what if it was? Why should radiation harm the undead when nothing else does? If Chester is correct then we can’t eat the food or drink the water anywhere that horde has been, nor can we plant anything there, not for generations.”
“Well, who cares about that?” he asked. “We’ve not started planting the moat yet; how long’s it going to be before we have to worry about Birmingham?”
Nilda stared at her son. “You’re right, of course. What matters is Finnegan. He took the maps that Chester had marked as routes the hordes had taken. Those would be the most dangerous places.”
“Oh. Okay.” Jay mulled that over for a moment. “So if Chester’s right, then that means Finnegan is dead?”
“I think…” she stopped. She remembered all the people she’d buried on the Isle of Scaragh. “No. You remember how I told you about the people who’d rescued me from the sea? How they’d all come from around Glasgow? They all had radiation poisoning, but they lived for weeks. Some of them even seemed healthy.”
“So, it’s the uncertainty that’s worrying you? That Eamonn might be alive, but he might be dead?”
“I suppose so, yes,” she said.
“But that’s what we thought yesterday,” Jay said. “So nothing’s really changed, has it?”
The logic was indisputable, but it brought no comfort. Nilda spent the rest of the day alternating between splitting wood and sitting with Chester, her mind turning over problems to which she had no answer.
McInery returned halfway through the evening meal. She looked tired.
“I found some supplies,” she said, carrying her bag to the kitchen. “They’re nothing special, just military rations, but food is food.”
“Where did you find them?” Styles asked.
“In a military Land Rover abandoned near a bank. They’ll help a little, but that was all I found in an entire day of searching. The doors to the car were left wide open. So were those to the bank. I thought the soldiers had gone inside. What for, I don’t know, and I found no sign of them, no…” She stalled, perhaps realising the children were staring at her. “I was looking for a discarded rifle. I didn’t find one. That part of London isn’t safe. There are too many undead. I won’t go back there. But I will go out again. I’ll try further east tomorrow.”
“Maybe someone should go with you,” Greta said.
“If today is any example, then there would be little point,” McInery said. “If I’d not found that car, I’d be coming back empty-handed. No, one person is safer than two, at least until we find something worth bringing back.”
“It’s still good news,” Nilda said, though the reason for her own relief was that there had been no military rations among the supplies that Graham had stolen.
“It is,” Styles said loudly and addressing the children. “It shows there’s still food out there to be found. Now, it’s time you lot were in bed. And if you promise to stay in your own beds tonight and not get up to wander around, I’ll ask Sergeant Fogerty to tell you a story first.”
“The one about the two princes who were murdered?” Marko asked, with a little too much eagerness.
“No,” Constance said. “A nice one. Come on,” And she started shoeing them out of the room.
Nilda watched them leave, her mind on what McInery had said and what, if anything, it meant. She was still mulling that over when Jay spoke.
“How’s it going with the radio?” he asked Yvonne, loudly enough that all heads turned to look first at him, then at the woman.
“It’s getting there,” Yvonne said. “I’m at the point where I’m learning the difference between what I don’t know and what we can’t do.”
“I think it’s more important than ever,” Jay said.
“Why?” McInery asked.
Nilda threw her son a cautioning glare, but he wasn’t looking at her.
“Chester has a theory about the radiation,” Jay said. “He reckons the undead were spreading it. They go through an impact site and get contaminated by the heavy isotopes. They carry them with them, so wherever they’ve been becomes radioactive.”
“How dangerous is it?” Greta asked.
“I think, I mean, this is from those medical books, and they don’t really go into much detail, but if Eamonn drinks the water or eats any food he finds, he’ll die,” Jay said.
“Oh my God,” Greta murmured.
“It’s okay,” Jay quickly added. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. He won’t die immediately, so he should be able to get to Wales. Unless he gets trapped out there, of course.”
Greta closed her eyes, and Nilda wanted to scream at her son for his tactlessness.
“He’ll be travelling quickly,” Nilda said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“He won’t,” Greta said. “I knew something like this would happen. He didn’t take a Geiger counter with him or one of those dosimeters. He wasn’t prepared. He just got the idea in his head that he could do it. He’ll die out there.”
“Or he might not,” Nilda said. “There’s no more point dwelling on the worst than there is on the best. So while we hope he made it, we must assume we’re on our own. A radio is a good idea; it’s something we can do, right? So, Yvonne, what do we need?”
“Ideally? A functioning transmitter would be nice. I suppose the simplest option would be to go back to Kirkman House.”
> “No,” McInery said. “That’s not going to be possible. I barely made it two miles from here today. Though,” she added with uncharacteristic empathy, “of course I’m sure Finnegan made it much further. And I think, with time, we can find a safe route back to Kirkman House, but is it worth the effort? The signal from there didn’t carry more than a few miles. That’s why we were going to use the transmitter at Crystal Palace. And then there’s the generator; we’ve no fuel for it. Where are we going to find more?”
“So if we can’t use that one, can we build a radio of our own?” Nilda asked.
“Yes. In theory,” Yvonne said. “We’d need capacitors, transistors, an oscillator.”
Nilda raised her hands in that universal sign of baffled defeat. “Where do we find those?”
“I don’t think we do,” Yvonne said. “We forget about building a radio and think about a telegraph instead. All we need to do is send out a signal in Morse. The frequency it’s sent on doesn’t matter, and the message doesn’t have to be a long one, just that there are people here in London. It’s not going to be much more complicated than the signals sent over a century ago to prove that radio telegraphy worked.”
“Okay,” Nilda said. “And what do we need for that?”
“An induction coil, a power source, a spark gap, and an antenna. Basically,” she added. “Copper wire, some iron, and a battery.”
“It’s that simple?” Nilda asked.
“Yes and no,” Yvonne said. “The idea is very simple, but it’s going to take a lot of trial and effort. Copper and iron aren’t a problem. As for a power source, we’re stuck with using that battery from the electric bus. I don’t know if that’s going to be powerful enough.”
“What about the antenna?” Kevin asked.
“That’s the hard part. It’s not so much a case of building it, but where we build it. We need height, as tall a building as we can find. The obvious choice is the Shard.”
Nilda waited for Yvonne to go on, and then realised the woman had finished. “Is that all?” she asked. “Some metal, a battery, and the Shard?”
