Here We Stand [Surviving The Evacuation] (Book 2): Divided

by Frank Tayell

  “Well?” Soanna prompted.

  “Do you remember the helicopter?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she said.

  After he’d sanitized the events of the past week and a half, the version he told them was almost as brief as the summary he’d given Helena, Jonas, and the others outside of the bed-and-breakfast.

  “I see,” Soanna said when he’d finished. Before she could pronounce judgment on his tale, the door opened. Kaitlin came in.

  “You made it,” she said.

  “So did you,” Tom said.

  “You missed the story,” Luke said.

  “He was telling us what happened,” Soanna added.

  “Are the children safe?” Kaitlin asked.

  “Safer than they would have been,” Tom said.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s what matters. I’m glad you’re alive, but word’s spread that you’re here. Everyone wants to know what you saw.”

  He eased himself out of the chair. Leaving Helena to watch the children, he followed Kaitlin back outside.

  The meeting was being held in the restaurant. The old sign had been taken down, but the new one had yet to be put up. He wondered whether Jimmy even had the funds to have had a new sign made. In a place where little ever happened, the arrival of Jimmy and Andy had been talked about so much the previous summer that even Tom, during his one brief visit, had heard of it. The rest of the details had been provided during his last weekend here after the election.

  They were two brothers. Andy had been in college, a quarterback on a football scholarship. Jimmy was still in high school when Andy had sustained a head injury during a training session. It resulted in irreparable neurological damage, though Tom wasn’t precisely sure how that manifested. Andy and Jimmy’s parents, on getting the phone call no parent ever wants, had jumped into their car, sped away from their home, and then died in a five-car pile-up on the freeway five miles from the hospital.

  With the insurance claims to both accidents tied up in court, Jimmy had sold their parents’ home, and moved himself and his brother to Maine. The building had been a tackle shop and store, and part of their inheritance, though it had been shuttered for years. They’d brought a couple of friends with them and hadn’t arrived with empty pockets. Even so, their funds had been seriously drained when they’d opened a restaurant in a place that only had customers for three months of the year. However close they must have been to absolute penury, the cruel twists of fate that had brought them here might just have saved their lives.

  Andy still had a footballer’s physique, and looked incongruous in apron and rubber gloves standing in the door to the kitchen. Jimmy, half his size and a quarter his width, bustled about and behind, carrying trays of bowls to the tables. A quick headcount told Tom there were around seventy people inside the building, seated at tables that had been pushed together into two long rows. Light came from lanterns hanging on supporting joists, turning quizzical features into sinister expressions.

  “Come on, over here,” Jonas said, taking Tom’s arm and leading him toward a bar from which all the bottles had been removed. “You’re going to have to sing for your supper. Or talk, at least. Tell us what’s going on in the world.”

  Tom looked at the faces staring back at him. They all had the same expression of exhausted curiosity.

  “It began a long time ago, but I’ll start with the election,” he said. He talked as food was served, as it was eaten, and for long after the empty bowls were pushed away. He kept to the truth, and almost the entire truth at that. When he finished, their expressions had changed. Some were shocked, some confused, others were angry.

  “That’s bombs fallen on California, Texas, Pennsylvania or New York, and across the border in Canada,” Jonas said in summary. “No help is coming. We’re on our own, and we don’t know the extent of the devastation. We’ll have to talk about this, and what it means, and how it changes what we have to do, but not tonight because it doesn’t change what we have to do tomorrow. Thank you for sharing what you know, Tom,” he finished. “Jimmy, is there anything left for him to eat?”

  The teenager placed a bowl on a table by the kitchen door. Tom was grateful to sit, and kept his eyes down as he ate. It was actually quite good, a fish stew where at least the principal ingredient was fresh. He didn’t look up when he heard chairs being pushed under tables and people moving to the door.

  “It is a lot to take in,” Jimmy said quietly when the restaurant was almost empty.

  “Not really,” Kaitlin said. “This morning, we woke knowing nuclear bombs had fallen, but we didn’t know where. All that’s changed is that we know Addison was behind some part of this apocalypse, and that he’s dead. That doesn’t alter what we have to do tomorrow.”

  “No,” Jonas said. “It doesn’t. Find enough supplies to create a stockpile. Always more supplies. Food’s a priority, but medicine’s a close second. There’s a lot of people here running low on their prescriptions.”

  “And we need more crockery,” Jimmy said. “Andy and me’ll be up until midnight washing this lot. We’ll be up again before dawn, chopping the wood to burn on the stove to heat the water to wash the bowls from breakfast.” He said the last as if it was a nursery rhyme, and with a smile as if to emphasize that he didn’t mind the labor.

  “Chickens,” Andy rumbled from the doorway. Tom waited to see if anything more would be added.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Jimmy said. “We’ve been talking about it. Eggs would make a nice change from fish.”

  “Another thing to look for tomorrow, then,” Jonas said, standing up.

  “Tomorrow,” Tom said. “Can I borrow a flashlight to get back to my cottage?”

  “No,” Jonas said. “Everyone sleeps in the village.”

  “Everyone sleeps on Main Street or Second,” Helena said. “But you can sleep in the house.”

  “Sure,” Jonas said. “He has to go back there, anyway. Martha will want to know the story, too.”

  They bid goodnight to Jimmy and Andy, and stepped out into the dark street. The complete absence of electric lights and the lack of engine noise made it impossible to pretend that it was an ordinary night. Whether it was the company of others, the organization of such a large group, or the welcome he’d received despite everything he’d told them, he felt hopeful. The old world was gone, and with it his old life. A new one was beginning. It would never be easy, but for him, if for no one else, it might be a better one.

  Chapter 22 - A New Day, A New Life

  March 15th, Crossfields Landing, Maine

  He was woken by the sound of children running down the wooden stairs. He didn’t move. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well. It was the smell of coffee that finally dragged him out of his warm cocoon. He searched for the candle he’d been given the night before, and then for the book of matches. By flickering flame, trying not to think about a past long before he was born, he dressed in borrowed clothes. The only clue as to whom they’d once belonged was that the label in the thick sweater was for a store that had gone bankrupt a decade before.

  He found his way along the dark corridor to the bathroom. The sound of the flush was one of the sweetest he’d ever heard, even if the cistern then had to be refilled from a bucket. It was all so close to normal, yet so different. The man who stared at him in the mirror was unrecognizable. Grey poked through hair that had been dyed black a month before. Stubble had grown into a ragged beard that was more salt than pepper, and barely hid the deep lines that cut into sunken cheeks.

  “You’re alive,” he whispered. He repeated the words, but found them hard to believe. They were still raw, but his experiences were becoming memories. He made his way downstairs, pausing by the partially open door to the living room. The children were inside, playing quietly. He listened, telling himself that whatever he might have failed to do, they were alive, too.

  The door to the kitchen was open, the room brightly lit compared to the rest of the house. F
lames crackled in a stove and flickered from a pair of candles on a kitchen table where Martha and Jonas sat opposite one another.

  “It’s nice to hear them,” Tom said, nodding at the adjoining wall through which the children could be heard. “Reminds you what life’s all about.”

  “You have no children?” Martha asked. “That’s a blessing in times like these. There’s oatmeal for breakfast. Sit down, I’ll fix you some.”

  “And coffee?” Tom asked.

  Jonas leaned back and picked up the old-fashioned pot from the stove. He poured Tom a cup. “Coffee we have a lot of,” he said. “And oatmeal. For now, at least.”

  “For about a month, I think,” Martha said. “It depends on how many more people come. We can’t turn them away.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Jonas said, in a tone that suggested that was what they’d been discussing before Tom had entered the room.

  “That was our big concern,” Martha said, “that we’d be swamped by refugees. The stories Helena told us about your time on the road, and what Kaitlin and others said, turned concern into fear, but we’ve hardly seen anyone.”

  “Where are Helena and Kaitlin?” Tom asked.

  “On guard duty,” Jonas said. “They’ve got the midnight to six a.m. shift on the main road. We need steady hands and calm minds for that watch.”

  “It’s because of the monsters,” Soanna said. Tom turned around. The girl stood in the doorway. “They come at night so Kaitlin and Helena watch for them. No one goes out at night. It’s not safe.”

  “That’s right, dear,” Martha said. “Now go back and watch the others.”

  Soanna gave a half-shrug as if she wanted to stay in the room, but then thought better of arguing. She left.

  “They come all the time,” Jonas said. “Never as many as we saw yesterday, at least not in one go. At night you can’t see them. You hear them getting caught up in the razor wire. We burned through a lot of ammunition when people got nervous and fired blindly at sounds. Of course, the gunfire woke up the entire village. By the time we got a light on the road, we saw it was just one or two of them. So since then, we’ve had a new policy. Everyone stays in at night. The guards are to warn us if the zombies make it past the razor wire. That’s when we take to the walls. If the monsters stay beyond the razor wire, we deal with them at dawn.”

  Martha smiled. “Monsters? The children are rubbing off on you.”

  Jonas gave a noncommittal shake of his head. They knew each other, Tom thought, and for a long time. They weren’t a couple, but were clearly comfortable in each other’s company.

  “How long until the candles are gone?” Tom asked, gesturing at the flickering flame.

  “Another week,” Jonas said. “And then we’ll be using the batteries and the flashlights. We’ve been keeping them for when we have to patrol. Candles aren’t safe for that. But we’ll be out of batteries before the days get long enough that we don’t need them.”

  “I can’t offer you honey,” Martha said, putting a bowl down in front of Tom. “We have to keep that for wounds. We’re sorely lacking in medical supplies. And I can’t offer you sugar, since we don’t want to waste it on sweetening when it can be used in baking and for preserves. We do have peanut butter.”

  “This is fine, thanks.”

  “It’s the wrong time of year,” Jonas said, refilling his cup. “If this had happened in April, the bars and restaurants would have begun stocking up for the summer trade. As it is, we’ve got what little Jimmy had in his storeroom and what we can find in the unoccupied houses, but most of the seasonal inhabitants emptied their larders when they went home last fall.”

  “It should get easier,” Martha said. “When the zombies stop.”

  “It’s been three weeks since it began. I don’t see why they should stop, not ever,” Jonas said. He looked at Tom. “Unless I’m wrong?”

  “I’ve no better idea than you,” Tom said.

  “Then that brings us back to the problem of ammo and food,” Jonas said. “But no,” he added, “we can’t turn anyone away. We’ll need people more than we need anything else.”

  “Not many have arrived here, then?” Tom asked.

  “There were a few who followed the coastal road, but most kept going,” Jonas said. “But that was only a couple of vehicles a day. I guess anything larger heading along that route detoured inland, and if they’d come this far, saw no reason to stop. We’ve had a few who came in on foot.”

  “And by sea?” Tom asked.

  “A lot of boats passed us by,” Jonas said. “Sailing ships, pleasure cruisers, trawlers, even a few tankers. Where the roads were quiet, the sea was abuzz. We’ve a shore-to-ship radio, and we broadcast a message saying that we’d been overrun, that we were trapped. Some would talk with us, but Martha was the only person who came ashore to investigate.”

  “I thought this was your house,” Tom said to her.

  “Who in their right mind would want to retire to a place like this?” she replied.

  Jonas gave a snort. “It’s my house. Those are my clothes you’re wearing.”

  “Oh. Right. Thanks. Um… you said you spoke to the people in the ships? Where were they heading?”

  “Some were just trying to get as far away as they could. Those with a plan were heading to Canada or Greenland. I’m not sure why, except I guess a rumor started that it was safe, and it spread because people wanted to believe it. We saw people going north. We didn’t see anyone come back. We did hear whispers of a naval battle somewhere in the eastern Atlantic. The word mutiny was repeated a few times. Mostly we heard a lot of desperation.”

  Tom found his bowl was empty. He reached for his cup. “Part of my original plan was to sail to Britain. I was going to make most of the journey on a fishing trawler, but I was going to start with the boat I have by my cottage.”

  “It’s not there anymore,” Jonas said. “We moved it down to the jetty. We’ve got all the boats there. If we get overrun, we’ll take to the sea. That’s as much of an escape plan as we have. We stripped your cottage as well.”

  “Did you find the hidden room?”

  “No,” Jonas said. “The FBI didn’t either.”

  “They came here?”

  “At the end of January. Said the guy who owned the place was implicated in a series of bombings. There were only two of them, and they didn’t stay long.”

  “It was Addison who was behind the bombings,” Tom said. “And no, I knew no one had found the room before the power was cut. I had an alarm set up that would have sent me an alert if anyone tried to get inside. I couldn’t rig the house itself, that would have been too obvious a sign that there was something valuable hidden there. Even so… no, they probably weren’t FBI.”

  “Does that matter?” Martha asked.

  Tom weighed it up. “No. But there’s some M16s and ammo in there, along with some long-life rations. More importantly, there’s a server to which I copied files on the outbreak, the conspiracy, and the collapse. I don’t know how much it will help, but it might fill in the details of everything that’s happened.”

  “That’s of questionable value right now,” Jonas said. He gestured at the window. “Dawn’s coming. I need to check the perimeter. You fancy a walk?”

  From the tone, it wasn’t a question. Tom finished his cup, took a longing look at the pot, and stood.

  “You’ll need weapons,” Jonas said.

  “My carbine’s in the truck,” Tom said, following Jonas out into the front hall.

  “It’s not. Kaitlin has it. She cleaned it last night and took it out with her. We’ll have to get those assault rifles from your cottage later.” He took a key from a hook and unlocked a metal cabinet that was completely out of place amidst the faded wallpaper and ancient paint. “I take it those M16s are fully automatic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mind telling me why you have them?”

  “In case of the end of the world,” Tom said. It wasn’t true, but now wasn�
��t the time to explain the quest for revenge that had consumed much of his early adult life.

  “Huh. A month ago, I’d have called you crazy,” Jonas said. “I guess I now have to call you prescient.” He opened the cabinet. The first thing Tom noticed was the framed badge and ID.

  “You were a cop?”

  “I was. Ten years as a detective in Florida, ten years in… ah, but what does that matter? Here.” He held out a hunting rifle. “We’ve plenty of 30-06. What we’re lacking are people who know how to shoot.”

  “I thought there would be plenty of hunters around here,” Tom said, taking a bag of ammunition.

  “You don’t hunt cod with lead. In the summer, it’d be different. In the winter, you have people who retired here. Since you do that for the scenery rather than the weather, we’ve a lot who know how to wield a paintbrush and not much else. Here.” He gave Tom a .45 and a bowie knife, already hanging on a belt. “You seen much action?”

  “Enough,” Tom said, slinging the belt around his waist. “All I’m missing is a ten-gallon hat.”

  “How things change,” Jonas said with no trace of smile. “How they stay the same.” He locked the cabinet, and placed the key back on the hook where it was just out of reach of a child’s hands. “Moved the cabinet in from the shop when the children arrived. Stopped hanging the key around my neck last week when the zombies got past the wire. Security versus safety. What a world. Martha, we’re leaving!” he called.

  The children appeared in the doorway.

  “Where are you going?” Luke asked.

  “We need to have a word with Kaitlin and Helena,” Jonas said. “We’ll be back soon. You know the rules?”

  “Stay inside,” Amber whispered.

  “We always stay inside,” Soanna said. “But we will, I promise.”

  “Hot coffee,” Martha said, passing Jonas a flask. He put it in a satchel, and gave Martha a nod. Tom gave the children a smile. Only Soanna returned it. The others had anxiety written clear across their faces.