by Frank Tayell
“In short, keep on doing what we’re doing,” Jonas said. “Yeah, there’s a limit to how much planning we can do until the risk from radiation is known. I must have checked the Geiger counter twenty times yesterday. It’s becoming a compulsion. But I figure in a month we’ll know, one way or another.”
He placed the pot on the table and sat opposite Tom. “It’s the waiting that gets me. I always hated it.”
“When you were a cop? What was that like?” Tom asked.
“Not as exciting as they make out on TV. A lot more dangerous, more tedious, and more frustrating. It never ends. You lock up a killer, and there’s always another that has to be caught.”
“Is that why you retired?”
He gave a shrug and changed the conversation. “What was the president like? I voted for him. I don’t think I would’ve if Sterling wasn’t his opponent. I wasn’t sure he was sure he was up to the job. Carpenter would have been a better choice.”
“The general had no political experience,” Tom said. “It would have been a hard sell. Maybe you’re right, though. I can’t help but wonder if I did the right thing.”
“You did what you did,” Jonas said. “Trust me, better to accept it than live a life of if-onlys. So what was he like as a man?”
“Max? He was honest,” Tom said. “Completely and utterly honest, to a fault and beyond.” He told Jonas about the first time he’d met Max, about the run for the governor’s mansion, about Claire and their children. As he talked, he found he was able to remember his dead friend in happy times.
“Sounds like a nice guy,” Jonas said. “But I don’t know if nice guys should be politicians.” He poured a cup of coffee. “So what are your plans?”
“Today? I’m going to my cottage. I’ll get the server and go through the files on it.”
“I meant longer term,” Jonas said.
“You mean am I going to leave?”
“You’re not the only one thinking about it.”
“I’m not?” Tom asked.
“If you’d brought any other news with you, or if the zombies stopped, or if there was the faintest hint of a rumor of somewhere with better prospects, half the people here would risk a thousand-mile trek through the unknown. You have to admit, things can’t get much worse, and when they’re like that, it’s easy to imagine that they have to be better anywhere else. Do you think there’s going to be anything useful on your computer?”
“If you mean something that will immediately help us, no. It’s more about Max, and everyone who died. I had an algorithm that was trawling the internet, picking up files that mentioned zombies and the outbreak. I was trying to track its spread, but it collected a lot more. A lot of videos of people giving their last farewells before they went out to face the undead. They must have known it was unlikely that anyone would ever see them, and that it was unlikely that they would survive. We should watch them. Someone should watch them, and maybe there’s a lesson in them that the children can be taught.”
“Maybe there’s a lesson in there for us as well,” Jonas said. “But that’s not the whole reason. It’s something to do with Britain, right?”
“I forgot you were a detective. No, there’s a guy in London who had access to the files. He might have left me a message. It’s a slim chance, but I have to check.”
“And that’s the real reason. That’s the thing that’s more important than how this all began, right? What are the chances he’s still alive?”
Tom shrugged. There was no way of answering that question. He glanced at the window. There were still a few hours until dawn. “Let me tell you about General Carpenter, and the night Max asked him to join the ticket.”
“Sure,” Jonas said, though Tom saw in his eyes that the conversation wasn’t over.
Just before dawn, and just as he heard the sound of children failing to get up quietly, he left the house. The slung rifle, holstered sidearm, and sheathed knife were growing into familiar weights. Once again, the only light came from the window of the restaurant.
He headed north, toward the bridge. He was surprised to see Helena there with Gregor.
“Morning,” he whispered.
“You don’t need to whisper,” Helena said.
Gregor gave a thin smile. “Have you come to relieve us?”
“No, I’m heading up to the cottage. I wanted to get some of my own clothes, see what supplies are there. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Where’s Kaitlin?”
“To the south. We’re dividing our efforts,” Helena said. Which was a polite way of saying that the more collected people were being spread out in the hope that composure was as contagious as the infection. “Sounds like two of them,” she added gesturing down the road. There was enough light now to make out a pair of shapes turning and twisting amidst the wire.
“A quiet night, then?” Tom asked.
“I guess so,” Helena said. “I think I like this place, Tom. I can see why you bought a house here. There’s a tranquility to it.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now,” she said. “Out on the road, we were refugees. Before that, before the outbreak, I was… I guess I was running from my past, refusing to accept it was a part of me. Now, I feel like I’m home. Don’t misunderstand, I’d rather the zombies weren’t here, and the world hadn’t torn itself apart, but I think this is where I’m meant to be.”
“I’m happy for you.” And he meant it.
The sun rose. A dark, dripping trail marked the razor wire where the zombies had crawled, shredding themselves on the sharp barbs.
“Hideous,” Helena said. Gregor was swallowing, trying not to throw up. It was easy to see why. The creatures’ clothes must have been close to rags before they reached the wire. What was left had been destroyed in the first few feet. It had taken them hours to crawl nearly to the barricade, and that had ripped away hair and flesh, exposing muscle and sinew, and patches of white bone under a bubbling, oozing brown-red film. The fingers on the closest zombie flexed a fraction of an inch.
“Look at that,” Tom said. “As inhuman as they seem, they have very human frailties. That arm isn’t tangled in the wire, but its tendons and sinews have been severed. It can’t raise the hand or bend the fingers.”
Gregor turned away, gagging. Helena glanced at the creature, then at Tom. She gave a sigh.
“It makes me want to weep,” she said. “Not watch.”
“I’ll finish it,” Tom said.
“Wait. The radiation.” Helena walked back to the barricade and picked up a Geiger counter. She held it close to the creature. “Nothing,” she said. “Lower than the ones we saw yesterday on the road to the west. That’s something to think about. Certainly, I’d rather think about that than him.” She gestured at the creature.
It was close enough now that Tom could almost reach it. He drew the bowie knife, and barely had to bend to slash the blade down on its skull. The other zombie required the boathook to finish it. Tom hooked the creatures, dragging them off the road and into the ditch. There were five other zombies already there.
“Do you know where the razor wire came from?” he asked. “I was thinking that if there was more of it, running for a mile, the zombies would never get close.”
“Until there were too many bodies,” Gregor said. “And they were crawling over the dead.”
“No,” Helena said. “If they come in those kind of numbers, we’ll take to the sea and wait until they go. We have to…” She smiled at Tom. “We have to hope for the best. That they won’t come in great numbers. That they’ll stop. That the winds won’t bring the radiation this far. That if we work and strive, we’ll survive. Here we stand, right?”
“Only because there’s nowhere else,” Gregor said.
Helena rolled her eyes.
“I’ll see you back at the village,” Tom said.
They needed a new way of thinking, or perhaps it was an old-fashioned way of thinking. Or perhaps it was that they simply needed to think less. The
world had changed completely over the last month, and that had left a great deal of uncertainty about the months ahead. It wasn’t just radiation and the undead, but the more mundane. A coach-load of hungry survivors might arrive, halving how long the supplies might last. Or a grain-carrier might sail past, the living crew looking for a safe landfall, and so subdue hunger for the next year. A fighter jet might appear in the sky, a message be heard on the radio, or a tsunami might wipe them from the face of the Earth.
If he’d learned anything in the last month, it was that the impossible happened, and that every moment should be enjoyed. That was easy to do until he saw the zombie on the track that led to his cottage. Tom slowed his pace, watching the creature, which hadn’t seen him. It wore a long, blue coat. Wool, he thought. Warm, but not suited for the outdoors, and too small for the bearded man who’d donned it. He must have been caught outside unprepared, or lost his own gear. Running from the undead, seeking shelter, he’d scavenged the coat as protection against the elements. It had offered none against the zombie that had infected him.
Tom’s boot scuffed against gravel. The creature twisted its head. It saw him and gave a hissing gasp as its lurching gait sucked air into dead lungs. Tom picked up his pace, walking briskly toward it, wanting it to be over. The coat’s stitches tore around the shoulder as the zombie raised its arms. Tom ducked, swinging low, hacking the blade into its legs. It fell, still reaching those grasping hands toward him. He kicked them out of the way, hacking the blade down onto its head.
“Another one dead.” He listened, expecting to hear more. He didn’t. Everything was still. There weren’t even any birds. Cautiously he walked along the track, eyes open, ears listening for what he knew must be ahead. Just as the roof of the cottage came into view, he saw the creature. A pack was still on its back, hiking poles strapped to either side. The straps were tight around its chest.
He was tempted to draw his gun. It wasn’t that he was physically tired, but the presence of the creature, here in his refuge, had sapped his earlier optimism. He stood his ground, waiting for the zombie to move away from the cottage. He sidestepped as it lurched the last few feet toward him. Unbalanced by its heavy bag, it toppled forward as its arms clawed at the empty air. Tom swung the blade down as it hit the ground.
The body, oozing brown-red fluid from its cracked skull, represented another problem. How would they dispose of it? That off-color blood posed another. For how long was it infectious? He wished for someone like Dr Ayers who could give them the answer as an alternative to another interminable wait for an unspeakable death.
Pausing to wipe the bowie knife clean, he walked toward his cottage. In truth, it was too large and ugly a place to be called that. The name had stuck because that was what he’d intended it to be. He’d planned to replace the floors, strip the walls, put in a sundeck, a new kitchen, a luxurious bathroom, and so much more. But that mental image of his ideal home was as close as the reality had come.
Just as it was never really a cottage, nor was it ever his home. It had been a refuge, a place from which to escape the lies he told in the city. From his cottage he’d always had a choice. He could get on board his boat and flee, or return to the existence that was never truly a life. As long as he was there he had the option; when he was on the boat, it had always been only a matter of time before he had to sail back to shore.
He climbed up the three creaking steps that led to the front porch. The paint was peeling around the windows. It was around this time of year that he’d take a scraper to them, sometimes stripping an entire wall before his phone would buzz and a message about some distant crisis would force him to leave. He’d promise himself he’d finish the job, but, as certain as spring turned to summer, by the end of August, he’d never have done more than half the house. Usually, the first weekend after the first autumn rains, he’d slap on a quick overcoat, always with the pledge that the following year, he’d do the job properly.
The door needed work, too, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. There was no FBI notice admonishing against entry, nor crime scene tape. The door was open, but that might have been done when Jonas came to loot the house. He pushed. It swung inward.
Inside, it was almost as he remembered it. The meager provisions he’d forgotten to clear out of the store cupboard were gone, as were a few utensils, blankets, and sheets. The newest of his all-weather jackets was missing, but the more comfortable one remained. As he changed into his own clothes, he thought through what he’d seen. The meaning was obvious. The people who’d come here weren’t FBI. They’d worked for Addison. Perhaps they’d even planted some evidence in the house, to be discovered at a later date when it would further incriminate him. He glanced up at the low ceiling. It might be up in the crawlspace. There was no point looking for it, at least not now.
He folded the clothes he’d borrowed from Jonas and went back outside. The hidden room was the only real improvement he’d made to the house. He removed the bench from the back porch and lifted up the decking. The gap beneath was filled with broken planks. On each were a few spots of paint. They formed a pattern that told him no one had taken them up since he’d been here last. At least, if they had, they’d put the planks back in exactly the right place.
Quelling the return of that familiar sense of paranoia, he removed the planks and opened the hatch. Everything was there, just as he’d expected. The rifles, the ammo, the server. Even the alarm looked intact, though without power and with no cell network or internet over which to send a signal, it was utterly useless. He carried the weapons into the house and then went back for the server. He left the planks lying loose on the ground, but put the decking back in place, and the seat on top of that. Not thinking about the future, or the past, he sat down to watch the sea.
He must have drifted off to sleep because he was woken by the roar of the waves. They seemed to be loud, growing louder. It wasn’t waves. It was something mechanical. He stood, jogging toward the front of the cottage, expecting to see someone driving up the track. He was at the side of the house when he realized he was wrong, and what the sound was. It grew louder, changing into a world-encompassing buzzing. He looked up in time to see a blue and red helicopter appear from the north. It flew low, not over the cottage, but above the road, and it was heading to the village.
Was it rescue? Had help come? For a moment he believed it, but out of all the places in the world how would anyone know to come to this exact spot? Trying to believe it was only paranoia, he ran back inside and grabbed an M16. Surely he could be wrong. He loaded the gun and pocketed a spare magazine. He knew he wasn’t wrong. He knew this time it wasn’t paranoia. There were few lights at night, barely any smoke during the day, no radio signals going out, and no reason for anyone to come here. No reason but him. Wishing he had a weapon more powerful than an automatic rifle, he ran back out of the house and along the track.
The distant tone from the helicopter had changed. Had it already landed? He wanted to be wrong. He hoped he was wrong. He knew he wasn’t. Powell hadn’t been at the industrial site when the bombs had fallen. If Tom had survived, then why couldn’t he? There were two zombies on the road, lurching slowly toward the village. He fired two hasty shots before he had the range. Three more shots and they were down. He saw another drifting through the trees four hundred yards to the north. There wasn’t time to deal with it. Not now. He ran.
The satellite. It had to be the satellite. Powell had used that to track him before. In the heady joy of having found survivors, of finding Helena alive, of surviving the nuclear blast, he’d forgotten about Powell. And the man’s agents had been here, to the cottage. He knew precisely where to come. Tom pumped his arms, sprinting furiously. More than that, he remembered Powell’s threat just before he’d captured him. Powell had guessed where the fire truck had been heading.
He saw the barricade ahead. Only Gregor stood behind it.
“Did you see?” Gregor called. “Did you see the helicopter?”
&nbs
p; “Help me move the wire!” Tom snapped back, cutting his hands as dragged the planks across the road.
“It’s help. Help’s come,” Gregor said. “I knew it would!”
Tom had managed to move the plank a few inches, giving him a narrow path down which to walk. Walking heel to toe, the wire snagging on cloth, ripping into skin, he eased himself toward the barricade.
“Where’s Helena?”
“She went to see,” Gregor said. “But she didn’t seem happy.”
Tom reached the moveable gate and pushed it across. “There’s a zombie down the road. Keep watch for it.”
“Wait,” Gregor said, but Tom was already sprinting over the bridge and toward the village.
Please let me be wrong, he thought. The sound from the helicopter changed again, getting lower, softer, as the rotors slowed. Please let me be wrong. Ignoring the stinging pain in his legs, he ran until he reached the low crest and the village below him. The helicopter had landed on the patch of asphalt that became an outdoor market during the height of summer. It looked as if everyone had gathered nearby, though all were staying some distance from the helicopter.
He slowed his run to a walk and raised the rifle, trying to catch his breath so the barrel would stop wavering. His finger curled around the trigger, but he held his fire. He needed to get closer. He had to know. The helicopter was a civilian model, but it wasn’t the same one that had been at the industrial site. It was slightly larger, and on the side was a gold logo in the shape of a stylized wave. The door opened. A figure wearing a military uniform got out. Even from the distance, Tom saw it was ragged, worn, stained. A couple of people in the crowd stepped forward. A few more stepped back. Tom kept walking, but held his fire. He had to be certain. He could still be wrong.
