Surviving The Evacuation (Book 8): Anglesey

by Frank Tayell

  I guess it’s understandable that Rob hadn’t noticed it. After all, neither had I, nor had I properly considered the implications of what we’d seen in the photograph Sholto had found. In those pictures, the smiling Lisa Kempton stood in front of four electric cars. In the garage in front of me were three ancient Rolls-Royces. Behind them were four metal columns, ten inches square and twenty feet apart. I had noticed those during my cursory inspection and filed them away as something structural. They aren’t. The garage is built on two levels. The lower level is slightly wider and longer than the ground floor, and contains the electric cars and the giant battery-transformer for the solar panels and turbines. Access to the lower level is via the vehicle elevator, and by a spiral ramp tucked in the corner behind it. The ramp is artfully designed with no guardrail around it. As such, it’s just one more patch of darkness in an almost-pitch room.

  I hate ramps. Ladders are the safest. All a zombie can do when it reaches one of those is knock it over with an accidental swipe. Stairs are okay. Zombies can’t exactly climb them. By accident, they can raise a leg high enough to manage a step. Managing two is a matter of odds, so the higher the staircase, the greater the chance the zombie will trip and fall. They’ll still keep on coming, dragging themselves upward, but that makes them an easy target. Ramps are the worst.

  This one is built in a spiral with a three-metre diameter. It’s steep, but that’s no impediment to the undead, and certainly not to the creature that was lurching up it. Head then shoulders appeared above the level of the floor. I took a step back, and then another. As it shuffled upward, I saw it wore the same type of fleece-jacket as the one I’d just killed. It took another step forward, and I took another one back, knocking a tray of metal tools off a cabinet. I spun around as they clattered to the floor. Torchlight danced across the room. When I turned back, the zombie was at the top of the ramp.

  Pike outstretched, the light fixed on its blank eyes, I forced myself forward. Its arms raised. Its mouth opened. Its head tilted back, and I stabbed the pike through its open maw. I twisted the weapon, skewering the point through muscle and flesh, and into its brain. For a moment, I was supporting its weight, but then it fell, thumping to the ground.

  I limped back into the office at as close to a run as I can manage. The darkness was filled with the sound of fists battering against the exterior of the metal shutters. I told myself I’d been in far worse situations, but didn’t find it comforting. I gave the ladder and open skylight a wistful glance, but that was as much reassurance as I would allow myself. If I needed to retreat I could, but the roof offered a refuge, not an escape, not with undead outside and below. I turned my face back to the dark room.

  “Face it. Deal with it,” I murmured. “There’s no one but us. We are the help that comes to others.” And though no sinews stiffened, my resolve strengthened. I walked to the ramp.

  The curve was too tight for the pike, and the weapon too awkward to grip while holding the torch. I leaned the weapon against the rear of the nearest Rolls-Royce, there to grab if I was forced to retreat. I drew the hatchet, raising it up above my head, and began my descent.

  As the ramp drops below floor-level, the sides are covered in transparent plastic. Actually, considering the extravagant folly of this property, it’s probably some rare type of glass. The weak beam shone through and down into the lower chamber, picking out motionless, lumpen shapes. I let the light linger on one, then another, just long enough to confirm they weren’t moving.

  I was stalling, and I knew it, and knew why when I heard a shuffling, slithering, snuffling rising in tempo and volume. I spun the light back onto the ramp as a zombie rounded the curve. Its collar was buttoned, but the shirt was missing a sleeve on an arm that was grasping towards me. Almost without thought, I swung the axe up, batting that arm away. I brought the blade down with a practiced flick, hacking at its skull. With an echoing crack of bone and crunch of brain, the blade bit deep. The zombie fell, and I pulled the hand-axe free.

  There was a moment when the drip of blood was all I could hear, then that slithering sound came again. I raised the hatchet above my head, and forced myself forward, down, into the dark. Listening more than looking, letting reflex take over, I was already swinging as the zombie rounded the corner. I misjudged its height. The axe cracked through bone, sliced through brain, and exited just below its ear. The blade slammed into its shoulder. The zombie fell, tumbling back down the ramp, and took my axe with it.

  I took a hurried step after my lodged hatchet and slipped on the mess of bone and brain now coating the ramp. A shoved elbow against the glass wall arrested my fall, and the jarring pain that came with it brought clarity to my mind. I had to finish this, and quickly. I drew the snub-nosed pistol from the holster. It felt insubstantial against the darkness. Gun raised, I braced my right hand on my left, which still held the torch. It was a stance I’d seen on TV, and hoped it wasn’t done merely for cinematic convenience.

  Twelve rounds in the magazine, I reminded myself as I walked soft-footed down the ramp. I could hear the creatures below. I hoped twelve would be enough.

  At the bottom, I took a step to the right, shining the beam out into the gloom, trying to identify movement among the indistinct shapes. The sound got closer, and it was coming from behind me. The zombie was almost on me before I could turn. I spun to the left, my finger curling on the trigger. Glass shattered and metal plinked as three shots spun into the darkness. The light caught the zombie’s open mouth just as its flailing arm hit mine. Torch and gun went flying. Something hit my jaw. Instinct took over. I ducked and rolled into the darkness, drawing the hunting knife from my belt. The light was twenty feet away. It illuminated the dropped pistol, but nothing else, and it was the only light in the room. Something tugged at my arm. The tug became a clawing grasp. I grabbed the arm with my left hand, pulling the zombie close as I stabbed the knife up. The blade sliced through flesh, but the zombie kept moving. I did the same, drawing my hand back to stab again and again, and this time, as it bit deep, I knew I’d got the blade in under its chin. I pushed and twisted, tearing desiccated muscle and ravaged sinew, ramming the knife up through its mouth, and into its brain. With one final twist, the zombie went limp. The dead weight was too much, and I had to let go of the knife.

  Something brushed against my back.

  I spun around, swinging a fist into the darkness. I hit something soft. The zombie sighed, exhaling a noisome gasp of foetid air. I almost gagged, but kicked out instead. Its hands curled around my arms. I slammed my forehead down and immediately wished I hadn’t. I don’t know if it did any damage to the creature, but my world spun. We fell, rolling in a blind heap on the floor. I got an arm free, grabbed a handful of lank hair, and slammed its head down on the concrete. It did little damage, but the movement jarred my other arm free. I rolled away and to my feet, and ran towards the torch. I grabbed it, and then the gun. I brought them up, aimed at the ragged zombie now beginning to stand, and fired. Its head blew apart.

  I limped backwards and didn’t stop until I reached the ramp. I waited. Seconds turned to minutes that felt like hours. No more appeared. My heartbeat slowed sufficiently that I could hear the sounds of the zombies outside. And they were the nearest sound. I had to be sure, of course. I had to be certain. I checked each corner, each car, and each of the two doors leading off the main chamber, and that took at least an hour. But I was alone, truly alone in the garage. Exhausted, drained, I limped back up the ramp.

  That’s when I realised. The noise from outside was louder than before. I’d heard it, but not understood. Whatever had caused the zombies downstairs to come up the ramp, those creatures outside had heard the fight, and certainly they’d heard the gunshots. They were battering fists and flesh against the metal shutters more furiously than after they chased me in here.

  They still are. It’s incessant.

  Chapter 8 - Elysium, The Republic of Ireland

  02:00, 21st September, Day 193

  That
was about seven hours ago, give or take. I can’t be more precise as my watch was broken during the fight. It was a gift from Annette, an apology of a sort. I suppose it’s my own fault for wearing it on this trip. Then again, we weren’t expecting anything like this. Perhaps I can get the watch repaired.

  The hands stopped at six forty-five. I’d say it’s close to two a.m. It’s dark out there. Not pitch black; there are a few stars, but not enough that I can see the undead. I can hear them. I tried crawling between the solar panels so I could see over the edge, but stopped myself when I realised there was little point. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

  I tried to get some sleep, but each time I started to drift off, the racket from outside seemed to grow louder. The reason I felt able to get some sleep, other than that experience has taught me to grab it when I can, is that, just after dusk, I saw a light in the mansion. I’ve learned a little Morse code over the past few months. I’m not fluent, but I was able to send a simple are-you-there. I got a burst of flashes in return that I couldn’t begin to decipher, but the pattern was repeated. Kim and Simon are still there, and they know I’m here. It’s enough. I just have to be patient. It’s hard. I’m not used to relying on others for rescue.

  Two a.m. It might be earlier. It might be later. I’ve sat up like this on too many nights, waiting for dawn, unable to truly believe it will come.

  The torch flickered just now. It should be good until daylight. I hope it is. I’m not turning it off. It’s silly, isn’t it? Childish. I’ve closed the door leading into the garage, and I’m absolutely certain there are no more zombies inside. Not yet, anyway. If they break through the metal shutters, I’ll retreat to the roof and wait for there to be enough light for Kim and Simon to start shooting. Three hours, perhaps four, and it will all be over.

  I found a first-aid kit in the back of one of the two lockers in the office. The antiseptic wipes were a tad dry, but they did a reasonable job of cleaning my newly acquired cuts and grazes. I’d have liked to wash my hands with water. What I really want is a hot shower, but I can’t even have a cold one. I’ve barely enough water to drink. I’ve got my water bottle of course, but that’s already half empty. There’s no drinking water in the garage. I checked. The taps are dry. The reservoir for the portable pressure-washer is empty. Even the bottles of water for the lead-acid batteries have been drunk. I’m pretty sure that was done by the people in the fleeces, the ones who became the zombies I killed.

  There’s no fuel for the Rolls-Royces. I don’t know if that was used up by the people who took refuge here. They were probably responsible for draining the batteries of the electric cars in the lower level. I can’t say I blame them. They must have been trapped in here, with the cars’ headlights as their only source of illumination.

  I think I understand the presence of the ancient Rollers now. They were built in the 1950s and so contain no circuitry for an electromagnetic pulse to fry. It’s out of that same fear that the electric cars and the transformer-battery are stored in the lower level. I’m pretty certain that the blocky, plastic-coated hardware behind one of the doors downstairs is the battery for the solar panels, as it has the same logo as that of the cars. That explains, in part, how Kempton planned to cope with the issue of electricity on those calm and overcast days.

  What it doesn’t explain is what’s behind the second door. There are nineteen corpses in there. Not zombies, but people, and all clad in British Army uniforms. Three have been shot in the head, but most look as if they died from wounds to the chest. Taken with everything else I’ve seen, I think they died just before Prometheus. As such, and there’s too much decay to be absolutely certain, but I think those people worked for Quigley. They have no identification discs, and there’s something about the cut of the uniform that reminds me of his guards at Caulfield Hall.

  After the outbreak in New York, Quigley must have sent them here to cover his tracks. That’s why he killed all the people working in Lenham Hill, and why he murdered old Lord Masterton, and who knows how many others. In which case, I can only assume that Kempton was here at the time. Perhaps she was one of the zombies I just killed. It’s impossible to tell, now.

  Those soldiers had to have arrived shortly before Prometheus. Kempton and her people fought back, and they won. The bodies were moved to that storeroom in the lower level, kept in the hope that evidence would be needed. Then the bombs fell. The bodies were forgotten. At some point soon after, the zombies arrived. Kempton’s people were chased into the garage. They couldn’t escape, and one was infected. Soon they all were.

  There’re gaps in the story, but it all happened so long ago that the details hardly matter now. All that’s important is that there’s no ammunition in the garage. There are guns. Four automatic submachine guns of the type I remember seeing at airports. Expensive, as illegal in Ireland as they would be in Britain, and utterly useless to me. There are sharpened tools, of course, and an abundance of chemicals with strident cautions about their corrosive effects on skin, but they are just as useless. There’s no tunnel to the house. No water. No torch. I didn’t even find any spare batteries for this weak little thing.

  I did find some spare clothes. There were two chauffeur’s uniforms in the lockers here in the office. Partly it’s the grey colour and the high-lapelled cut of the jacket that tells me they were worn by a professional driver, but mostly it’s the two caps sitting on the shelf. On the brim is that same golden wave that the fleeces have on their breast. Neither suit is tailor made, and from the slightly tapered waist and the positioning of the buttons, one was for a woman, the other a man. I can’t say why, but I doubt Kempton kept a chauffeur on staff. I bet it was a case of whoever was free would have to wear the uniform. It’s given me something clean to wear, and that’s the next best thing to a decent wash.

  The only problem is that the uniform doesn’t keep out the chill. Even though the days are hot, and perhaps because they are often cloudless, the nights are getting colder. It’s not being trapped here that makes me wish for rain. I have this other fear. Calling it a concern about nuclear winter is one-hundred-and-eighty degrees wrong. Nuclear summer is closer to the truth, but no more accurate, and just as unhelpful.

  No one on the island can remember any theories that nuclear war might bring about rapid global warming. My own nightmare theory is that, because so many of the targets were in or near the sea, the Gulf Stream has been disrupted. I’ve no way of proving it, and I’m almost certainly wrong, but until the wind picks up, the rain pours down, and the first frost settles on the ground, I don’t think I’ll be able to relax.

  You see, my fear about the weather is connected to another. Gwen’s expedition to Blackpool wasn’t the only group who set out. The team that went down to Cornwall only made it a mile inland before the radiation level spiked and they were forced to retreat. We did get a message back from Chester and Nilda, the two people who went to Hull. They said the radiation level was normal, but we lost contact with them soon after. We lost contact with the group who went to Birmingham after a single, cut-short message.

  That’s the fear I’m dancing around, the one I can’t get out of my mind these last few weeks. We travelled within forty miles of Birmingham during our escape from the undead. Even when I looked at maps in the tranquillity of our kitchen, I wasn’t precisely sure how close to the city we got. Both Dr Knight and Admiral Gunderson say that none of us exhibit symptoms synonymous with a high dose, but that’s not proof. It’s why I want the weather to change. I want something, anything to go back to normal. It’s like we’ve been given a death sentence, but a storm would signal a reprieve. Foolish, I know, but it’s hard to be rational in this world.

  The light flickered again. I don’t know how long it is until dawn. It’s still dark outside, and the zombies are still beating and pummelling at the door. I think the noise might have lessened. I just can’t tell. Writing’s the only distraction I have, so I might as well continue to distract myself. I did promise Annette I’d writ
e an account of what happened when she was away, but I suppose what happened when she got back is just as important. After all, that was what she wanted, an account of how she saved our little community. Before I can write that, I need to record how it was almost torn apart.

  Compared with our trip to Bangor, the rest of August was uneventful. Sholto spent his time with the satellite images and with Chief Watts from the Vehement. I spent it with Daisy, sometimes at the school, and sometimes in Menai Bridge helping the Duponts with their table-top garden. All in all, it was pleasant in a way that my entire life before the outbreak hadn’t been. I don’t know if it was the company, the gardening, or simply being around an increasingly happy child, but I was almost content. All that was missing was Kim, and as the days went by, I came to realise how very much I did miss her. And Annette, of course.

  Chapter 9 - Anglesey

  1st September, Day 173

  “There she is,” I said. “Can you see her?”

  Daisy looked at me, frowned, and followed the line of my finger, squinting at the wide expanse of the harbour. She, Sholto, and I stood on the quayside, waiting for Annette and Kim’s ship to come in. The Vehement was half-suspended at the dock to our right. I’d never seen a nuclear submarine up close. Even with hoses snaking out of the hatches, there was something impossibly elegant about the sub. The closest analogy I could think of was a whale, but this one was beached, stranded, dying.

  “What’s the latest from the Vehement?” I asked Sholto. Since its return, he’d spent his time with their communications specialists, working on the satellites. Aside from trying to calculate how much propellant each had, and whether the orbits were stable, there had been a debate as to whether Kempton’s satellites could be used to access others still in orbit. At which point in his explanation I usually tuned out. That we had pictures of the hordes tramping through Britain was as far as my interest went.