Britain's End

by Frank Tayell

  “I… yes, I think I have,” Nilda said. “I reserve the right to change it, but except for Jay being bitten, I… well, I felt safe. Safer than in London. It was having trees tower above me rather than buildings. I always worry the windows are going to fall on top of us. No, I think Sheppey might work.”

  “Zombie,” Lorraine said. “Over there. Staggering along that… is that a playing field?”

  “Looks like it,” George said. “Did you see the wind turbines?”

  “There was no time,” Nilda said. “I…” She stopped. Wind turbines weren’t the answer. Water turbines running across the Swale might be. As to how to build them, for that they would rely on what they could learn from books and salvage from museums. She could picture it, but could also feel her imagination was running ahead of her. She had to remain objective, remain critical. Even so, she felt more optimistic than she had since she had been reunited with her son.

  Chapter 7 - A Possible Future

  The Isle of Sheppey

  “That’s not a suspension bridge,” Lorraine said, as she eased her hand of the throttle.

  “I could have sworn that it was,” George said.

  “Does it matter?” Nilda signed.

  Tuck shrugged, picked up the binoculars, and scanned the towering structure.

  The Swale separated the island from the Kent mainland, and was two hundred metres wide at the point where the bridges arched over it, supported by pairs of giant pillars. Two set of pillars were embedded in the river itself; more rose from the land either side as the bridge gently arced south into Kent and north onto the island.

  Tuck passed the binoculars to Lorraine. “About forty metres high above the water,” she signed. “The pillars look around two metres in diameter, give or take. It should be fine. It’s the old bridge that will present a problem.”

  “Why?” Nilda asked.

  “It’s not a drawbridge,” Tuck signed.

  The old Kingsferry Bridge was a further hundred metres east, clearly visible, and just as clearly not a drawbridge, not exactly. The entire section that ran across the river could be raised for ships to pass underneath, then lowered for vehicle traffic to cross over.

  “What did she say?” Lorraine asked.

  “That destroying the new bridge will be easy, but the old bridge is going to be an issue,” Nilda said.

  “Why?” Lorraine asked. “That entire part over the river has been raised up. No zombies can cross. I’d say that half our work is already done.”

  “Can I come up and see?” Jay called out from below.

  “No,” Nilda called back. “Keep down there, and keep your leg elevated. Tuck?”

  “To destroy the new bridge,” Tuck signed, “all we have to do is drill a few holes in a pair of supporting struts, plant the explosive, and run. We’ve got the plastic, we’ve got the drill, we can have it done before dark.”

  “You brought the explosives?” Nilda asked.

  Tuck shrugged. “Can’t do a job without the equipment.”

  Nilda glanced again at the cabin. A reply like that usually meant Tuck was covering for Jay. She trusted the soldier, and knew she’d never do anything to put them in danger. “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

  “The shockwave,” Tuck signed. “When we blow up the new bridge, it could dislodge that raised section of the old bridge. While it’s raised, at present, we have one bridge crossing the river. If we destroy the new bridge, and the shockwave damages the mechanism, we could cause that old bridge to collapse back onto the roadway. We’d be left with a bridge crossing the river, and no explosives to do anything about it.”

  “The shockwave?” she asked, uncertain she’d understood the unfamiliar sign. “Right. Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

  “Sure,” Tuck signed. “If you want to spend a week planning the demolition, we could pin the raised section of the old bridge in place. Then, we drill holes in the roadbed of the new bridge either side of a pillar. Simultaneously detonate them, causing a section of road to simply fall, leaving the supporting pillars intact.”

  “We don’t have a week,” Nilda said.

  “The shockwave?” George asked, when the soldier’s words had been translated. “Do you mean from the blast, or from when the bridge collapses?”

  “Both,” Tuck signed. “How did you destroy the bridges connecting Anglesey with the mainland?”

  “The Vehement did that,” George said. “I think they used Cruise Missiles. Maybe it was torpedoes. Ask Jennings.” He nodded to where the submariner was still outside, methodically scanning the coast. “I know they needed line of sight to launch. There’s no GPS. We didn’t have access to the satellites back then, but the ones we have are the wrong kind for guiding missiles.” He nodded at Tuck. “She’ll know more about that than me.”

  “So we’d need to get the submarine here?” Nilda said. “How long would that take?”

  “Perhaps not until spring,” George said. “At present, it can’t submerge. We’ll lose it in a strong wave or modest gale.”

  “I vote we try with what we have,” Tuck signed. “The worst-case scenario is that we have to return to London for more explosives.”

  “How long will it take?” Nilda asked.

  “About an hour,” Tuck signed. “Maybe less.”

  “That’s all?” Nilda asked.

  “I’ve just got to drill a few holes,” Tuck signed. “It’s not like we have to worry about health and safety. We’ll do it there, on the Kent side of the Swale.” She pointed towards the struts rising from the English countryside. “We don’t want the debris blocking the river.”

  West of the bridge was a narrow jetty where a burned-out speedboat wallowed a few inches below the surface. There was a trace of blue beneath the smoke-stained hull, and a charred corpse still bent over the control panel, a knife protruding from the back of its skull.

  As Lorraine brought their boat alongside the jetty, Jennings jumped from the ship, and ran to the shore. By the time Nilda had secured the ship, Jennings had reached the far end of the jetty. He raised his rifle and fired at an unseen target. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, and waved the all-clear.

  “There was only one,” he said, when Nilda joined him. “Sad-looking thing. Do you want me to patrol inland?”

  “No, not yet,” Nilda said. “Keep watch.”

  She went back to the boat where Lorraine was helping Tuck ashore.

  “How long will it take?” Nilda asked as Lorraine went back for the explosives.

  “Ask me in an hour,” Tuck signed. “Either I’ll know, or I’ll be done.”

  “One hour? I’ll have Jennings watch you. Lorraine, watch the boat. I’m going to check the bridge. Best we know what’s on top of it before we bring it down. George, do you want to stretch your legs?”

  “As long as there are no stairs, why not?”

  Nilda paused at the point where the road met the bridge’s off-ramp, but there was no sign of the undead on the bridge itself.

  “I suppose we should take a look up there,” she said.

  “You sound uncertain,” George said. “You’re thinking of your son?”

  “It’s the gun,” Nilda said, lowering the barrel. “The first time I picked one up, you know what I thought?” She started walking up the ramp.

  “What’s that?” George asked, slowly following.

  “That it was comfortable. That it fit my hands well. That it was lighter than I was expecting. I was seriously surprised that the recoil didn’t knock me on my back.”

  “That’s an MP5, isn’t it,” George said. “From Quigley’s stores?”

  “That’s right. I think he must have stolen a few crates that were destined for airport security.”

  “Considering his past in covert operations, it was probably part of a shipment designed for the SAS or MI6,” George said. “The silencers are the clue. You don’t need those for tackling a terrorist at an airport.”

  “True,” Nilda said. “I wish we could forget
about him, but I don’t suppose we ever will.”

  “He’s part of history,” George said.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? This is history. We’re living it each day. It’s not an end to civilisation, and not the beginning of a new one, but of one changing into the other. It’s gradual, one little thing after another.”

  “That is the story of my life,” George said. “I think it’s the story of everyone’s. History happens, and most of us are just witnesses. In my case, it was usually witnessed as a headline the morning after. A government, a war, a country had finished or begun. I’d read that headline, and I’d think that, there was history in the making, that the world changed. But I still had to go to work, go home, go to bed, wake up, and find a there was a new, and just as strident headline, the following day. History never stops happening, and people don’t change as fast as events, that’s what I learned, though it took me a little longer to realise than most. Hmm, I think that’s rain. Just a few drops, but it’ll get heavier. I don’t like the look of those clouds. I vote for hurrying this up.”

  There were five vehicles abandoned along the bridge above the river itself, but none on the section that they were planning to collapse.

  “Will you watch those cars?” Nilda asked as she raised the binoculars.

  “I don’t think there’s any undead in them,” George said. “They’d have heard the sound of the drill.”

  It was a low whine, cutting across the countryside, but from up on the bridge, it sounded quieter than the boat’s engine when they’d been on board.

  “I can see some zombies,” Nilda said, peering through the binoculars. “Five. No, six… less than ten in a field to the south. That must be Sittingbourne over there. I can see some chimneys. The industrial kind. Narrow ones. There’s an aerial. A few houses, but… no, there are too many trees. Here.” She handed the binoculars to George, and turned her own attention to the cars. They didn’t quite block the road. At the same time, there was a reason someone had stopped on the bridge rather than continuing on to Sheppey. After what happened to Jay, she decided not to investigate. There would be plenty of time in the weeks to come.

  “To the southeast, I think that’s a small industrial port,” George said. “Hard to say from up here. It’s about a mile away, before you get to Sittingbourne. Looks intact, more or less. Again, it’s hard to say. What I would say is that you’ll have some good looting in these parts. You’ve got Sittingbourne a few miles to the south, the Isle of Grain on the Kent mainland opposite Sheerness, and Chatham and Rochester near the mouth of the Medway. There must have been at least a hundred thousand people living within a boat’s easy journey. That’s plenty of clothes, sheets, washing powder, books, furniture, crockery, and the like around here. More than enough for your people. You might even find some food. And then there’s Essex due north across the estuary, and London, of course.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about,” Nilda said.

  “London?”

  “No, people,” Nilda said. “We’ve been talking a lot about the future. Tuck, Aisha, Greta, and myself. We’ve been talking about the kind of future that Aisha’s child will have, that Jay’s children will have. That their daughters and granddaughters will have. The place women will have in that world, and how we can make sure that the legacy we leave won’t see a return to a life of drudgery, and death in childbirth.”

  “Granddaughters? You’re planning that far ahead?”

  “Only in the broadest strokes. Events race ahead of our worst nightmares. All we can do is determine how we start. We can pick a place, we can set up rituals and routines, and key to it all is numbers. If our numbers are too small, too much time will be spent on survival, not enough on remembering, on learning, and we’ll regress. London and Anglesey; they were ideally situated. Without the undead, they were only a long walk apart.”

  “But the zombies aren’t dying yet,” George said. “And I no longer know if they will.”

  “That’s the problem. Without them, the world is full of possibilities. With them, we’re in danger of creating a two-tier caste system of warriors and farmers. Within a couple of generations, we’re back to serfs and lords. In some ways, I’m glad we’re leaving the Tower. It’ll make it easier to prevent its history becoming our future. When I first saw Anglesey, I didn’t like what I saw. I’m still not sure about it, though I can appreciate why you did things the way you did.”

  “It wasn’t how we wanted,” George said. “It was how it turned out. We were always one step behind the crisis, putting out fires until, now, it’s too late.”

  “I guess that’s my point,” Nilda said. “Belfast isn’t going to be safe, nor is Elysium. You said as much. They’re temporary homes, yes?”

  “Temporary, yes,” George said. “Though who knows how long temporary will last.”

  “There’s an alternative,” Nilda said. “Come here. All of you.”

  “To Sheppey?” George asked.

  “Why not? What difference does it make? Belfast or Sheppey, both require a sea journey. There’s enough land on the island for all of us. Enough to feed all of us. It’s a few hundred miles further south than Belfast, and that means a few more minutes of daylight this winter. Believe me, that’ll matter. This time next year, the undead will be gone.”

  “We hope,” George said. “But we can’t count on it.”

  “This year, or next year, or the year after,” Nilda said. ”It will happen. Not as swiftly as we’d like, but it is happening. After that, people can go their own way. Kent isn’t too bad. There are plenty of orchards, plenty of farmland. Anyone who didn’t like that could take their boats across to France and follow the coast down to the Mediterranean. I’ve read a lot of books about where civilisation began, and no two can agree on a place, but it thrived around that inland sea. If we want our species to survive, then we can’t all stay together. The risk of disease is just too high. But if we want to survive long enough to ensure that our species takes something of civilisation with it, then we need a few years to learn how to farm and fish, to make rope and sail. We need to add to our history a few stories that have nothing to do with Quigley and the undead. A year or two, here, together, and then we’ll go our separate ways, wherever they may be.”

  “Hmm. Maybe,” George said. “It’s further from Svalbard, though. We’ll burn more fuel getting there and back. Elysium has its wind turbines, of course, though I suppose we can dismantle them. But there’s the admiral; she’ll want to return to America. Her crew will insist.”

  “And it’s good that she does,” Nilda said. “But if she’s coming back, whether it’s to Sheppey or Ireland, it’s a difference of a few hundred miles in a voyage that will cover thousands. As for the fuel, what are you saving it for, because it won’t last forever.”

  “True. All of us together? I like the idea of it. I’d like to walk through a field without fear of attack. You know what, I’d just like to walk through a field one last time. Well, maybe. I’ll call Mary when we get back to the Tower, but first we’ve got to demolish this bridge.”

  She saw the zombie as they began their descent, but the creature was over five hundred metres away, silhouetted on the crest of a hill. It was too far away to have heard the drill, or the sound of the boat’s engine, yet it seemed to be heading towards them. She checked the safety on her submachine gun, but kept her finger off the trigger as they headed down the ramp.

  Pitching the idea to George had been hard. It wasn’t just that she was admitting she couldn’t provide her son with the future she wanted for him. Nor was it the admission that she’d failed in London. It was an acceptance of how much had been lost, how much was still to be lost, and how little influence she had on what was saved. Not material possessions, but ideas, the very concept of progress itself. She might say that she didn’t want a return to the medieval, but they’d be lucky if they only regressed to the Enlightenment. Oppression, revolution, war; that was what lay before her descendants, but onl
y as a prize if they survived the next few years. However much she might want otherwise, the best she could do was give them a chance at life. Perhaps that was all anyone, really, ever could.

  She reached the bottom of the ramp. The zombie was still three hundred metres away, its tattered black dress trailed in the mud. The drill sounded more muffled. When she looked to Jennings, the submariner flashed his hand up, fingers extended, once, twice, three times.

  “I guess they need a few more minutes,” George said.

  Nilda raised the gun. There was nothing more to think about, no more plans to be made. The Isle of Sheppey would become their home. What happened next depended on so many things, none of which were in her control. The zombie staggered closer. What she’d thought was a dress was a cassock. She fired. The undead priest died.

  Chapter 8 - A Good Day’s Work

  The Isle of Sheppey & The River Thames

  “I press this and run?” Nilda asked.

  Tuck nodded. “Run fast,” she signed.

  “And I’ve got two minutes?” Nilda said.

  “Give or take,” Tuck signed. “I’d do it myself—”

  Nilda laid her hand on Tuck’s. “It’s okay,” she said. “Go on.”

  The soldier nodded, and limped back to the ship.

  The drill’s motor hadn’t been powerful enough to dig deep into the support pillar. Some of the explosive had been inserted inside, but most had been strategically wrapped around the exterior of the reinforced-concrete strut. There was a good chance it wouldn’t work. Good sense said they should take their time, go back to London, and get more explosives. They should collect fuel from the vehicle-park, and find a portable generator and a pneumatic drill. Perhaps they should even call Anglesey and ask for someone more expert in demolition to come and assist. A heavy drop of rain landed in a puddle beyond the bridge’s shadow. She didn’t want any more delays.

  She checked that Tuck had reached the boat, and watched the soldier awkwardly climb aboard. She took a breath, pressed the button, and ran. Nothing happened. She pounded along the river-slick causeway. Still nothing happened. She sprinted down the jetty and dived onto the boat. Lorraine motored the craft back westward, away from the bridge. Still nothing happened. And then it did.