Surviving The Evacuation (Book 9): Ireland

by Tayell, Frank

  I walked over to the bar, and opened one cabinet after another until I found the bottle. It was only a third full.

  “Napoleon’s brandy,” I said. “Looks legit.” I poured two glasses. “That problem with the satellites, that was Sholto’s doing. That’s when he changed their position.” I gave her a glass.

  “Maybe,” Kim said. “Again, it doesn’t matter.” She took a sip. “Yeurf! That’s disgusting. I bet someone drank the real stuff and refilled the bottle.”

  I took a sip. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not good,” Kim said. “Am I wrong? Is there anything useful in what she said?”

  “Yolinda Day, in her suicide note, mentioned Locke leaving. From the sound of that voice memo, Locke got this far, but didn’t tell the captain that Elysium had been overrun.”

  “So do we think Locke was the one who got to the house in Pallaskenry? Or was that the other woman, Sue Dawson, the one who became the zombie that was outside? It doesn’t matter, except that the caretaker in Pallaskenry was a man, going by the clothes, and the captain didn’t mention him getting this far. Of course, we shouldn’t trust everything she said, and what she said was hardly extensive.”

  “I wonder what was in the file Dawson was bringing back,” I said.

  “Evidence on Quigley? Do we need any more?”

  “I suppose not,” I said.

  “Captain Keynes knew about the nuclear war. Yolinda Day didn’t. She and the others in Elysium were told a story about Yellowstone being about to erupt. You know what that tells me? Whether or not Captain Keynes was telling the truth about what she knew, I bet she didn’t know everything that Kempton did. No, there’re too few details for anything she said to be of any use to us.”

  I leaned back in the absurdly comfortable chair and took another small sip.

  “You’re not really drinking it, are you?” she asked.

  “On the off-chance that it’s real, yes,” I said. “It’ll make a nice footnote. I’ll write up an entry where we watched the sun set over Ireland, drinking the last bottle of a long-dead emperor.”

  “The sun sets in the west,” Kim said. She took a smaller sip than me, winced, put the glass down, and pushed it away. “What was the name of the island Napoleon was exiled to?”

  “Elba.”

  “That’s in the Mediterranean? I meant the really remote one. St Helens?”

  “St Helena,” I said.

  “Then that’s where we should keep the rest of the bottle for. It was about a thousand miles from anywhere, wasn’t it? Maybe that’s remote enough to be free of the undead. So leave the rest for whoever goes there. Or give it to Francois and Leon and their troops. They can drink it when they return to Paris.”

  “If they ever return.”

  “They will,” she said. “In time. Maybe we’ll go with them. I’d like to see the Louvre. We could bring back some of the paintings, or— Wait!” Kim sat up. “Forget Paris! Didn’t the captain say the engines worked? We could get back to Anglesey!”

  “Except we don’t know how to pilot a ship like this,” I said. “We don’t even know how to pull up the anchors. We’re more likely to run it aground.”

  “There’s the motor launch,” Kim said. “And fuel for it. Maybe enough to get back, though I’m not sure. We should find out.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “Let it wait. Let everything wait. We’re safe. We’re fed. For once, let’s let everything wait.”

  Chapter 8 - The Shannon Estuary

  29th September, Day 201

  09:00 The New World, The Shannon Estuary

  “What have we forgotten?” Kim asked. I’d already asked myself that question, and had come up with no good answer. It wasn’t so much what we’d forgotten, as what item we’d first regret leaving behind.

  “We’ve got food for a month,” I said. “We’ve enough water for about that long if we wash in seawater. Ten changes of clothes. Is that too much? No, Kempton’s uniforms are simultaneously lighter-weight and harder-wearing than the jeans and jackets we’d find in an abandoned home. Besides that, it’s the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn.”

  “Fuel’s the problem,” Kim said.

  “We’re taking all there is,” I said.

  “And the heavier the boat, the more fuel it will burn,” she said. Therein lies the uncertainty. We don’t know how far the fuel will take us. “We’ve two choices, go north to Malin Head, the North Channel and the strait between Ireland and Scotland, then south through the Irish Sea, past the Isle of Man to Anglesey.”

  “That’s about four hundred and twenty miles,” I said.

  “Using that piece of string and the old map where Ireland is only about six inches long? It’s not an accurate way to measure distance. What’s the margin of error, fifty miles? A hundred? But the alternative is heading south past Elysium, east past Cork and Wexford, and then north to Anglesey. That’s about fifty miles less, give or take. But we won’t know if we’ve enough fuel for one hundred miles or five hundred until we’ve travelled the first fifty or so. By then, if we’ve gone north, we’ll have gone so far, turning around will only make our journey longer. If the crew had left more ammunition behind, I’d say we should head back to Elysium and retake it from the undead. As it is…” When they’d left the ship, Kempton’s crew had stripped the armoury. They’d left some weapons for the captain, and the real find were the three M16s and the 5.56mm rounds for them. We’re leaving the rifles, but taking the ammo, along with the last three magazines of 9mm for the MP5. “As it is, we’ve got about the same number of rounds as we left Elysium with,” Kim finished. “So, north or south?”

  “The danger is the weather,” I said. “It’s the risk of being dragged out into the Atlantic, or crashed against the shore.” I looked at the map. It really was a pitiful excuse for a chart. “If we can get past Malin Head, then the risk becomes shipwreck, and that’s off Northern Ireland, or Scotland. I think I’d prefer our chances there to being dragged aground off Ireland’s southern coast. I don’t want to end up around Cork, not after what we saw on the satellite images. Of course, what’d be worse is being pulled down into the southern Atlantic. You remember the stories Captain Devine told us about the time the Harper’s Ferry spent stranded down there? And the crew were all professional sailors. No, my vote is for going north.”

  “Hmm.” Kim stared at the map, then walked her fingers across the two routes. “I suppose there’ll be ships going back and forth to Svalbard by now. If we go north, once we’re through the North Channel, one of them might spot us. It could mean that safety’s only two hundred miles away. Maybe. Give or Take. How much give, how much take? Do we have enough fuel, that’s the question, but we can’t answer it until we begin. North it is.” She folded the map. “Best take this. Did you put in the other maps and charts?”

  “For what they’re worth,” I said.

  “The sleeping bags?”

  “And the camping stove.”

  “Matches?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know, it’s depressing,” Kim said as she walked over to the crane and the circular handle that would swivel the boat out onto the ocean. “If we’d found this ship, if anyone had, they would have had enough supplies to last them a year.”

  “Until they grew bored and lonely, and went ashore like the captain did,” I said. “That’s always the danger.”

  “No,” she said. “What I mean, what’s depressing, is that this ship has been here for nearly seven months. Any survivor coming down that road from Limerick, or north the way we did, or by boat up the estuary, they would have seen this ship. They would have come aboard. They didn’t. Except for Dawson and Locke, no one’s been within sight of this ship since the outbreak. What that means for the rest of Ireland is what’s depressing.”

  Kim turned the handle. The piston moved, the crane juddered, and the launch swung out over the sea. She pulled the lever. The boat began a slow, jerking decent to the background clack-clack of cam and gea
r.

  “Perhaps they saw the ship and thought it was full of zombies,” I said, “so didn’t bother trying to board it.”

  “Right, and that’s what counts for looking on the bright side? One week, and we’ll be home. But we’re coming back. We need ships. Big ships. Ships like this that can sail around the world. I don’t know if we’ll find anyone, but we have to look.”

  11:30 The Shannon Estuary

  On the plus side, I’m beginning to relax. On the negative, the fuel gauge’s constantly descending needle means I’m never going to relax completely. Whenever I’m not looking at it, I find my gaze going to the compass, which is nothing but a reminder we’re heading west, away from Anglesey. We did discuss driving across Ireland. Theoretically, if we’d driven due east, we’d have had more than enough fuel to motor a boat across to Anglesey. That theory only works in a world without the undead. From our journey across England, we know the reality is that we’d drive until nightfall, but then have to abandon the car to the zombies summoned by the engine’s noise. Assuming, of course, that we managed to find enough unblocked roads that we could keep going until nightfall. No, it’s restful being at sea. It’s safer. Kim is happy behind the wheel, and I’m happy enough sitting in the cockpit next to her, watching the waves, wondering if I’ll see a dolphin.

  The launch has two small cabins below, a bathroom Kim refuses to call a head, and what I suppose is a lounge. It’s large enough for about ten people to rub shoulders as long as they don’t mind a little chafing. I suppose I should investigate how the toilet empties. I doubt it flushes straight into the sea. Still, it’s better than a hole in the ground. There are TV screens downstairs, one in a cabin, two in the lounge, and they should work. The kettle certainly does, powered, like the lights, by the ship’s battery, but as that’s charged by the engine, we’ll save the fuel. Besides, in my brief rummage through the lockers I didn’t find any movies. Not that there’s anything I’d rather watch than the waves. And Kim, of course, not that she’s reading what I write.

  The seats are comfortable. There’s a captain’s chair, a co-pilot’s seat, and a bench that wraps around the cockpit. It’s padded with an odd material that looks like cloth but feels like plastic. It is comfortable, particularly compared to walking. I can imagine the blue and gold colour scheme grating after a while, but then there’s the sea to watch. The windows are wide, and the seal around the door is almost perfect. I can barely hear the waves, and that makes the estuary seem calmer, our speed faster.

  Yes, it’s relaxing, right up until I glance at the fuel gauge and compass. Looking at the speedometer is just as bad. I wonder if there’s a more nautical term for it than speedometer? We’re making about eight knots. It’s too early to tell precisely how much fuel we’re using, but it’s already more than I’d like.

  The pair of fridges in the excuse-for-a-galley should have been the clue. They don’t have normal shelves, but those semi-circular ones designed for bottles. This launch wasn’t designed for speed, but for hosting champagne-swilling dignitaries. I don’t know what excuse Kempton came up with for owning a ship like The New World, but if this launch is anything to go by, she acted like it was the ultimate in a billionaire’s plaything.

  With all that happened, with all she knew, I can understand why she had the ship built. I’d like to think if I was her, with her money, I might have designed a hospital ship or rescue boat. On the other hand, looking back on the person I was before the outbreak, would I really have done that? Kim blames Kempton for not stopping the apocalypse. Would I have been any different? Probably not. And, if Kempton were the type of woman who would use her resources to fund a rescue ship, would she have been in league with someone like Quigley? Again, no, but it’s academic now. I mean that literally. Kempton’s motives are a matter for academics and historians to discuss and debate, and that debate can wait until we get back to Anglesey.

  16:00, Carrigaholt, The Shannon Estuary

  “This is our last chance to change our minds,” Kim said. “Although… maybe we can wait until morning, but at dawn, we’ll have to decide.”

  “We’ve already decided,” I said. “We decided this morning.”

  “And how far have we got? We’re still in the estuary. What’s that ruin called?”

  “Carrigaholt Castle.” We’d spotted the ruined tower jutting out of a rising afternoon mist. That alone was enough to make us find an excuse to stop. The bay is sheltered, and empty of boats, people, zombies, and rooftops.

  “We’ve travelled thirty miles, it’s taken all day, and we’re still in the estuary,” Kim said. “At this rate, it’ll take us at least two weeks to get back home.” She laid her hands on the instrument panel. “If we have the fuel. If the weather stays like this. If the engine doesn’t break. If a million other things don’t go wrong. And if they do go wrong and we have to leave this boat, we’ll have spent at least the next seven days travelling further away from Anglesey.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “Going south. Back to Elysium,” she said. “We might meet Sholto and the ship he’s on.”

  “They’ll have been and gone by now,” I said. “We went through this. We don’t have the ammunition to clear Elysium, and unless we can do that, we’d be stuck on this launch in the harbour. Like you said, the weather’s been kind for the last few days, but a week ago it was a constant storm. Winter’s near, the weather will get worse, and we’ll find no shelter aboard a craft like this. We have to make for Anglesey. The only alternative is turn this launch around, go back to The New World, put the fuel in the tank of that truck in the warehouse, and drive. Hope the truck works. Hope the roads are clear. Hope there aren’t too many undead. Hope we get to the east coast by dawn. Hope we find a boat. How hopeful do you feel? The only quick way home is by plane, and the last one left Belfast International at least a week ago.”

  “What’s the saying about the tortoise? Slow and steady wins the race. Fine, we’ll stay here for the night. At least it’s sheltered. What was it you were writing earlier about historians?”

  “That the question of the morality of Kempton’s actions is a matter for academics,” I said.

  “I think I can come up with a more interesting topic to spend the night discussing,” she said. “Wait, though. First I’m going to put the kettle on.”

  Were there ever more glorious words with which to welcome the approach of night?

  Chapter 9 - The Shannon Estuary

  30th September, Day 202

  05:30, Carrigaholt, Shannon Estuary

  We’re heading north.

  13:00, Spanish Point

  “I think… yes, I’m pretty certain that’s Spanish Point,” Kim said, her head bobbing up, down, left, and back between the instruments, the road map, and the ruined village on the shore. “The name’s something to do with the Spanish Armada, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” I said, my attention one-hundred-percent on the shore. “One of the places the Spanish ships were wrecked.” It was an assumption, but not one made on the name alone. The beaches were covered in twisted hulls. Broken masts jutted out of the shallows. Wood, plastic, and fibreglass covered the water for as far as my eyes could see.

  “This must have been part of the flotilla,” Kim said. “The ships that Sophia and Mister Mills couldn’t save.”

  “I suppose,” I said. I grabbed the boat hook, and left the cockpit to deflect a section of wood bearing the name The Dallas Mermaid.

  “Long way from Texas. Very long, considering that it can’t have been much larger than a rowing boat,” I said when I got back inside the cockpit.

  “Very, very long considering that Dallas is two hundred and fifty miles from the coast,” Kim said. “And speaking of a long way from the coast, the Aran Islands are twenty miles due north of us.”

  “I wouldn’t rely on that map for an accurate bearing,” I said.

  “There’s too much junk on the water for us to manage more than a few knots while we’re hugging
the shoreline, and even if we did, we’ll have to travel at least three times the distance,” Kim said. As if to punctuate her words, something bumped into the port side of the launch. “And there’s the danger of a puncture.”

  “You mean a leak.”

  “All boats leak,” Kim said. “I’m worried about something worse. Look at the map. If we follow the coast, we’ll head northeast to Galway, then have to go due west again. It’s about sixty miles. If we head due north, out to sea and away from this flotsam, we’ll reach the Aran Islands before nightfall. We can harbour there, and head back to the Irish coast, and maybe reach Malin Head… the day after tomorrow? No, that can’t be right. Where’s the ruler?” There was a much louder thump against the hull. “Well, we have to get out of here, agreed?”

  I peered at the sea, but I couldn’t see what had hit the boat. “Agreed.”

  “Great.” She turned the wheel and eased the throttle. “The Aran Islands it is. Hopefully we’ll get there with enough time to go ashore tonight.”

  “We can sleep on the boat,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, but we have to go ashore.”

  “We do?”

  “Someone has to. Since we’re here, it might as well be us. Look, when we get back to Anglesey, the news we’ll bring will be doubly grim. I suppose they’ll discover Will and Lilith’s bodies when they arrive at the jetty. It’s possible they won’t discover Simon and Rob. They might think they’re alive. We’ll get back and tell them the depressing truth. People want… well, they want news. You saw how they were with the satellite images. They just wanted to know. Because of that, we had enough volunteers to clear the runway at the airfield, and to mount those expeditions to the islands in the Irish Sea. Our return will be news. As it stands, it’s not happy news. People will be interested in Kempton and The New World, but we need something else, something that will overshadow murder and betrayal and get people thinking about the future again.”