Surviving The Evacuation (Book 6): Harvest

by Tayell, Frank

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose, it’s just—”

  “Like I said before,” Chester interrupted, “the idea that we have a connection forged in the heat of battle is nothing but a romantic desire for there to be a meaning to all of this. We wake up. We struggle. We go to sleep all in the hope we get to repeat it all over again. That’s life. Always has been. The orchestra changes, but the song stays the same.”

  “Jay’s right,” Nilda said. “You are a cynic. Do you have a plan?”

  “For when we go ashore? Broadly speaking, yes.”

  “Well, maybe you should tell them,” she suggested, nodding towards Finnegan and Reece. The two men were both on the repacking side of their obsessive packing-emptying curve.

  “Okay, you two,” Chester called. “Time to get some Vitamin D.”

  “Sit down before a wave hits us and you get end up over the side,” Chester said, clambering up after them. The hard protective shell of the boat wasn’t designed to be sat on, so much as clung to by any survivors of a wreck unable to find a space inside. “We’re going to keep it simple,” he said when he found a perch that was secure, if not comfortable. “What’s the reading on the Geiger counter?”

  “It hasn’t really changed since we left,” Greta said.

  “Good. As long as it stays that way we’ll go ashore in Kent, find one of these farms, work out how much food is there, and come up with a rough plan of how we’ll get it out. So when your boots hit the ground ask yourself whether the surrounding roads and fields are free of the undead. Are there any gates, and can they be secured? Are there any handcarts, or perhaps a tractor, nearby? There probably won’t be, but it can’t hurt to look. It’s all pretty straightforward. Hana’s list has some farms that are a bit too far inland, and there’s one that’s too near to Whitstable for my liking. We want to avoid small towns. In fact, we want to avoid the undead entirely, so from now on, eyes on the coast. If we see anything that looks like a planted field, we’ll go ashore to investigate.”

  “And how exactly are we meant to harvest wheat or maize?” Reece asked.

  “We aren’t. We can manage picking fruit from a tree or pulling crops from the ground. Anything else is beyond us. We’re looking for an easy haul, and I’d define that as what twenty of us can pull out of the ground while another twenty are keeping the undead at bay.”

  “You’re planning to bring forty people down here?” Reece asked.

  “We want to get this done in one trip, maybe two. We don’t really have the fuel for more, and even if we did, in a week it’ll be gone, and we won’t be picking anything from this part of the world until next year. This is our one chance at something approaching self-sufficiency. Without it, we’ll be reliant on Anglesey.”

  “Or we return there with the boat they send,” Finnegan said.

  “Assuming you don’t starve before that boat arrives. If they can send a boat. We’re approaching storm season, so it might not be until spring they feel they can risk it. And if and when a boat does arrive, they may not have space for everyone to go back with them. An able-bodied man like yourself would no doubt be amongst those who’d volunteer to stay behind.” And he said that with a wide malicious grin that he was irritated to see sailed over the other man’s head. “We do need the food,” Chester finished. “But we’re going to collect it from places that are safe.”

  “And how will we know whether it’s safe?” Reece asked.

  “Well,” Chester said, thoughtfully, “I suppose if we can’t smell the foetid breath of the undead billowing about our heads then—”

  “Chester!” Nilda called, warningly.

  He sighed. “Alright, look, you don’t know me.” He looked from face to face. It just reminded him that of the people he had known when he left London, only Hana and McInery were left. “You don’t know me,” he said again, this time with regret, “but for the last five months I’ve been trekking the countryside rescuing people. I’ve killed more than my fair share of the undead. The trick is to keep moving. If you get into difficulty, don’t let fighting be your first instinct. Just run. Now, you all know where the Tower of London is, right? Right?” There was a trio of indecisive nods. “Well, what about reading a map, do you know how to do that? Okay. Well, the Tower is on the north bank of the Thames, and London is west of Kent. So, if you get lost, if we get separated, if you have to run until you haven’t a clue where you are, head north until you reach water. Take a left. Head towards the setting sun until you get to the QE2 Bridge. That’s still standing, and you can cross the river there.”

  “And if we do have to fight?” Greta asked.

  “Go for the knees,” Chester said. “Knock ‘em down. Then try and run in the knowledge they can’t even walk after you. If you can’t run, remember two things. First, that if you’ve broken its legs, a zombie’s mouth still works. Second, that the rest of us’ll be coming to help as soon as we can. That’s probably the most important thing,” he added. “We’ve got to stick together. If you see someone in trouble, you stop and help because you’d want someone to help you. Look, I know you think you drew the short straw.” Chester knew for a fact they had. He’d rigged the ballot. “But think of this as a holiday. You’re out in the fresh air, and nothing’s trying to kill you. Believe me, life doesn’t get much better than this.” He didn’t need the exasperated sigh from Nilda to know he shouldn’t have ended his short speech like that. “Eyes on the coast,” he added. “Keep watch for a farm.” And he sat back to scan the shoreline himself.

  They were, Chester thought, like those people who’d set out by boat on the day of the outbreak, then stayed offshore until the chaos on land forced them further out to sea. Though each had witnessed the deaths of people they knew and perhaps loved, they’d been hiding from danger ever since. That had been the sensible thing to do. It was certainly more sensible than what he’d done. But the upshot was that these three, who according to Tuck were the most capable of those at the Tower, had done little more than clamber down through the roofs of buildings to kill the handful of undead trapped inside.

  They viewed the Tower of London as a place of safety, but it wasn’t. Sure, the castle’s walls were thick, and they had access to all the brackish water they could find the firewood to boil. Each successive trip outside would take them further from the castle, and thus the danger increased. It was inevitable that people would die. With no way for their numbers to be replaced, that meant more work for fewer people. So they would take greater risks and more people would die until, ultimately, their fragile community collapsed.

  Their only chance was in finding enough food to keep the community alive until crops they’d planted had a chance to grow. That would take twelve months. At least. Even without the undead, Chester couldn’t see them passing a whole year without a death from disease or accident, suicide or childbirth. No, it wasn’t twelve months. It was twelve years. This generation had to hold on until enough children could be born and grow strong enough to take over some of the labour. Twelve years before they could relax, twenty before they could dare a true day’s rest. He looked around the boat, his gaze finally settling on Jay. No, regardless of what he’d said, the Tower wasn’t sustainable.

  He’d have to go back to Anglesey. That had been inevitable, too. He’d never expected to find Jay and had planned for nothing more than wandering Britain with Nilda until his own death. Was that why Mr Tull had given him that copy of Bill Wright’s journal? Had it been a thinly veiled instruction as to the form his penance should take? It didn’t matter. They’d found Jay, but he wasn’t yet safe. He couldn’t be, not until he’d reached the Welsh island.

  If Chester made it to Anglesey, they would send a boat, but he honestly didn’t know if it would contain food or instructions to abandon London. Despite what Nilda might want, one last, final evacuation was probably for the best. Chester closed his eyes and tried not to ask himself why, then, he was on a boat heading to Kent rather than in a car attempting the trip to Wales.

  “W
hat about that one?” Jay asked.

  Chester was beginning to regret insisting everyone look out for farms. Ever since they’d passed Gravesend and left the London commuter belt behind them, every other tree was pointed out as a potential source of food.

  “Yeah, the field looks green,” Finnegan said.

  “I’d say it looks blue. It’s flooded,” Chester said. “You can’t grow much in salt water.”

  At least Jay seemed to be enjoying himself. Chester guessed it was because he hadn’t seen much of the world beyond Penrith until he’d travelled down to London with Tuck. The boy was starting to view desolation as the norm.

  “There!” Jay yelled, and Chester realised he’d fallen asleep.

  “Where?” What?” he asked.

  “There. That field,” Jay pointed.

  “There’s nothing in it.”

  “At the edge,” Jay said. “Just before… Right. You see the house?”

  “It’s got a nice view of the sea,” Chester said.

  “Yeah, so there’s a path running along the coast. Follow it down for a hundred metres, and there are the trees. You see them?”

  “I can see trees,” Chester said, “but not what’s getting you so excited.

  “The red things on the trees? You see those?”

  “Oh yeah. Are they apples?”

  “Probably,” Finnegan said.

  “They’re more orange than red,” Greta said, taking an interest herself. “Could be peaches.”

  “Or oranges?” Jay asked hopefully.

  “Not outside a greenhouse,” Finnegan said. “Do we stop?”

  “Take a reading,” Chester said.

  “I just did,” Greta replied. “And it’s the same as before. So, do we stop?”

  Chester gave the house a closer examination. There were three trees with something orangey-red in the branches, and no undead in sight.

  “No,” he said, slowly. “Not yet. If we go ashore now we’ll lose the tide, and three trees doesn’t add up to much when you share it out amongst fifty.”

  “There’s probably more farther inland,” Finnegan said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We can stop there on the way back. That’ll be nice though. Something for us to look forward to.” And at least now they knew they wouldn’t be going back empty-handed.

  “How much farther west do we need to go?” Reece asked.

  “Past the Isle of Grain, and then past the Isle of Sheppey. About another twenty miles or so. Maybe a bit further. Settle back. Have something to eat.”

  Finnegan pulled out one of the ration bars that had been stored on the lifeboat. Their only virtue was that they didn’t require any cooking.

  “I’d rather have some fruit,” he said.

  “There. Those ones,” Reece said, pointing towards the shore. “That polytunnel. Do you see it? There’s a chunk missing from the middle.”

  Chester peered at the hemispherical metal and plastic tube. “I think you’re right,” he said. “Whatever’s inside looks green, doesn’t it? But before you get your hopes up, four things. First, what was grown in there might not be edible. It could be flowers or something. Second, the insects and birds might have beaten us to it. Third, whatever it was might have come ripe earlier in the year. Fourth, look back that way.” He gestured towards a barn, and the undead moving from it down to the shore.

  “It’s the engine,” Jay said. “The zombies follow it. Follow us.”

  “So they’re all heading east?” Finnegan asked.

  “Sure,” Chester said. “You must have realised that’s what happens.”

  “I knew they followed sound,” Finnegan said. “I suppose I just didn’t think of it before. Wait. So they’re going to keep on going? I mean, when we get to the beach, they’ll be heading that way?”

  “N’ah. There’s going to be walls and houses in the way, and those’ll slow them down. Once we’re out of earshot, they’ll stop and wait until some other sound wakes them up.”

  “And that’s going to be us coming back,” Greta said.

  “Probably. Nothing we can do about it. But we’ll add that place to the list of those we’ll investigate on our way back. A bit here, a bit there, it all adds up.”

  “Check the Geiger counter,” Finnegan said, moving towards it himself.

  “What? Why?” Chester asked.

  “Look over there. You see it? That entire village has burned down.”

  “The reading’s fine,” Greta said.

  “It’s probably a house fire that got out of control,” Chester said, dismissively.

  “How did it start?” Jay asked.

  “Dunno,” Chester said. “I doubt it was people. Light refracted against a car wing mirror onto a pile of leaves, maybe. Or through a kitchen window onto a carelessly stacked pile of newspaper. It could be anything. It could have been a zombie knocking something over. It could even have been lightning, or a compost heap gone critical, or a dozen other things. Fires happen. They happen all the time. There’s just no one left to put them out.”

  “Chester?” Nilda called. He went below.

  “What’s up?”

  “The waves. The tide’s turned, and we’re burning fuel just to stay in the same place.”

  Chester pushed his head up, and scanned the shore. “This’ll do.”

  “We’re still miles from the farms that Hana wrote down,” Nilda said.

  “It’s Kent. You can’t throw a cow without hitting an orchard.” He pulled himself back on deck. “Alright, listen up. We’re going ashore here. We’ll head in a loop, two miles south, then west, then north, and follow the coast back here to the boat. We’re aiming for about eight miles in total, or a couple of hours on foot. If we find a likely looking farm, great. If we don’t, we’ve got those places we spotted earlier to check. Everyone happy with that?” They weren’t, but they nodded. “Then check your gear. Water, weapons, and empty bags. Anything else is dead weight.”

  “Tie up those straps,” Jay added, pointing at Finnegan’s pack. “And check your laces are double knotted. You don’t want anything the zombies can tug on.”

  “We’ll see you in about three hours,” Chester said.

  “We’ll be waiting,” Nilda replied.

  “Alright,” Chester said as he clambered down into the inflated life raft. “Don’t forget, if you get lost, if you can’t find your way back to the beach, then head west. It isn’t going to be easy. It’s not going to be safe. It’s… well…” As he looked from Reece to Greta to Finnegan and saw that each wore the same expression of barely suppressed fear, a memory of a long ago Saturday afternoon came back to him. His father had been newly released from prison. As the rain had pounded on the windows they’d watched a movie on the television, both unable to think of anything to say to one another. It was a film about D-Day. Not one of the great ones, just a cheap thing from the early days of colour, made when the props were all Army surplus, and the landing craft had come straight from a Royal Navy depot. He remembered the look on the faces of the extras, all men old enough to have worn the uniform for real, as the young actor portraying the gallant officer tried to boost their morale. They’d been amused. Chester sighed. “It’s what we call life now,” he finished.

  They paddled until Chester’s oar brushed against pebbles.

  “Close enough,” he said, and jumped in. The cool water felt refreshing against his skin and had a tantalising clarity he found hard to resist. With the raft dragged above where damp stones betrayed the high tide mark, he took stock of where they were. Beyond the pebble and flotsam beach was a path, beyond that a patch of scrubland, and then a wall, a road, a hill. The path, made of flaking timber, had an optimistic hand-carved signpost with an arrow pointing to the east. Only a broken corner of green plastic remained of the label indicating exactly what lay in that direction.

  “Where to?” Greta asked.

  Chester checked the map, but couldn’t be sure of their position. “All paths lead somewhere,” he said. “We’ll fol
low this for a bit, see where it takes us.”

  It led, after four hundred yards, to an empty car park at a point where the road ceased running parallel to the coast and cut directly inland.

  “Now we go south,” Chester said, pulling out his knife. He hacked a rough arrow into the wooden planking pointing in the direction they’d left the raft.

  “You wouldn’t remember to turn left at the car park?” Reece asked.

  “I’m a city boy, through and through,” Chester said. “For all I know there’s a spot like this every mile, and this path runs along the entire stretch of coast. We go south. Keep an eye on the time, another on the fields and—”

  “And a third out for each other,” Greta said. “That’s what Tuck taught us.”

  “Good advice,” he said, picking up his pace. “But I was going to say keep your weapons handy. We’ll come across the undead soon enough.”

  He was right. Though the first they came to wasn’t a threat. It was a forlorn creature standing in the middle of an empty field. Or that was what Chester first thought.

  “It’s been baked in there,” he said as they walked past. The zombie’s hands clawed out as it tried to reach them, but its feet were stuck fast in the ground.

  “It must have been there for… I don’t know. Months,” Greta said.

  “Since the late spring rains,” Chester said. “It stayed there for wont of any reason to leave, and now it’ll remain there until the rains come again.”

  The creature’s arms were flailing up and down almost in unison, and with each swing a tattered fragment of cloth flew off, only to drift down around its feet like a macabre blossom.

  “We’ll go on for a mile and a half south, and then turn east,” Chester prompted, and they set off once more.

  The fields they passed were much the same as the one with the living scarecrow and filled with nothing more edible than weeds and the occasional serpentine bramble snaking out from an overgrown hedgerow.