Surviving The Evacuation (Book 3): Family

by Frank Tayell

  “The incendiaries?” They had been part of the self-destruct system that had failed to go off. “You said they’d detonate on a warm day.”

  “If the stuff inside comes in contact with the air. Otherwise they’re harmless.”

  “And when, exactly, were you going to tell us you had them?” I asked, sharply. “I thought we agreed, no more secrets.”

  “No, she said ‘no more secrets’. I didn’t agree to anything. Besides, I’m telling you now, aren’t I? What is it? You want an inventory of everything I’m carrying? I’ve got a spool of high tensile fishing wire, half a pack of cinnamon gum and a set of half decent lock-picks.”

  Like I said, I don’t really know Sholto at all.

  “Other people could have taken refuge in there before Barrett arrived,” I said. “We can’t just blow the place up. There has to be rules. There has to be some kind of justice.”

  “Exactly,” Kim said. “You lure Them away and we’ll get the girls out.”

  I didn’t miss that she hadn’t agreed with me. There was a tense moment before I let it go. After all, they were going to do what they were going to do, and I wasn’t going to be in a position to stop them. It’s not that I care what happens to Barrett, Stewart or Daphne, I’m just worried what it might do to Kim.

  “The gum,” I asked, after a moment, “does that do anything special?”

  The tension didn’t break, but it fractured slightly.

  “N’ah. It’s just gum,” he said.

  Perhaps if we’d had more sleep one of us might have come up with a better idea. Then again, Kim and Sholto both seem to think that there’s no problem so big it can’t be solved with a sledgehammer and a long enough run up. I really did think, though, that given the opportunity self-preservation would kick in, and Barrett, Stewart and Daphne would just run. Perhaps if we’d slept we might have spotted some of the chasmic holes in the plan. Well, whatever we did, it was always going to be a gamble. Broadly speaking, it paid off. We are out of London.

  The idea, it was too simple to really be called a plan, had come to me the moment I’d seen how the undead were clustered on outside those iron gates. We’d have to use sound to lure Them away, it’s all we know that works. Not music, though. With the mess of streets and alleyways that is London, we’d need to have it playing from successive rooftops. We could probably have managed that. The more difficult part would have been in turning one set of speakers off and another on so as to lure the undead further and further away from the Gardens. Given time no doubt my brother could have rigged something up, he seems to be good at that. But we didn’t have time.

  It wasn’t Annette and Daisy I was particularly worried about on that score. It was Kim. She was so far past breaking point it wasn’t going to be long before she decided to try and storm the building. I’d have followed her and Sholto wouldn’t be far behind, and that would have been disastrous for us all. That left my stupidly obvious idea.

  “I’ll find a bike, go back down to the boat, get some petrol, cycle back up here. We find a car, one that’s close by since we don’t want the undead to end up on the roads between here and the boat. I’ll drive it, up past the gardens and get Them to follow. I’ll head north, for as far as I can. I don’t know where that will be, but I reckon I can give you an hour.”

  “And then?” Kim asked.

  “And by then you better be back at the boat. I still say you should stay up here with the rifle, and Sholto goes down there. But,” I raised my hand, “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “Maybe Sholto should drive the car.”

  “I know London.” I shrugged. “Besides, I can’t run. The car suits me better. And there’s another reason it would be better if you stayed up here on the roof.”

  “Oh?”

  “If it works, then you cut down these sheets. I’ll take the bike with me. When I find a likely spot, somewhere out of sight, I’ll ditch the undead. I managed it before. It won’t be too hard. I’ll cycle back this way to make sure you got away. So if the sheets are gone I’ll know you’ve made it back to the boat.”

  “OK,” she said reluctantly. “And then what?”

  “You get back to the boat. I’ll head down there. If the zombies have followed you, you just take the boat back up stream. They’ll follow the engine, then you just turn it off and let the current carry you back downstream.”

  “And you’ll meet us down by the bank?” she asked.

  “Yep. And if I can’t, then we’ll meet on that beach in Wales.”

  “It’s a bit...” Sholto began.

  “Non confrontational?” I suggested. “Getting the girls somewhere safe, that’s the important point. I’ll be fine. You get them there, get them safe.”

  By five am we’d found four bikes. The one I claimed for myself was a carbon fibre, long distance touring bike that, judging by the flags and photos pinned onto the wall, had been along The Great Wall, across the Sahara and up Everest. I’d seen those pictures through the window when we’d been looking for a way into the building. One of the pictures had the bike standing next to a barbecue, pedal-deep in snow, the owner clutching tongs in one hand and a burger in the other. I’d seen the owner through that window too, but even if I hadn’t I’d have known he was in there from the smell. He was sitting against the wall, his legs splayed. He’d written a letter, and then he’d opened an artery on his wrist. The blood had soaked the piece of paper, making it unreadable, his last story forever unknown.

  We found bikes for Kim, Sholto and Annette in the back gardens of a row of terraces a few blocks further east. Their gears were rusty, the tyres perished and the chains loose, but that didn’t matter. They’d only be cycling the few miles between Kew and the boat. One even had a child seat at the back.

  Then we had to find a vehicle. Anything built in the last fifteen years, with the focus on crumple-zones and limiting damage to pedestrians in a collision, was out. So were the more sturdy looking diesel powered vans and trucks. It was the wrong kind of neighbourhood. The cars were a mixture of the relatively upmarket and the cheap run-about.

  I was about to send Sholto back to keep an eye on Kim and continue my search on the way down to the river when we found the Land Rover. It was one of those old Defender models, a battered behemoth that guzzled petrol and belched fumes, built for fields and hills not the restraints of urban driving. It was perfect.

  The spare keys were hanging on a hook within easy reach from a broken window. We didn’t have to break into the house.

  “I can go with you. To the boat and back,” Sholto offered.

  “Keep an eye on Kim. Make sure she doesn’t... Well, just keep an eye on her, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Right.”

  I felt I should say more but didn’t know how, let alone what. I got on the bike and cycled south, alone.

  Getting back to the boat was far quicker than our journey from it, and not just because I was travelling by bike. I knew which roads to avoid and which were clear. The only delay was when I found a road blocked by a single decker bus driven through the front window of a dry-cleaners. I could have got the bicycle past, but I didn’t like the slow shuffling sound I could hear coming from the other side. I found another route. Considering what I was about to do, stopping to kill the undead would have been a waste of time. Until I got to the boat.

  It was inevitable, I suppose. None of us had been as quiet as we should have been when we tied it up and came ashore. Three undead had gathered on the towpath. Two were close to the boat, the third was forty yards further north. Their heads were bobbing this way and that, as they shuffled about in small circles, seeking a sound like a dog seeking a scent. They heard me coming at about the same time I realised I couldn’t avoid Them.

  I dismounted and looked around. A few bushes rustled in the distance, but otherwise I could see no other zombies and nowhere else for Them to hide. I lent the bike up against a tree, unslung the pike and started walking slowly towards the first creature.
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  When I was fifteen yards away I stopped and shifted my grip, angling the pike out so the point was pointing slightly downwards, the shaft held parallel to my body. When it had taken another step forward, as its arms began their clutching grasp at empty air, I stepped forward, and scythed the pike round. The blade cut deep into the creature’s ankle. It didn’t react, not even when it tried to take a step, the bone snapped and it fell face forwards onto the ground. Its hands clawed at the dirt, its mouth bit down on grass, as I limped forward and plunged the spear point through the back of its skull.

  Then there were two. I edged off the path and onto the grass. I hefted the pike up, angling the point between the eyes of the creature on the left. They were still twenty feet away. I threw a glance over my shoulder. There was nothing behind me. I took a breath and two steps forward, the pike spearing out, my arms fully extended as the point went in between the creature’s eyes. The crunch of bone seemed to echo off the buildings.

  I pulled the pike out, took a hopping skip backward, levelled the weapon and was about to repeat the manoeuvre when I noticed something different about the last zombie.

  It was more recently dead, but that alone wasn’t it. Its clothing was nearly intact, and again that wasn’t what had given me pause. It was that the ends of the coat and bottom of the trousers, both too thick and warm for this weather, had been taped to boots and wrists. The hands were gloved. A solitary strap, perhaps from a mask, dangled from an ear. The woman this zombie had been was someone who had done more than just survive. She’d taken one look at the new world she’d found herself in and realised she needed to adapt. But her preparations hadn’t been enough. I was limping backwards now, just as fast as the creature was approaching. It must have looked odd, like some macabre dance, but the more I looked at this creature, the more uncertain I became.

  I can’t be sure, but I thought I recognised the face. I don’t know where from or when. Perhaps it was nothing more than a vague desire for resemblance in a kindred spirit who’d just not had my luck. I think it was more than that. I think I once knew her. My back thumped into a tree and that jarred me back to reality. I swung up and down and the blade sliced into the face, smashing the skull and forever destroying those almost-familiar features.

  I limped back to the bike, wheeled it to the spot where we’d moored the boat, then pulled at the rope until the boat was close enough to climb on board. I grabbed a fuel can, hefted it over the side, and skipped ashore after it. Working out how to carry it took another few minutes I’d not planned for. I settled for tying it to the cross-bar. By then the boat had drifted back out into the river. I was tempted to just go. The sun was up, the day was starting to warm, and I wanted to get the next couple of hours over and done with. But I had no real confidence that I was ever going to see the boat again. I tugged at the rope again, went back on board and stuffed my bag with ration packs. Only then did I head back towards Kew.

  I tried singing to myself, but I couldn’t remember any tunes. I tried to recite poetry, but couldn’t recall more than the first few words. I tried making up limericks, but couldn’t think of a punch line. No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind from it, as I cycled back through those deserted streets I kept seeing it as it had been, as it would have been if not for the outbreak and my evacuation.

  And the thought that I kept returning to was that all of the other cities of the world must be worse. An empty world, crowded with death. That’s the legacy we leave the next generation.

  I shouldn’t have been thinking like that. Here and now, with a fire and in relative safety, it’s not helpful. Cycling alone through London it almost got me killed.

  I was on just another road, approaching two vans I thought had been parked. It was only when I was level with the rear tyres of the nearest that I registered the broken glass on the road.

  Not wanting to get a puncture, I swerved at the same time as a zombie seemed to dive out from underneath the van. It flew head first into the bikes front tyres, knocking me, and the bike over.

  I fell in a tangled heap, the full weight of the petrol can falling on my crippled right leg. The leg brace took most of the impact, but the sudden jarring of metal on those never-healed nerves sent a shooting pain right up my spine.

  Something tugged at my left foot. A hand. I kicked out. It was gone. I tried to pull myself upright. The hand was back, gripping my ankle, pulling and tugging and getting tighter. I screamed and kicked and managed to pull myself free. I staggered upright. I couldn’t see straight. I kicked and stamped down randomly, as I grabbed the bike and limped clear. My hand went to my pocket, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I pulled out the pistol. The barrel wavered as I tried to focus. As my vision cleared I saw it. Not right in front of me as I thought, but still there, on the ground where I’d fallen off the bike. Its legs were missing below the knees.

  “No,” I remember saying, as a hysterical laugh escaped my lips, “not missing.” They were both visible, stuck under the front wheel of the van. The zombie must have been between the two vans when they crashed and it had been stuck there until time had done its work, wearing down the sinews and tendons, until I came along. And then when it heard me, it leapt, leaving its trapped legs behind.

  I kept my mind focused after that.

  Kim was waiting by the Land Rover.

  “You took your time,” she said.

  “Zombies. By the boat. Three of Them.”

  “Oh.”

  I started filling the tank.

  “You should be keeping watch. On the roof,” I said.

  “Sholto’s doing that. I...” she trailed off. I put the cap back on the fuel can, and put it into the back.

  “Would you give me a hand with this?” I asked, hefting the bike up. Together we got onto the roof and tied it down. And then there was no more reason to delay. I turned to Kim.

  “I may not make it back to the boat,” I said.

  “No, probably not,” she said.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I tried to grin, to show it was a joke. I don’t think it worked. “Get clear of the undead, get the boat across the river, find a car, keep driving north until you see signs for Wales. Avoid the motorways, avoid the cities. I’ll see you on the beach.”

  “Will you?”

  “I’ll do everything I can to...” I began, but she interrupted.

  “I can tell when you’re lying. You’re going to go after that Doctor.”

  I sighed. “Perhaps. If I can. I’d have to, sooner or later.”

  “OK,” she said, softly as she put her hand on my arm. It was only the briefest of touches.

  “OK,” she said again, letting her hand fall, her tone now rigid once more. “We’ll hang out flags at every house we go to. And we’ll leave a note with the date when we were there. You do the same. If you don’t make it to the beach, well, we’ll be back. I’ll be back. On the last day of every month, until you turn up.”

  “Right. I...”

  “Give me thirty minutes to get in position. See you, Bill.” She turned and jogged off, before I could say the words.

  Words left unspoken are often the most treacherous. You’re never sure if what you were going to say is what the other person thought you were. I pondered that as I stood by the Land Rover, just waiting for time to pass.

  After five minutes I started to feel self-conscious, so I got inside the car. I checked the time. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty five. Thirty. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. I tried again. The engine turned over and then turned itself off. I tried again. The engine roared to life, then whimpered to a stop.

  I forced my hands away from the dashboard and my feet away from the pedals. I took a breath, then another, and told myself to calm down, wait, count to five and then try again. I’d reached three when I had the metallic banging of something being knocked over. It came from the street, to the right. I couldn’t see the zombie, there was a wall in the way, but I knew it was there. I muttered ‘four, five
’ under my breath as quickly as I could, tried the key. The engine spluttered.

  “Come on, come on,” I muttered, coaxing the pedals, my eyes darting around, seeing if, somehow, there might be another car I could take. There was a bang, a cough and the engine spluttered and gasped into an arrhythmic roar just as an arm windmilled around the edge of the wall. It was followed a moment later by a zombie wearing nothing but a pair of lurid blue shorts. It must have been outside during the storms earlier in the year because the dye had run, staining its legs.

  I put the car into gear and pulled out, the creature stumbled into the road directly ahead. I’d only reached five miles an hour, when I hit it. The creature twisted around, as it was shoved backwards, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees before slamming its arms down on the bonnet. Its bulging uncomprehending eyes met mine. I slammed my foot down, trying to force the car to accelerate as much by willpower as by mechanics. Its head slammed, face first, into the bonnet with a crack of breaking teeth. Fingernails scratched and broke, flecks of paint flew up, and the creature just refused to be dragged under the wheels.

  The road was too narrow, too hemmed in by other cars to get up enough speed. After thirty yards I braked, changed gears and reversed. It slipped, fell, stumbled back to its feet and staggered towards me. I pulled out the gun, unwound the window, stuck the barrel out and fired.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, as its body collapsed to the ground.

  I wound the window back up and edged the car forward. I took a left, then right then right again, trying to pick up some speed. I ignored the zombies that appeared from side roads and from behind parked cars. I ignored the sound of breaking glass from windows behind and to the sides and out in front. I ignored everything but the road in front as I made my way to Kew.