Surviving the Evacuation, Book 14

by Frank Tayell

  “I’ve become used to the satellites and their aerial views,” Bill said. “Not that the images helped much. They allayed a few fears, I suppose.”

  The uncomfortable silence returned. It had been their unwelcome third wheel since Chester’s arrival on Anglesey. It wasn’t that they had nothing to talk about, but that any discussion always drifted towards the world before the outbreak, and to lives inherently in conflict with one another.

  “Wind’s picking up,” Chester said.

  “At least it’s not snowing,” Bill said.

  “Not yet,” Chester said. And, again, the silence returned.

  The gate was still secure. Three zombies lounged on the other side, their arms dangling over the gate like farmers taking a moment’s respite, except that their feet were planted in and around the creatures Bill and Chester had killed the night before. As Bill and Chester crunched through the ankle-deep snow, the zombies pushed against the closed gate.

  “Only three?” Chester asked. “No more further along the fence?”

  “Not that I can see,” Bill said.

  “Then leave them to me, you go and get the others,” Chester said.

  “Drink this,” Locke said, an arm around Scott’s shoulder. “That’s it.”

  “You’re awake,” Bill said, the joy in his voice utterly genuine.

  Scott mumbled something as he sipped at the cup in Locke’s hands.

  “Awake, and he has feeling in his feet and his hands,” Locke said. “There’s no spinal injury. I can’t guarantee he hasn’t fractured his skull.”

  “How do you feel, Scott?” Bill asked.

  “Ugh. Okay,” he mumbled.

  It was good enough. “Can you walk? Can he walk?”

  “As fast as we can carry him,” Locke said.

  “We’ll bring the sling anyway,” Khan said. “What’s the situation?”

  “Three zombies by the gate. I left Chester to deal with them.”

  “We’re good to go?” Khan asked.

  “I guess so,” Bill said. “We’ll follow the road westward until we reach the next farm. We’ll take a breather there, and find some new clothes, and hopefully a few cans or packets.”

  “On your feet, Mr Higson,” Locke said, helping him up. “There you go. We should move before your body realises how much it wants to sleep. Glechoma hederacea,” she added.

  “That doesn’t… doesn’t sound good,” Scott said.

  “Is that what’s wrong with him?” Kessler asked.

  “No,” Locke said. “It’s more commonly known as ground ivy. Then there’s Cymbalaria muralis, or Kenilworth ivy. Or Lactuca muralis, which is wall lettuce to you and I. There are plenty of plants we can eat, even in winter.”

  “Plenty that are poisonous, too,” Bill said.

  “Haven’t you learned the difference?” Locke asked. “What on Earth have you been doing these last few months? Amber, can you take his arm? Lead on, Mr Wright.”

  It was a slow slog to the gate. Despite a determined first ten paces, Higson couldn’t move quickly. He couldn’t even move slowly. It was questionable whether it would be quicker to carry him, but a certainty that they would have to before the day was done.

  They found Chester leaning against the gate, three new corpses added to the pile on the other side.

  “Good to see you on your feet, Scott,” Chester said.

  Higson didn’t reply.

  “Can we re-secure that chain if we break the padlock?” Bill asked. He didn’t say that it would take at least five minutes and far too many calories to lift the pilot over.

  “With those belts, easily done,” Chester said. Which wasn’t exactly true, but a minute later, they had the gate open, and were, finally, heading towards the coast.

  After ten yards, the wind rose. Flurries of ice were dragged from the branches, dumping snow on the ground behind them, each clump sounding like that of an undead footstep. After the fifth, Bill ignored them. He couldn’t ignore the cold seeping through the thin cloth and into his very bones.

  Chester and Locke trudged either side of Scott, supporting him. Khan took the lead, Kessler next to him, leaving Bill at the rear.

  When the road began to curve, Khan stopped. “This road is taking us due northwest,” he said.

  “Towards the smoke, you mean?” Locke said.

  “That’s partly it,” Khan said. “We’re walking into the wind. We’re exposed on the road, but the snow is too deep for the firmer surface to offer us any benefit.”

  “You want to trek through the countryside?” Bill asked.

  “Better that than freeze as we head straight towards the enemy,” Khan said.

  “Agreed,” Locke said.

  Bill didn’t argue. “Lead the way, Sergeant.” He did pause to look back the way they’d come. The wind-borne snow obscured their footprints, though their trail was still visible. How far were they from the smoke? Five miles? Ten? Maybe twenty, he wasn’t sure, but it was probably too far to walk in a snowstorm. Probably.

  The chill cut deep, and the snow grew deeper as they trudged a disorderly route between the trees. The going, though, grew easier as leafless deciduous turned to the sharper-scented green foliage of wide-spreading pines which acted as a windbreak.

  Ahead, Khan’s posture changed. The soldier stiffened as he swung his rifle to the right. He fired. Once. Twice. The bullets disappeared into the trees. Almost simultaneously came two heavy thuds. Bill had his hands out of his pockets and his machete drawn before Khan waved a cautious all-clear.

  “Only two,” the Marine said.

  “Zombies?” Kessler asked.

  “Aye,” Khan said.

  Bill looked to the right, and could see the black smears on the pristine snow, but not where the creatures had fallen.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Locke said.

  After another five minutes, a zombie staggered through the trees, right into their path. Its clothing was so stained with gore that the green cloth was almost black. Khan lengthened his stride and drew his bayonet, kicking up snow with each heavy footfall. He pulled the blade back, and plunged it forward just as the zombie lunged, impaling itself on the blade. Khan dragged it free, wiping his bayonet clean on the snow.

  “Can’t waste the ammo,” he said.

  Within the shelter of the trees, the snow-cover was an irregular depth. Where the trees had acted as a break, it was less than an inch deep. Elsewhere, it lay piled in drifts, often over two feet deep, necessitating frequent detours around the pines. A sense of tranquillity washed over Bill. Within the trees, the world seemed small. Hidden. Secure. He wondered if that was hypothermia. If so, it didn’t seem too bad.

  Abruptly, Locke let go of Scott, reached for her borrowed rifle, and swung the barrel up, firing while Chester was still reaching out to catch the injured pilot.

  Bill turned towards the trees, looking for the threat.

  “Where was it?” he asked.

  “Topmost branch,” Locke said, trudging through the snow.

  “A zombie was in the tree?” Kessler asked.

  “Not a zombie,” Locke said, reaching down. She pulled up a bundle of feathers.

  “A bird?” Bill asked.

  “I call it lunch,” Locke said. “It’s an owl.”

  “Think that’s unlucky,” Scott muttered.

  “Food is never that,” Locke said. “Sergeant, don’t you have a grenade?”

  “Do you want that as an ingredient, or as a method of cooking?” Khan asked.

  “A method of shopping,” Locke said. “We don’t have a fishing rod, but a grenade will suffice in a pinch.”

  Khan looked to Bill. He shrugged. “She has a point. Eyes open for a river.”

  Bill took Scott’s other arm. Once more, they continued trudging through the snow. This time, Bill was certain they couldn’t continue for long. He tried to count his steps as a way of measuring distance, but after the fifth time he slipped on the treacherous ice, he gave up. He was debating whether, if they
turned around, they’d be able to find their way back, when the trees parted, revealing a ten-metre-wide break before them.

  “It’s a road,” Khan said, scuffing at the ground. “Careful there, the snow’s deeper. Might be a ditch.”

  “No signs,” Locke said. “But all roads lead to civilisation, eventually.”

  “How long’s it been since we left the farm?” Chester asked.

  “About an hour,” Khan said.

  “Is that all?” Chester said. “It seems like an age.”

  The sergeant checked his compass. “West is that way.”

  “Come on, Scott, not much further,” Chester said.

  That was the truth. Whether they wanted to or not, they would stop soon, and stood no chance of getting back to the farm. They’d have to shelter in the first place they reached, whenever and wherever that was. Which turned out to be much closer than he’d expected.

  “Is that real?” Chester asked. “I’m not hallucinating or anything.”

  “Nope,” Bill said. “That is a very definitely a red lamppost.”

  “Right, but there’s no house here.”

  “Nope,” Bill said.

  The lamppost was incongruously planted at the side of the road. There were no buildings nearby, no signpost, no plaque to say it memorialised something or someone. They trudged on, increasingly slowly, not pausing when they reached another lamppost, nor when they came to a third.

  “It’s the edge of a town,” Bill said. “It must be. Come on, Scott. Not far now. It can’t be far.”

  It wasn’t. Ahead was a wall. Made of yellow brick, it towered two feet above head-height.

  “You see those uppermost bricks? The ones stained white?” Chester said.

  “It’s ice?” Kessler asked.

  “Salt,” Chester said. “They’re recently laid, and recently baked. It’s a new wall. Can’t be more than a couple of years old.”

  “And one which runs fifty metres from the road,” Locke said. She made a short standing-jump. “A two-storey building. Smallish. A house, not a farm. There’s a balcony. No chimney stacks.”

  “Any zombies?” Kessler asked.

  “I can’t hear any,” Locke said.

  They followed the wall until they reached a gate that was as new as the wall. Nine feet in height, the gate had a wrought-iron facade on a backing of dark-stained wood.

  “Mr Carson,” Locke said. “This is more your area than mine.”

  “You mean can I break in? No,” Chester said. “The gate slides back into the wall. That recess there, you see? Entry is via that number pad by the road. There’ll be a vertical-toothed lock-bar holding it closed. Without electricity, the only way in is over the top.”

  Locke grabbed hold of the gate, and pulled herself up, balancing with her chin level with the top of the gate. “Looks clear,” she said, letting herself drop back to the ground. “The snow is undisturbed. It’s a relatively new house. Modern in design. There’s a double garage, but no cars outside.”

  “Each time we leave, we’ll have to climb over,” Khan said.

  “Meaning we’ll be staying here for a while,” Bill said. He looked back at the footprints they’d left on the road, then the more pristine expanse ahead of them. “The weather’s made that decision for us. We need a ladder. Kessler, Locke, we’ll go inside. Sergeant, Chester, stay with Scott. The three of you guard the road.”

  Bill gripped the top of the wall, but his left hand slipped on the ice-covered metal studs. There was a pressure at his feet as Chester took his weight, and heaved him over the wall.

  The house’s front door was thirty feet from the gate, and ten feet to the side. The ground-floor windows were small and narrow. The upper floor, however, had windows that ran from floor to ceiling, only occasionally interspersed with supporting columns. If anything, the ground floor reminded him of a prison, while the upper floor reminded him of a penthouse apartment. No brickwork was visible; the walls were clad in a blue-grey facade that matched the tiles on the roof.

  “Must have cost a fortune,” Bill said.

  “It’s custom built,” Kessler said.

  “Probably,” Bill said.

  To the right of the front door, and immediately in front of the gate, were a pair of closed double-garage doors. Beyond the driveway, where some people might have planted a shrubbery, were a trio of rectangular granite slabs, planted end on with the topmost face four feet above the ground. Seeing those, Bill doubted grass lay beneath the snow.

  Locke crossed to the front door, Kessler a few steps behind, while Bill listened, but he could hear nothing but their feet crunching on snow.

  “The door’s locked. No keyhole,” Locke said. She crossed to the nearest window and tapped the glass. “Reinforced. Tinted. I can’t see in.”

  “Around the back, then,” Bill said. “And double-quick. I can feel my muscles seizing up. It must be twice as bad for poor Scott.”

  They followed the edge of the house, passing more narrow windows. Like those at the front, they were tinted with the blinds drawn. The back of the house was different.

  The property had been built on a slope. While the wall continued around the entire perimeter, the ground dropped away so that someone sitting on the sundeck had a view of the fields beyond until they met a range of hills in the distance. Alternatively, they could ignore the view, and enjoy the thirty-metre-long swimming pool. Now, snow covered the pool nearly as high as the mottled blue-tile edge. There had to be ice beneath the snow, but to what depth, it was impossible to tell.

  The rear of the house was made mostly of tinted glass. On the upper floor was a balcony that extended over the terrace, providing a sun deck above, and a rain-proof shelter below. It was snow-proof, too. Barely a sprinkling had gathered on the stainless steel recliners, and the bones lying on one of them. The skull had been pecked clean. The ribcage was still covered in the tattered rags that must once have been clothes. The small teeth-marks on a broken rib spoke of the fate of the skeleton’s other bones.

  Next to the chair was an ice bucket with an open bottle of champagne inside.

  “Suicide,” Bill said.

  “At the beginning of the outbreak,” Locke said.

  “Probably had the right idea,” Kessler said.

  Behind the recliners was a sliding glass door. It was closed but unlocked. Bill stepped inside. The room contained three chairs facing one another so he decided it was a sitting room. Against the interior wall was a box-like shelving unit with nine squares, only three of which were occupied, and those with identical green vases.

  “It’s DeSamein,” Kessler said.

  “What’s that?” Bill asked.

  “The style, the design. It’s this sort of minimalist way of focusing your life,” Kessler said.

  “Do you mean the house or the vases?” Bill asked.

  “Both. Everything,” Kessler said. “The designer was from Vienna. Magdalena DeSamein. She came up with this idea of how your home and lifestyle were interconnected. Sort of like if you were happy with your home, you were happy with your life. The themes were based on old Austrian palaces, but she scaled them down to the lifestyles of ordinary people. Well, ordinary-ish.”

  “She was from Stepney by way of Los Angeles,” Locke said. “The woman was a charlatan who preyed on those with more money than sense.”

  “Yeah, that sounds right,” Kessler said. “My step-mom was on her waiting list.”

  “Hello?” Bill called out. There was no reply. “I think we’re alone.”

  He walked through the room’s only door, and found himself in the kitchen. He barely registered the recessed cupboards and the slate-topped island as he marched to the room’s other door. It led to a windowless chamber, a little wider than a corridor. In the centre was a chair, which faced a canvas. In the middle of the picture was a splash of red. Above was green. Below was a flash of black.

  “It’s The Poisoned Apple,” Kessler said.

  “The painting?” Bill asked, curiosi
ty getting the better of necessity.

  “Yeah. It’s famous,” Kessler said.

  “It’s a reproduction,” Locke said. “Or perhaps a forgery. Lisa has the original.”

  “Okay, I have a million questions,” Bill asked. “And I’m not going to rest before I’ve asked them, but let’s get Scott inside first.”

  He continued through the gallery-room, out the other side and, finally, into the hallway. A transparent staircase that probably wasn’t solid glass led up to a landing and, presumably, the bedrooms. Opposite the stairs was the front door. Like on the outside, there was no obvious keyhole. Nor was there any obvious way of opening it other than the dead digital panel discreetly concealed to the door’s left.

  Bill slammed his palm against it in frustration. “Why couldn’t this be a normal house? Locke, check upstairs. Private, with me. I doubt we’ll find anything so useful as a ladder in a place like this, so we’ll have to use those recliners as steps. Let’s get the others inside.”

  Chapter 5 - How the Other Half Lived

  Somewhere in France

  Chester opened a kitchen cupboard. “It’s nearly as bare as that ruined farm,” he said, taking out the two boxes and placing them on the island, next to the eight bottles of champagne. “Two packets of rye-and-spelt crackers. To make it worse, the cupboards aren’t made of wood. My first thought was aluminium, but considering the rest of the house, it’s probably something far more exotic.”

  “There’s more bottled water than we could carry,” Bill said, re-closing the defunct fridge. “Which would be a boon if it wasn’t for the snow.”

  Locke and Khan entered the kitchen from the direction of the gallery-room.

  “You’re empty-handed, that doesn’t bode well,” Bill said. “Are there any clothes?”

  “How do you feel about ball-gowns and backless dresses?” Locke asked.

  “Any maps?” Bill asked.

  “None,” Khan said. “No letters, either.”

  “Then we still don’t know where we are,” Bill said. “Those red lampposts outside are either another art installation and this house is in the middle of nowhere, or we’re at the edge of a town. I’m going to take a walk up the road and find out.”