Surviving the Evacuation, Book 14

by Frank Tayell

  “There were two of them in here,” Bill said. “They’re dead. A third sniper was on the bridge, but I think he got away.”

  Locke turned to the survivor, and translated that into French. The man dashed off as Locke climbed inside.

  She paused briefly in the archway. “You’ve come a long way since Whitehall, Mr Wright.”

  Bill said nothing, but collapsed into the mildewed armchair as Locke climbed the stairs. He still couldn’t get a handle on the woman.

  Outside, he heard a shot, then another, and then the softer pock of a suppressed rifle shot from upstairs. He supposed he should help secure the location, confirm no other enemies lurked in the shadows outside, and that this ambush wasn’t part of some larger trap. No, he’d leave it to the professionals like Gaston and Khan. For now, he could say he’d done his part. His gaze fell on the body at the bottom of the stairs. He supposed he should search the corpse, though he wasn’t sure for what.

  From above, the firing ceased.

  “There are zombies on the other side of the river,” Locke said coming down the stairs. “Perhaps our foe didn’t escape.”

  “Zombies? For a moment there, I’d forgotten about them,” Bill said, pushing himself to his feet.

  Locke bent down, checking the corpse. “A tattoo,” she said. “He’s one of them. It’s a recent tattoo,” she added. “Recent and crude. If I didn’t know what it should look like, I wouldn’t recognise it.”

  “He got it after the outbreak, you mean?”

  “It’s to be expected,” she said.

  “Yes, and so is villainy and violence,” Bill said. “Except we’re happy to have that as an excuse to tell us that we’re the good guys.”

  “After what we saw in the watchtower, after the torture Starwind endured and which killed her friends, don’t you think we are?”

  “This time, sure,” Bill said. “Though I tried to shoot a running man in the back. Yes, this time, at the tail end of the professor’s war, we know we’re on the side of right. Next time, next year, next decade, it won’t be so clear-cut. Our morality is ebbing away, I can feel it. How long will it be before we’re killing people simply to survive?”

  “We already are,” Locke said.

  “I meant fighting to prevent people stealing our food,” Bill said.

  “So did I,” Locke said. “That is what this skirmish is about. Food, supplies, control of their island. Why are you here, Mr Wright? Why did you volunteer our assistance to these people? For fuel and a vehicle, food and ammunition, yes? We are mercenaries, fighting for pay, simply so we can go home.”

  From outside came a loud crunch of feet on broken terracotta. Bill spun to the window, raising the shotgun, but lowered it when he saw Private Kessler.

  “The professor wants you,” she said, adding, “It’s bad. Gaston’s dead.”

  Claire removed her coat and laid it over the major’s face. Ten feet away, the professor had already laid her coat over the remains of most of another survivor.

  “How many fatalities?” Bill asked.

  “Three,” Claire said. “Two from the explosion, one from gunfire.”

  “It was an LRAC FI,” Locke said. “A shoulder-mounted anti-tank rocket launcher. Did it come from your armoury?”

  “Non,” Claire said, turning to look at the house, then at the professor. “Earlier in the year, the summer, Dernier led a patrol east. Half died, but they found one such weapon. It was used and destroyed during the attack on the armoury.”

  “The rifles were AK-47s,” Bill said. “Do you have those in your stores?”

  “No, our equipment came from the French military,” Claire said.

  “It sounds like they found weapons and ammo out in the wasteland and didn’t tell you,” Bill said. “Of course, that begs the question of why they attacked your armoury.”

  “Some people arrived with Kalashnikovs,” the professor said, dismissively and too quickly. “It is unwise to hypothecate a data set on one piece of datum. If you’ll excuse me, I would like to confirm the identity of the dead.”

  “Go with her, Amber,” Bill said. He turned to Claire. “The man who crossed the bridge?”

  “Your sergeant is in pursuit,” Claire said.

  “Fine. Let’s get the boat loaded while he finishes that task.”

  Claire shook her head. “They sank it.”

  “The boat’s gone?” Bill said.

  Locke sniffed. “I’m going to walk the perimeter. I’m suddenly feeling very exposed.”

  Bill looked at the bodies, the bullet-flecked building, the churned-mud road. “How long until they send another boat from the city?”

  Claire shrugged. “They may not. They may wait for the undead to disperse. There was a debate. Non, an argument over the professor’s plan.”

  Bill looked southward. “We’re too far for them to have heard the explosion. I take it there aren’t any other boats anchored along the banks?”

  “We took them all to the island,” Claire said. “There are none within twenty miles north or fifteen miles south.”

  “There’s no radio, no way of signalling the island?”

  “I’m sure there is,” Claire said. “Just not one I’ve thought of.”

  Bill nodded, then looked at the house. They could set it on fire, create a pillar of smoke as Starwind had done. However, putting a few of the pieces together, it sounded as if the only reason this group had left the island was because Claire’s daughter was among those at the watchtower. Would anyone come looking for the professor? Or would a fire simply act as a beacon to any of Dernier’s people still in the vicinity? Either way, if they set the building alight, they would have destroyed the better refuge, and so would have to wait on the footbridge on the off-chance a boat arrived before the undead. He was still weighing up whether that was a risk worth taking when Sergeant Khan returned.

  “The enemy escaped, sir,” Khan said, using his in-the-company-of-strangers voice. “Undead are on the other side of the bridge. I’ve left the French survivors guarding it.” As if on cue, there was a distant pock-pock of gunfire.

  “Can they hold it?” Bill asked.

  “Yes, sir. There are less than thirty zombies at present.”

  “Could the undead have killed the sniper?” Claire asked.

  “Unlikely,” Khan said. “And not within sight of the end of the bridge. Do you want me to clear the undead and continue the search on the other bank, sir?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bill said. “What happened to your arm, Sergeant?” A crude bandage covered his forearm, already oozing red from the spreading blood.

  “Shrapnel, sir. If we’re not going to neutralise the hostiles on the far bank, we should retreat. I would advise we return to the airfield and regroup.”

  “Claire?”

  “I will have to consult the professor.”

  “Of course,” Bill said. “Wait, at the airfield, did you take the rafts from the planes? It was something Chester said back when we were on Anglesey. Planes scheduled to fly over bodies of water were required to have safety equipment on board in case they had to ditch in water. I forget how large a plane had to be for them to carry a raft, but that’s where Chester found some rafts in London. That airliner is big enough, I’m sure.”

  “We didn’t take any rafts,” Claire said.

  “Then that’s our plan,” Bill said. “Sergeant, you better get the survivors from the bridge. Assuming you agree, Claire.”

  “I will speak to the professor,” she said, and hurried towards the house.

  Bill moved closer to the sergeant and lowered his voice. “What do you make of this?”

  “Nothing good, sir,” Khan said. “They had time to prepare an ambush. Not well, but they almost killed us all.”

  “One of the bodies has a crude, post-outbreak tattoo. I’d say he was a new recruit.”

  “Understandable,” Khan said. “Every army needs new recruits. My read is that, after the bonfire was lit at the watchtower, Dernier
expected people would come to investigate. He expected it, and so sent this group to cut off their escape.”

  “I’m not sure,” Bill said. “Before the watchtower bonfire was lit, he’d already destroyed their armoury. He must have known the islanders were low on ammunition, so he would expect them to gather more. I don’t think this was an ambush. I think it was a heist so they could steal the ammo.”

  “Two birds with one stone,” Khan said. “Makes sense.”

  Claire, the professor, and Kessler came over from the house.

  “We will return to the airfield,” the professor said. “Sergeant, Claire, can you gather everyone?”

  Claire nodded. The sergeant saluted, but had gone only a few paces when he swung around. Bill followed the line of his gaze and saw Locke sprinting towards them.

  “Footprints!” she said.

  “Where?” Bill asked.

  “How many?” the professor asked.

  “Two sets,” Locke said. “They had a vantage point in the trees, back from the road, near the roundabout. From there, they could have killed us. They didn’t. They ran. They ran south.”

  “Then let’s hope they keep on running,” Bill said.

  “Bill,” Locke said, “the airfield is due south.”

  Chapter 17 - Paint and Knives

  The Airfield

  Chester sat by the window, watching sunlight dance on the flooded runway, catching the pools of water the storm had left in the craters and potholes. The storm had ceased during the night, bringing a dawn of glorious sunshine. More surprising was that he’d woken from a fitful half-sleep to find the French survivors hadn’t left.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of them. Rather, he wasn’t sure why he distrusted them. Partly, obviously, it was their decision to set a trap without first asking whether anyone minded being used as bait. That annoyed him, but it was an obvious move he might have made himself. No, it was something else. Something to do with their story that didn’t add up.

  “We’ll be back in a few hours,” Bill said.

  “Understood,” Chester said. He was staying behind to keep an eye on Scott. Starwind and one of the French survivors, Michel, were staying behind, too. Chester was under no illusion that they were guarding the ammunition, rather than himself and Scott.

  Chester stood by the ladder as the expedition climbed down, then returned to the window, while Starwind and Michel climbed up to the water tower.

  “Perhaps we should have arranged a signal,” Chester murmured.

  “What’s that?” Scott asked.

  “Ah, I’m just getting cynical,” Chester said. He sat on the chair next to Scott. “You know what I miss most about electricity? It’s how decisions always get made at night, but we can’t act on them until dawn.”

  “Interesting choice,” Scott said. “I’d pick an electric heater.”

  “You’re feeling cold?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Scott said, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders. “My head’s nearly stopped pounding. My mouth tastes like a wombat’s been nesting in it, but my vision’s back to normal, and my eyes no longer feel like they’re going to drip out of their sockets. I’m just tired. Tired and cold, but in a good way. A cloudless sky means no more rain, so I’ll take solace in the cold for now.”

  “It’s not as cold as yesterday,” Chester said. “Not nearly as much.”

  “Give me a few days of food and I’ll not notice it,” Scott said. “A helicopter can fly in this weather. The satellites will be able to spot us. They’re bound to spot this town if there are so many people in it. Speaking of which, how many do you think that is?”

  “I’m not sure,” Chester said, glancing upwards. He couldn’t see Starwind or Michel, but they could almost certainly hear the conversation. Whether they understood it, he wasn’t sure, so he chose his words with care. “They gave the impression it was around a thousand. Assuming they exaggerated like most people do, I’d say around five hundred.”

  “A lot less if a gang of twenty could cause so much trouble for them.”

  “Yeah, true, though one person can play merry havoc if you don’t know where he is. That was our trouble back in the Tower of London. Here’s hoping the rest of them are dead or fled. You’ll get your few days of rest, though. We can’t continue to the coast until they’ve dealt with the undead surrounding their island. I figure a day for them to get the ammunition back to their people, and a couple of days to kill the undead. Three days, at least.” He looked up at the sky. “Maybe we should paint a message on the runway. We could get a lift out of here on the helicopter.”

  “We need a plane,” Scott said. “There are fighter jets in the hangar?”

  “That’s what Bill said.”

  Scott leaned forward, peering at the runway. “It’ll need a bit of work. A lot of work for a lot of people, but we could manage it. Was it just fighter jets?” He leaned back, and picked up one of the military maps that had been left in the hangar.

  “As far as I know,” Chester said. “Two fighter jets. Do you think you could get a plane in the air again?”

  “I did it before,” Scott said. “I’ve got to try.”

  “You mean you’ve got to try to get back to Australia?” Chester said.

  “I don’t know,” Scott said. “My daughter is in Vancouver. My wife and son are in Australia. It’s an impossible choice.”

  “Ah. That’s why you wanted to fly the plane to Canada?”

  Scott shrugged.

  “I get it,” Chester said. “I understand.”

  “Except now, here, I’m closer to Australia than I’ve been since the outbreak,” Scott said. “We’ve got the people to repair an airfield, and from the sound of it, they have fuel.” He tapped a finger against the map. “As for a plane, there are eight other airfields marked here as redoubts. Eight airfields to the southeast. That would start my journey even closer to home.”

  “But flying to Canada was your idea, wasn’t it?” Chester said. “Except you wanted to fly to Newfoundland, then down to California, right? And Vancouver is on the Pacific coast?”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to tell everyone I wanted to steal the plane,” Scott said. “Truthfully, I’d not made up my mind what I was going to do. I had a dream the satellites would find us a clear runway in British Columbia. I’d fly there, find my daughter, fuel, and a transcontinental jet capable of making it to Oz. Dreams are for sleep, and when I was awake, I didn’t think I had any chance of seeing any of my family again. Then we found that plane in Belfast. It was a godsend, and since the admiral and her people wanted to know what had happened to the U.S., my destination was chosen for me. Now, though, I have another chance and an impossible decision.”

  Chester nodded. There was nothing he could say.

  “You know there was an evacuation in Australia?” Scott asked. “They shipped everyone to Tasmania. Bill wrote as much in his journal, and Mister Mills said he heard some military chatter over the UHF that suggested the same. Why would anyone want to nuke Tasmania? Maybe it survived. Maybe their evacuation worked. If it did, there’s a good chance my family are safe among hundreds of thousands of survivors. Maybe millions. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “It’d be worth putting together an expedition to Tasmania to check,” Chester said.

  “It would,” Scott said. “But what about my daughter? Australia or Vancouver; I can’t go to both. We can’t. Not any time soon. Sure, the admiral might send a ship across the Atlantic, but Vancouver is on the Pacific. Planes rust. Fuel evaporates. Each flight we make, we have to assume it’ll be the last.”

  “An impossible choice,” Chester echoed.

  “It is, it is.” Scott pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, then picked up the map again.

  “You say there are eight other airfields marked there?” Chester asked, hoping to drive the conversation in a different direction.

  “Looks like twenty redoubts, of which eight are airfields to the southeast. Trouble wit
h airfields, even military ones, is that they weren’t built as fortresses. Seeing as air power negated the defensiveness of stone walls, it’s no surprise. They were built on the edge of towns, never the high ground, obviously, but usually the flat lowlands.”

  “But if the zombies are dying, then we don’t need fortresses,” Chester said. “Did you hear that last night?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “The professor is pretty certain the zombies will only be a threat for another year or so. Perhaps less. Not sure I believe her. I want to, but it’s dangerous to place too much faith in hope. But she has some evidence to back up her claim. I guess we know that some zombies have died, but we just don’t know whether they all will.”

  “What else did I miss?”

  “Some bits and pieces about Lisa Kempton, and how those thugs at the watchtower were foot soldiers in a cartel.”

  “They were?” Scott asked. “And Locke blew them up with a grenade?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then they got what they deserved.” He put the map down. “They’re who I blame for being here, not with my family, and for my daughter being in Vancouver.”

  “I thought you were here for triple-time-pay on a passenger route.”

  “About twenty years ago, I worked at a small airfield,” Scott said. “That’s where I met my wife. An old couple owned the airfield. Their kids didn’t want a piece of the business, and their grandkids were too young. They wanted to retire, so when we got married, they sold us a stake in the business. It cleared us out. Every penny we had, and we were still getting a good deal. About six months later, the drug dealers turned up. The airfield was small, but it had a long runway and it was out of the way. It was ideal for an island-hopping jet crammed full of heroin and cocaine and who knows what else. The police were no use since it was all talk at that point. They suggested we could go along with it, set up a sting, and then go into witness protection. That would have been fine for us, but not for the old couple who’d never be able to see their grandkids again. We weren’t going to say yes, but we couldn’t say no. Instead, we walked away. All of us. We took a digger to the runway and shut the business down. The local authorities didn’t like us abandoning it like that, but we told them to take it up with the cops. A few debt collection agencies came looking for us, but the gangsters didn’t. We were broke, and starting again, this time with a family, but without a home. Life was tough. It got tougher. I only returned to flying a few years ago. I figured that whoever was behind that first bunch of thugs, they’d be long since dead, and good riddance.” He picked up the map again. “If these runways were put out of action when passenger planes tried to land, then there should still be fuel in the stores. Or there would have been at the beginning of the outbreak. We could hop from one to the next, in the helicopter. Look for fuel, see which runway will be the easiest to clear, and whether we can find a plane with a longer range than a fighter jet.”