by Frank Tayell
“That’s not a bad idea,” Chester said. “Which means we’ll need that helicopter, and I don’t like standing around here waiting. I’m going to look for some paint, add a message to the runway. Any ideas where I should look?”
“You want the far end of the runway, furthest from the control tower and the main entrance. That’s where you find maintenance crews, as far from officious eyes as they can get.”
Chester climbed down the ladder, and luxuriated in the feel of concrete beneath his feet. It truly did feel warmer today. Even the nearest pothole was only half full, the rest of the snowmelt-and-rain cocktail having already evaporated. Despite what Sorcha and Bill might think, he’d happily take a warm winter over the alternative.
The shotgun dug into his back. It wasn’t a weapon he was happy with, bringing back too many memories of life before the outbreak. Like all weapons he’d acquired since, it was better than nothing, and would do until he found something better.
Scott was deluding himself, making plans for the future to avoid thinking about the present, or, more likely, the past. His family were probably dead, but even if they weren’t, they would have moved since the outbreak, running, hiding, until now, they could be almost anywhere. A trip might be arranged to Tasmania to see whether their evacuation had been more successful than the British attempt, but even that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. What they’d not really discussed since the crash, and what they couldn’t mention when the French survivors were within earshot, was that the food supplies on Anglesey had been low. In Belfast, they’d be worse.
In London, they’d been living off stores left by Quigley, but they would have been abandoned when Nilda departed. Yes, she’d look for him, and Sholto would look for his brother, but everyone else would have to look for food. Within a few days, that latter search would take priority. When he and the others reached Belfast, it would become a priority for all.
He had no idea what the solution was. Perhaps they might loot a port-city on the French coast. Perhaps the French islanders had enough food to share, though that begged the question of how they would get the supplies to Ireland, or the people to France.
His foot kicked against a metal bracket, grinding it into the runway’s cracked surface. This airfield was beyond repair. Although… Scott’s words finally bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. A plane was how they’d get the food to Belfast. They’d cleared that stretch of motorway to use as a runway, hadn’t they? There was the small matter of where the food would come from, but if the islanders couldn’t spare any, perhaps they’d find some crates of rations at the other airfields. Fly the helicopter from one to the next, like Scott had said. Why not? It would only take a few days. Which brought him back to the reason he’d climbed down the ladder: he needed to find some paint.
He found his route taking him past the tanks. He didn’t like relying on the satellites spotting the message, and since the weather had improved, driving to the coast truly was a one-day trip. Even with his poor eyesight, he could tell from a hundred yards away that the tanks were unserviceable, but he walked closer to confirm it. The storm hadn’t been kind to them. All six had sunk deeper into the ground, with a drying coat of mud caking treads and carapace.
“How long to dig you out?” he muttered. “A day. Days? Too long. Pity. Still, they said something about having a fuel store. Maybe the professor can spare us a vehicle or…” He trailed off, listening. A rustling whisper came from behind the furthest tank. Was it the wind?
“Hello?” he called.
The whisper came again, but this time accompanied by a squelching splash. He drew the machete and strode to his right, giving the tanks a wide berth as he checked behind then forward, then to each side, until he saw the creature crawl around the furthest tank. Mud clung to its clothes like treacle, oozing from its arms as it raised one, then a handless other. Its arms fell into the mire, sending a geyser of mud splashing over its already coated face.
It was tempting to draw the shotgun, but the gap in the fence, and so the road and the outside world, was too near. He stepped forward as the zombie slogged another foot closer, then another, finally reaching the firmer footing away from the tank. As it dragged itself onto the drier ground, Chester quickly closed the distance, hacking the machete down on its skull. Red-brown pus arced over the ground, a bright contrast to the monochrome mud coating the creature.
“So you weren’t dying, were you? Does that mean you turned recently?” he said, flicking the gore from the blade. It was impossible to tell anything from the clothes, and he wasn’t going to look for a tattoo until he knew he’d be able to wash himself clean. Perhaps Starwind would be able to identify the body.
He headed to the access road running parallel to the runway, passing one hangar, and then another, giving the open doors a wide berth, but their dark interiors barely a glance. It would take Scott to tell whether anything useful could be salvaged from inside. Near the end of the runway, where a small passenger jet was spread across tarmac and grass, the access road curved to the right, leading towards an odd quartet of huts with a clump of trees behind them. The huts were in clear view of the control tower, but the trees behind looked like an ideal spot for a groundskeeper to surreptitiously while away the hot summer days.
As he drew nearer, he saw they were a very odd set of huts. Each identical, about four-metres square, the walls painted bright yellow, the roofs some reflective white material. Between them, creating a wall, was a chain-link fence. The centre was covered with a pavilion-type roof, supported on the same struts that held the fence in place. The interior was mostly empty, containing a forest of bins, a single tractor painted a military grey-green, and what was clearly a civilian refuse lorry, painted yellow and white.
Twenty feet away, he slowed his pace again. Lying against the fence, half buried in mud, was a corpse. He checked behind, to either side, but all was still.
“Are you properly dead?”
Mud cracked as the zombie twisted its skull to face him. Its eye-sockets were empty, its chin missing. Its arms didn’t move, its legs appeared oddly thin beneath the shapeless rags of its trousers. He marched across the intervening ground, hacked the blade down, finishing the creature, then paused to look at the gore.
“Black. So you were dying? I dunno. Not sure I’d risk my life on the professor’s theory.”
Four feet above the zombie’s now-split skull, a padlock held the gate closed. A new padlock, and a new chain. The rubbish truck was a civilian model while the solitary tractor looked military. There was room for a dozen more tractors with space to spare. Those vehicles could have been abandoned on the runway. More likely, they’d been used to transport ammunition, people, and supplies from the airfield to the island. In which case, why lock up a rubbish truck inside? He could guess the answer. He’d seen the professor lead Bill and the others to the crashed plane to collect the ammunition, but it was likely that wasn’t the only place it was hidden. Leaving the padlock alone, he went to search the huts for paint.
The hut closest to the runway was a break room and office for the groundskeepers. Following the huts clockwise, the next was filled with snow-shovels, brooms, chains, and a lot of empty shelves and brackets. Wondering what they might have contained, he continued. The third contained a few broken rakes and little else. Clearly the contents had been raided by the islanders. The last hut contained paint. Mostly white, all in industrial-sized tubs.
“Score,” he said. “So how do I get it back to the runway?”
He tried lifting a tub, but could barely manage it. There were no trolleys or dollies in the hut, and none in the fenced compound. Again, presumably, they’d been taken during the exodus to the island.
Missiles were moved on wheeled racks, weren’t they? At least, they were in the movies. He turned on his heels, heading along the access road, towards the nearest hangar. There was no door at the rear.
He turned the corner, angling towards the front, then slid his body against the wall. Shapes m
oved along the runway. People. Running. Not zombies, then. Starwind and Michel? Unlikely. Two of Gaston’s people? Possibly, but these two had taken cover behind the remains of a jet engine. Gaston’s people wouldn’t hide. Who, then?
Either they’d come from the island, assuming that the professor had failed in her mission, or it was Dernier’s people. How was he to tell the difference?
The two figures sprinted towards the hangar entrance, disappearing around the front. Cautiously, he unslung the shotgun. Stepping quietly, he picked a path to the front of the hangar.
The two figures crouched behind an upturned four-by-four, just beyond the hangar’s furthest corner. Men, probably, but with their backs to him, and so far away, he couldn’t make out any more details than that. Their attention seemed focused towards the office building Scott and the others were in. Since the professor had used them all as bait the previous evening, Dernier’s people must know that was where the islanders sheltered when they went to the airfield. Since the islanders would know that, too, it didn’t clarify whether these two men were hostile or not.
The main hangar doors were open, but too far away for him to reach before a bullet reached him. A second, smaller, door was built into the side of the hangar some twenty feet from him. He’d have to hope it was unlocked.
He edged back a pace and took a half step to the right, gripping the shotgun in his left hand so it, and the left-hand side of his body, were concealed by the hangar’s wall.
“Nice day for a stroll, isn’t it?” he called out. Both men spun around. They held their guns across their chests. Not pointing at him, not yet. “Have you come as far as us?” he added. “We’re out of England. What about you?”
Almost together, the shadows tightened as they raised their guns. Chester pivoted, rotating ninety degrees on his heels, dragging the shotgun out of cover. The thugs fired first, a single shot from one, a three-shot burst from the other, and that spoiled what little aim he had. He pulled the trigger, letting the recoil continue spinning him around. He didn’t see where the slug went, but that didn’t matter.
He ran to the side door, switching the shotgun to his right hand, pumping in another round. Not bothering to check whether the door was secured, he fired into the lock-plate, pushed, and found the door swung open.
Inside, the hangar was dark, illuminated only from the now-open side-door, and the hangar entrance, across which he saw a shadow flicker. The figure didn’t come inside. Good. They’d follow the hangar around to the door, see the blown-open lock, and come inside. Hopefully.
He edged into the shadows by the door to wait, focusing on footsteps outside as an alternative to the questioning fear flooding his mind. The footsteps drew nearer. The door was barged open. A man came inside, firing.
Gripping the shotgun by the barrel, Chester swung sideways, smashing it into the man’s chin. The man staggered back, dropping his rifle. Chester shifted his weight to his right foot, kept the shotgun rising, stopping its motion when it was above his head. He slammed the gun down. The man moved at the last moment, but not by enough to stop the shotgun’s grip from hammering into his temple. He crumpled, and Chester moved into the shadows on the other side of the door.
One down, but the next would be more difficult. With no time to think, instinct led him behind a set of long portable shelves on rollers. Out of the sunlight stretching through the hangar’s doors, it was the nearest cover, and he needed time to think. He didn’t get it. Just as he was positioning himself out of sight, a shadow moved across the hangar’s main door. This assailant didn’t linger in the sunlight, but came inside, moving to the darkness next to the hangar’s entrance. Chester stayed motionless, listening.
A soft clink. A muffled thud. A flicker among the shadows as his enemy edged along the hangar’s wall.
His breath held, his lip bit, Chester reached for the shelf, moving his hand a millimetre at a time until his fingertips came in contact with a two-inch-long oblong of metal. He tossed it as far as he could into the depths of the hangar. As it rattled to the ground, the shadow near the door moved towards the sound. Chester waited as the man drew nearer. Ten feet, five, three. Chester jumped up and sideways, putting his weight onto the shelves. They clattered over, and he nearly did the same, but he caught himself as his feet hit the ground, as nuts, bolts, tools, and spare parts rattled over the floor.
Chester jumped around the edge of the fallen shelves. His assailant had managed to dive out of the way. He was on his knees, rising to his feet. Chester swung his shotgun like a club. This time, his opponent saw him coming. The man raised his rifle, hacking it around as Chester drove his shotgun up. Chester knocked the man’s gun from his hands. Chester stepped back, but the man turned his fall into a dive, then a kick that slammed into Chester’s thigh. Chester fell, letting go of the shotgun as he pushed himself back to his feet in time to see the man backflip back to his own.
Chester stepped back. “You shot first, remember?” he said. “It doesn’t need to end like this. Do you understand me?”
He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he saw his arms move, and saw the sunlight glint off metal as two knives were drawn, the blades a foot long, serrated on both edges.
“You understand me perfectly, don’t you?” Chester said, taking a sliding step back, nudging the fallen nuts and screws out of his path.
The man flexed his arms, slashing the knives in front of him, twisting his wrists so the blades danced a figure of eight. The man stepped forward, but his foot stepped on a piece of the fallen metal junk. He slipped and fell to a crouch, one arm extended, knife still waving as he picked himself up. Chester kicked, punting screws and nails into the man’s face, skipped back, and drew the machete.
His enemy hadn’t moved. He’d got to his feet, and held the knives, one forward, the other above his head, side-on, in a pose Chester had only seen in films.
“Are you sure about this?” Chester asked. “Bet you’re a new recruit. Didn’t learn that in the prison, did you?”
The man gave an abrupt twist of his hand, beckoning.
Chester gave a short shake of his head. He’d met people like this before, and he’d come against them a time or two. They were always either flash or skill. Against skill, genuine skill, you ran. But as the man had fallen, as Chester had jumped back, he’d seen the holster at the man’s belt. He had a pistol, and had opted to draw his knives instead. This man was all flash, and against flash…
Chester charged, roaring a berserk bellow of furious rage. The man twisted, raising his knives, but Chester dived, feet first, sliding across the floor. The man was off-balance, off-centre and unable to jump out of the way. He threw one knife, slicing the other down, but Chester was too close. He hacked the machete at the man’s leg. The heavy blade shredded cloth, sliced flesh. Chester dragged the blade free and rolled to his side, to his feet, while his opponent toppled over, screaming.
Finally, the man reached for his holstered sidearm. Chester didn’t hesitate. He slammed the blade down on the man’s neck, stepping back as warm blood sprayed over his hands.
“It really didn’t have to be like this,” Chester said. A wave of tiredness washed over him. “But maybe it did.”
He heard movement. Turned. It was the first man. He was alive, and he had his rifle in his hands.
“Ah, hell,” Chester said, as he looked down the barrel.
There was a shot. The man crumpled.
Chester turned towards the hangar’s main doors, and saw Starwind there. She lowered her carbine.
“Thanks,” Chester said.
Starwind shrugged, walked forward, and peered down at the man Chester had killed. She spat on his face.
“I take it they were Dernier’s people?” Chester asked.
Starwind seemed to weigh that up. “They were demons,” she said in perfect and nearly accent-less English. “Demons from the pit. They’ve been sent back to the hellfire that spawned them.”
“Good,” Chester said. “Do you have a torch?
I dropped my shotgun. Thanks.” He found the shotgun, then crossed to the man she’d shot, took his rifle, and gave a quick search of his pockets. “No spare ammo. I take that as a good sign. We better get back to the office in case more of them come.”
Starwind didn’t move, her gaze fixed on the corpse.
“Come on,” Chester said gently. “Best to save dark thoughts for when you’re out in the daylight.”
Chapter 18 - The Best Laid Plans
The Airfield, Creil
Bill was at the group’s rear when they reached the runway, but he heard the shout from the top of the office. A moment later, he saw Chester step out from the building’s ruined ground floor. The loose column slowed its run to a walk, except for Sergeant Khan who sprinted ahead. After the briefest of exchanges with Chester, the Marine began barking orders. The French survivors may not have understood the words, but they grasped the tone, fanning out to cover either side of the runway.
“What happened?” Bill asked, finally close enough to ask.
“Two of them,” Chester said. “Two of the gang. A few zombies as well,” he added, “but two of the gang came here.”
