by Frank Tayell
“Then they are probably all accounted for,” Bill said.
“You don’t win a war with probably,” Khan said. “Only with certainty. Kessler, with me!” He moved off across the runway.
“What about you?” Chester asked. “I note your bags are as full as when you left.”
“It was an ambush,” Bill said. “Gaston and two of his people are dead. The boat’s ruined. We tracked two of them back here. Have to hope it’s the two you killed.”
“Gaston est mort?” Starwind asked, having climbed down the ladder.
Claire crossed to her daughter, raising an arm to comfort her, but Starwind shrugged it off and walked away. Claire followed, leaving Chester, Locke, Bill, and the professor alone among the rubble.
“This is getting dangerous,” Locke said. “Another day is half gone, the island is still without ammunition, and we don’t know how many hostiles are still out there, but it’s a near certainty they know where we are.”
“If there were more of them, they’d have taken part in the ambush,” Bill said.
“Sergeant Khan is correct, we shouldn’t bet on that,” Locke said. “Not when the stake is our lives.”
“And the lives of every one of my people,” the professor added.
“She’s right,” Bill said. “We need to resupply the island. Chester, didn’t you say you found rafts on planes at London City Airport?”
“We did,” Chester said. “Still had a couple of them when I left London. Hardy things, those rafts.”
“Then we need to check the airliner,” Bill said. “With a raft or two, we can resupply the island, and end this tonight.”
“Not hardy enough,” Chester said, holding up a scrap of singed orange rubber.
Starwind emerged from the far side of the plane. She gave a shake of her head.
“So much for rafts,” Bill said.
“We could make one,” the professor said.
“It would take too long,” Claire asked. “We’re running out of food. We thought Starwind would resupply us.”
“What is the alternative?” the professor asked. “We have the materials here to build a raft. We can have it ready tonight. Tomorrow morning, we will take it to the river.”
“You won’t carry much ammunition on an open-sided raft,” Bill said.
“We won’t carry any,” the professor said. “Claire will return to the island and collect another boat.”
“We’ll lose at least one more day,” Locke said.
“Again, what is the alternative?” the professor asked.
“There’s the obvious,” Chester said. “We take as much ammo as we can carry, get as close to the island as we can, and start shooting the zombies. You must know of a building or three whose roofs we can reach.”
“There aren’t enough of us,” Bill said. “You said there’s over a thousand zombies?”
“At least that number,” the professor said.
“What worries me,” Bill said, “is that with the explosions by the bridge, and the gunfire here, added to the thunder of that storm, the zombies might disperse. They often do. We’ll have thousands of undead lurking in the rubble, in the fields, behind fallen trees, broken walls, and crashed cars. We’ll have to hunt them down before it’s safe for the helicopter to arrive, otherwise its engine noise will summon them. We can’t afford to lose the helicopter. Wait, of course. The zombies were summoned to the island by music, right? Speakers in trucks? We could find some speakers of our own. There has to be a generator somewhere on this airfield.”
“The generators were taken to the fuel store,” Claire said. “And that is kept with the vehicles, and that is where Dernier drove one of the trucks. It is surrounded.”
“There has to be something,” Bill said.
“How about a church?” Chester asked. “A church with a bell. Is there one?”
“There are two,” Claire said.
Chapter 19 - Our Lady’s Bells
L’Eglise de Notre Dame, Creil
Chester crouched by the crumbling wall, his knee uncomfortably balanced on a fallen brick, waiting for Bill to wave the all-clear.
Back at the airfield, they’d wasted another half hour trying to come up with a plan. Scott had asked for a couple of hours to see what he could do with the planes, the ejector seats, and the remaining missiles. As beguiling as that idea was, a few hours would bring them to nightfall and thus mean another day was lost. Instead, they’d come up with a series of contingencies in expectation that something would go wrong. Chester and Bill were going to the church while everyone else, carrying as much ammunition as they could, headed as deep into the town as they could. If the bell was rung, and if the undead left the bridge and headed towards the sound, the professor would resupply the island. She would lead a column back to the airfield for more ammunition while Sergeant Khan led a rescue column to the church where, hopefully, the undead would have gathered. If the zombies didn’t head to the church, then Sergeant Khan and the others would open fire on the undead, killing as many as they could while Bill and Chester made for a small garage on the river to the south of the island. They would rendezvous with Claire, fashion a raft, and row to the island before dark. If Bill and Chester were surrounded, unable to leave the church, it would be down to Claire to build the raft alone.
Bill and Chester had easily located the church. Built on a hill, the top of the bell-tower was visible from a mile distant. The first half of that mile had been travelled quickly and without incident, and then they’d found the undead.
Six fresh corpses oozed black gore over the road behind them. The fight had been quick and brutal, and far too loud. He and Bill had taken shelter behind the wall at the rear of an apartment block, waiting to see if the sound of the fight summoned more.
“We’re clear,” Bill whispered, easing back to Chester’s side. “On the other side of the wall, there’s a fifty-metre dash up an alley to a road with a few more houses, and then it’s the graveyard, and then the church.”
“Fair enough.” Chester checked his borrowed watch. “We’re five minutes ahead of schedule. How’s the graveyard look?”
“Empty of zombies,” Bill said. “But halfway along the alley, there’s a thick bush that’s moving. It could be the undead.”
They climbed over the wall, and dropped down the other side, their feet landing with a heavy thump. They walked quickly, not quite at a run. Chester had his attention on the buildings to either side, so Bill saw them first. He stopped, pointing silently at the mud. A trail of footprints headed up the alley in the direction of the church.
“People or zombies?” Chester mouthed.
Bill shrugged. Alert for imminent danger, they continued along the alley, slowing as they neared a gap in the high wall where a set of steep stairs led to the rear garden of a white-roofed villa. Halfway up the steps, a wrought-iron gate was held ajar by a corpse. This body was definitely a zombie, and it had been recently killed.
They shared a look, both thinking the same thought. The church’s tower offered a vantage point over this quarter of the town. Why the gang would want the high ground was a mystery, but Chester was increasingly of the opinion that there was more to the story of Dernier’s assault on the town than they’d been told. Bill motioned they continue. They stopped again near the end of the alley, but far enough from the road that the walls kept them concealed.
“The road looks clear,” Bill whispered. “Can’t see any footprints. Can’t see any zombies. In the cemetery, we’ll only have tombstones and trees for cover, but there’s a gate a little way to the left, and a path, I think, leading to the church. There’s a light! A glimmer of something up in the bell-tower. It’s gone. It’s probably just a reflected gleam off glass.”
“Not with the luck we’ve been having,” Chester said.
They reached the low wall ringing the cemetery without an alarm being sounded or a shot fired. Keeping low, with the wall as cover, they made for the gate.
A small hand-bell had
been hung from a pole tied to the lock-post. A rope ran from it to the latch so if the gate was opened, the bell would ring.
“A warning against the undead, or against people?” Chester whispered. “Either way, it wasn’t put here by accident.”
“Or that long ago,” Bill said. He lifted the bell from its hook, then cut the rope. Carefully, he put the bell on the cracked pavement. “I say we make for the rear of the church, furthest from the bell-tower.”
Chester nodded, but slid the shotgun from his back. He and Bill both carried one, though Chester now wished he’d brought a more accurate weapon. He wished he’d had time to find some glasses. Not for the first time, he wished he’d gone with Leon back to London.
Bill set the pace, Chester following four steps behind. The bell-tower was to his right. He forced himself not to look. It was unlikely he’d see anything, and there was nothing he could do if he did. The ground between the tombstones was uneven and treacherous. Tufts of long grass, some dark green, some withered and brown, were interspersed with occasional patches of broader leaves where a graveside plant had survived a year of rain and heat, snow and ice.
Instinct made him dive sideways before his brain properly registered the sharp report of a gunshot and the duller crack as a bullet chipped a headstone. He knew where the firing came from, but still didn’t look. Mud flew to his right as he darted around the graves, angling for the cover of the church’s wall. A third shot. A fourth. More, as he sprinted and Bill loped an erratic zigzag until they were flush against the church’s ancient stones.
“They’re not good shots,” Bill said, his back against the wall.
“Nope,” Chester said.
“I think one of them called something out,” Bill said. “Not sure what.”
There was another shot.
“They’re not communicating now,” Chester said. “They’re hostile, and we’re not going to talk them down. You understand?”
“I do.”
“It’s just in your journals, you often try talking when your opponents clearly don’t want to listen.”
“Not everything that’s happened went into those journals,” Bill said. “We better get inside, and get this finished. We don’t want to get trapped out here between the undead and a sniper.” He led the way along the wall while, from above, the shooting continued.
“What are they shooting at?” Chester asked. “Can’t be us.”
“Can’t see any zombies,” Bill said after the briefest of glances. “Not yet. I think they’re trying to summon them. Must be why they’re here. They want to use the church’s bell to summon the undead.”
“Which begs the question of whether we should ring the bell ourselves,” Chester said. “One problem at a time, though.”
They reached the end of the wall. Around the corner at the rear, furthest from the bell-tower, they found a small house tacked onto the church. It was built in a more modern style, and the lack of chimneys suggested it was constructed long after the age of coal fires.
“Priest’s house,” Bill said. “There’s a door.”
It wouldn’t open.
Chester gave it a shove. “It’s nailed shut.”
“That window,” Bill said.
Chester smashed the glass with his shotgun. It led to a cloakroom. The smell of fresh sewage seeped from beneath the, thankfully, closed toilet seat.
“Wait,” Chester said, grabbing Bill’s arm. “We don’t know how many there are, but we can’t risk both of us being shot in the close confines inside. I’ll go in here. You make your way around to the main entrance. When I start shooting, you’ll have a shot at their backs. We’ll catch them in a pincer.”
“Go,” Bill said, moving away without another word.
Chester climbed in, quickly moving from the cloakroom to the hallway, peeking around the corner to confirm it was empty before moving away from the stench. The front door had been nailed shut. It led to a hallway filled with photographs of men in vestments occasionally interspersed with a few nuns and the even more occasional civilian. Pride of place went to the photographs of the last four popes, with the most recent pontiff displayed directly opposite the front door, on the wall above a staircase.
Not counting the cloakroom, two doors led from the hallway. Except for funerals, Chester hadn’t been in many churches before the outbreak; they were cash-poor, land-rich, and far too often frequented by local magistrates. He’d made up for it since February, and recognised the two front rooms immediately. The sombre camber with the dark furniture and solitary crucifix was a place to meet the grieving, or the soon-to-be-bereaved. The other, with the photographs of church groups, of expeditions to distant shrines, of illustrious visitors, was for happier occasions. He gave the rooms a glance, and then ignored them. His concentration was split between listening for the approaching enemy, and not dislodging the statues and crosses on the narrow tables lining the hallway.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused, listening. He heard nothing, not even the crack of a rifle, but when he placed a foot on the stairs, he was sure the whole world could hear it creak.
With no way of ascending quietly, he sprinted up. Six steps led to a landing, another six steps, another landing, then three steps leading to a split landing. In one direction it led to a corridor above the ground-floor hallway. With no time to investigate the rooms leading from it, he took the other corridor, the one leading towards the church. He glanced briefly inside the open doorways: a kitchen, a library, a living room with a small television, and a door at the end that led to another staircase. He went down. At the bottom was a far heavier door. He could hear gunfire, but it was distant. Shotgun held ready, he eased the door open. It led to the vestry. Cupboards and drawers were open, vestments strewn on the floor amid empty boxes of communion wafers. The gunfire grew more furious. Were they firing at Bill?
His hands were slick in anticipation of what was to come. Before that could solidify into fear, he opened the door leading into the church. It only opened an inch. On the other side, a tasselled red rope held it closed. A quick slash with the machete, and the rope was cut, but the door creaked loudly as it swung ajar.
Was that a pause in the gunfire? Had they heard it? Again, fear was taking hold. He sheathed the machete, and ran out, across the sacristy, diving for cover behind the altar. For a moment, he thought he’d moved unseen, but then a burst of gunfire came from the rear of the church. Bullets ricocheted off the stone. Another burst came, then a third, and then he realised that the solid stone altar was, in fact, a cement casing around a steel-bar frame.
“On the off-chance you can understand me, it doesn’t have to end like this!” he bellowed, before running to the left, diving off the altar and behind the first row of pews.
Lead thudded into the heavy wooden seats as he edged along it, towards the centre aisle. The entrance to the bell-tower was on the left. That was where the sniper lurked. He needed to get closer before he tried a shot. Another burst came, too many bullets to count, but the moment it stopped, he sprinted in a crouch along the central aisle, diving forward just before another burst was fired. This one was followed by a loud shotgun blast from the rear. Bill had found his way inside. The fusillade began again, this time not aimed at him. Chester pushed himself up, fired at the rear of the church, and then bounded forward. Bullets pinged off metal candle racks, smashed the tall windows, chipped stone, and thudded into wood.
Chester sprinted along the pew, tripped over the padded kneeler, and turned the fall into a roll until he was sprawled behind a massive stone column. The next burst from the rear of the church tore chunks of plaster from the column, revealing it to be just as ornamental as the facade surrounding the altar. A second burst, and plaster rained down on him from above, but that burst was cut short by a shotgun blast and a gargled scream. Chester pushed himself up. Gun raised, he sprinted the last dozen feet to the rear of the church as Bill made his way from behind a pillar at the end of the central aisle. Near the doorway to the bell-t
ower lay a corpse.
“You okay?” Chester asked.
“Fine. You’re bleeding,” Bill said.
Chester raised a hand to his cheek. “Ricochet. I’ll secure the front door.”
He’d made it ten steps when a giant of a man, at least seven feet tall, barrelled through the bell-tower’s doorway. A sledgehammer dangled from the giant’s hand. With an effortless flick, he swung it, one-handed, at Bill. The hammer collided with Bill’s shotgun, sending it pin-wheeling across the church. The force of the blow spun Bill around. The giant lashed out with his left hand, his fist slammed into Bill’s head, pitching him off his feet, and out of the line of fire. Chester fired from the hip. The slug ripped through the giant’s chest.
“You all right?” he asked, running over to Bill.
Bill shook his head, and spat blood.
“I’ll check the rest of the tower,” Chester said. First he grabbed the thug’s dropped AK-47 and handed it to Bill. “Here.”
Chester stepped over the corpses and ran into the bell-tower. From the outside, the tower had an octagonal shape. Inside, it was square. A rope hung down the centre, disappearing above through a hole in a square of planking. That raised the hopeful prospect that the bell was still there, and revealed a flaw in their plan, that they’d not considered what to do if it wasn’t. Around the exterior wall ran a set of stairs. Made of industrial metal, they were one grade more permanent than scaffolding, whereas the handrail was one grade below. The diagonal horizontal sections were bolted to an upright that, in turn, was attached to the stairs by a single bolt. Careful not to lean on the handrail, keeping his weight as close to the wall as he could, he clambered up the stairs.
He was out of breath halfway, and in no condition to fight when he reached the top but, thankfully, there was no one there. There was a bell. It was smaller than he’d expected, with a base diameter of four feet, a height of three feet. He reached down and gave the rope a tug, confirming the clapper was still attached. A soft gong came in reply.
