Surviving The Evacuation (Book 10): The Last Candidate

by Frank Tayell

  Colm picked up his pace. His walk turned to a jog, and then a sprint as he swung his axe up and around his head in a giant arc. He brought it down, cleaving through the first zombie’s neck. Its body crumpled. Its head fell, bouncing into the long grass. Colm didn’t stop moving. He twisted, pivoting with a grace that belied his size, bringing the axe up and around until it was over his head. With a shallow leap, he brought it down on the second zombie’s skull. The blade cleaved through skin, brain, and bone, cutting deep into the creature’s throat. Still moving, he dragged the dead zombie for three paces until the weapon was free, and then he kept running. I hurried to catch up.

  More shots came, and I no longer looked to see if they hit. There were four zombies in the hundred yards between us and the truck, another eight immediately next to it, and far more on either side. Colm, already twenty yards ahead of me, swung the axe high, smashing it into a creature’s necrotic face. He swung it low, brute force smashing the next zombie’s legs to splinters. Left and right, he hacked and hewed, never uttering a word.

  I had to pause, stabbing the sword down at the zombie whose legs he’d broken. I looked at the truck. The two Marines had crossed to the vehicle’s far side, hopefully to lure the zombies away from the direction we came.

  Colm reached the truck, and hacked at the creatures pushing and clawing at the vehicle’s side. There was a dull crack as the weapon smashed through bone and brain, then a sharp grinding screech as the blade rasped against the metal tank.

  “Hey!” I yelled, finally breaking my silence, hoping that Colm would hear me as much as the two Marines. I ducked under the outflung arm of a zombie in a trench coat. I stabbed the sword up and under its chin. The zombie went limp. As I wrenched the sword free, I looked down the length of the truck. There were dozens of creatures, an endless sea of snapping mouths and clawing hands.

  “Hey! Jump! Come on!” It was all I could think to say. It was enough. There was the sharp crack of an un-silenced shot, but it didn’t come from the leisure centre. It came from the roof of the truck as one of the Marines, an older man I assumed was Major Lewis, fired his sidearm down into the undead. Four shots came in quick succession, followed by an echoing trio from Kim and Siobhan. The major grabbed the private and half threw, half lowered her down the side of the vehicle. I hacked the sword low, aiming for the next zombie’s legs. When I turned around, the major had already jumped down. He had his pistol in one hand, the other clutching the private’s collar.

  “Which way?” he yelled.

  That was a very good question. I’d wanted to lead them away from the shooting, but right now, the only direction we could travel was away from the truck, and that meant heading towards the leisure centre, the same place that the majority of the undead were lurching.

  “The leisure centre,” I said. “Colm? Colm!”

  I had to grab the back of the boxer’s coat, and then duck as his arm came around in a surprisingly fast swing.

  “Time to go!” I barked, and pushed him after the two Marines. One of whom, I realised, was limping. The major hadn’t been dragging the private; he’d been supporting himself on her.

  Colm pushed her away, swung the major’s arm around his neck, and helped the man on. We were moving faster now, but not as fast as the undead. We weren’t going to outpace them.

  “The leisure centre!” I called out. “We need to get inside, get through, get out the other side. If they can’t see us, they can’t follow us.”

  I looked over at the private. Her eyes were glassy, almost unseeing. She still held her rifle, though, clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

  “Any bullets left for that?” I asked. She didn’t seem to hear. “Private, your rifle, any ammo left?”

  “Sir, no, sir,” she barked.

  “This isn’t Parris Island, though even I wish it was.” I pulled the semi-automatic from my holster and shoved it into her hands. “Hope you’re a good shot,” I said, “but I’m certain you’re a better one than I.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she stammered, but her eyes were more alert, her gaze going left and right. “Hostiles, ahead.”

  “Save the ammo,” I said, as two zombies staggered around the edge of the leisure centre. We were close to the building now and there was no obvious way in. There was no easily climbable scaffolding, no support struts or ladders leading up to the roof. There was a fire door, set in the middle of a row of opaque windows.

  The major raised his gun, in a hand far steadier than his feet.

  “Don’t fire,” I called out. “The fire door, twenty yards, one o’clock.”

  The zombies staggered closer. Another one appeared around the side of the building, with three more immediately after it. Immediately behind us came the undead from the truck. It seemed like hundreds. It seemed like thousands. I don’t how many there were exactly, but it was more than we could fight.

  “Door’s locked,” Colm said, letting the private take the major’s weight. He gave the doors another shake.

  “The windows,” I suggested. I realised that it was a while since I’d last heard a shot from Kim and Siobhan. I couldn’t remember how long.

  The zombies were getting closer from both directions. Colm swung his axe into the glass. The axe cut through, but the glass, coated in paint and plastic, didn’t shatter. Colm pulled, as I raised the sword and the two Marines readied their guns. Colm tugged his axe free, then chopped again at the glass, cutting through the bottom corner of the pane. Spider-web veins crinkled the laminated coating. He pulled his axe back, and shoulder charged the window. This time, the glass broke. He staggered inside.

  “Go! Go!” I barked, in unison with the major, then hacked the sword at the legs of the nearest creature. The blade sliced through rotting cloth and decaying flesh, and I drew it back just as the zombie’s arm swiped towards my hand. The motion caused the zombie to topple. As it lay between me and the rest of the growing pack, I backed away, turned around, and ran into the room.

  Mirrors covered each wall. The interior was filled with exercise bikes. I pushed one over, and then another as I forced my way through their narrow ranks towards the room’s only door. The major stood there, the barrel of his gun pointing unwaveringly at the undead thrashing their way into the room. As I reached the doorway, I heard a clatter behind me. I didn’t need to look around to know that the undead were knocking the bikes over. The major’s hand moved left to right, from one target to another. He didn’t fire, but limped back through the doorway. We pushed the door closed, but with the lock now broken, there was no way of securing it.

  “We’ve got twenty seconds,” the major said.

  “Down here!” Colm called. He was halfway down the corridor. It was about ten feet wide, covered in posters exhorting athleticism. I was more interested in the dead body halfway between us and Colm.

  “Did you do this?” I asked the major as we passed it. The creature had been shot in the head, and recently, judging by the fresh gore dripping from its cracked skull.

  “It was already dead,” the major said.

  “Must have been Kim or Siobhan,” I said. More saliently, it meant that the undead were already in the building, and where there’s one zombie…

  “Height,” Colm said as we reached him. “That’s what we want, right? Somewhere to wait for rescue.” The door was windowless, as was the stairwell beyond.

  I pushed the door to, drew my knife, and wedged it in the gap at the bottom. It wouldn’t hold the door for long, but it might be long enough.

  “You don’t have your sat-phone, do you?” I asked, as we climbed the stairs by torchlight, Colm first, then the Marines, then me.

  “I—” the private began.

  “We lost it,” the major cut in. “You’ve got yours?”

  “Kim’s got it,” I said. “Our sniper.”

  “You want to find a sniper, you look for the high ground,” the major said. “Of course, they’ll see you long before you find them. Come on, Kessler, we’re on the home
stretch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I had questions, quite a lot of them, most of which concerned precisely why they were driving a tanker full of fuel through the city, but this wasn’t the time. There was a banging below us as the undead reached the door.

  “Shh!” the major and I hissed in unison.

  The banging came again, but it didn’t sound like a concerted effort to get into the stairwell. It was possible, just possible, that the undead didn’t know where we’d gone.

  We reached the first floor landing.

  “Let me sit down,” the major said, pushing himself away from the private and collapsing onto the stairs. There was a clatter from his gear as it hit the cold concrete.

  “You okay?” I whispered, listening to the sound echoing from below.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “You guys go on. Get her home.”

  “We don’t leave anyone behind,” the private said. “Come on, sir.”

  The major waved her off.

  “Let me see your leg,” I said, bending down. By the light of my torch I saw what I should have noticed long before. It wasn’t a sprain. The man had been bitten just above the ankle. It wasn’t a deep cut, and it wasn’t bleeding much, but enough skin had been ripped away that the man surely had been infected.

  “Are you immune?” I asked.

  “Hope so,” he said.

  Colm pushed the door to the first floor corridor open. “Seems clear out here,” he said.

  “Go on,” the major said.

  “We don’t leave people behind, either,” I said. “Colm, see if you can find Kim and Siobhan. We need that sat-phone. Private, give me a hand.”

  I reached for the major. His skin was cold.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I said. I met his eyes and he knew I was lying.

  “Ever been to Virginia?” he asked. “Beautiful country. Make sure she gets home. Promise me.”

  I glanced at the private, then looked at the major, but his eyes were vacant. I pressed my hand against his throat. I found no pulse. I took a step back.

  The major’s eyes flickered. The lids closed. They opened. The man’s mouth dropped. He snarled. Before I could raise my sword, there was a roar, a gunshot that echoed up and down the stairwell. The bullet took the major in the head.

  The private lowered her steady hand. “It’s what he… I…”

  I snatched the major’s pistol from the step, grabbed the private’s shoulder, and hustled her through the door. As it swung shut, I heard thumping and thudding in the stairwell below. I wished the private hadn’t fired, hadn’t alerted the undead to where we were, but my abiding feeling was gratitude that I’d not had to kill Major Lewis myself.

  The worst part was still to come. Colm had heard the shot and was hurrying towards us. He wasn’t alone. Kim and Siobhan were with him.

  “Where’s the major?” Siobhan asked.

  “Infected. Dead,” I said.

  “I called in our position,” Kim said. “The boat’s almost at Hazelbank Park, but if we can reach the other side of the building, I think we can get out of here. We’re not surrounded.”

  “Then let’s do it. Lead the way,” I said. I had to push the private along, but even so, and even with my leg slowing us down, we reached the fire escape on the far side of the building, and made it safely outside. Kim and Siobhan had reattached the silencers to their rifles. Despite the noise of the gunfire earlier, they’d only used thirty rounds apiece. There were undead in the car park, but the two women shot one, and then the next as Colm and I hustled the private away. Within ten minutes, we were back among the residential roads of suburban Belfast. Ten minutes after that, we ran into the rescue party.

  That was the worst part. Less than an hour after the major died, we were on a boat, safe. If he’d not been in that truck, if he’d not been bitten, if he’d only been immune. If, if, if…

  Chapter 9 - Post Mortem

  “Do you drink?” the admiral asked, opening a cabinet at the side of the desk.

  “Not today,” I said.

  The admiral shrugged, and closed the door without taking out a bottle. She sat down on the other side of the plain desk in her plain stateroom. “What is it, Mr Wright?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

  “Where to begin?” I replied. The ship rocked as it ploughed through the waves. The motion was unfamiliar and unsettling, but at least we were returning to Anglesey. “Why do you want the aviation fuel?” I asked.

  “There’s little point having the plane, or the helicopter sitting on the deck behind us, unless we have fuel. Wasn’t that your original plan? To gather fuel from the airport to power the vehicles on the island.”

  “Sure, before we learned of Svalbard,” I said. “That doesn’t really answer the question.”

  “Do I owe you an answer?” she asked. “The death of Major Lewis is my responsibility, but the justification belongs to my crew, to his friends.”

  The major’s body was still where it had fallen. The undead were too dense a presence around the leisure centre for it to be removed, or for the tanker to be retrieved. Twenty sailors and Marines had stayed in Belfast on the John Cabot, the container ship in which we’d sought refuge after arriving in the city. Ostensibly they were there to retrieve the corpse after the undead had dispersed. I saw them as something between an occupation force and settlers.

  “The trip to the airport was simply a ploy to get people to leave their boats,” I said. “When they went ashore to look at the satellite images, the mission should have been cancelled. I would have cancelled it.”

  “You weren’t there, and you aren’t in charge.”

  I raised my hands in surrender, and found my eyes drawn to the stubs of my missing fingers. “When did you last lose someone?” I asked.

  “To the undead? Cape Verde,” she said, “but we lost Hendricks the night that your people found our ship. He disappeared. It was probably suicide, though I didn’t record it as such. But he was the only suicide. The rest of us had given up hope that anyone was left on Earth. He was the only one shocked to learn that the truth was almost that. Hendricks had held onto a belief that America was still there. That a few million might have died, but the rest, and his family, would be alive. His won’t be last the suicide, and the major won’t be the last death, I know that. When we reach America, when people see familiar storefronts, familiar houses, albeit in unfamiliar towns, they will remember their families and the unjust fate that befell them. No, Hendricks won’t be the last. Nor will the major, but what would you have us do? Hide on Anglesey like Markus wants? You know what I did a year ago?”

  “You were a naval doctor,” I said.

  “I was a doctor,” she agreed. “That has been my life. Not a physician in a hospital, but a surgeon on the battlefield. Soldiers and civilians, shot, bombed, burned, stabbed, raped, gassed. I’ve seen it all. I’ve seen it all on the same day. That’s what I did. I refused to let it be what defined me. Then came the outbreak. Now? Now all we have left is a veneer of military discipline, our flag, and a memory of the country for which it flew.”

  “It’s a hard road you’ve got to walk,” I said. “I appreciate that. It’s as hard as anyone else’s. That being said, I’d still like to know what you plan to do with the plane.”

  “Fly it,” the admiral said.

  “What’s the range on a VC-10?” I asked. “A few thousand miles?”

  “Four and a half thousand,” the admiral said.

  “That’ll get you from Anglesey to the Channel Islands and back over England and Wales a few times. It’ll get you over the continent, and even North Africa at least once. You won’t find anywhere to land, so why go twice? Why did you want the tankers as well as what went into the plane’s fuel tank? There are no airfields unless we clear them. To do that, we have to send people there overland, in which case, why bother sending the plane?”

  “Why indeed.”

  “America?” I guessed. “You’ve made it clear that’s yo
ur destination, I just can’t see why you want the plane. It’s not large enough for all your people, even if they travelled without their gear.”

  “No,” she said, seeming to weigh up how much to share. “No, you’re right. A plane’s primary purpose is to travel between places quickly, but it can be put to other uses. I have no interest in Europe. America is my home. Our home. I promised my crew that we would return, and it is that more than anything else which keeps order. What do we do when we return? After we have seen the ruins of some coastal city and confirmed it as bad as our worst expectations, what then? I will not have our expedition simply be one in which I allow my people to go home to die. No, there needs to be a purpose to our journey, and there is only one purpose left for any of us. We must ensure that there is a future for our species. It is not on Anglesey, but wherever it is, we will need more people. How do we find them? As you say, a thousand people came ashore on Anglesey and examined the satellite images of Ireland. Along with your group, three survivors were found in Dublin. That’s a week’s work by a thousand people to the net gain of eleven souls. Thirteen if we count yourself and Kim, but do we also subtract those who died? No, when we get to America we will not repeat the mistakes we made here.”

  “By using the plane?”

  “People in coastal communities might be watching the shore, but what are the odds they’re watching it precisely when our ship sails by? We can set up searchlights, but they will only be seen for a few miles inland. Winter is coming. It will be hard for all of us, harder still for those scrabbling for survival in the American interior. How do we let them know that there is a sanctuary worth them abandoning their refuge and risking a dangerous trek through ice, snow, and the undead? We need a sign, a signal, and what better one than a plane flying overhead? That is why we need that plane. We may not find another.”