Surviving The Evacuation (Book 10): The Last Candidate

by Frank Tayell

  “No. I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “What about the two men?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What’s this about?” Umbert asked.

  “You know that Kempton was involved in the conspiracy?”

  “She helped finance it, yes,” Umbert said.

  “This picture was found in a bunker in Belfast. A fallout shelter that was in a warehouse that Kempton owned. We came across a few of the women in that picture, dead, for the most part. I wondered if the others in the group had some connection with Ireland, and so might have been there when the outbreak occurred. In which case, did any of them escape to Anglesey? Specifically,” I added, turning to Lorraine, “I wondered whether either of those two men were ones you saw in Markus’s pub. Do you remember the body in Bangor? The man who was stabbed through the neck?”

  “Vividly,” she said.

  “You said you saw him with three other men. We found one of them, undead in the university. What about the other two? Are either of them in the photo?”

  She took the picture and gave it a more careful examination. “I… No. I don’t think so. It was the man’s belt buckle I remembered more than his face. Bill, I wanted to talk to you about that, or Ireland, at least. About Simon, and Will and Lilith, about how they—” The shop bell jangled, two men and three women came in, mud still on their shoes. “Later, Bill,” Lorraine said as she thrust the picture back at me. Fixing a smile on her face, she turned to greet the newcomers. “Chloe, Michael, welcome,” she said.

  I put the photograph away, and got ready to watch my candidate in action.

  Chapter 12 - New Digs

  Kim collapsed into the easy chair in the corner of the room. There was only one, positioned by the window in the eaves, overlooking the harbour. Almost banging my head on a low beam, I moved closer to the window, and tried to get a glimpse of the stars.

  “You saw Annette’s room?” I said.

  “I know,” Kim said. “It’s bigger than ours. Bigger than Sholto’s, too.”

  While we were in Wales, we’d lost our home. That’s how I thought of it. I’d been looking forward to returning to the house on the edge of countryside. Annette, and I think it was her rather than my brother, had decided that was too far from civilisation, so she had moved us to the row of houses where the satellite images were being scrutinised. It was a long terrace, close to the harbour. The ground floor had been crudely knocked through. Most of the plaster and bricks had been swept up, the furniture removed, and long tables put in their place. Screens had been set up, and even now, close to midnight, there were a score of people downstairs, flicking through satellite pictures of Ireland, searching for signs of life.

  “At least it’s warm,” I said. Though that was small comfort for being relegated to the smallest room in the eaves. I wasn’t sure if that was because Kim and I had been an afterthought, or whether it was a deliberate punishment for our extended absence.

  Head bowed so as not to knock into one of the overhead beams, I moved away from the window, and sat on the bed.

  “At least we had a good meal,” I said.

  “I think it might not have been if Heather Jones hadn’t arrived,” Kim said. “Lettuce has never tasted so good. That cucumber was a bit rubbery, though.”

  “Personally, I’m looking forward to parsnips,” I said. “What did you think of Dr Umbert?”

  After his meeting with voters, I’d brought him and Lorraine back with me, principally so Kim could get the measure of the man. The meal had been an afterthought, and hastily arranged. There wasn’t much in our cupboards, but Heather Jones had arrived with a welcome-home basket and as many questions for us as we had for Dr Umbert.

  “He seems okay,” Kim said. “Doesn’t say much, but when he starts talking, he doesn’t stop. Not exactly a conversationalist, very much a lecturer. Not that it matters, not without TV coverage. What do you think?”

  “That he’s better than Markus,” I said. “That, at the very least, he’ll hold things together for a while.”

  “So you’ve only got to arrange for him to win?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  I lay back on the bed, enjoying the feel of a genuine mattress for a moment. “It’s about constructing a narrative. Like you said, there’s no TV stations, no social media, no radio station. No easy way of getting his message out except if it’s printed and distributed. I think we can manage a newspaper. Did you ever hear of The British Gazette? It was a newspaper the government put out during the general strike of 1926. Utter propaganda, of course. The unions put out their own paper, The British Worker, as a counterpoint.”

  “A propaganda sheet? Is that going to be enough?”

  “Probably not on its own, but it’ll depend on the contents and the timing of its release. It needs to be close enough to the election that Markus won’t be able to put out something to refute it. The advantage of our media-free world is that it’ll be easier to control the message. There are a few other tricks we can pull, things that’ll fall short of stuffing the ballot.”

  “Was it always like this?” Kim asked. “Was it always tricks and schemes, plotting and planning, and skirting the law?”

  “Not always,” I said. “Sometimes it really was a debate about policy, but the big ideas usually got lost among the sound-bites and photo-ops.”

  “This could have been different,” Kim said. “Could have been, but it wasn’t. So we need something to put in this newspaper? Something people can read that will make them vote for Umbert over Markus? Like what?”

  “The easiest thing would be to implicate Markus in the murders,” I said. “He’s already associated with Paul.”

  “But?”

  “But if we’re to print that, why not print that Rob confessed Markus was behind the whole thing,” I said. “No one will be able to refute it. In fact, we could go and have Captain Devine arrest him.”

  “Except that would be a lie. If we’re going down that route, let Sholto do his thing and stuff the ballot boxes while we start packing our bags.”

  My eyes turned to where they lay by the door. Annette had crammed in our few possessions, most of which were clothes, but hadn’t unpacked them.

  “The alternative is that we print something truthful, for a given value of true,” I said. “Something about Dr Umbert. Something that makes people think he’s the person they really want to lead.”

  “Something true? Like what? Has he done anything?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but this would have to be something new.”

  “Something heroic?”

  “More or less.”

  “Like rescuing some survivors?” Kim asked. “Do you happen to know where we might find some? Besides, it’s not as if there’s time to go anywhere, get back, get an article written and a newspaper distributed.”

  “Forget survivors,” I said. “It’s unlikely we’ll find any. No, what he needs is a victory. Except, the act of printing it in a newspaper is what will determine how victorious an act it was. Compared to Markus, whatever we do will count.”

  “Like what, though?”

  “Like going out and finding some supplies,” I said. “No idea what kind, but whatever we find, we can print that we needed it. That’s not too great an exaggeration. We’ll add in a photograph or two of Umbert looking determined and martial. We can fill the rest of the paper with tips and advice. I’m not sure what tips, or what advice. Medical, I suppose, and something about make-do-and-mend. Maybe add in a crossword or weather report. It doesn’t need to be long, just a couple of pages, but long enough that it can’t be read in one go. We want people to take it home, where there’s a chance they’ll read it a second time.”

  “With a photo of Umbert standing next to a haul of supplies, but where are we going to find them? Bangor and Caernarfon have been searched. Going there is hardly news.”

  “The same is true for Belfast or Dub
lin,” I said.

  “What about the Isle of Man?” Kim suggested. “On our way to Svalbard, we saw a light. We went ashore and found a beacon. It had to have been set up recently. Miguel said that a boat went back there, to shine a searchlight at the island. I don’t think anyone was found, and it’s unlikely that we’ll find anyone, but we might. More importantly, it’s an island. All their supplies had to have come in by sea or plane, and that means warehouses, yes? So we go ashore, check the warehouses, find one with batteries or whatever, and say that’s what we went looking for. You can take a photo, and we can come straight back.”

  “The Isle of Man? Yes, we could be there and back in a couple of days. A photograph of Dr Umbert standing by an open shipping container, and another with him standing on the quayside, looking towards Anglesey. I can see the images. I can think of the text. I think that would work.”

  “Do you think that will be enough?” Kim asked. I heard the scepticism in her voice.

  “Not on its own,” I said, warming to the idea. “The trip will define the narrative, forcing Markus to respond. That’s when we implement the second part of the plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “But this is Markus’s first election, it isn’t mine.”

  What Kim said next threw cold water on my new-found enthusiasm. “What do we do if, after we get Umbert elected, he turns out to be worse than Markus?” she asked.

  To that, I didn’t have an answer.

  Chapter 13 - The Man from Man

  18th October, Day 220, Anglesey

  “That’s him,” George said. “The man on the left.”

  I could have guessed that much, since the only other people on the firing range were Siobhan and Private Kessler. The Irish police officer and the Marine were peppering the distant target with arrows, using bows I recognised as belonging to Dean and Kallie. The man at the range’s other end had a crossbow that was far more laborious to load.

  “I’ll wait until he’s finished,” I said.

  “Do you think that a trip to the Isle of Man will be enough to swing the election?” George asked.

  “On its own, probably not. It depends on how it’s spun,” I said. “But that’s an area in which I’m confident of my skills.”

  “Right, but shouldn’t you be doing more? Like putting up some posters of your own?”

  The range had been set up in the car park of an old supermarket with the targets pinned to the building’s wall. By the time the island was evacuated, most of the shelves were bare. By the time Anglesey was reclaimed from the undead, mould and moss had taken over. The chiller cabinets and freezers had been pushed together, and now the building had become a dump for other electrical equipment for which we had no immediate use and no time to preserve.

  Outside, facing the road, was a board about four feet by six feet, propped on plywood struts. The background had been painted red, white, and blue. On the front, in crude but legible block letters, was painted ‘Vote for Markus. Vote for Safety’.

  I grinned. “That was a mistake on Markus’s part. How exactly is he going to keep us safe? He can’t. That promise is worthless, and everyone knows it too well.”

  “But it’s his name,” George said. “It’s his slogan.”

  “One we’ll easily discredit,” I said. “Not by directly challenging him, but by stating the simple truth that safety cannot be guaranteed.”

  “Do you think people want to hear that?” George asked.

  “People don’t want to be lied to,” I said. “And that’s how we’ll frame it, while we’ll stick to the truth.”

  “The whole truth?” George asked.

  “More or less.” My gaze drifted again to the private. She was loosing each arrow almost exactly twenty seconds apart. Few of the arrows hit the target, but I wasn’t sure whether she cared.

  Siobhan lowered her bow, turned around, saw us, and walked over. She looked tired.

  “The bullets match,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked.

  “The bullet from Kallie’s side matches the gun Agatha used, the discarded casings, and the bullets you retrieved from the car. I test-fired them last night.”

  “That’s something,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “Like I told you, Bill, you did the right thing. The only thing that you could.” She looked at George, then at the private, then at me. “I went to see that guy, Markus.”

  “Oh? Why?” I asked.

  “Because of his name,” Siobhan said. “I thought he might be Mark. Taking over a pub, running in an election, those are the kind of things Mark would do. Of course, it’s not him, but I…” She looked over at George, and seemed to change her mind. “We’re heading to the grain ship next, but I thought Amber needed to let off some steam.”

  “Amber?”

  Siobhan gestured to the private. “Technically, she’s my escort. In reality, she’s not taking the major’s death very well. She feels like it’s her fault. I guess we all feel like that about someone. Did you come looking for me?”

  “For Wilfred,” George said, indicating the man who was now walking towards us.

  “Then we’ll leave you to it, and go and take a look at where Donnie was attacked,” Siobhan said.

  “It’s good to have another police officer on the island,” George said.

  Siobhan shrugged. “I said I’d take a look. I doubt I’ll find anything. Anyway… I, uh… I’ll catch up with you later, Bill.”

  She gave a nod to George and headed over to the Marine.

  George turned to the man approaching us. “Bill, may I introduce Wilfred Jackson, from the Isle of Man. Fred, this is Bartholomew Wright.”

  “Oh, I know you,” Jackson said. “Heard about you, at least. Your exploits have become quite the talking point around our dinner table.” There was a glint in his eye, a smile in his tone with which I’d become familiar, implying that the conversation hadn’t been entirely flattering.

  “How’s the bow?” George asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “It’s slow to load and impossible to aim. They’ll need a lot more work before we start mass-producing them.”

  “That’s a pity,” George said. “I thought crossbows might be the answer to our ammo shortage.”

  “Not without months’ more work,” Jackson said.

  “Months?” George replied. “That long?”

  “I understand you went back to the Isle of Man?” I cut in, steering the conversation to the reason that George and I had come to the firing range. “You returned to set up lights on the island?”

  “Beacons, aye,” Jackson said. “Didn’t think anyone else would notice them until a few weeks ago.”

  “We were discussing sending an expedition to the Isle of Man to investigate the lights,” I said. “Kim saw them a few months ago on her way to Svalbard. I didn’t know that the person behind them was known, or that it was someone here on Anglesey, until I spoke to Mrs O’Leary this morning.”

  “Aye,” Jackson said. “I’ve been going home as often as I can.”

  “How many made it out?”

  “Five,” Jackson said. “And I make six. I wasn’t there at the time. Though hope springs that we’re not the last, or at least it sprang, and that’s why I went back. You said you’re putting together an expedition?”

  “We were thinking about it,” I said. “Partly to investigate those lights, partly to look for supplies in the warehouses by the docks.”

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of thing are you looking for, specifically?”

  “Washing powder, medical supplies, light bulbs, and batteries,” I said. “Not food, though if we found it, that’d be a boon. Belfast harbour was bombed, anything in the warehouses there was destroyed. There’s some food and supplies in people’s homes, but nothing in the quantities we need. We moved a satellite over the city of Douglas last night, and got a view of it this morning. There were quite a lot of clouds, but what we could
see looked intact.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Did you spot these warehouses of yours? How much do you know about Man?”

  “Enough not to confuse it with the United Kingdom,” I said.

  “How many people do you think lived there?” Jackson asked. “How many supermarkets do you think there were? No, there were about eighty thousand of us.”

  George was smiling. He’d already known that we weren’t going to find any great stash of supplies there. I didn’t give up. I couldn’t. The Isle of Man was one of the few places we could reach in time to construct a narrative that would enable Umbert to win in a way that even approached fair and democratic.

  “Well, there’s an airport, yes?” I said. “Maybe there’s aviation fuel.”

  Jackson shook his head. “The airport’s gone. A plane crashed into the fuel store. Fire ripped through the buildings. It was one of the first places I looked.”

  “Ah.” I decided to change tack. “How many times have you been back?”

  “Eight,” he said. “It would have been more, but we’re at the mercy of the winds.”

  “You sailed there?”

  “Aye. Honestly, I didn’t know that anyone would see the lights, not from the sea. They were there for anyone on the island. I found the emergency beacons on lifeboats that made it this far. Had I known that people would be going past, I’d have caught a ride.”

  “I always thought our lack of clear lines of communication was a problem,” George added, and I guessed that was the reason he’d been eager for me to meet Wilfred Jackson. George’s point was well made, but considering the time pressures we were under, this practical demonstration of the lesson could have been skipped.

  “What about the undead?” I asked. “Kim saw some, but if there were only eighty thousand people on the island, there can’t be too many more zombies.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jackson said, “but I do know I barely made it out on the last trip, and that’s why it was the last, back in the summer. There’s no one there, there’s nothing left. You won’t find a warehouse with a million tins of baked beans, or a village with a dozen people who’ve valiantly survived seven months of the undead.”