Surviving The Evacuation (Book 10): The Last Candidate

by Frank Tayell

  And so it went on. And on. And on. There was no policy, no promises, but plenty of guilt. His inspiration came from a mixture of religions, not learned from books, but from movies. A little Judeo-Christianity, a little Islam and almost as much Hinduism, all tempered with a fourth-hand interpretation of early Roman theology. It wasn’t fire and brimstone, but snow and ice, with the ever-present threat that the flames might return.

  After five minutes, I’d heard enough, but I listened for an hour before I gave the gate a push. It creaked loudly enough to cause Bishop to falter mid-sentence. It was a petty victory but it was the only one I’d get.

  The lane was empty as I made my way towards Holyhead. I was grateful for the distance I had to walk. It would give me time to think.

  “Only fifty people in his crowd, and he’s meant to have a few hundred followers,” I murmured. “He’s already losing support.”

  That was something. If Bishop wasn’t an alternative to Markus, nor was he a real threat, he wouldn’t be someone for Markus to rally support against.

  “And that’s the ray of sunshine on this overly cloudy day,” I said.

  Those clouds had descended in a fine mist that utterly suited my mood. I turned my attention to the fields, half-ploughed into erratic furrows. I was saying goodbye. Not to the island, because I was more determined to stay than ever, but to all the plans we’d had. They were dreams, fantasies where I’d thought I’d had the indulgence of being able to choose my own future.

  The election could be delayed. A crisis at the power plant could push it back a few weeks, but it wouldn’t change the candidates, nor alter the outcome. This nightmare would have to be played out to the bitter end, so better it was played out quickly. Markus would be elected, and he would fall when the food ran out. A popular rising would remove him, and then something better could be put into place. Either it would be the system I should have organised from the beginning, or I would stay completely out of it. That, I decided, might be better for everyone.

  A methodical squeaking brought me back to the present. A middle-aged woman was laboriously pedalling a heavy bicycle along the road behind me. She didn’t look like one of Bishop’s followers. Her clothing was too clean, and somehow too bright for that. I raised my hand in greeting as she drew near. She did the same, and almost fell from her bike. Her face was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place from where. She weaved her way past, and towards Holyhead.

  Had I seen her in Markus’s pub? Or Dr Knight’s clinic? Or at Scott Higson’s bakery? I pondered that as I followed the bike towards Holyhead. I wondered if she, like me, had gone to listen to Bishop speak, though I didn’t recall seeing her in the crowd.

  Another two hundred yards further on, I found her sitting on the road, both hands clutching her ankle. She’d fallen from her bike, which lay a little further on.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, hurrying over to her.

  “It’s only a graze,” she said. “It was the chain. It came off.” I offered a hand, and helped her to her feet, and then I went to pick the bike up. The chain was still attached. As I turned around, something bit into my side. There was a moment of excruciating agony, and then nothing but darkness.

  Chapter 20 - The Last Trial

  The roar ebbed and flowed, slowly fading until it was entirely inside my head. As the sound dropped, nausea replaced it. I sat up on reflex, and as I did, realised I’d been lying down. I tried to move my right hand and found my left hand moved with it. I was handcuffed. Cautiously, awkwardly, I searched around. I was on a floor of chipped concrete covered in a thin layer of dust. I blinked my eyes, and felt them move, but I still couldn’t see anything. For a moment, I thought I was blindfolded, but when I raised my hands to my face, I found nothing in front of my eyes. I thought I was blind, but as I moved my head, I caught a faint line of light two metres away.

  “Are you awake?” a familiar Scottish voice asked.

  “Lorraine?” I asked.

  “Hey, Bill.”

  “Where am I?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Anglesey, I think.”

  “What happened? Is anyone else here?”

  “It’s just us,” she said.

  Memories returned in a disordered jumble. “There was a woman with a broken bicycle,” I said. “I stopped to help her. Then… I don’t know.” I tried to reach around to my back, but the cuffs stopped me. There was a dull ache running down my body. “I think she must have had a stun-gun. Or maybe she drugged me. No, there was too much pain. I’m not sure.”

  “Here,” Lorraine said. There was a scuffling along the floor as she moved closer. “It’s water. Drink.”

  I did. Only after I’d swallowed a mouthful did I realise the danger in that.

  “They gave you water?” I asked.

  “They’ve been quite hospitable,” Lorraine said bitterly. “They even let me out to use the bathroom. There was food, too. I ate it. Sorry, but that was before they brought you in here.”

  “When was that?”

  “I… I don’t know,” she said. “After you went to see Markus, I went to speak to Captain Devine. After that, I went to the pub. I was looking for you but I… well, I got asked to leave. I was on my way to Menai Bridge when a woman stopped me and asked for directions. Next thing I knew, I was here.” Her voice was completely absent of her usual cheery exuberance.

  “This woman,” I said, “was she middle-aged, hawk-nosed, her hair held back in a tight bun?”

  “That’s her,” Lorraine said.

  “Then she’s the same one who got me,” I said. “From the sound of it, you’ve been here at least a day. Heather came to the house this morning, looking for you. At least, I think it was this morning.” The cuffs clinked as I moved a hand to my wrist. “My watch is gone.”

  “So is mine,” Lorraine said. “They took everything useful. Not that there’s an easy way out. The door’s held closed with a bolt on the other side. There’s a lip to the door that means you can’t get anything through to slide the bolt back.”

  My weapons were gone. My pockets were empty. They’d left my belt and bootlaces, but other than my clothes, that was about it.

  “You said they let you go to the bathroom, what did you see?” I asked.

  “Not much, all the windows are boarded up. Like I said, this door’s held closed with a bolt. Outside, there are stairs that lead up. I think this room’s below ground, but I can’t be certain. There’s a door marked private, then a corridor with the bathroom. It’s a single cubicle marked disabled. There were some other doors off that corridor, but I don’t know what’s beyond them.”

  “Hmm. So there’s flushing water?”

  “No, a bucket.”

  “But the drains work?” I asked.

  “I guess. Does that mean something?”

  “Not to me,” I said, “but every little piece of information helps.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I was trying to stop my spirits descending into a pit of despair. “What about people? How many did you see?”

  “Only two. Both men. Big men, too. They’re armed. Knives and guns.”

  “Right. What else? You saw their faces?”

  “Aye,” Lorraine said. “I’ve seen enough movies to know what that means.”

  “Hmm. What about light? It was mains?”

  “No, torches hanging on straps from the ceiling.”

  “Then this has to be a property to which electricity wasn’t restored,” I said. “So it’s not in Holyhead or Menai Bridge.”

  “Which still leaves about five thousand buildings it could be,” Lorraine said. “I think this was a storeroom once, but they’ve taken out the shelves and the screws that held them to the walls. You can feel the holes. They really did empty everything out, and you know what that means? We’re probably not the first people to be held in this cell.”

  “Well, that’s a cheery thought.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve been in a situation like this before,” she said. “I know what comes next
.”

  I was automatically curious, but now wasn’t the time. “You said the toilet had a disabled sign on it? Do you think this is a pub?”

  “Maybe, but not a busy one. Not Markus’s, but he’s behind this.”

  “You think so? Is that a gut instinct?”

  “When I went to speak to Captain Devine, that Irish police officer, Siobhan, was there. So was Heather. We talked about those bodies we found in Bangor, and how I’d seen the victims in Markus’s pub. Anyway, that’s why I went looking for you. Well, sort of. Heather and I had a row about the future. I guess. I… it doesn’t matter, but I wasn’t in the best of moods when I left.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I was looking for trouble when I went to the pub. I had that photograph, the one you brought back from Ireland that had Lisa Kempton in it. I asked everyone there if they recognised anyone in the picture, and I did it loudly. It’s no wonder they threw me out. I mean they actually picked me up and carried me outside. About twenty minutes later, I was stopped by that woman. The two events are linked.”

  “Okay, probably. So what did you say? What was it that triggered all of this?”

  “I told them that people who worked for Kempton had gone through that pub. I said that they’d known about the impending apocalypse and done nothing to stop it. Her people hid in their bunkers until the world had died, and then they came to Anglesey. They did, you know. Well, at least one of them did. While we were on the Isle of Man, Heather handed out copies of that photograph around Menai Bridge. A woman there recognised one of the two men in the picture.”

  “Which one?”

  “The man at the back, staring at Kempton’s head.”

  “When did this woman see him?” I asked.

  “In May, but when isn’t so important as where,” Lorraine said. “And that was in Markus’s pub, where he was helping to sort through stacks of suitcases. Nikola Bellows is her name. She couldn’t remember exactly when in May this was. The power station hadn’t been turned back on, she remembered that much. Nikola was looking for a pedal-powered sewing machine. She was still living on the boat in which she was rescued, but the couple who’d saved her, who knew how to sail it, had died. Nikola didn’t know how to fish, but she knew how to sew. Anyway, that was around the time Markus was stockpiling whatever he could find from empty houses. Nikola went to ask if they had a sewing machine. That’s when she saw this man.”

  “She was sure it was him?”

  “They talked,” Lorraine said. “She was certain. She went looking for him a week later, but he wasn’t there.”

  “That’s interesting. So Kempton’s people reached Anglesey. Or one of them did. That’s not surprising, but I don’t see why that should lead to us being abducted.”

  “I… I might have said that you found a computer with lots of information on it,” Lorraine said. “I… I was upset.”

  “Ah, so Markus thinks we have something on him?”

  “That’s what I think. We’re being kept alive so he can find out what we know, and who else knows it.”

  “That’s as good an explanation as we need,” I said. Slowly, I eased myself up. With my hands cuffed in front of me, and my head still feeling like cotton wool, it was a chore, but I managed it. I reached above my head. My fingers brushed against rough and flaking plaster. The ceiling was around eight feet high.

  “Are your hands cuffed?” I asked.

  “Yes, and they didn’t even take them off when I went to the loo. Like I said, I think they’ve done this before.”

  “Hmm. Okay.” My hands raised, I walked across the room until I found a wall. “The two guards outside, they’re armed?”

  “Pistols and knives,” Lorraine said.

  “Did you recognise them?”

  “No.”

  I brushed my hands against the dry, crumbling plaster. I found a few screw holes, but no screws or other handy pieces of metal that could be used to pick the cuffs. Not that I had much experience in that regard, but I had to search. I had to feel like I was doing something.

  “The woman, she must have followed me,” I said. “I went to hear Bishop speak. I was curious. I thought— I hoped that maybe he wasn’t as bad as everyone had made out. I wondered if he might be a potential alternative to Markus.” I reached a corner, and continued searching the next wall, and then the other two. I confirmed the room was empty, and that the door was sealed fast. There was a length of pipe running along the floor, and we could probably break a section off it, but we’d still be in a dark and locked room. Markus wanted us alive, that was obvious, thus, it was better to bide our time until we were outside. I sat down on the floor next to Lorraine.

  “What’s your favourite food?” I asked.

  “My what?”

  “Your favourite food.”

  “Ice cream, I suppose, why?”

  “Then when either one of says ‘ice cream’, that’s when we act,” I said. “Until then, we wait. Not to worry, I’ve been in worse situations.”

  “Aye, me too,” she said. “Except usually it’s zombies on the other side of the door.”

  More than seconds, but less than hours later, the dim light at the bottom of the door grew stronger. A moment after that, a fist banged on metal.

  “Get down. Get back,” a man said. “Try anything, and we’ll shoot you.”

  Next to me, I could feel Lorraine tense.

  “We won’t,” I called out.

  The door opened. All I could see was light as a torch was shone at us both. I raised my hands to cover my eyes. The sight of my handcuffed wrists must have been what the jailer was looking for. The light was lowered to shine on the ground.

  “Up. Both of you,” he said. “Up and outside.”

  I was still blinded, but I heard his footsteps backing out of the doorway. Lorraine and I helped one another up.

  The jailer was outside, his light pointing at the ground, but another light was pointing at him. It cast odd shadows on his face, but I was sure I didn’t recognise him. He was bordering on overweight, though his clothes hung loose. His eyes were beady and close set, his head shaved at the sides though long on top. It’s a look that’s not attractive on anyone, and made him look like he had a dead raven on his skull. He was broad-shouldered and broad-armed, and the revolver in his hand almost looked like a toy. Almost.

  “I’d ask how much Markus is paying you,” I said, “but if you haven’t realised that money is worthless by now, there wouldn’t be much point.”

  “Get out,” he said. “The woman first.”

  I took a step forward. He shone the light straight in my eyes.

  “The woman first,” he said. “Or I’ll put a bullet in your good leg.”

  Lorraine stepped forward. As she did, the guard backed away and out of sight. I followed Lorraine out of the door. It was made of metal over an inch thick, and had a bolt that could be held closed by a currently open padlock.

  The door opened onto a small landing about five-feet square that sloped to a dusty drain in the corner furthest from the stairs. The stairs were steep, each riser over a foot tall, but each step only eight inches wide. The jailer was awkwardly walking up them, his revolver waving left and right as his head darted between us and the steps beneath his feet. The gun held by the man at the top of the stairs didn’t waver. It was a submachine gun, not an MP5, but looked a little similar. It reminded me of the weapons that police armed-response units carried, and I suspected that was where it had originally come from. The man hadn’t been a police officer, not with a spider-web tattoo on his throat. He’d even shaved his beard in such a way as to emphasise the pattern.

  “Up,” Spider-web said. “Watch where you put your feet, Greg. I’ve got ’em.”

  His accent was English, as was Greg’s. I tried to decide if that meant anything, letting my mind be distracted by theory and observation as I followed Lorraine up the steps. They didn’t look military, but perhaps that meant Markus was keeping the real professionals on watch.

  “So, he’s
Greg,” Lorraine said, as I reached the top of the stairs. “Who are you?”

  “That way,” Spider-web said, gesturing with his rifle. “They’re waiting.”

  Greg had taken a step back, as had Spider-web. The odds of successfully grappling the guns from them were closer to none than slim. Now wasn’t the time to fight, but that time would be soon.

  There were two doors at the top of the landing, one opposite the stairs, the other to the left, and that one was open. I stepped through and into a hallway illuminated by a large flashlight hanging from a strap nailed to the ceiling. There were two doors off that corridor. Both were closed, but both had signs on them. They were small signs, about two inches tall, two feet wide, with black lettering on a brass background. The one to the left read ‘Laundry Room’, the one to right was marked ‘Private’. Beyond them was the end of the corridor, with another open door and another guard standing in front of it. He held a shotgun, a double-barrelled farmer’s tool. He stepped aside, but brought his gun to bear.

  “Sit them down,” he said. His accent was English, possibly Somerset. “We’re ready to start.”

  It was a large room, and if I had to guess at the name it had a year ago, I’d pick dining room. We weren’t in a pub, and certainly not in Markus’s Inn of Iquity. Taken with the sign for a laundry room, I guessed the building had been a bed and breakfast or a small hotel. I glanced at Lorraine. She was looking around with as much interest as me. I hoped she might recognise something that would give a clue as to where on the island we were.