Surviving The Evacuation (Book 10): The Last Candidate

by Frank Tayell

  “Sit,” Greg said, directing us to a pair of chairs in the middle of the room. If it had once been a dining room, I wasn’t sure what it was now except that it was mostly empty. Two chairs had been placed in the middle of the room. Against the wall, near a pair of swing-doors, were more chairs. Seven in total, and all were occupied. Three men and four women sat, watching us. A heavy hand at my back pushed me forward. I sat. So did Lorraine. I looked again at the seven people sitting by the wall. Like in the hallway, light came from torches hung from the ceiling. They swung a little, making the shadows move, even so, I was sure I didn’t recognise any of the people.

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked.

  A fist cuffed the back of my neck. It was painful, but done in such a way as to suggest the man could hit a lot harder if he wanted. “Quiet,” he said.

  It all felt wrong. Markus liked to grandstand, he liked to show off, but this was too much. It involved too many people. The shotgun, the revolver, the submachine gun; Markus’s people were better armed than that.

  Then the candidate walked in. It wasn’t Markus. It was Bishop.

  “You?” I said.

  Bishop didn’t reply. He stopped four paces in front of my chair. Behind me, I sensed the jailer moving closer, ready to grab me if I leaped at the zealot.

  “I heard you speak,” I said.

  “Soon, all shall hear the triumphant word,” Bishop said, and I actually wished Markus had been the one behind all of this. “Are the charges prepared?” Bishop asked, addressing his words over our heads.

  “Charges? What charges?” I asked. “Are we on trial?”

  “No, you are on trial, she is a witness,” Bishop snapped. “Now, quiet. You shall have your chance to speak. Until then, hold your tongue!”

  “A witness to what?” Lorraine asked.

  “Want me to gag them?” Spider-web asked.

  “Quiet!” Bishop screamed. Spittle flew from the side of his mouth. “Quiet! This is a solemn occasion. You shall show respect for the book. All of you!”

  The room went still. I was tempted to break the silence just for the sake of defiance, but thought it better to wait until I knew precisely what I was defying.

  “The charges!” Bishop barked.

  “Mu… Murder,” a woman stammered. She stood behind me. I craned around, causing the chair to creak. One of the jailers pushed me back to face the front, but I’d seen the woman’s face. It was the same middle-aged woman who’d had the broken bicycle. That, I decided, was good. It suggested that Bishop had a limited number of followers he could trust for this particular piece of theatrics.

  “Murder, and?” Bishop prompted.

  “And genocide,” the woman said.

  “And?” Bishop asked.

  “And the planned destruction of all promise and purpose, of… of…” She stammered as if she’d forgotten her lines. “Of plotting to bring ruin to all that is good.”

  “And what does that mean?” I asked.

  “Silence,” Bishop said, his voice low now, almost calm. “You shall have your chance to speak. Everyone does.”

  Everyone? I almost asked it out loud, but there was something in the man’s tone, a triumphant glee that told me I’d know soon enough.

  “Do we have the evidence?” Bishop prompted.

  “His own words,” the woman said, confidence blossoming in her voice. She stepped forward, holding something out to the seven people sat at the side of the room. “His own words, written and printed, distributed across the island—”

  “All lies,” Bishop interrupted, clearly unable to contain himself. “But even in the greatest of falsehoods, the serpent cannot hide the truth. And?” he added. “The other evidence?”

  “His deeds and this woman’s actions. This woman’s words,” she said, pointing at Lorraine.

  “Hang on,” I said, deciding I’d stayed silent long enough. “If this is a trial, shouldn’t the procedures be established first? Who’s the prosecutor? Who’s the defence? I take it you’re the judge, but from where do you derive your authority?”

  “It is not I who sit in judgement,” Bishop said. “It is these seven. For seven shall sit, and seven shall judge, and seven shall stand before the gate.”

  “If that’s from your book, it’s one I’ve never read,” I said.

  “There!” Bishop exclaimed, almost with glee. “From his very own lips, the denial of the truth that I told you he would make.”

  Now I really was lost, but I knew enough not to bother trying to reason with him, so I addressed the seven jurors in a bid to gain time. “This isn’t the first time that someone’s tried to hold me responsible for the evacuation,” I said. “It’s in the evidence there. I suggest you read it in full before this trial continues.”

  “This isn’t about the evacuation,” Bishop said. “That was the walk unto judgement, where so many were found wanting. In that, you were the instrument of divine grace, yet it is not enough to cleanse you of the evil of your past sins. We shall judge you as we judged the others. We shall root out all the agents of evil.”

  “What evil?” Lorraine asked. “What did he do?”

  “Thus does the snake hide in plain sight, his sins unknown to those who come to his aid,” Bishop said. Though there were a few nods from his jury, I couldn’t tell if he was quoting from his book or making it up as he went along. I’ll say this for the madman, he knew how to play to his crowd. “He is a murderer,” Bishop continued. “A cold-blooded killer who—”

  “Who did I kill?” I asked. “Who did I murder?”

  Bishop smiled. “Did I not foretell it? Did I not say that he would kill those who went with him?” He wasn’t speaking to me.

  “Who are you talking about? Do you mean Dr Umbert on the Isle of Man?”

  “I mean Ireland,” Bishop said.

  “Wait, are you talking about Rob?”

  “He was the last,” Bishop said, “but he wasn’t the first. Wright, Kempton, Quigley, Masterton, they are the names we knew. Now we know more. We root them out. O’Brian, Garvey, MacAlistair, Locke—”

  “Locke? As in Sorcha Locke?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

  “You see! He knows!” Bishop crowed with delight. “By his very own words he has condemned himself.”

  I wished I hadn’t interrupted, not because it apparently confirmed my guilt in this macabre travesty, but because I might have learned some of the other names of the so-called accused. Clearly Bishop had memorised them.

  “You’ve not told me precisely what I’m accused of,” I said. “Who are these other people? What did they do?”

  “In one breath he admits his guilt, with the next he pleads innocence,” Bishop said. “Does it not say that the serpent shall try to walk back his words?”

  “If that’s a quote from your book,” Lorraine said, “then I doubt the ink is even dry.”

  “Silence!” Bishop screamed. “Though you may have been an unwitting accomplice, you are his accomplice, nonetheless. Your guilt can be judged here, too.”

  “What does it matter?” Lorraine asked. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Kill? Kill?” Bishop crowed. “We do not kill. We are not like you. We are the chosen. The selectors. The future. We are the path yet to be walked. Your path is very different. The guilty are released into the wilderness, there to suffer the trials and tribulation of our tormented world. Those who prove themselves worthy find their way back to salvation.”

  “Is that what happened to Locke and the others?” I asked. “You released them into the wasteland? You let them go in Wales, right?”

  Bishop faltered. He seemed uncertain. “The evidence!” he barked at the woman. “Read the confessions of the guilty. Yes, since you seem so concerned with their fate, you shall hear their own words.”

  Before the woman could begin, the swing-doors opened. A younger man hurried in and ran straight over to Bishop. Before the doors shut, I saw the steel counter tops of a kitchen, though there was no sig
n of food being prepared. I couldn’t hear what the young man said to Bishop, but the man’s expression darkened.

  “Take them back to their cell. We shall reconvene later,” Bishop said. He stalked to the kitchen. The young man hurried after him, as did the woman who’d presented the evidence, and then the seven jurors.

  “Up,” the guard with the spider-web tattoo said. “Get up.”

  I stood, stretched, and took my time about it, turning slowly around, gauging our chances. They weren’t great. The man with the shotgun was by the door, both barrels pointing our way. That the other two guards would be caught in the blast probably didn’t worry him. I was more concerned by the submachine gun pointing at my chest and the revolver pointing at Lorraine’s head.

  “Lead the way,” I said.

  “Oh no,” he said. “You first.”

  Chapter 21 - Gunshots

  Within two minutes, and without an obvious chance to escape, we were back in our dark cell. I stayed by the door, watching the line of light at the bottom slowly fade as footsteps retreated upstairs. Soon, all was quiet.

  “What was that about?” Lorraine asked.

  “Bishop’s mad,” I said.

  “I know that,” Lorraine said. “So does everyone else, except you, apparently.”

  “I mean there’s no point trying to read too much into it. The voices in his head are speaking too loudly for us to be heard.”

  “Now you’re talking like him,” she said. “I meant those questions you were asking about Sorcha Locke. She was one of the people in the photograph, wasn’t she? One of Kempton’s followers? I was asking around about a man in that photograph, and then I was kidnapped. Not Sholto, not Kim, me. That’s why, isn’t it? It’s that photograph. That man I was asking about has to be one of the people that Bishop mentioned.”

  “Probably.”

  “Sorcha Locke, she’s important?” Lorraine asked.

  “Didn’t I tell you? We found a note in Kempton’s mansion, Elysium. It mentioned Locke as being Kempton’s right hand in Ireland. Kim and I were sort of tracking the woman across Ireland, though six months after the fact. We know Locke made it to the ship on the Shannon Estuary and from there to Belfast. At first, I thought the woman who shot Kallie was Locke. It wasn’t. Locke was in Belfast. I thought she’d died, but if she’d survived that long, then why not long enough to get to Anglesey? If she found a boat, and made it out to sea, perhaps she got picked up.”

  “And she arrived on Anglesey with that man I was looking for, and maybe with some others?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Who knows? It hardly matters. She’s dead now. They all are.”

  “But Bishop said that they let them go, that they were released to the mainland.”

  “Right, but remember the corpse at Bangor University? That’s what letting them go means. Whatever Bishop’s orders, the guilty are killed.”

  “Wouldn’t that be going against Bishop’s wishes?”

  “Yes, but not against whoever is really pulling the strings,” I said. “Bishop didn’t come up with this idea on his own. He certainly didn’t decide to run as a candidate without someone else suggesting it. Let’s not forget where you were when you were asking those questions. No, I think I can put a name to who’s behind this, but I’m more interested in the names of the people that they put on trial.”

  “You mean Kempton’s people?”

  “No. At best, a handful made it out of Belfast, more likely it was only two of them. I meant the others, all of those people who disappeared from the island. We thought they’d taken their boats and simply sailed away. I wonder if that’s true. Then there are Bishop’s followers. Sholto told me they were claiming rations for two hundred, but that they said they had five hundred supporters on Willow Farm and the food to feed them. At Bishop’s rally, I counted fifty. Where are the others? I think that they’re dead, and while there’s no rational reason for Bishop to have killed them, I do wonder about that food. What is money but a representation of what we need? What do people need but food, and what are they prepared to do in exchange for it? Anyway, we can work out all of that after we work out where we are and how we’re going to escape. Did you see anything you recognised?”

  “Outside of Menai Bridge and Holyhead, I don’t think there’s anywhere on the island I’d recognise,” she said. “But it’s a hotel, isn’t it? Probably a small one?”

  “Or a large guesthouse,” I said.

  “There are a—” She stopped. “Did you hear that?”

  I was about to say no, but then I heard it. Gunfire.

  “Un-silenced,” I said, grinning. “That’s Bishop’s people returning fire. Sholto’s come. Heather, too, no doubt, and they’ve brought the Marines. Best to step back from the door.”

  The muffled roar grew sporadic. After a few minutes, it stopped completely.

  “About time,” I said. “I could do with a decent meal and a wash, and then we’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll tell you one good thing, I think we can now officially declare the election null and void.”

  “Aye, maybe,” Lorraine said. We waited for the sound of boots running down the stairs. We kept waiting. No one came.

  “Perhaps they don’t know where we are,” I said. I kicked the door. Lorraine did the same. We kicked and slapped, shouted and yelled. The light at the bottom of the door grew stronger as footsteps slowly descended the stairs.

  “What?” a voice called. It was Greg. My heart sank. Our jailer wasn’t busy forlornly fighting the Marines. Whatever the cause of the gunfire, it wasn’t our rescue. Still, we had got his attention.

  “I… uh…” I stammered, uncertain what to say.

  “He wants to use the bathroom,” Lorraine said.

  “So?” Greg replied.

  “So I thought I was a witness, not a suspect,” Lorraine said. “I shouldn’t be expected to stay down here if you’re going to let him turn it into a cesspit.”

  “He wants the toilet,” Greg called out, he wasn’t talking to us.

  “Does he?” the muffled voice of Spider-web replied. “Take him outside.”

  “Step back,” Greg said.

  I didn’t like the sound of being taken outside, and found myself looking in Lorraine’s direction. The time to act was approaching. I hoped I recognised it before it was too late.

  “Stand back,” Greg called again as the bolt ground in its fitment. He pushed the door inward. The light came in first, brighter than day and blinding. Involuntarily, I stepped backwards, raising my hands to shield my face.

  “Outside!” Greg barked. “Move!”

  Squinting against the glare, I took a step a forward. Greg took one back, but his gun was raised, not pointing at me, but at Lorraine. That was why they had kept us together. Where I might throw my own life away on a suicidal attack, I was less likely to sacrifice hers.

  “Careful,” Greg said softly. “Slowly. Don’t make me do it.”

  I walked outside, and past him. Spider-web was at the top of the stairs. His submachine gun was pointing straight down at us both. There was something about his expression that told me he wouldn’t hesitate gunning down his comrade.

  Greg pressed his revolver into the small of my back. “Go on, up,” he said.

  I climbed the stairs, not looking around as I heard the cell door clang closed. Spider-web stepped back from the top of the stairs as I climbed, staying beyond a grabbing arm’s reach.

  “What was the shooting?” I asked. “Were those executions?”

  “Executions?” Spider-web replied. “Unlike you, we’re not killers.”

  “Then you won’t shoot me if I run?” I asked.

  “If you run, it’ll save us the bother of the trial,” Greg said. “You’ll be doing all of us a favour. That way. It ain’t locked.”

  He gestured towards the other door, the one that didn’t lead to the dining hall-courtroom. I opened the door. It was one of those rural changing rooms where outdoor clothing could be removed. Another torch hung from
the ceiling. Benches lined one wall, a coat rack the other. A heavy boot-scraper was by the room’s other door. It was a one-foot-long, six-inch-wide unsharpened blade of wrought iron. If I could get Greg close enough to fall over and onto it… I half turned around, but he was ten feet away. He gestured at the other door.

  “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

  I did.

  Outside it was daytime, and seemed brighter than any midday I’d ever witnessed. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the clouds blanketing the sky. It could be an hour after dawn, an hour before dusk, I couldn’t tell. Then I lowered my head, and looked straight ahead. I stopped caring about the time. A few dozen yards from the building were a trio of static caravans. Truly mobile homes had been dragged into the larger gaps between them, with a mass of chicken and razor wire completing the barrier. Beyond were the undead.

  “You still want to run?” Greg asked.

  “Where are we?” I asked, because I seriously doubted it was Anglesey.

  “It ain’t Kansas,” Greg said.

  It had to be north Wales, near Anglesey, and near the coast. Precisely where, I wasn’t sure, though the site didn’t look like the one near Caernarfon in which I’d first met Markus.

  “You were shooting the undead?” I asked.

  “You know how it is,” Greg said.

  I took a more careful look at the ground beyond the barbed wire. I could only see four of the creatures, two of which had snagged themselves on razor wire. There would be more of them out there. Dozens. Hundreds. It didn’t matter because another thing had occurred to me. Greg wasn’t speaking like Bishop, nor had he or Spider-web done so during that mockery of trial. Unlike the woman who’d stunned Lorraine and I, and who’d been presenting the evidence, he wasn’t a believer.

  I picked my words with care. “Did you know Paul well?”

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?” Greg said. “What you need to consider is that if you get released into the wasteland, the zombies’ll tear you apart. Your only hope is telling Bishop everything. Absolutely everything. Otherwise you, and that girl, will be dead before dusk. You said you wanted the loo, pick a wall.”