Surviving The Evacuation | Life Goes On (Book 2): No More News

by Tayell, Frank

  “You just missed her,” the seated sentry called out. He jerked a thumb at the disappearing helicopter. “The colonel will take the message. He’s in the tourist information office, across the road. You better bring your transport inside.”

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Corrie asked.

  “After zombies, I’m expecting anything,” the soldier said. He gave a nod, and his comrade hauled the gate back, allowing them to drive the TAPV inside. Lacoona stopped it near the tanks.

  “If I can borrow Rufus,” Corrie said, “I’ll see what those mechanics have to say.”

  “Mechanics?” Pete asked.

  She pointed to the soldiers by the tanks. Pete looked at them again, this time properly. They weren’t the tanks’ crews as he’d first thought, but mechanics repairing two broken machines.

  Lacoona, Pete, and Olivia left the TAPV, and his sister and Rufus, and headed back through the gate and across the road to a cluster of low buildings, one of which was clearly marked as a tourist information office. Another of the walking wounded, this woman with a bandage on the arm not holding the shotgun, stood guard over the entrance.

  The interior had been stripped down to the carpet. Folding tables had been brought in and covered in old-fashioned fixed-line telephones. Wires ran from those to an even older switchboard over which a trio of engineers sweated. There were screens, too. A few military-grade laptops, a lot more civilian models so brand-new they still had the protective screen covers in place. But the computers were dark, except for a multi-screen bank in the far corner; four screens high, four screens wide, and no two screens the same size or model, attached to a bolt-and-bracket rig. Hunched over a keyboard in front, a uniformed operator muttered into a handset. Behind him sat a man in a wheelchair.

  “Excuse me, um… sir?” Lacoona asked, uncertainly. The man in the wheelchair wore a dress uniform, and even Pete knew the shoulder-badge indicated an officer, but he understood Lacoona’s hesitancy. The man was sick. Very sick. The jacket hung limp on his frail frame. Attached to the back of the wheelchair was a drip from which a tube ran to his arm. His head was bald. Not shaved, but utterly bald, while his skin was shiny and taut.

  “And you are?” the officer asked.

  “Private— I mean, Corporal Lacoona. From Thunder Bay.”

  “You’re a new recruit?” the officer asked.

  “A week ago, I was,” Lacoona said. “Sir, we were looking for the colonel, the general’s second in command.”

  “Colonel Montoya. That’s me. And these are the Australians? I was told there were four of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pete said. “But my sister is speaking to the mechanics repairing the tanks.”

  “You knew we were coming, sir?” Olivia asked.

  “Indeed,” Montoya said. “A helicopter arrived last night from Thunder Bay. None of you sound Australian.”

  “I’m from Thunder Bay,” Lacoona said. “I was a teacher a month ago. It’s these two who’re here from the Pacific.”

  “Ah,” Montoya said. He turned his attention back to the screens. “But these two don’t sound Australian, either.”

  “We’re from Indiana, and were only supposed to be the local guides,” Pete said. “But the plane had to depart before the soldiers arrived, so we’re trying to complete the soldiers’ mission for them. That’s why my sister’s speaking to the mechanics. She’s gathering information on where and how the outbreak began.”

  “And that’s important to Canberra? Why?” the colonel asked.

  “Honestly, sir, I don’t know if it is,” Pete said. “We’re just gathering information in the hope it might help stop this nightmare.”

  “Nothing can stop it now,” the officer said. “We must ride it. Subdue it. Survive it. But yes, who knows what will help us in that goal?”

  “If a helicopter arrived,” Lacoona said, “does that mean Thunder Bay is sending a ferry? We came across some refugees in Marathon, and a road convoy heading there.”

  “Yes, Thunder Bay knows. The civilians are being evacuated.”

  “Sir?” the soldier in front of the screens said, raising a hand. The colonel eased his wheelchair forward as the operator conferred with him.

  They hadn’t been needed. The message had got through by other means. Pete supposed that was something he’d have to get used to in the military.

  “Are those zombies?” Olivia asked, pointing at the bank of monitors.

  Pete focused on the screens. He’d been looking at them, but not seeing what they showed.

  In the central and largest screen, a mob lurched out of the trees towards the camera. In irregular ranks, a hundred zombies wide and at least ten deep, they staggered across a wide field, trampling a three-wire fence into the mud. Some wore uniform, some were dressed as civilians. Some were too covered in dirt or soot to tell. Pushing. Scrumming. Knocking one another over, and trampling each other into the once-fertile soil, they advanced until the camera jerked. The screen lost focus for a second, before resolving on a wide gap in the advancing line. Mud, mixed with blood and bone, fell like rain.

  “That’s what a Leopard can do,” the colonel said.

  “Abrams, sir,” the operator said. “That’s the major.”

  “Is it? One of yours, then,” he added, turning to Olivia and Pete. Silently, another hole was punched through the line, at an angle to the first, ripping asunder the foremost four rows.

  “And that was one of ours, sir,” the operator said.

  “The zombies are attacking us, here?” Olivia asked.

  “No,” the colonel said. “We’re attacking them. Cotton, bring up the aerial view.”

  The image changed, showing a top-down view. At the edge of the screen were trees, but the battlefield had been chosen as the cleared ground where two massive firebreaks met. In the centre of the broad clearing were seven tanks, slowly advancing in a V-formation. Two different types of tanks. Assuming the major was in command, and in the lead tank, that made the first three U.S. Abrams, while the other four were Canadian Leopards. One by one they fired, a barrage of seven shells, all aimed at different points along the advancing line. A line that was far wider than the tank’s-eye view had suggested.

  The zombies fell like dominoes. Hundreds died in that barrage alone. Hundreds more were ripped asunder in the next. Added to the thousands of corpses littering the mud, but discounting those corpses still crawling on towards the shelling, thousands were dead. And yet more still came.

  “They’re going to be surrounded,” Pete whispered.

  “Yes,” the colonel said.

  “They have to retreat,” Pete said.

  “No,” the colonel said. “There will be no retreat from here. Only advance. Only—” He coughed, dragging a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth. Specks of blood were left on the white cotton square before he returned it to his pocket. “Just watch.”

  Without sound, it somehow felt more real. The tanks maintained their methodical barrage even as the undead advanced. Olivia took Pete’s hand. He gripped hers tightly as the undead advanced to within fifty metres of the lead tank. Forty. Thirty. And then they fell.

  “Machine gun,” the colonel muttered, as the zombies danced and spun, toppling one after another. But as soon as the macabre dance began, it ended. The undead continued their advance. This time, they didn’t fall.

  “Are they out of ammo?” Pete asked.

  “This is phase two,” the colonel said.

  The tanks had stopped firing. Their cannons and machine guns remained silent as the undead reached the vehicles but then, weirdly, seemed to keep going.

  “Show them,” the colonel said, his words trailing into a whispering cough.

  “This is footage from a different drone,” the operator said, changing the image on the central screen to show an aerial view from behind the tanks, and the advancing undead. The image swung left and right as the small machine was buffeted by the winds.

  Behind the tanks were three, massive, c
aterpillar-tracked yellow machines.

  “What are they?” Olivia asked.

  “Crane platforms,” the operator said. “Aboard are our snipers.”

  They couldn’t see the shots fired, but they saw the undead fall. One by one, as they made their way beyond the buttoned-up tanks.

  “How… how are they doing it?” Pete asked. “Why aren’t the zombies attacking the tanks?”

  “Music,” the operator said.

  “Excuse me,” the colonel said, and wheeled himself slowly around.

  “Do you want a—” Olivia began, but the colonel waved away her help, as he wheeled himself towards the signposted washroom on the other side of the room.

  “Cancer,” the operator muttered, when the colonel had gone. “It’s terminal. He refuses to die. And that’s how we’ll win. Yeah, you missed the big show, the helicopters flew in first, luring in the undead, bringing them to the killing ground, five miles outside town. The tanks fired first, then the machine guns, now the snipers.”

  “And they’re on crane platforms?” Olivia asked.

  “And other construction equipment,” the operator said, waving a hand at the other screens. “Anything with a stable base, taller than an outstretched arm’s reach, and which can take a beating. We’ve tried it before on a smaller scale, but nothing like this. It’s the forests. Trees provide them with cover, neutralising the effectiveness of air power. We have to lure them out, lure them away from a population hub. The colonel didn’t think the firebreaks would give us enough ground to manoeuvre, but it’s working.”

  “Firebreaks?” Olivia asked. She turned to the other screens and pointed to the screen in the top left. “Those are different tanks. How many… how big is the army? How big is the battle?”

  “We’re engaged on…” He glanced at the screens, then a clipboard in front of him. “Seventeen positive contacts. All similar. All forces are holding the line. Most of our troops, the newer recruits, are being kept in reserve. They’re guarding the approach to the town just north of here and the highway five miles to the south.”

  Pete tried to do the calculation, and simply came up with a lot. Both of soldiers, and tanks, but more of the undead. “Where did the zombies come from?” he asked.

  “Ottawa,” the operator said. “Maybe Montreal. Maybe from across the border. This is the first wave. They’re swarming.”

  “Swarming?” Olivia asked.

  “It’s what the general calls it,” the colonel said, wheeling himself back from the washroom. “They swarm. Gather. We think it’s sound. One hears a sound and heads towards it. So does another. Another. They reach a critical mass where they’re louder than the surroundings. They start moving and keep going. We got reports yesterday that it was coming. We were expecting to fight it further east. But here is where the war began. Here is where fear ended.”

  “Sir, the drone’s out of fuel,” the operator said. “I’m bringing her back. And the general wants to speak to you.”

  Olivia jerked her head towards the doors. Pete followed her back outside. Above, dark clouds were gathering.

  “There’s an army. An actual army, actually fighting,” Pete said. “What? You look… I was going to say worried, but that’s become everyone’s base-state.”

  “They’re evacuating refugees,” she said, “and building a wall, or at least a defensive line, while trying to secure farmland, and fight a war. And they’re trying to create an army at the same time, getting all these different soldiers to work together. Not just soldiers, not really. It’s…”

  “A lot?” Pete finished. “But it has to be done.”

  “Oh, I know,” Olivia said. “But I’m shocked by the scale of it.”

  “They knew we were coming,” Pete said. “We could have stayed in Thunder Bay.”

  “Welcome to the army,” Olivia said. “Welcome to our new lives.”

  “Each day there’s something new to get used to,” Pete said.

  “Like finding food when we can,” Olivia said. “Because there’s a hungry army out there, about to return.”

  Before they could take another step, though, a shot rang out. Loud. Clear. Close. Another followed, and then a fully automatic staccato. Pete ran, Olivia close behind.

  A beat-up shocking-pink city-car had come to a halt on the airport’s approach road. Somehow the zombies had got there first. The mangled remains of a uniformed zombie was curved around the passenger-side wheel, legs and lower chest a bloody ruin, but its hands still clawed at the paintwork, reached for the passengers inside. That creature, gorily lodged during what must have been an attempt to run it down, had immobilised the car. The second zombie was beating its hands against the driver-side door. A third was down, dead, shot by the injured sentry who was now limping towards the car.

  Behind them, Corrie and half the mechanics were tugging at the clearly stuck gate while Rufus snapped and barked in a frustration Pete echoed.

  “Driver!” Olivia called, claiming her target as they overtook the slowly limping sentry.

  “Passenger side,” Pete called back.

  Ten metres from the car, Olivia slowed her run to a walk as she raised her rifle. Pete raised his own, but loped on another step before firing his weapon. Two shots, from near point-blank range, and both hit. One in the shoulder, but one in the head. A single shot came from his right as Olivia fired, and her target fell. Pete grinned. The nightmare was over.

  “Thank you,” the driver said, as she opened the door. She wore uniform. Not military. Not police. Not even firefighter or nursing. It was an airline’s outfit, and matched that of the woman in the backseat, though the five children crammed into the car were dressed in the usual collection of whatever had been quickly found.

  “Whoa, no!” Olivia said, pushing the door closed. “More coming. More are coming.” She breathed out. “Stay inside until we say it’s safe. Pete, the roof!”

  “The roof?” he asked, because as far as he could see, the road behind the car was empty.

  He felt a tight pressure around his ankle. Looking down, he saw a hand with peeling, burn-blistered skin curled around his boot. Before he could call out in warning or surprise, the hand pulled, tugging him off his feet. He fell, hitting the asphalt heavily and hard as the zombie tugged again, dragging him across the road as it, in turn, dragged itself up his leg. Its mouth snapped and bit at air as Pete thrashed his legs, trying to free himself, trying to keep it from biting him.

  Olivia’s boot smashed into its jaw. “No way,” she hissed. “Not my boyfriend, you don’t.” She kicked again, stamped on its shoulder, pinning it. From point-blank, she fired the rifle. The bullet slammed through its skull, into the road beneath. “The roof, Pete,” she said, helping him up, then pushing him up onto the car. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Bruised. My self-confidence took a bit of a hit, but…” Then he saw them. The real danger. Traipsing towards the airport from the east. In the trees. At least twenty. The nearest only ten metres away.

  Olivia fired.

  Pete reached for his rifle and realised it was on the ground, where he’d fallen. He thought of jumping down to get it, but a rumble distracted him. At the airport, by the entrance, a tank advanced. Corrie and the mechanics, now armed, rode on the armoured machine. But far closer, he saw the limping soldier, still gamely plodding towards danger. And behind the soldier were the undead. The nearest zombie was five metres from the limping soldier, and gaining ground.

  Pete jumped down, running faster than he’d run since high school, but it wouldn’t be fast enough. The soldier, already battling against pain, was so focused on reaching the car, he hadn’t realised the zombie was just behind, nor that there were two more, just behind that first creature. Pete ran. The tank advanced. The soldier limped. No one was quick enough.

  The zombie lurched forward in a falling dive where both of its out-flung arms slammed into the soldier’s injured leg. The man screamed as he fell, turning, twisting, trying to bring his gun to bear, but when he fired, j
ust after he hit the ground, the bullet went wide, disappearing into the trees. Yelling and screaming, he rolled onto his back, firing again, but now the shots were too high, whistling over the zombie’s head as it bit down, ripping at the man’s ankle. He screamed again. But Pete had reached him.

  Pete grabbed the zombie’s neck. Beneath his fingers, the flesh was a stomach-churning patchwork of tissue-soft and rock-hard, breaking and tearing as he ripped the zombie from the soldier. The creature twisted and bucked as Pete hurled it sideways. Somehow, that resulted in the zombie finding its feet. It staggered back a step before lurching forwards. Now Pete screamed as he wrestled with the button on his holster, but his fingers were too covered in gore. He dragged his bayonet free instead. The zombie lurched on, less than a metre away, oozing pus from ragged tears in the skin of its neck, spitting and hissing as its mouth snapped down on splintered teeth. Pete plunged his bayonet forward into a sightless eye, releasing the knife as the zombie collapsed.

  Pete hauled the soldier up. “The tank!” he yelled. It was closer, and getting closer still, but there were two zombies between them and it. No, five, as another three lurched out of the trees. Then four as one was shot by someone on the tank. Three.

  A bundle of golden fur bounded forward, leaping from the tank, sprinting across the ground, barrelling into the legs of the nearest zombie, knocking it from its feet as Pete carried the bleeding soldier to the tank. People followed Rufus down, Corrie and a mechanic. With the mechanic on the other side of the injured guard, Corrie providing covering fire, and Rufus snapping and snarling in the direction of the nearest enemy, they ran on until they reached the tank.

  Hands reached down, wondrously warm and alive. They hauled the injured soldier up, then Pete, the mechanic, and then Corrie. Rufus turned tail and bounded down the highway, darting through and around the dozens of the undead who’d reached the road behind Pete. There, in the distance, further away than he’d imagined, was the car. On the roof, alone, stood Olivia, firing into the undead. Not alone. Rufus leaped onto the roof of the car, but there was little comfort in that.