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

by Tayell, Frank

  “The way those zombies are trying to break in? Yep,” Corrie said.

  “Why would Kempton have brought Trowbridge here?”

  “Winters, not Kempton,” Corrie said. “And because of the helipad. That’s how she was going to get out.”

  “The helipad?”

  “You didn’t see it? Down the avenue marked with flowers.”

  “Oh. Right. Sure.” Pete peered around the corner again. “They’re all dressed in blue and gold. The zombies. That’s her people.” He leaned back against the hut. “So that’s what went wrong. Kempton’s people were here.” He frowned. “So were they infected? Or did they get infected afterwards?” He glanced at the ground, then left and right. “How did they get infected? How did zombies get here?”

  “Good question,” Corrie said. “A better one is how we’re going to get through that fence.”

  Pete took one more look around the hut.

  “I can’t see a gate. It must be on the far side. I’ll go look for it.”

  “No, wait,” Corrie said. “There might be more zombies roaming the construction site. Better we stick together. We can figure out how to get inside after we’ve shot the zombies.”

  “Speaking of that, where’s Olivia? Shouldn’t she have got here by now?”

  “Give her time,” Corrie said.

  Again, he listened for the TAPV. He should have heard it by now. What if there were more gangsters? What if they’d followed the sound of gunfire down to the train tracks?

  There were more of the gangsters.

  They hadn’t gone down to the train tracks.

  “Well, isn’t this nice?” a woman said from above. “No, don’t move.”

  Pete spun. Corrie did the same. Above, on the flat roof of the extended cabin, stood the CIA agent, Ms Winters, a gun trained on them both.

  “We’re not with the cartel,” Corrie said quickly.

  “Pity,” Winters said. Her gun didn’t move. “Drop your rifles. Thank you.”

  “But you are with the cartel, aren’t you?” Corrie asked as Pete dropped his rifle, and she leaned hers against the cabin wall.

  “Not with, no,” Winters said. “Ah, Feldman. Watch them!”

  A man in body armour over a blue and gold jumpsuit had appeared from the far end of the cabin. He carried a submachine gun to which was attached a suppressor.

  Winters lithely jumped down from the roof, landing with a spray of mud on the loose-packed dirt. “I see you’re members of the press,” she said, pointing at the faded paint on their battered body armour. “Why are you here?”

  “We’re looking for fuel,” Corrie said. “We’re taking news of what happened along the Saint Lawrence to British Columbia.”

  “Except you’re not, are you?” Winters asked, seemingly incurious as to what had happened on the Saint Lawrence. “I recognise you two. You were in Wawa. You had a dog, didn’t you? And here you are, and you know about the cartel. So, who are you really?”

  “Just curious journalists,” Corrie said with an edge of desperation.

  Winters shook her head. “No, that won’t do.” She extracted a small aluminium case from a hip pocket. “What are you two to each other? Friends? Comrades? Lovers? No… there’s a similarity in appearance. You’re related, aren’t you?”

  Pete said nothing. Nor did Corrie. Even so, Winters smiled.

  “Ah, I thought so.” She opened the case. Inside were five small vials and a pair of syringes. “This is it,” she said. “Such a small thing. Such an innocuous thing. Yet it is the root of all our troubles, the seed of all our solutions.” She held it up, smiled, and waited.

  “That’s the virus?” Corrie asked.

  Winters gave a satisfied nod. “And I shall infect one of you. The other will live. So, I shall ask again, how did you come to be here, and who are you really?”

  “Is that what happened to those people behind us?” Corrie asked. “You infected them deliberately? That’s why you’re happy standing here in the open? You know there are no more undead anywhere nearby.”

  “Indeed,” Winters said. “But I’m very tired of people asking me questions without answering my own. One of you lives. The other dies. Decide.”

  Pete glanced at the soldier, but he was four metres away, with the barrel raised, his finger on the trigger. Winters was closer, but not close enough. He shook his head. Corrie simply shrugged.

  “Ah, no, you misunderstand,” Winters said. “I appreciate you would rather die than betray each other. But would you die to save the other? If you talk, I’ll infect you, and let the other live.”

  Pete looked at Corrie and nodded his head. Corrie looked at Pete and shook hers.

  “Yeah, fine,” Pete said quickly. “I’ll talk. If you let her go. Now. First.”

  “Oh, no,” Winters said. “Not yet.” She stabbed the needle into his arm, depressing the plunger even as he reflexively pulled his arm back. He swore. Loudly, and again, cursing in increasing volume because he was almost sure he’d heard something on the wind. Almost sure. Certain enough to take a gamble on being immune, but not so certain he’d risk Corrie’s life, too.

  “Oh, it doesn’t hurt that bad,” Winters said. “Not yet. The pain comes next, from what I’ve seen. Next and soon. So talk or I’ll infect her, too.”

  The rumbling roar grew in volume.

  “Fine,” Pete said loudly, staring at Winters. “I’ll talk. I work for Lisa Kempton. That’s right. I sell carpets for her. Regional manager, for the Midwest, that’s me.”

  Winters frowned, tilted her head, stepped back, and peered along the avenue, then up at the sky. “Feldman, go,” she said, as she snapped the metal case closed and drew her sidearm, aiming the pistol at Pete and Corrie.

  Feldman had managed two steps out onto the roped avenue when the TAPV, weaving erratically as it bounced over the rutted unpaved mud, sped towards them. Without slowing, the truck slammed into the corner of the wire fence ringing the cabin. Metal struts flew into the air. Wooden props snapped. The upper row of fencing collapsed as the TAPV kept going. The armoured vehicle carved through six metres of the barrier before riding up and onto a timber beam sturdier than the others. Wheels still spinning, it twisted, rolled, landing on the passenger side, the undercarriage facing the cabin and the now approaching undead jailers.

  “Kill the hostiles,” Winters said wearily.

  Feldman raised his weapon and began shooting the undead. One shot, one kill, and each in the forehead.

  Pete coughed. He clutched his stomach, doubling over.

  “Ah, he turned quickly, this one,” Winters said. “I wouldn’t do that,” she added as Corrie knelt down by her brother’s side.

  Pete groaned, hunching over, twisting so he was side on to Winters. Turning so the CIA agent couldn’t see Corrie reach for his holster. Groaning loudly to cover the sound of the button being unsnapped. Behind them, from the direction of the cabin, came a loud bark, then an even louder burst of automatic fire.

  As Winters looked up, Corrie drew Pete’s sidearm, emptying three bullets into the CIA agent’s head. As Winters died, Corrie spun to face Feldman, firing even as more bullets were fired from the shadows. By the time Pete had dragged himself up, Feldman was as dead as the zombies now dripping gore into the mud.

  Rufus bounded forward, leaping up, paws forward, onto Pete’s waist, nearly knocking him back over.

  “Are you okay?” Olivia asked, stepping out of the shadows as Pete grabbed his rifle.

  “I think so… maybe. More or less. Assuming I really am immune. Ask me again tomorrow. How did you survive the crash? You don’t even look scratched.”

  “I wasn’t in the truck,” Olivia said. “There was another guy waiting by the TAPV when I got back.” She shrugged. “I figured there might be more of them. So when I got back to the track, I stopped and came to take a look. I saw you two, and them, and did the rest with a rock on the gas and my belt on the steering wheel. That’s Winters, isn’t it?”

  “It is,�
� Pete said. “It was. And she was cartel.” He bent down and took out the small case from the corpse’s pocket. He extracted the vials and crushed them beneath his boot. “Let’s go see if Trowbridge is still alive. Wow,” he added, as they walked nearer to the TAPV. “That fence really did a number on the truck. I guess we’re walking to Pine Dock.”

  It wasn’t Trowbridge in the cabin.

  The key was in the lock. Even as Corrie turned it, the door was pulled inward from the other side, revealing a dishevelled, unwashed, but smiling face.

  “Lisa Kempton,” Corrie said.

  “Ms Guinn, did I not say we’d meet again? Mr Guinn, as always, it is a genuine pleasure to see you. And what did you say your dog’s name was?”

  “Rufus,” Pete said.

  “Rufus, wonderful. And have I had the pleasure?” she added, addressing Olivia.

  “This is Olivia Preston,” Pete said.

  “His girlfriend,” Olivia added. “And your former employee. Pete and I worked together in the carpet store in South Bend.”

  “Ah, you are the young woman to whom he was talking in the snow,” Kempton said. “But how did you come to be here? No,” she added, holding up a hand. “There isn’t time. Not here. Not yet. How many are dead?”

  “Of Winters’s people? Five, plus Feldman and Winters herself,” Corrie said. “Why are you here?”

  “Where else would I be?” Kempton said, striding across the mud to where Feldman lay. She picked up the suppressed submachine gun from where it had fallen. “You said seven are dead? There could be two more,” she said. “Hoyle left two days ago, with the majority of Winters’s people. Two others disappeared last night. I think they decided a nuclear war voided all contracts and obligations, and that they would be better seeking employment in sunnier climes. It is possible I am wrong, so we must be cautious. And we must be quick. Did you come here to find me?”

  “No, we’re here more or less by accident,” Pete said. “We’re on our way to British Columbia, to see if help can be found for the army that was being formed along the Saint Lawrence.”

  “These are the soldiers who were in Wawa?” Kempton asked. “Led by General Yoon?”

  “Them and others who’ve come to the colours since,” Corrie said.

  “A lot of others,” Pete added. “Canadian and American. But they were close to at least one of the nuclear bombs. We’re not sure how close, or how many are still alive, or what help can come, but we’ve got to try.”

  “Don’t we indeed?” Kempton said.

  “These zombies, they were your employees?” Olivia asked.

  “The winter logging team,” Kempton said. “Merely seasonal labourers employed to clear the land for this facility prior to the installation of phase-one, the more permanent base for staff. I assumed they had left. After news of the undead, after three weeks without pay, why would they stay?”

  “They weren’t soldiers?” Corrie asked.

  “Soldiers are for armies,” Kempton said. “And armies are for countries. When individuals like myself gather them, it is called a gang, and I despise those.”

  “Which isn’t really an answer,” Corrie said. “But at least it wasn’t a question.”

  Kempton smiled. “Yes, I promised Tamika I would try to kick that habit. Speaking of her, we should get moving.”

  “Wait,” Corrie said. “Why did you bring Winters here? You did, didn’t you? Coming here was your idea?”

  “Of course,” Kempton said. “After I was captured, after she took me to Wawa, I needed an alternate plan. I led Winters to believe that this was an extraction site, a place where I kept supplies and a helicopter. In truth, assuming the site would be deserted, I thought it the best place to strand her. Here, somewhere the landscape would kill her. Unfortunately, the presence of the logging crew rather derailed my plans. No pun intended. This way,” she added, picking her way across the mud, away from the cabin and its corpses. “From what you said, you are aware there has been a nuclear exchange?”

  “Yes,” Corrie said. “They dropped bombs on Montreal and Ottawa, and on Lake Superior. We’re not sure where else, but there was at least one more mushroom cloud.”

  “Many, many more, I’m afraid,” Kempton said. “Yes, I failed, Ms Guinn. I do not know the extent of my failure, nor whether I achieved more than the smallest measure of success. Regardless, responsibility lies with me. I did not try hard enough. I can blame the existence of the undead, but that will not cure the world of these new ills. No. But when I implied this might be a safe redoubt for Winters, I still hoped the nuclear war might be averted. After Washington, after the British announced their evacuation, it was a slim hope. A forlorn one, as it turns out.”

  “Despair solves nothing,” Olivia said.

  “An apt saying for our times,” Kempton said.

  “It was something our old boss used to say. The woman you bought the carpet store from.”

  “Nora Mathers? A charming woman,” Kempton said. “I wish I’d met her under different circumstances. Now, here we are.” She’d stopped outside another cabin. This one had no fence, but there was a padlock on the door. “After we left Wawa, we came here.”

  “Wait,” Olivia said. “You tried to stop this nuclear exchange?”

  “Indeed.”

  “With Corrie’s help?” Olivia asked.

  “In part. And with the assistance of others, and through my own efforts. Yes. Obviously, I failed.”

  “Because the plans were already underway,” Olivia said. “The orders had already been given before the outbreak, right? So if it hadn’t been for the undead, the nuclear war might have been stopped?”

  “And if it hadn’t been for the nuclear bombs, the undead might have been stopped,” Kempton said. “Though dwelling on what might have been is surely the shortest route to despair. It was about power. Politicians desperate to acquire it, and gangsters eager to avoid capture and death. That is how it began, years ago. The situation escalated. Their fears fed one another, became intertwined until their fates were linked. Their failure, and their deaths, was inevitable. Or would have been had it not been for the undead.”

  “How did you get to Wawa?” Pete asked. “How come you were a prisoner there?”

  “Those are questions for another time,” Kempton said. “And time is pressing. As I say, Hoyle left a few days ago with most of Winters’s crew. She, and they, must be stopped. After we left Wawa, I still hoped that the nuclear war had been averted. I believed coming here, stranding Winters in the frozen north, would give a chance for the Marines to act. They died first. I still hoped the cartel thugs would have deserted, and perhaps, in time, they would. Ms Guinn, would you mind assisting me with the door?”

  “You want me to open the cabin?” Corrie asked. “Who’s in here?”

  “Trowbridge,” Kempton said. She slapped the side of the cabin. “Trowbridge? Are you alive?”

  A pitiful groan came from inside that certainly didn’t belong to a zombie.

  “They brought the president here, too?” Olivia asked.

  “Despite the ceremony you witnessed, he is not the president,” Kempton said. “I don’t believe Grant Maxwell is actually dead, and there are others more senior than Trowbridge still alive, or who were alive before I was so rudely detained. From what I have learned in the last few days, Trowbridge was the cartel’s insurance policy in case the nuclear war was averted. Winters had her own plans, of course. She intended to be made Vice President, then she would have killed Trowbridge herself. The sisters, the women who run the cartel, wouldn’t have stood for it. They don’t want to be the people in power, but the people in the shadows, controlling those in high office. Without the nuclear exchange, the cartel and the politicians, and their agents like Winters, would have killed one another. The collateral damage would have been high, but that is the cost of such a venal pursuit of power. Of course, the nuclear war changes everything. Perhaps the sisters are dead. Perhaps the other pretender-presidents perished, too. We do not
need presidents and prime ministers, but we do need leaders. We need to galvanise the survivors, to bring them together, to salvage what we can, to rebuild what we must, and replace what we need. The door, Ms Guinn.”

  With her bayonet, she broke the lock.

  Kempton pulled the lock free, pushed the door inward, took a step back and sighed. She raised the submachine gun, and fired. Three shots, and then another three.

  “Whoa, what!” Olivia exclaimed.

  Oddly, Pete wasn’t surprised.

  “He didn’t deserve to live,” Kempton said.

  “He was a prisoner, like you!” Olivia said.

  “Not like me, no,” Kempton said.

  “Yes, no,” Olivia said. “Because he ran a dozen charities while you were busy playing games with the lives of everyone on this planet.”

  “Ah, his charity work, yes,” Kempton said. “He claimed to be rehabilitating and rehousing young offenders. Very young. You don’t want to know what he really did.”

  “No, we don’t,” Corrie said firmly. “Okay, so Trowbridge is dead. But you say there are others calling themselves president?”

  “There are, or there were,” Kempton said. “Around themselves, they will gather military units and resources that would be better spent keeping the wider population alive. I will take care of them, one way or another. Unfortunately, that will not be an ending, but only the beginning. The nuclear war changed everything. Our purpose now, everyone’s purpose, is to ensure our species survives.”

  “And you want us to come help you?” Corrie asked.

  Kempton smiled. “No, I think not. There is someone on the U.S. East Coast whose assistance I shall enlist. Besides, I only have room in my helicopter for two.”

  “Your helicopter?” Pete asked. “I thought you said that was a ruse.”

  “Indeed it was,” Kempton said, “but that doesn’t mean I would be so foolish as not to make provision for my own escape. You said that you were on your way to British Columbia? You won’t make it on foot. To the west is a river. Follow it north for ten kilometres. You will reach a small hut in which there are some dirt bikes. They won’t get you to British Columbia quickly, but it will be faster than if you were on foot. In the hut is a small safe. Do not touch it. It’s wired to blow.”