by Frank Tayell
“No. Very radioactive. Do you know what a salted-bomb is?”
“Tuck explained it,” Nilda said. “A warhead that spreads isotopes with a long half-life over a wide area, ensuring that nothing can grow there for decades.”
“It was a second-wave weapon,” Leon said. “Something in storage, something they didn’t intend to use unless they had no choice. Why was it used? I don’t know, perhaps to seal off the Irish Sea. Who dropped it? I can guess, but it is irrelevant. However, it makes navigating from France to Ireland… difficult. The nuclear power station on Anglesey is leaking radiation into the Irish Sea. Compared to Cornwall, it is not so great a hazard, but the two combined make that body of water increasingly dangerous. This raises questions over the future.”
“I suppose it does,” Nilda said. Her exhausted brain tried to piece together what questions a radioactive Irish Sea posed. She’d expected a conversation about Simone, not this… this… whatever this was. “You mean about where we go after Calais?”
He gave an expansive shrug. “I don’t know where these questions will lead us, but it is wise to be aware of them. It is an interesting weapon, your sword.”
“Oh. Yes. It was Napoleon’s,” she said. “Rather, he had it made for one of his generals. It’s not from the Tower. My neighbour, back in Penrith, gave it to me. Sebastian. He was a teacher. I’m not sure where he found it, but he called the sword his retirement plan. An antique replica.”
“And you gave the sword to your son, but that man, Rob, took it. He said your son was dead. You took the sword from Rob on Anglesey.”
“You know? Of course you do. I suspect everyone on Anglesey knows.”
“It isn’t Anglesey, not anymore,” Leon said. “But yes, ours is a small world. Everyone knows everything about everyone. And everyone knows the admiral’s crew have demanded to return to America.”
“Demanded?”
“She promised that they would return. Despite this… this election, she has no choice but to acquiesce. An officer has to lead from the front, and can only hope that her people will follow, and so she must lead them where they want to go. Radiation from Cornwall and from Anglesey mean the Irish Sea will soon be un-navigable. When she leaves Dundalk, she will have to travel north. To Svalbard, to refuel, then Newfoundland and New England. It is the only logical choice.”
“And you?” Nilda asked. “Or us?”
“Why would America be any better than Europe? You heard about the hospital in Dundalk?”
“That they found zombies which had died?” Nilda asked.
“Perhaps in a year, we can walk the woods unprotected.”
“It’s farming the fields unprotected that matters,” Nilda said.
“Bien sûr. Did you meet Heather Jones when you were on Anglesey?”
“I was barely there for a day,” Nilda said. “But Lorraine told me about her. She’s in Elysium, yes? I have friends there now. Greta and Eamonn.”
“Of course, Eamonn, the man who survived Birmingham. Heather Jones took her fishing fleet to Elysium, not Belfast.”
“Yes, we heard.”
“Dundalk changes everything,” Leon said. “Heather and I…” He frowned. “Before Dundalk, we thought our only option was to accompany the admiral to America. To do so would mean abandoning Heather’s fishing fleet. If we only need to wait a year maybe we have other options.”
“I think I understand. So what do you want from me? Why are you telling me?”
“I want an alternative,” Leon said. “Can we survive on this side of the Atlantic? Can we survive without the admiral?”
“I’ve no idea,” Nilda said. “Look at where we are, where you just rescued us from.”
“Ah, pardon, non. I meant that for the sake of the children, all of the children, if we can come up with an alternative, now is the time. Otherwise, after Calais, when we have the ships, we will have no choice but to travel together to America, leaving the smaller boats behind. None of us will ever return. Nor will our children, not for a dozen generations. Now is the time to think of an alternative, but I can think of none.”
Chapter 6 - Bittersweet Reunion
The Isle of Sheppey
Nilda perched at the prow, on a shallow shelf too narrow to be called a bench. One hand held the searchlight, while the other clutched the pitted metal railing that was the only protection against being thrown into the icy drink. As darkness descended, the lights had been turned on. Each yacht had a stadium’s worth of spotlights and lamps, all facing outward and all recently fitted, with wires haphazardly running through recently drilled holes in the deck. That was only partially reassuring. On the one hand, it showed that Leon, and perhaps others, had put some thought into traversing the tempestuous seas. On the other, of the available craft on Anglesey, none had been suitable for such a long voyage without such a crude retrofit.
Footsteps cautiously tapped across the deck behind her. She didn’t look around, but kept the light playing its slow arc. Left, then right, then down at the water so as not to shine on the boat directly ahead, then further right until the beam caught the edge of something that might be the shore, then left again.
“Norm says it’s only a couple of miles,” Jay said, sitting on the shallow shelf. “Radios are great,” he added. “We should have got some back in the Tower.”
“Radios need electricity,” Nilda murmured. “But yes, I suppose we should have. Perhaps we would have if we’d stayed, though if we’d stayed…” She trailed off as her eyes fell to the dark water.
They were in the middle of their water-borne caravan. Lorraine, Jennings, Kevin, Aisha, and the children were in the lead. Behind them came the boat with Tuck, Denby, and those who’d been in the other raft. Behind their own yacht came the two, as yet under-occupied, boats. All had searchlights playing back and forth, but only to the south did she catch occasional glimpses of land, none of which even approached a hospitable landfall.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“About ten thirty, Anglesey time,” Jay said. “At least the rain’s stopped.”
“And the wind is holding,” Nilda said. She glanced again at the water. “Or I think it is. We’re travelling away from the capital faster than the tide’s dragging us back.”
“The old capital,” Jay said.
“True,” Nilda said. “Can you take over for a bit? I want to have a word with Leon about what we’ll do when we arrive.”
Compared to the damp chill outside, the air inside the boat was stiflingly thick.
“Norm just called,” George said. “They’ve sighted wind turbines. Must be Sheerness. Can’t recall seeing any others when we came this way.”
“Nor can we,” Leon added.
“Then we’ve only a few miles to go,” Nilda said. “The anchorage was just before the bridges, and we don’t want to get too close to those.”
“We will have to use our engines,” Leon said, reaching for the radio.
“Do we have enough fuel?” Nilda asked.
“We shall see,” Leon said.
By the time he’d finished issuing instructions, Nilda wished she’d remained outside. The warmth was beyond soporific. The lack of illumination inside didn’t help. The instruments on the control console were backlit, while the lamps in the cabins had been hooded. Combined with the whispered conversation from below, the whole effect made her long for sleep. She might have tried to catch a few minutes’ shut-eye if it weren’t for the Duponts. The old couple still sat on the stairs; Pierre on the top step, Giselle two steps below. Their hands entwined, they simply stared at one another. For Simone, the reunion would be wonderful, but she worried what effect it would have on the other children. On the adults, too, come to that.
“Leon,” she said, “when we reach the shore, I’d like everyone to stay in their boats until we know it’s safe. I know they’ll want to…” She glanced at the Duponts, but they were lost in their own private heaven. “I know everyone will want to walk around, but it’ll have to
wait a few hours, and perhaps until closer to dawn.”
“Of course,” he said. “But I can secure our position. This is not my first time arriving at a hostile shore.”
“No.” Again she looked at the Duponts. “I think it’s best you stay with the boat. If there’s danger, we won’t be on land for long.”
She picked up her submachine gun, and returned outside.
“You weren’t gone long,” Jay said.
“We’re here, more or less,” Nilda said. “Norm spotted the wind turbines a few minutes ago.”
“And then we’ll go to the car-import place? That must be out there somewhere on our left.”
“No, I mean yes, but keep the light shining on the water around the boat,” she said. “We won’t look for fuel until the morning. Don’t forget those zombies crawling beneath the cars on the dockside.”
“Oh yeah,” Jay said, reaching down to rub his leg. “Yeah, better we wait for daylight.”
“Do you see the lights ahead?” Nilda said. “They’re turning. I think we’re here.”
As she spoke, a searchlight on the boat ahead settled on a figure shambling along the shore. A second later, the creature crumpled, and the light moved on.
“Zombies,” Nilda muttered. “Well, we were expecting it. There, that’s the jetty. Lorraine’s boat’s reached it. So has Tuck’s.”
The searchlights highlighted their silhouettes as a figure jumped from each of the ships, landed on the jetty, and sprinted into the darkness beyond.
“Our turn next,” Nilda said, rising to a crouch. The engine purred as Leon steered them closer. “Get ready with that rope,” Nilda said. She stood, gauged the distance as the jetty seemed to rise up then sink down, and jumped. She landed hard, slipping before she righted herself.
“The rope, Jay! Thanks.” She wrapped it around the nearest ring in a knot that didn’t satisfy her and certainly wouldn’t satisfy any sailor. She reached down, intending to retie it when, abruptly, she was shrouded in darkness. The searchlight had gone out.
“Mum, what’s happened?”
“We’ve drained the battery,” Nilda said. “Get some torches and lamps from inside.”
The other boats’ searchlights still functioned, and cast enough light to see Tuck ahead of her, already having alighted from her boat. The soldier’s hands moved. The shadows blurred the words, but Nilda could guess what the soldier was asking.
“Yes, this way,” Nilda said, and led the way along the jetty, passing Tuck’s boat, then Lorraine’s. The Scotswoman and Aisha were on deck. Kevin stood on the jetty, his rifle raised.
“Stay here, Kevin. No one comes past you. No one goes any further ashore. Lorraine, we’ll need torches and lamps. See how many you can scare up.”
She and Tuck kept moving as searchlights from all the boats danced across the shore. The U.S. Marine, Viola Denby, and the British submariner, Norm Jennings, had taken up position at the end of the jetty. The lights slung beneath their rifles tracked back and forth as they scanned the darkness for danger.
“Are we safe?” Nilda asked.
The answer came from inland, a crump, a clink, and then a soft crunch. Denby swung her rifle five degrees. The beam from the under-slung flashlight settled on a three-foot-high cluster of withered ferns just as the dull green fronds were pushed apart. A spectral figure stepped through. Like many, the person the zombie had once been had sought the most durable clothing it could find. This set looked like a firefighter’s gear. Months of exposure to sun and storms, to ragged hedges and jagged branches, had removed all semblance of shape, but the reflective strips were still intact, and they lit up as Denby’s light fell on the creature. The U.S. Marine fired as Nilda blinked, and she missed seeing the zombie collapse.
“Only one?” Nilda asked.
“Just one,” Denby said. “No. There. Another.” The Marine swung her light to the right as she spoke, firing before Nilda had a chance to raise her submachine gun. “Three,” Denby said, firing again. This shot was more rushed. Nilda saw dark gore spray from the creature’s shoulder before the Marine fired a second shot and the creature collapsed.
This time, Nilda said nothing. Ignoring the lights, she listened. The waves were the dominant sound, but beneath came a rattle, a clatter, a caw, a cough, a curse, but all from the boats.
“Clear,” Jennings said. “Only for a radius of fifty metres. Beyond that is very hostile territory.”
“Viola, check the right. Norm, take the left. Tuck and I’ll stop here. If there’s trouble, shout,” Nilda said. Marine and submariner moved silently inland, and beyond the searchlights’ moving beams. The lights from the two professionals’ torches hypnotically weaved and bobbed. Nilda found her head turning left, then right, following the lights, and so forced herself to look down, then to turn around.
Tuck had her rifle raised, eyes and barrel fixed on the darkness. In such shadows, Nilda couldn’t see the soldier’s eyes. It was pointless trying to sign, but Tuck would still spot danger before she did. But how much danger were they in?
A week ago, they’d come to Sheppey in the hope the island might be an alternate refuge to the Tower. They’d demolished the bridge connecting the island to the mainland, but the explosion had summoned the undead from Sheppey and Kent alike. They’d witnessed zombies stagger into the Swale, the narrow channel that separated the island from the Kentish mainland. And they’d seen the undead stagger out of the water onto the opposite shore. The channel was too shallow for the island to be a secure refuge, but what had happened to the undead woken by the explosion? Had they left the port and headed for the bridge, left the island and trudged into Kent, or had thousands poured across from the mainland onto the island?
She heard a rustling, and spun around, spearing her light into the darkness, but it was only a bush moving with the wind.
“Clear, ma’am,” Denby called.
“All clear, boss, for now,” Jennings echoed.
A moment later, both had returned to the jetty.
“There’s tarmac beneath the leaves,” Denby said.
“And there’s a hut to the south, with a road beyond it,” Jennings said. “I reckon this is a car park for people wanting to use the jetty. Inland, there’s a wall. At least one house behind it.”
“Viola, go back to the boats,” Nilda said. “Tell Leon we need another twenty minutes to check the house, and to take a look a little way inland. No one’s to come off the boats until we’re back. Then come and stand guard here with Tuck. Tuck, no one passes you, okay? Norm, you’re with me.”
“The house?” Jennings asked.
“The house,” Nilda said. She managed two steps towards it before she slipped on a patch of partially frozen leaves.
“You all right, boss?” Jennings asked.
Nilda slowed her breathing. “Fine. Fine. Too much haste. Too much speed. But it’s only ice, not snow.” She shone her borrowed torch over the ground, then the shed, the jetty, and the spindly branched overgrown bushes spilling over a cracked wall.
“I’ll take point,” he said. “Stay four steps behind, and keep your weapon aimed low and to the right.”
“Try not to shoot you in the back, you mean, got it,” she said.
It only took a few paces before the feel of the ground beneath her feet changed. She scuffed at the inch of leaves and mud. Beneath was a broad paving stone. The patio slabs were laid three across, creating a strip adjacent to a wall. Irregularly sized limestone was dotted with occasional basalt and far more frequent repairs of concrete and cement. Behind the wall was a tiered shrubbery suffocated by weeds thriving despite the onset of winter.
Jennings stopped where the wall was interrupted by a set of steep and narrow stairs. Each step was a solid slab into which decades of use had worn a curving indentation. Either side of the stairs, a more recent owner had erected a trellis. An even more recent storm had caused that to collapse, blocking the steps.
Holding his rifle in his right hand, aiming barrel and light upwa
rds, Jennings grabbed the wooden trellis, tugged, and brought his hand back holding a fistful of rotten wood.
“It’s a half-decent barrier,” he said. “Should keep the undead out, at least long enough for us to hear them coming.”
“Can you hear anything inland? I can’t,” she said.
“No owls, no insects, no dragging footsteps, no rasp of air in dead lungs.”
“Point taken,” she said. “Two more minutes, I want to check east and west.”
It took a little longer, but within five minutes she’d satisfied herself that the isolated jetty was sealed from the rest of the island’s coast. To the east, beyond the shed, was a salt-stained brick wall. To the west was a metal gate. The weak point was the collapsed trellis, but they’d hear the undead coming if they pushed their way through that barrier. All in all, it took less than twenty minutes since they’d come ashore. That was too long for the Duponts.
The jetty and boats were clearly illuminated by the remaining working searchlights. Despite the deep shadows, Nilda clearly saw Giselle Dupont clambering off the boat while her husband argued with Leon in a low hiss.
“Simone!” Giselle hissed at the people aboard Lorraine’s boat. “Simone?”
“Yes?” came a more familiar and much younger voice in reply.
“Simone?” Pierre asked. He scrambled over the side of the boat, slipped, but Leon caught his arm. The colonel bowed to the inevitable, and helped the old man ashore.
“Simone?” Giselle hissed again.
Simone pushed her way through the crowd of children on the yacht to stand next to Aisha. “Yes?”
“Simone? Non, Simone?” Giselle called again.
“I’m Simone. Who are you?”
Nilda realised when she was ten feet away. Giselle realised a moment later. The old woman sank to her knees, wordlessly sobbing. Pierre shook away the colonel’s hand, and slipped and skidded his way over to his wife. As he tried to lift her up, he turned to the boat. “Simone? Simone?”
“What’s going on?” Simone asked.
“Leon,” Nilda said, “help them back aboard. Sorry, Simone, a bit of a misunderstanding. It’s the language barrier. I should have paid more attention in school!” She laughed, and a few of the children copied her, but Simone only gave a quizzical smile. A proper explanation would have to be provided, but now wasn’t the time. “Okay, listen up everyone,” Nilda said, pitching her voice to carry. “It’s freezing cold and there are zombies ashore. This is not the Tower. It’s not safe. Tomorrow morning, we’ll head to the car-import place, grab some fuel, and continue. Make the most of the chance to rest. So, children, below! Go on, now.” Nilda took a step towards the children’s yacht, not relishing the conversation she was about to have. Aisha raised a hand.
