Surviving the Evacuation, Book 15

by Frank Tayell

  “It’s the beach,” Bill said.

  “There aren’t any boats?” Chester asked.

  “Oh, there are boats,” Bill said. “Lots of boats. Or there were. Now there are wrecks.”

  Slowly, Locke and Bill climbed out of the ATV. Chester followed more swiftly.

  “I can see a beach. I can see boats,” he said, tilting the glasses. “I can see… are those concrete pillboxes? World War Two era, right? And between them… wait, are those the boats?”

  “They’re hulls, not boats,” Bill said. “Rusting steel. Broken fibreglass. Rotten sails. Fractured plastic. Splintered wood.”

  “Tam wasn’t lying, then,” Chester said. “It goes on for as far as I can squint. There must have been hundreds.”

  Locke climbed up to the ATV’s turret. “There are more than hundreds,” she said. “It stretches as far as I can see. Hulls, not boats, not ships.”

  “Nothing that’ll float?” Chester asked.

  “Probably not,” Locke said. “Maybe there’s a hull or two that’s still sound, but disentangling anything from the wreckage would take weeks. I can’t tell where one boat ends and the next falls apart. When they brought them ashore, they must have lined them up, and a storm in the months since knocked them over. Many storms.”

  “Tam can’t have known it was like this. He would have said,” Bill said.

  “Why should he have known?” Locke replied. “They brought their ships ashore, and here he thought they would stay, dragged up on the beach, three, four, even five deep. Eight months of weather has done the rest.”

  “Not just on the beach,” Bill said. “There are boats in the water, too. Rather, you can see the broken masts jutting up above the waves.”

  “Where?” Locke said. “Oh,” she added. “Everywhere. Yes, I see them now.”

  Chester took a step forward, and his foot ground against something small, hard, and metallic. He bent. “Bullet casing,” he said.

  “There’s movement down there,” Bill said, taking a step. “By that pill box. It’s a… No, it’s just a zombie.”

  “What about behind us?” Chester asked.

  Locke turned around. “Not yet, but they will have followed the ATV. We don’t have long to decide what we’re doing.”

  “What can we do?” Bill said. “We have to keep driving. There’s no point staying here.”

  “The boats are six or seven deep, counting those in the water?” Chester said. “And this stretches for miles? Then there are thousands of boats.”

  “Yachts, sailing boats, a trawler,” Locke said. “What appears to be a barge.”

  “Right, but that’s too many, isn’t it?” Chester said. “Only a couple of hundred people came ashore here and went with the general down to Creil, right?”

  “A bit less than that,” Bill said. “I didn’t ask how many were on each boat, but yes, that’s too many ships by a factor of ten. Then again, Tam did say that, when they reached here from Ireland, some stayed with the general, others went north. Perhaps they turned around.”

  “After finding others, perhaps,” Locke said. “Or these boats came from England. There’s little point speculating, and I see even less purpose in going down to the beach to investigate. I propose we continue south, find the furthest edge of these wrecks, and investigate the craft at a point where we’d be able to drag a boat into the water.”

  They detoured inland and cross-country until they met a road that looped westward again. When they reached the coast a second time, they stopped at a small car park, built above the beach.

  “It’s much the same as the beach to the north,” Bill said, after a brief glance. He climbed up onto the turret, surveying the land through which they’d driven.

  “Looks like a narrower beach,” Chester said, walking around to the front of the ATV.

  “And with fewer boats,” Locke said. “The vessels are more distantly spaced, but they appear just as wrecked. I can’t see a single mast that isn’t broken, nor a sail that’s intact. The tattered remains flap like the banners of a fallen army.”

  “Forget sails,” Chester said. “We’ve got spare fuel, yes? You said we were making good economy.”

  “We can manage another fifty kilometres of driving,” Locke said. “Perhaps twice that if we stick entirely to roads.”

  “So, at sea, that’s… what is that? Twenty, thirty kilometres? That’s enough to reach England.”

  “Ten kilometres would be more realistic,” Locke said. “Particularly for an engine that’s been left out to rust for nine months.”

  “Ten kilometres? But we can let the tide to do some of the work,” Chester said. “We only need to use the engine to keep us heading west. We’d end up in Kent, and I walked through there last summer. The roads weren’t that bad. We can find some bikes, and we’ll triple the distance we can travel before night.”

  “Except we won’t have ten kilometres of fuel,” Locke said. “We’d have to use the ATV to re-float the boat, and do so by driving into the sea, towing the hull behind us. We’d only know if the boat was watertight once it was in the sea, at which point we wouldn’t be able to salvage the ATV. It’s designed to be amphibious, but it was surely intended to drive onto land, not off it. Then there are those wrecks in the shallows. I can easily count ten broken masts, but who knows what’s there that we can’t see? It might be impossible to force a passage. We might not even be able to get the ATV out into deep enough water that the boat we’re towing can float. And, before we do any of that, we have to repair an engine, which means we first must find tools. I won’t say this is an insurmountable problem, but it’s a task that will take days, not hours. The longer we’re here, the more food and water we’ll have to find, which will probably mean driving to the nearest village, or perhaps into Dunkirk.”

  “And there’s the undead,” Chester said. Even he could see the creature on the beach. Lying face first on the sand, covered in ragged strips of seaweed and rotting sailcloth, it had been perfectly camouflaged. On hearing the sound of the approaching engine, the creature had begun thrashing its way to its feet, but only now had it managed to stand. Seaweed and sail hung from its frame, a dark cloak, trailing behind as it inched towards them. Chester curled his hand around the tyre-iron. “Maybe we should take a look at a few motors, make our decision from a point of knowledge.”

  “No,” Bill said. “We’d waste a couple of hours, and then more to find tools, and before we know it, it’ll be nightfall. If even one boat was afloat, or if we had a surplus of fuel, or if any one thing was in our favour, I might say yes, but since we won’t have enough diesel to reach Dover, we’re just wasting time.”

  “Then we need an alternative?” Chester asked. “Best option is to look for a quay or jetty. Surely, since this flotilla didn’t all arrive with Tam, some of the ships will have gone to a harbour and found there were no empty berths.”

  “Perhaps,” Bill said, “though I expect half the reason that they came to these beaches is that the port of Dunkirk was destroyed. There won’t be any anchorage there.”

  “There’s no harm in looking,” Chester said.

  “Except another lost day,” Locke said. “And we risk losing the ATV by taking it into an urban environment.”

  “What’s to the north of Dunkirk? Belgium? There are lots of ports there, lots of harbours.”

  “Unless these are the boats belonging to that Dutch coast guard commander who went north when Tam and the general went inland,” Bill said. “In which case, if they turned around, abandoning their craft here, like this, we can assume there’s no safe anchorage south of Holland. What else did Tam say? The furthest north the people in Creil reached was Rotterdam, and that was overrun.”

  “We don’t have the fuel to reach Rotterdam,” Locke said. “We don’t have the range to return to Creil.”

  “And they would have left there by now,” Bill said. “You think we can manage a hundred kilometres?”

  “At best. I would say fifty is more likely
,” Locke said. “If we’re still looking for a boat, we should travel southwest to Boulogne-sur-Mer.”

  “If?” Bill asked. “You don’t think we should?”

  “We have no food, and next to no water,” she said. “When we run out of fuel, we lose the ATV, and so the relative warmth and absolute safety it provides. I don’t want to waste what scant resources we have left. However, I don’t have a better suggestion.”

  “Let me see those maps,” Chester said, opening the cab door, and pulling them out. “Right. Either we cross the Channel, turn around and try to catch up with Scott, Salman, and Amber, or we head south, making for the Pyrenees and warmer weather. However you look at it, we need diesel. A lot of diesel. Even if we decide to turn back, we’ll lose the rest of today finding fuel, and then all of tomorrow getting to Creil, by which time they’ll be two days ahead of us. Yes, here we are. Okay.” He ran his finger over the map. “Yeah. Yep, this might work. There’s no point us going back since it won’t help them. Those satellites won’t locate the plane now, but they might find the horde, meaning they won’t look further south towards where the convoy is travelling. No, we’re their only hope, so we’ve got to cross the Channel. The simplest way of doing that is in Calais. Here, the Channel Tunnel. That’s where we go.”

  “The Tunnel was destroyed,” Bill said.

  “Was it?” Chester asked. “How do we know, and how was it done? Was it bricked up? Sealed with metal sheets? Was it blown up? And how well was it blown up? Could people squeeze their way through the rubble? Could the ATV? There’s one sure-fire way to find out. More importantly, we need diesel, and they’d have a supply at the railway depot.”

  “The Tunnel was electrified,” Locke said.

  “Yes, but they’d have service-vehicles, wouldn’t they?” Chester said. “And some kind of emergency locomotive in case there was a power cut and they needed to shunt an engine out of the way. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the fuel’s gone. But if we can actually drive through that tunnel, we’ll be in Kent before nightfall. We could be at the Irish Sea this time tomorrow.”

  “And then what?” Bill asked. “We’d still need a boat.”

  “A raft will do,” Chester said. “We drive through an airport, find a raft from a crashed plane, bring that with us. Look, I’m not saying it’ll be easy. I’m not saying it’ll even be possible, but it’s worth a look. And if there’s no fuel, and no way through the Tunnel, we’ve still got a harbour to check for boats, plenty of buildings to search for food, and houses to find dry clothes. Perhaps even a bed or three.”

  “It’s within range,” Locke said.

  “And its better than standing here,” Bill said.

  Chester lingered by the edge of the car park’s barrier, pressing the glasses close to his face as he peered at the zombie staggering across the beach. It had barely made a dozen yards. It fell to the sand, thrashing. It was the perfect metaphor.

  Chapter 22 - Arrivals and Departures

  The Eurotunnel Depot, Calais

  Chester barely registered the landscape as they drove south and west.

  “Expecting there to be boats in Dunkirk was foolish of us,” Bill said.

  “I wouldn’t say foolish,” Chester said, though reality’s grip was slowly squeezing all optimism from him.

  “Wishful thinking, then,” Bill said. “I should have quizzed Tam for longer, found out precisely what he meant about craft being left on the beaches. I should have considered what Tam said, then compared it to my own experiences. As for the Channel Tunnel, I don’t hold any great hopes we’ll be able to drive the ATV through. We might be able to manage it on foot, but if the Tunnel is traversable by the living, the same is true for the living dead. A thirty-mile hike through a pitch-black, zombie-filled tunnel? That would be suicide.”

  “Aren’t we Mister Cheerful?” Locke said.

  “Sorry, yes. It’s my hand,” Bill said. “I can feel my missing fingers throbbing with the cold, and that’s souring my mood. But I can’t help think that Claire was right. We should have stayed in Creil. Instead, I’m worried we’ll lose the ATV, and then lose weeks wandering the coast looking for a way to cross the sea.”

  “Could be worse,” Chester said. “Could be raining, though is it me or is it getting darker?”

  “It’s the clouds,” Locke said. “Looks like another flash-storm approaching. I propose we stop at the railway station and gather food while the rain pours and the wind howls.”

  “I doubt we’ll find much,” Bill said. “An international railway depot is an obvious place to look for supplies, and so one of the first where many hundreds of refugees will have gone before us.”

  “Not in the station,” Locke said. “But on the roof. We shall hunt birds, catching those that are sheltering from the storm. Sign. The Channel Tunnel is ahead. Ah, now, which way?” She slowed the ATV down to a crawl. “Long-term parking seems appropriate, and we might find fuel in the tanks of abandoned vehicles.”

  “Take that small road with no signpost,” Bill said. “It should be for service traffic and that’ll lead us to the depot for emergency vehicles. That’s where we’ll find a map that’ll tell us where to look for an emergency diesel store.”

  “Eyes open for zombies,” Locke said as she made the turn. “Hmm. Yes. Eyes open and weapons ready. Those cars ahead look like a barricade.”

  “Can you get the ATV through? Is there enough room?” Bill asked.

  “I think so,” Locke said. “And there’s an empty road beyond. Hold on.”

  There was a grinding scrape as the front of the ATV pushed against the four-by-four.

  “Another few hours,” Chester said, “and maybe we’ll be back in—”

  The ATV jumped upward. Chester was thrown back. A wall of pressure slammed against his chest. White noise filled his ears. The sound of the explosion came a second later, but as an indistinct jumble lost in a deafening ringing.

  “Everyone okay?” Bill yelled.

  “It was a mine!” Locke replied.

  “Are you okay?” Bill yelled.

  “A mine! It was a mine in the road!” Locke bellowed.

  “Smoke,” Chester muttered. He pushed at the door. It wouldn’t open. “Smoke.”

  Partially deafened and utterly disorientated, one thought cut through all the others: the ATV was burning. He reached up, and pushed open the turret-hatch. A cloying grey cloud billowed around him as he pushed his head outside. Dirty black plumes poured from underneath the engine. He dropped back down.

  “Go! Up and out!” he said.

  “A land mine!” Locke yelled.

  Chester grabbed Locke’s collar, hauled, and pushed her up through the turret. Initially, she struggled, until she inhaled the oily fumes. She coughed, gagged, but clumsily clambered up to the turret. Chester pushed Bill after her, then, coughing, eyes streaming, handed the bag and the rifle up to them, before clambering onto the roof, then down to the road immediately behind the ATV. Together, they limped blindly back up the road, until they were two hundred yards away, and clear of the smoke.

  As distance led them towards clearer air, the bell clamouring between Chester’s ears begin to subside. “Everyone—” He began, then spat to clear his throat and mouth. “Everyone okay?”

  “Define okay,” Bill said. “The ATV’s not.”

  The treads on the right-hand-side were cleaved in two. Smoke billowed through the open turret, while darker plumes flowed up from beneath the vehicle.

  “Let me be the one who states the obvious,” Chester said slowly. “We’re not driving the ATV anywhere again. Did we drive over a landmine?”

  “Not over, into,” Locke said. “I think…” She shook her head. “I think it was positioned in the door of that car. As we pushed a path between those two vehicles, it was triggered.”

  “It amounts to the same thing, I suppose,” Chester said. “And where there’s one mine, there’s bound to be more. That puts the kibosh on us looking for fuel here.”

  “It does,
” Bill said. “Pity. I guess that—” He coughed. “That mine suggests someone wanted to protect the railway station.”

  “No,” Locke said. She bent over, bracing her hands on her knees. “No, before you get any bright ideas about scavenging in the railway depot, let me say no, absolutely not. The tank’s armour saved us that time, and with it, we have expended every last ounce of luck.” Slowly, she straightened, but then bent over and retched. “Urgh.”

  “A land mine,” Chester muttered. “They mined the Channel Tunnel. That’s what they were protecting. Not supplies, but the Channel Tunnel itself.”

  “We shouldn’t be surprised,” Locke said. “We thought the Channel Tunnel was destroyed. They said it was destroyed. We should have known Quigley wouldn’t stop at simply sealing the tunnel. He mined the depot, too, just to bring further misery to the legions of refugees. Zombie,” she added. “No, behind us.”

  Bill and Chester turned around.

  The creature staggered into the road, forty metres behind them. Ragged strips of cloth flapped in the thin breeze as it raised its withered arms.

  “Shoot it,” Bill said.

  “It’s a waste of a bullet,” Locke said.

  “I’m bruised and exhausted,” Bill said. “And I doubt either of you are much better. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  Locke lined up the shot, waited until the zombie took another shuffling step, had straightened its head, and had begun to open its mouth. She fired. It fell, splashing into a shallow puddle at the side of the road.

  “We’ll go towards Calais,” Bill said. “Find somewhere to shelter, and to regroup.”

  “You think Quigley mined the Eurotunnel?” Chester asked as they walked back up the road.

  “I’ve no idea, but I prefer having a target for my rage,” Locke said.

  Chester said no more, but concentrated on walking. Limping was a better word. Staggering closer still to the mark. Soot and smoke blackened, in their damp and dirty clothes, they looked little different to the undead. Three times before they reached the motorway, he was able to confirm it. Locke shot the creatures, each time with a grumbled hiss of anger at the expenditure of a bullet, but none of them had the energy for more personal combat.