Last Stand For Man

by Ryan, Nicholas

  Breaking News: First cases of undead infection reported in London.

  Tremaine stood rooted to the floor for long seconds, unable to move. The contagion had reached Europe. The silent clock in Tremaine’s became a rapid ticking… counting down to something explosive.

  He pushed his way back through the unruly crowd to the reception desk. The woman behind the counter had a harried, panicked expression on her face. A man in a long dark coat hissed at her belligerently. He threw a wad of papers down on the counter. He was a big man, heavy in the gut and shoulder from too many expense account dinners, dressed in a dark suit. At his feet lay a single suitcase. He saw Tremaine and glared defiantly at him.

  “Back of the fuckin’ line!” the man growled. His accent sounded English, his breath foul with the stench of stale alcohol. Tremaine held the man’s threatening gaze evenly for long seconds and then turned deliberately to the receptionist.

  “Any luck with the train schedule?”

  “Yes,” the receptionist said.

  “Hey! Didn’t you hear me?” the businessman beside Tremaine jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. “I said to get to the back of the fuckin’ line.”

  Tremaine let out a sigh and turned to face the man. They were about the same height. The businessman’s eyes were dark little specks in a fleshy florid face.

  “I’m in the middle of something,” Tremaine said reasonably. “And it’s important.”

  “I don’t give a shit!” the man snarled, his face swelling. “I’m important.”

  The man swung an awkward punch at Tremaine, but he was cramped against the counter and his arm slowed by the drag of his heavy coat. Tremaine took the blow on his shoulder and then lunged forward and seized the lapels of the man’s coat with both his hands. He pushed the man hard and he went reeling backwards, tripped on the leg of a table and sprawled to the ground. Behind Tremaine’s back, the crowd of people waiting to check out of the hotel made an ugly, restless sound and Tremaine sensed they were on the verge of panicked riot. He slammed his hand on the top of the counter and the receptionist flinched.

  “Tell me!” Tremaine hissed.

  “There is one train tomorrow,” she said, scrawling the information onto a scrap of paper. It departs from Barcelona at 8:05 in the morning and arrives in Avignon at 12:30 in the afternoon.”

  “Direct train?”

  “There is one stop in Nimes for thirteen minutes to change trains,” the receptionist’s face flushed red with agitation. In the background a security alarm sounded from somewhere in the hotel.

  “There’s nothing sooner or faster?”

  “No,” the receptionist said. “That’s the only train.”

  Tremaine nodded grimly, then turned and glowered into the faces of the crowd. Their expressions were ugly, pressed in a pack close about him. Someone helped the English businessman unsteadily to his feet. The man dragged the back of his hand shakily across his mouth and glared with seething menace as Tremaine pushed his way through the wall of bodies and out once more into the warm Spanish night.

  Tremaine stood at the street corner and redialed the number for the French Minister of Health. Cars were racing past the intersection, something frenetic about the way they were moving. A police siren wailed out of the darkness and went speeding by in a strobe of flashing lights and an ugly roar of engine noise. Cars honked and drivers shouted and gestured aggressively at each other. Tremaine pressed the phone to his ear as the ring tone went on and on.

  Finally there was a click on the other end of the connection and Tremaine heard a tired, weary voice, the accent familiar. “Hello?”

  * * *

  “Maxime!”

  “Steven? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Where are you, my friend?”

  Boudin sounded exhausted. “I have just arrived back in Paris. The plane – there were delays. Are you still in Barcelona?”

  “Yes, Maxime, I am.”

  “And am I to assume that you have seen the dreadful news?” Boudin asked confidentially with a thin edge of fear in his voice.

  “I have.”

  There was a long silence. Tremaine could hear the French Minister talking to someone in hushed urgent tones, and then came the sound of a car’s engine revving in the background.

  “So…?” Boudin’s voice became very quiet. “What can we do to save the world, Steven?”

  Tremaine took a deep breath. “Maxime, the contagion has reached London. I just saw it on the news.”

  “Yes,” Boudin said heavily. “I have learned this also.”

  “It’s coming your way, Maxime. There’s nothing you can do to stop this virus from spreading into France.”

  The sudden silence lasted for so long that Tremaine feared that the connection had been broken. “Maxime? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Boudin said. He sounded very old and tired. “Then what can we do, Steven?”

  “Evacuate Paris, Maxime. Get as many people as you can out of the major cities and into the countryside. You need to disperse the population in the hope that the contagion will burn itself out.”

  Tremaine tried to imagine Maxime Boudin’s face, his expression crumbling under the crushing weight of his responsibility. He could picture the man out front of an airport, or maybe still on the tarmac, waiting to get into a government car. Tremaine lifted his own face and looked into the streaming banks of traffic speeding past the intersection where he stood. A taxi went past in a hurry – too fast for him to wave the driver down.

  “Maxime? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, Steven. I’m heading to the Ministry.”

  “No,” Tremaine said with curt alarm. “Maxime don’t go into Paris. If you do it’s a death sentence.”

  “Monsieur,” Boudin slipped into French for a moment and put sudden steel and pride in his voice. “Since the time of Bonaparte the French have been proud warriors. We have conquered most of Europe. Our bravery has never been questioned. I, for one, will not flee in the face of my responsibility to my nation nor my people.”

  Tremaine shook his head in frustration. “Maxime, I’m not talking to the Health Minister. I’m talking to you as a friend.”

  “Then as a friend, you should understand,” Maxime’s tone softened just a little. “And as a colleague you should respect my decision.”

  Tremaine sighed. “I have another option…” he began, measuring his words carefully. “The alternative to dispersing the population is to gather them together in a place that is absolutely defendable. A place that is fortified and provisioned, where people would be safe from the infected.”

  “And you know of such a place?” the fatigue in Boudin’s voice suddenly fell away.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Avignon, Maxime. It’s the only city I know of in the world that has a chance of standing like a bastion against this contagion.”

  “Avignon…” Boudin repeated the name as if trying to find a reference in his memory. Then, suddenly he had it. “The ancient walled city,” his voice came alive. “My God, Steven. Yes. It would be perfect.”

  “Then meet me there, Maxime.”

  “No,” Boudin said, emphatic and final. “I must stay in Paris.”

  Tremaine hung his head in frustration. “Then at least help me to save as many people as I can,” he pleaded.

  There was another interminable pause before Boudin answered. “Yes,” he said, decisive and emphatic. “I can do that. Tell me what you need.”

  Tremaine thought quickly. “I’m catching the morning train from Barcelona tomorrow. I’ll be arriving in Avignon at 12:30 in the afternoon. Maxime, I need someone to meet me at the train station.”

  “Done. I will have a police escort organized and waiting.”

  “And I need you to call the mayor of Avignon on my behalf. I need you to talk to the man directly – tell him who I am.”

  “Steven, I don’t have the influence to – ”

  “Then find someone who does, Maxime
!” Tremaine’s voice rose with irritation, and then dropped again immediately into something that sounded more patient. He tried to keep his tone neutral, his reasoning logical. “All I need is for the mayor and his staff to listen to me. I need them to hear me out. And I need to use whatever authority you do have to get their attention. Do that for me, old friend, and I can save thousands of people.”

  Boudin grunted into the phone and then his voice became firm with renewed authority. “Okay, my friend. I will do it. But Steven, don’t miss your train. At 2pm tomorrow, the President is going to announce that France will be immediately closing its borders. It’s only the second time such an unprecedented measure has been taken since 1962.”

  “It won’t help.”

  “Perhaps not,” Boudin conceded grudgingly. “But the last time the borders were closed was after the Paris shootings. The government has also heightened its alert status to one that is similar to an imminent terrorist threat.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that by tomorrow afternoon every crossing point into France will be a heavily guarded checkpoint. If you aren’t on that train, you won’t get into the country.”

  “Maxime,” Tremaine said ominously, “If I’m not on that train, then you can assume I am already dead.”

  “I hope that is not the case, my friend,” Boudin said seriously. In the background Tremaine heard car doors opening and closing, and the noise of the revving engine became louder, almost insistent.

  Tremaine raised his voice. “Take care of yourself, Maxime.”

  The Frenchman almost smiled wryly into his cell phone. “If that was all I had to do, Steven, I would be on the next plane to Avignon,” his voice became grave. “But I must do what I can to take care of my people, and for that reason, I must stay in Paris. It is you who should take care of yourself. The people of Avignon will need you. You might be the world’s last best hope for survival.”

  * * *

  Tremaine spent the night sleeping in a seat at Barcelona train station, so that when the train arrived into Avignon station the following afternoon, he stepped onto the platform feeling utterly exhausted. The journey north from Spain into the south of France had been painstakingly slow, and not even the passing view of the lush green countryside could distract him from his nightmare thoughts.

  The train was crowded, every available seat occupied by frightened people clutching their possessions close to them, and the air in the coach was thick with sweat and the coppery tang of fear. Tremaine stood very still on the platform while the other disembarking passengers swirled around him like rushing water around a rock.

  Tremaine waited until the train drew away from the station and went to the high glass windows. At the bottom of a concrete slope he had a view of a parking lot, sprinkled with vehicles that were baking under the warm afternoon sun. At one end of the lot stood a taxi stand, and drawn up beside a long row of waiting drivers was a police motorcade; three motorbikes in an arrow formation around a police Renault hatchback with darkly tinted windows. The rear door of the police car hung open and one of the motorbikes was unmanned. Tremaine headed towards the station exit and was met at the doors by a policeman wearing leathers and holding a helmet in one of his hands. The man looked young, with an unshaven gun-metal blue stubble of new beard across his jaw. He snatched off his sunglasses and studied Tremaine speculatively.

  “You are the Professor, yes?” his English was stilted.

  Tremaine nodded. “I’m Steven Tremaine,” he said.

  The policeman narrowed his eyes. Tremaine still had on the same rumpled suit he had worn to the seminar the previous evening. His tie had been folded and stuffed into one of his pockets, and his shirt hung open-necked and stiff with his dried sweat.

  “Your baggage?”

  “No,” Tremaine said simply. He was wearing everything he owned. He followed the policeman down a wide set of concrete steps and across the parking lot. The other two motorbike outriders saw him coming. They kick-started their machines, and the police car’s engine whined into life.

  Tremaine came to a halt in the parking lot and turned in a slow full circle. He could hear the distant hum of heavy traffic, but could see little. Trees, their leaves autumn brown and orange, fringed the entire area.

  “How far is it to the ancient city?” he asked the motorbike cop.

  The policeman shrugged. “Just five, maybe ten minutes,” he said. “The train station is a little way out from Avignon. We have another domestic train station nearby the old city. This one is for trains that come from, er… country to country, yes?” the inflection of his voice rose into a question to be sure Tremaine understood his fractured English.

  Tremaine nodded.

  The passenger door of the police car opened and a thin, wiry framed man climbed out and stood stiffly beside the vehicle. He wore a police uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. His hair was grey, cropped close to his skull and his face was tanned leathery brown, creased and wrinkled as an old pair of shoes. His eyes were brown, his mouth turned down at the corners as though he smiled rarely. He came towards Tremaine with crisp steps, his hand extended.

  “Monsieur, I am Captain Benoit Devaux, of the Police Nationale. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Avignon.”

  Tremaine shook the man’s hand. His grip was firm, his hand cool. “Thank you, Captain,” Tremaine said. “And thank you for the escort. You will take me to the mayor?”

  “Yes,” Devaux said, snapping out the word. His English was good. “These men are from the local Police Municipale. We will escort you to the mayor’s office. He is expecting you.”

  Tremaine looked bemused. He frowned and smiled curiously. “You have two different police departments operating within the same city?”

  Captain Devaux shook his head. “In France we have three tiers of enforcement,” he explained, very measured and precise with his words, speaking carefully to ensure his English pronunciation. “The Police Municipale are the local police. They deal with the mundane civil matters,” he gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. “Things such as parking tickets, yes?”

  Tremaine nodded.

  “And then the Police Nationale, of which I am the local captain in Avignon city, is for the solving of murders. Crime… robbery and such.”

  Tremaine began to understand. He nodded again.

  “And then we have the Gendarmerie. They are the French military. They have a headquarters in Avignon.”

  Tremaine widened his eyes hopefully. “Where in Avignon, exactly, Captain? Is their headquarters in the old part of the city or the new city?”

  “The old quarter,” Devaux said. “As is the office for the Police Municipale. My own division’s building is directly across the road from the old city. I can see the ancient walls from my office.”

  Tremaine felt a little lift of relief. Avignon had a population of around ninety thousand people, but only twelve thousand of them lived within the ancient great walls of the old quarter. The rest of the city sprawled for miles into the outlying country. To know that all three arms of the national law and enforcement were headquartered so close gave him a renewed surge of optimism.

  Tremaine climbed into the back of the Renault alongside the police captain and the lead motorcycle drew away, weaving through the parking lot. The car followed with the two outriders keeping position on either side of the vehicle. The car’s lights were flashing, siren wailing in the still afternoon air.

  The interior of the car was cramped but air conditioned. Tremaine felt his eyes become heavy and the fatigue turned his arms to lead. The view through the tinted windows showed rows of tall autumnal trees lining a wide road. Through the filter of foliage he caught occasional glimpses of a river, shimmering under a clear blue sky. Then the road veered into a wide sweeping loop. The river disappeared as the car came down a gentle slope and, suddenly before him, stood the ancient fortified wall of Avignon; a twenty five foot high solid limestone rampart with battlements spaced every hundred yards or so for
as far as he could see.

  Tremaine gaped in awe.

  “Stop the car!” he shouted from the back seat.

  The policeman driving the vehicle shot a perplexed glance over his shoulder and slowed. Tremaine already had his hand on the door handle, pushing it open. The car came to a lurching stop across both eastward lanes of traffic. One of the motorbike outriders slewed to an ungainly halt.

  Tremaine flung open the door, ignoring the traffic that was quickly snarling behind the police car, and lifted his eyes to the top of the wall with a kind of wonder. He had seen photos of Avignon’s famous medieval walls and had referred to the city many years before in a paper he had prepared on disease quarantine. Now he was looking at the imposing height of the structure and it awed him.

  The nearest battlement stood about forty feet high – well above the height of the intervening wall itself – and was surmounted with a crenellated parapet so that the top of the tower looked like a row of square stone teeth. Built into the bottom of the tower’s battlement stood a high open breach, wide enough for two intersecting lanes of traffic. The stonework was sprinkled with green moss and streaked with rivulets of mud lines, and the vaulted arch of the gateway looked darkened with soot and exhaust smoke. In front of the tower stood a sign:

  Porte St. Roch.

  “I don’t believe it…” Tremaine said incredulously. He turned and saw the police captain climbing out of the other side of the police car. Tremaine pointed to the wall.

  “Captain Devaux, how long is the wall?”

  “Over four kilometers,” Devaux said.

  “And it encircles the entire old city?”

  “Oui, monsieur,” he said. “Although part of the northern wall near the Pope’s Palace is natural cliff-face.”

  Tremaine pointed to the sign next to the gate. “Porte Saint Roch? Where is that?” he asked, confused.