Surviving The Evacuation (Book 15): Where There's Hope

by Tayell, Frank

  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.

  A scrubby field of dying weeds separated the motorway from the suburbs, and they crossed it without seeing any more of the creatures. The next zombie they came to was already dead.

  “It didn’t die recently,” Chester said. “Skull’s crushed.”

  “It’s a bakery and convenience store,” Locke said, her feet crunching on broken glass as she stepped closer to the shattered pane. “Two more bodies inside. Looks like they were shot.”

  “Any idea where we are?” Bill asked.

  “Not beyond the obvious,” Locke said. “It’s a side road, the beginning of the suburbs. If we continue north and west, we’ll reach the sea and the harbour.”

  The wide road was bordered by small, red-roofed houses, a mixture of bare brick, and plain-painted facades.

  “The wind’s rising,” Chester said. “Let’s find shelter before the storm.”

  A door banged open. A glass bottle rolled across the street before becoming lodged in a patch of mud on the furthest side of the road. From out of sight, but ahead, came a loud splash, and then another.

  “Feet. Zombies,” Locke said.

  “Then let’s find that shelter quickly,” Bill said. “Over there, over the wall, into the back garden.”

  He led them across the road, and over an unpainted breeze-block wall. The door to the rear of the house had been forced open long enough ago for a drift of leaves to pile up in the doorway. Bill gestured to the wall separating the house from its neighbour. In the next garden, he did the same, leading them from one property to the next, across overgrown lawns, leaf covered patios, sun-parched shrubberies, and frost-bitten rockeries until they reached a house with an unbroken back door.

  In place of a garden there was a long trench and an equally long pile of dirt. At the rear of the house, shreds of industrial plastic hung from the frame of a partially constructed one-storey lean-to.

  Bill swept his hand over the grime coating the cracked kitchen window. “Can’t see anything inside,” he said.

  “There’s one way to find out,” Chester said. He pushed his crowbar against the lock. The wooden frame broke first. The loud crack echoed louder than a suppressed shot.

  They stood frozen, and slowly freezing as the temperature plummeted, but remained motionless as they listened to the banging of doors and creaking of pipes from the neighbouring houses.

  “Can’t hear anything inside,” Locke whispered. “Go.”

  It was a small house, and only took a minute to give it a cursory search, after which, wearily, they reconvened in the small living room.

  Bill and Chester collapsed on either side of the sofa, while Locke slumped into the armchair.

  She sniffed. “Mildew.”

  “I think that’s us,” Chester said. “The sofa, I mean. Although…” He sniffed. “Yeah, let’s say it’s the house until we can find ourselves a shower.”

  “Was there anything in the kitchen?” Bill asked.

  “Cups, pans, no food,” Locke said. “What about upstairs?”

  “Not much,” Chester said. “More clothes on the floor than in the cupboard. Bed’s unmade. Think someone must have left in a hurry, soon after the outbreak.”

  “There’s a few photos in the hall,” Bill said. “Chap with a boat. There, on the wall. There’s another.”

  “Must have sailed away, then,” Chester said. “You never think about people living in places like Calais. It’s always a place to travel through, not to.”

  “You never took the ferry here to stock up on cheap beer?” Locke asked.

  “Nah, I knew some lads who distributed… well, you know that saying about stuff that’s fallen off the back of a lorry? These were the guys who picked it up.”

  “And you, Bill?” Locke said.

  “I got my subsidised drinks at the House of Commons bar,” he said.

  Locke laughed, then coughed. “And which of the two of you is the greater criminal?”

  Chester laughed. Even Bill smiled, though only fractionally.

  “The front door’s locked,” Bill said. “Not secured. And that window, that’s not even double-glazed.”

  No one moved.

  “And we should re-secure the back door,” Bill added

  Still, no one moved.

  “My hips ache,” Locke muttered. “My head is throbbing. My nose feels like it’s on fire. I can barely feel my arms. I am not usually given to voice my complaints, but I am sorely tempted.”

  “I’d scream and shout if I had the energy,” Chester said. “Though only in a whisper. We’re alive, though. And inside. So it could be worse.”

  “We won’t get far on foot,” Bill said. “And we won’t find another vehicle like that ATV.”

  “Without it,” Locke said, “we can forget about driving any great distance.”

  “So it’s a boat in the harbour or bust?” Chester said.

  Locke smiled.

  “What?” Chester asked.

  “Have I told you about Monte Carlo?” she asked.

  “You’ve not told us much about yourself.”

  “I should tell you about Monte Carlo,” Locke said. “Have you ever been? No? One of the perks of Lisa’s mad schemes was that we had to keep up the billionaire’s lifestyle. Sometimes she would need an assistant. Sometimes she would need a companion. Tamika hated ball gowns and polite conversation, so I would often play the part. Silk and diamonds, it was wonderful pretending that money didn’t matter. Of course, it didn’t, not really. Lisa truly understood how perilous our situation was, but I still revelled in those little baubles. One time, in January, it must have been four years ago, we’d finished a survival course in Arizona. Five days in the desert. Helicoptered out. Changed on the plane. Straight to Monte Carlo. Before I’d seen a proper bed, I’d wagered a million euros on a single turn of a roulette wheel. Lost it, too. I still don’t know who Lisa needed to impress.” The smile faded. “But perhaps this isn’t the time to reminisce. I’ll deal with the back door.”

  “I’ve got it,” Chester said, though it took him two tries to stand up. Ten minutes later, he returned to the living room. Neither Bill nor Locke had moved. Chester sat down. “There’s a jar of herbs at the back of a cupboard, and I found out where we are. Avenue Roger Salengro, whoever he was. There were some letters by the front door. I’ve a question though. It was a mine that destroyed the ATV? Not an RPG, I mean.”

  “You mean was it Cavalie?” Locke said. “No, it was a mine, and positioned to stop any heavy vehicle that approached. Considering it was on the access road, the British are the most likely culprits. Probably positioned there while they set their explosives in the Tunnel itself. A deterrent in case the French military, or more likely the police, tried to stop them.”

  “It’s a good a theory as any,” Chester said. “But does it scupper all plans to search the Eurotunnel terminal?”

  “Are you volunteering?” Locke asked. “Personally, I think my gambling days are done.”

  From outside came a trio of splashes, then a heavy thump. Bill was on his feet first, crossing quickly to the window. “Zombies,” he hissed. “Five. Heading towards the house.” Chester stood by the sofa, frozen, his eyes on Locke, her eyes on him, as Bill watched the undead. “They’ve gone,” Bill finally added. “Heading south, towards the ATV.”

  “Then I’m making a decision for us all,” Chester said. “It’s still early, right? We can get a few hours kip, let the undead settle down a bit, and we’ll still reach the harbour before nightfall. If there are boats, we’ll want to set off at dawn anyway. Give us as much time sailing in daylight as w
e can.”

  “That’s more than enough to persuade me,” Locke said.

  Chapter 23 - When Darkness Falls

  Calais

  The bed was so comfortable, Chester didn’t want to open his eyes, but the dream of London slowly faded, replaced by the pervasive smell of musty damp. Half of that was the bedroom, but as consciousness returned, so did the realisation that some of the smell was him. He opened his eyes, and still couldn’t see. A moment of panic, a memory of blindness after he’d been shot, vanished when he saw the orange flicker under the door.

  “You closed the curtains, didn’t you,” he muttered, pulling off the sheets. As he sat up, a stiff ache swept through him, starting in his feet, spreading up to his skull, before settling in his shoulders. “Shouldn’t have laid down in a proper bed.”

  He bent down, tightening the laces of his boots; he’d left them on while he slept. The floorboards creaked as he crossed to the curtains. After he drew them, visibility didn’t improve. It was pitch-black outside. Neither stars nor sky were visible. He re-closed the curtains, and went to the door. A gentle orange glow came from downstairs, a soft hint of burning wood barely discernible above the house’s dank odour.

  Bill sat in a chair by the curtained living-room window, beside a wheelbarrow in which he’d started a small fire. An oven-grill was balanced on the barrow, with a soup-pan perched on top.

  “What’s cooking?” Chester asked.

  “Only water, I’m afraid,” Bill said quietly. He opened the curtain an inch, then closed it again. “Never could figure out whether zombies can see firelight. Not definitively. Not so as I’d feel comfortable leaving the curtains open.”

  “What time is it?” Chester asked.

  Bill picked up the watch from the chair’s arm. “Four-thirty,” he said.

  “Seriously? Oh. I suppose that’s not too bad. And it gets light earlier here than in Anglesey, so it’s not long until dawn.”

  “No, it’s four thirty in the afternoon,” Bill said.

  “Oh.” Chester slumped onto the sofa. “Where did the wheelbarrow come from?”

  “Next door,” Bill said. “I took a look at the houses either side. Five to the south have been searched recently, going by the mud on the floor.”

  “How recently?”

  “Hard to say,” Bill said. “Probably not in the last few weeks. They didn’t secure the doors when they left. If the houses to the north are anything to go by, they didn’t find anything. Whoever lived on this street must have left soon after the outbreak, taking the food with them. Maybe they fled because they were worried about refugees from England. Who knows? And who knows where they went because I found no clues.”

  “These are small houses,” Chester said. “Can’t have been much storage space in the kitchens to start with. You found nothing?”

  “Some fruit tea that no longer smells of fruit. A pack of noodles that I’m not sure are safe to eat. A few herbs that might mask the taste.”

  “Better than nothing,” Chester said. “It’s really only four thirty? The watch must be wrong if it’s this dark.”

  “It’s been like this for a while,” Bill said. “The clouds are ridiculously thick and dark.” He pointed at the soup-pan. “That was more sleet than rain when I gathered it.”

  “Oh. Then we’re stuck here until morning.”

  “I’d say so. I found a few coats and gloves,” Bill added. “There wasn’t time to look for anything else. It wasn’t the weather that forced me back inside.”

  “Zombies?”

  “Afraid so. I went through the back gardens as far as the junction. Only a couple of undead. Must be heading to the sound of the explosion, but where there’s one, there’s always more, and I didn’t think a fight was worth the risk. And, if I’m honest, I didn’t have the energy.”

  “Go and get some sleep. I’ll take over here.”

  “In a bit,” Bill said. “I’m too exhausted to sleep just yet. I’m trying to find a way out of this nightmare, but I just can’t see it.”

  “We’ll take a look at the harbour tomorrow, find a boat,” Chester said. “Sail back to England.”

  “Easier said than done, particularly in a storm,” Bill said. “And that will only get us as far as Dover. If we’re lucky.”

  “Shame about the Channel Tunnel,” Chester said. “Shame about the mines, I mean. Thinking about it, I’m not sure I fancy a day’s walk through a pitch-dark, zombie-infested tunnel, but there might be fuel there. If we had diesel, we could drive or motor around the coast.”

  “If we had a boat,” Bill said. “And we will need a boat, but it’ll have to be a sailing boat. And then we’ll have a long hike through England and Wales.”

  “At least it’s only the undead we have to worry about there,” Chester said. “Except it won’t be Wales. We’ll have to avoid Anglesey.”

  “True. Let’s face it, there’s no easy way back, which means no quick way back, which means no imminent rescue for Scott, Amber, Salman, and all the people of Creil.”

  “It wasn’t going to be a quick rescue anyway,” Chester said. “However long it takes, it’ll be quicker than if we’d stayed with them. Why don’t we cook up those noodles? We might feel better after a bite to eat.”

  “No, I don’t want food poisoning to stop me from sleeping. We’ll need to find fishing rods tomorrow. And proper clothes. And a better refuge than this. We’ll need to be better rested before we try to cross the Channel.”

  “Then follow your own advice, and get some sleep,” Chester said. “I’ll keep watch here.”

  Bill nodded, stiffly stood, and went upstairs.

  Chester stayed motionless, watching the flames flicker around the base of the soup-pan. Only when they began to fade did he get up. He checked the window first, but it was impossible to see anything outside.

  He poured himself a cup of hot water, gingerly sniffed at the box of fruit tea. “Oh, go on, Chester, live dangerously.” He added a bag. The heat was pleasing, but the lack of texture and substance only heightened his hunger.

  It was the ATV. It had given them a false sense of what was possible. For the first time since February, they’d travelled with impunity, indifferent to weather, to human frailty, to the undead. For a few brief hours, a few hundred miles, they had been rulers of the world once again. The top of the pyramid. No, it was more than that. They’d been a brief echo of everything humanity had once been, rather than its grim shadow. In the fraction of time it had taken for the mine to explode, reality had returned, and they were back to being scavengers in a dead world.

  He put the mug down, and began breaking furniture for firewood.

  Day 259

  27th November

  (The survivors from the Tower arrive in Nieuwpoort)

  Chapter 24 - A Gunshot Louder Than a Trumpet’s Blast

  Calais

  Bill stood by the window, the curtain held back an inch as he peered at the darkness outside. Dawn had to be close, though he no longer had any faith in the watch’s accuracy. He’d slept for a few hours, and returned downstairs to find most of the wooden furniture was now firewood, the entire house smelled of smoke, and that Locke had woken and swapped with Chester. In turn, Bill had swapped with her. Sleep was the best way to avoid wasting calories.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, but kept his eyes on the darkness. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “Hoped it was dawn,” Chester said.

  “Not yet,” Bill said. He kept his eyes glued on the world outside, watching, wondering. “Another couple of hours, I think.”

  “You’re looking for zombies?” Chester asked, sinking into the armchair closest to the wheelbarrow-fire. He picked up a broken chair leg, and added it to the glowing embers.

  “Yes and no,” Bill said. “I thought I saw lights, though.”

  “You did? How many?”

  “Two beams, stretching skyward, then a distant flash, somewhere north. The flash might have been lightning, but perhaps not. And p
erhaps I didn’t see anything. You know how the night can be, how rustling leaves can sound like whispers?”

  Chester came to stand next to the window. “It could be Nilda.”

  “Or Cavalie,” Bill said.

  “Ah. You think?”

  “I don’t think Cavalie followed us,” Bill said. “Not for long, anyway. If they’d stayed close enough behind to see our headlamps, they’d have caught up when we stopped. Since they didn’t, I’d say, even if they drove after us along the railway, they didn’t realise we took to the roads.”

  “Makes sense,” Chester said. “And surely, afterwards, the most logical thing for her to do was to head south, and to try to make contact with her agent in Creil. There’s no way she’d catch up with us now.”

  “Is that logical, though?” Bill asked. “That thing she said about sailors and soldiers, clearly she has her own paranoid theories about who we are. Add that to the fact she’s not had any contact with Creil since we liberated it, and surely it’s more logical for her to assume her agent is dead. And they might be. We think it’s that engineer, but we could be wrong. Whatever Cavalie thinks, whatever delusions are guiding her, she won’t let her people drive away on their own for fear they’ll never come back. Let’s not forget that her plans are in ruins. In which case, where would she go? I told her about the horde. What if she found the path it took? What if she wants to get out of this continent, where else but Calais would anyone go?”

  “Good point. And we’ll find out in a few hours,” Chester said. “Is there any water left?”

  “The saucepan’s over on the sideboard,” Bill said. “Should still be warm.”

  “It’s still raining?”

  “Persistently slushing,” Bill said. “It’s not coming down hard, but the temperature’s hovering around freezing.”

  “Great,” Chester said. “We won’t travel far in that.”

  “Or see very far,” Bill said, though he didn’t leave his perch by the window. “Maybe it is Nilda,” he added. “I mean, we’ve had such a run of bad luck, maybe we’re due for some good.”