Surviving The Evacuation (Book 3): Family (29 page)

“I want to see them,” I said.

“It’s a free country.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sholto said. “So, you’re the Mayor then?”

“That’s right,” the old woman said.

“What happened to the submarine?” Sholto asked.

“Theirs? The Vehement sunk it,” the old man said. “Took a hit though. Sophia’s trying to tow it back. Not sure it’s going to make it.”

“Good,” my brother said.

“My thoughts, exactly,” the Mayor said.

“And the power station, can’t you start it up now?” I asked. “Or was that another lie too?”

“A lie?” The Mayor glanced up at the old man. “The power station will come back on, but it’s not as simple as flipping a switch. It’ll take a few weeks.”

“Oh.”

“You’re really the Mayor?” Sholto asked.

“And this really is a democracy. We’re holding elections again in November. We want to get them out of the way before Christmas. You can stand if you want. I don’t know if I will. I was a compromise candidate. Not quite British, not quite not. Certainly not military, and equally certain not to live long enough to become a tyrant.”

I said nothing. Neither did anyone else, and for a moment the silence stretched.

“You lied to us,” I finally said.

“Sorry about that,” the old man said, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “Was there any lie in particular that’s bothering you?”

“To start with, there are more than a few hundred people here.”

“There’s more than a few thousand. The moment I saw you, I knew who you were. I knew what you might be able to do for us. I didn’t think it was wise to send you into the lion’s den with all our secrets. Just in case.”

“This isn’t some Irish village,” I said.

“No.”

“And that plan you talked about? Belfast Airport, that was a lie too?”

“Not exactly. There’s no leaving here. There are too many of us, and nowhere left to go. This is where we stand. But we do want to get to that airport. We want the helicopters. Noisy beasts, we’ll go over, fill up full and fly over here. We can just about make it. And then...”

“So Donnie knew?” For some reason I’d thought that the young man was innocent in all this.

“Of course,” George said. “I told him to tell you the story. Essentially it’s the same story we tell anyone we meet on the road that we’re not sure of.”

“And then, these helicopters? You’re going to buzz the undead?” I guessed. “You’ll lure Them all away somewhere?”

“And then burn Them all,” the Mayor said, “that’s our grand plan.”

“Quigley’s dead,” I said. “So is Jennifer Masterton.” I looked down at my blood stained clothes. I’d not even bothered looking for something to change into. “What would you have done if it hadn’t worked? If we’d not come back?”

“Those APC’s in that car park, that Donnie told you about, we’d have driven them up to Northumberland. We’d have stormed Caulfield Hall and burnt it to the ground. Mister Mills would have gone out looking for that submarine and we would have just had to hope he found it.”

“But instead you got to use us,” Sholto said.

“Two lives instead of two hundred,” the old man said. “It was a risk I thought worth taking. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

I no longer cared.

“Where’s the Doctor? I’ve come this far. He’s here. I know it. I want to see him.”

“Alright,” the Mayor finally said, “You want to see Doctor Singh? This way, then.”

It took five minutes.

“You keep him in a school?”

“
The
school,” The old man said, “I was telling the truth there. Not many kids made it out. They’ve got a couple of classrooms, we use the rest to run the government.

“The school, the parliament and the prison, all in one place. Efficient,” I said.

“Who said it was a prison?” the Mayor asked, as she was wheeled up the ramp. One of her assistants opened the door.

“After you,” she said.

I stepped inside, and was stopped almost immediately by the long list of names pinned to the wall. The handwriting was small, the wall was long.

“We keep a note of everyone who makes it this far,” she explained. “Over there,” she pointed at a smaller list on the opposite wall. “They’re the people who’ve left. Some go back to the mainland, some go further. They’re the people with unfinished business. The people for whom guilt or love or duty won’t let them give up hope, no matter how small.”

“And the maps?” Sholto asked. They were pinned next to that short list. One was a world map, on the wall next to it were pages from atlases, road maps, and some hand drawn sheets.

“Where we know, or think, other survivors are. Your Annette’s added to it. The places from your journal.”

And I didn’t care about that, either.

“Where’s the Doctor?” I asked.

“Classes are to the left, the Doctor is kept to the right. He’s no danger, of course, but I don’t want him upsetting the children.”

I glanced to the left and saw that where the list ended, the corridor there was covered in crayon and pencil drawings. It was a universe of yellow suns and two-dimensional houses, amidst occasionally skilled watercolours. To the right the corridors were bare.

I walked along the corridor, the others following behind, turned a corner and was confronted by a man at a desk covered in circuit boards. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t quite place him.

“Hello Rahinder, how is he today?” the Mayor asked.

“The same. Working,” the man, Rahinder, replied, carefully putting down a soldering iron.

“These gentlemen, they’d like to see him.”

“This is them, is it? The spin-doctor and his American brother?” he gave a searching look, his eyes lingering on the rifles. “You can leave those here.”

I made no move to put the rifle down.

“Do I know you?” I asked him.

“I doubt it.” He stood up and moved to the middle of the corridor, his arms crossed.

“Let them pass, Rahinder. They won’t do any harm. He’s up there. In one of those classrooms.”

I moved past the almost-familiar man, and along the corridor. There were classrooms either side, built back to back so that the doors to four of them were close together. These four classrooms all had bolts on the doors.

I took another step closer and looked through the reinforced glass window.

The desks, bookshelves and all the other furniture had been removed. The floor was covered in the type of rubber mats used in gymnastics to cushion a fall. The windows had been painted over. Light came from ceiling lamps. Against the walls, and in front of the windows was a nearly continuous row of blackboards. Standing in front of one, almost directly opposite us, was a man wearing nothing but a pair of blue shorts. He held a piece of chalk in a hand missing two fingers.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find chalk?” It was Rahinder, I’d not realised he’d followed us. “Actually,” he added, his voice soft and low, “the hardest part was finding the blackboards. We can’t give him pens. Or pencils. Or paper. You can’t cut yourself on chalk. But we needed enough for four classrooms. He doesn’t sleep, you see. He just writes. All day and all night. Every day and every night. When he finishes, I take him to the next room, then I photograph what he’s done.”

All of the blackboards to the left of the Doctor were full of an illegible scrawl. The ones to the right were blank.

“What’s he writing?” Sholto asked.

“We don’t know. Maybe it means something, maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know how much of him is left. I take the photographs and other people look through them.”

“Not you?”

“I’m not a biologist or a chemist. I repaired TV’s and washing machines and all the other little household marvels for a living. My brother was the one with the brains.”

“Your brother?” Then I realised where I thought I’d seen him before. He looked almost identical to the man I’d seen in that video of Lenham Hill. Though he bore almost no resemblance to the clean but unkempt man in his padded classroom-cell.

“I found him in his house a few days after the evacuation,” Rahinder Singh went on, “My wife and I, we decided not to go, not to trust the government, but went to his house in Wales instead. We brought some friends with us, but... It was a hard journey. I arrived alone. I found him there. If I hadn’t, I don’t know if I would have had a reason to go on. He wasn’t like this then. He talked. He talked all the time. About New York, about the laboratory, about the experiments and the trials. He talked about Quigley and the secret orders and about New York and that final trial that went wrong.”

“He talked? Then can he answer questions?”

“Not now. I think it’s the lack of sleep. I think it’s killing him. Now, when he speaks, it is only in equations and formula, and I don’t think they make sense.”

“But he told you about the trials? About the virus?”

“About the vaccine? Yes.”

“Was it real? Did it actually work?”

“Oh yes it was real. And it almost worked. There is one unfortunate side effect to it, though.”

“The undead?”

“Exactly.”

I realised that I’d asked the wrong question.

“Did he know that? When Quigley took him to New York, did they know what would happen?”

“I almost wished they did, that would be far better than the truth,” Rahinder said sadly. “From what he said, when he was lucid, the project had money but most of it was spent on security. He was the only real scientist working there. The only one good enough to actually make this fantasy of curing the world’s ill’s real. He’d taken the dead-end work of two generations of scientists and made it work. He ran trials. They were successful. But they were only on animals. You’ve seen animals out there? This contagion, it doesn’t affect them. Then there were the human trials. Five of them. Five people, not five sets of trials, you understand. Disappearing even five people in Britain is hard enough. None of those five suffered any adverse effects.”

“Were they cured?”

“They had chronic conditions. They didn’t seem to get any worse, and there wasn’t time to find out if they would get any better because Quigley saw the report and took it to mean that this super-vaccine worked. He didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t risk waiting until after another election when it might be someone else who got the credit. He set up the demonstration in New York. My brother still wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t sure it was safe. So he injected himself. And that made six. Six people. All of them were immune. What are the odds? I suspect they are about the same as picking a group of patients for the trial in New York and finding that they all turned into the undead. Luck. That’s what brought about the end of the world. Bad luck and decades of hubris and petty jealously projected onto the international stage by people who rated the pursuit of power above their own humanity. That is what caused all of this. What he had done has driven my brother mad. And that knowledge, one day soon, will kill him. I know why you’ve come. Why you are here. You are not the first. Now you’ve seen him, do you still want your revenge?”

“He’s no different to me. Or you,” I said to Sholto. My brother just shrugged. He had a thoughtful expression I’d not seen him wear before.

“Tell me one thing,” I said to Rahinder, “Your brother, and everyone else who is immune. Are we carriers?”

“No. From what we can tell it doesn’t work that way. He didn’t know that. We had to work that one out for ourselves. It was an interesting experiment. We’ve whole families here where someone was bitten and infected and then locked up or chained down because no one was able to do the merciful thing. Mercy, ha! How meanings change. Do you want your revenge then?” He asked again.

“What would be the point.” I looked over at my brother.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, “and find somewhere we can call home.”

Epilogue

Day 143, Anglesey

12
^th
August

Happy endings only happen in fairy tales and this world is certainly not one of those.

Daisy is still in the hospital. We still don’t know what, if anything, is wrong with her. We just have to hope she’ll recover.

Annette is finally confronting all the horrors that she encountered out there. She can’t sleep inside the house, but only up on a shelter we built her on the roof. When she does sleep, she screams. We just have to hope that will pass too.

We have a house but it’s not a home, at least not a permanent one. There are too many people on this small island, and soon there are going to be more. A radio signal was received yesterday from the USS Harpers Ferry. It’s a hospital ship, dead in the water down in the South Atlantic. The plan to collect the helicopters has been put on hold as all efforts go into rescuing the crew, patients and passengers.

And that has delayed Thaddeus’s departure, at least for now. He still wants to return to America. He lasted twelve hours before he became restless again, and he spent six of those asleep. He’s taken with the idea of extending the safe house network across the Atlantic. But he can’t, not until the Santa Maria returns from its rescue mission. So, for now, we are all together.

As for Kim and I, perhaps we’ll get a happy ending and perhaps we won’t. I’m looking forward to finding out.

I started writing this back when I thought my story was important, when I thought I was important. I was wrong. If there is a hero in all of this, then it was my brother and by his own admission he failed.

Back in that room in London, when I was a different person, I thought that this journal might become the first chapter in a new history. Now it is finished, if it becomes anything, then it will be as a footnote in the last chapter of the tale of our old world.

And that is fitting, because I was never more than a pawn, my path dictated by the unseen plans of others. But that is over, my life is now truly my own.

Something new is beginning here on this small island. Perhaps it will be better, perhaps it won’t, but for this journal, this is definitely...