Surviving The Evacuation (Book 7): Home (21 page)

“It’ll take three or four hours to get there,” Greta said, “but after a few hours of cycling, we’ll be well on our way to Anglesey.”

Nilda nodded, looked at the map, and then at the two women.

“You do understand that someone needs to go to Wales?” McInery asked. “We need doctors. First Yvonne, now Fogerty—”

“And there’s Aisha to think about, not to mention the children,” Nilda finished. “I know. They have soldiers who can deal with Graham. We don’t. Yes, someone needs to go Wales.” She looked at Greta. “It’s been nearly a week and a half. We can wait a few more days, but not much longer”

Greta nodded. McInery shook her head. “There’s no point delaying.”

“It’s not for Eamonn,” Nilda said. “It’s for us. Whoever leaves has to do so with the belief that there’s a chance that they’ll make it.”

“There isn’t time for that kind of sentimentality,” McInery said.

“I don’t think we can afford for there not to be. Now, excuse me, I need to get back to Fogerty.” She headed to the infirmary worrying that McInery was correct.

6
th
October

It was dark. Nilda reached out and touched Fogerty’s hand. It was cold. She struck a match and lit the candle. She reached for his neck, and searched for a pulse. She couldn’t find one. It was four-thirty. She blew out the candle, sat in the dark, and wept.

The funeral was a depressing affair, and far worse than Yvonne’s. Janine tried to retell a story that Fogerty had told them but couldn’t get past the first few words before breaking out into sobs. The other children soon followed, and Constance had to take them inside.

“We remember those we’ve lost,” Nilda finished, “and we remember that life goes on.”

There were as a smattering of amens, yesses, and nods of agreement before most people drifted back towards the welcome shelter of the Tower.

“Another grave,” Nilda said, as she picked up a shovel. “I’ve dug too many.”

“People die,” Chester said. “It happens.”

“I know, but not like this. Not quietly in their sleep. Not anymore.”

“Life goes on,” Styles said. “I always hated that expression and how utterly useless it was when you’re trying to deal with grief. But it’s true.” He shrugged. “At some point, we’ll find the time to properly grieve. It just won’t be here and now. Does anyone know if he actually finished one of those suppressors?”

Tuck began to sign.

“She says no,” Jay said.

“What about the rifles?” McInery asked.

Tuck shook her head.

“And can you do it?” Styles asked the soldier.

“She says she could in time,” Jay said.

“How much time?” McInery asked.

“Two weeks,” Tuck signed. “Or one, or a month. It would be trial and guesswork. I think I know what he was trying to do, but I can’t say how long it will take until it’s done.”

“And what difference would they make if we had them now?” Styles asked. “We’re not going hunting for Graham. I mean we’re not are we?”

“No,” Nilda said. “We’re not.”

“And you know I think that’s the wrong decision,” McInery said, “but since he’s leaving us alone, perhaps it is best we don’t poke the hornet’s nest.”

“Then nothing’s going to change, is it?” Styles said. “We’re not going to find a huge supply of food in some basement somewhere. And you’re not going to find a stack of rifles in some foyer of a bank,” he added, looking at McInery. “Nothing’s going to change. This is it, all we have. It won’t be enough. I’m going to Wales.”

“You?” Nilda began. “But the children—”

“Will do fine without me,” Styles said. “Everyone died trying to keep them safe. Everyone. Do you know what kind of a burden that is? I have to go. It’s my duty.”

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Nilda said.

“It does.”

“I’ve mapped out a route that will take you to a railway line,” McInery said. “There’s a bicycle storage unit at the station.”

“That might work,” Styles said. “Where does the railway lead?”

“North. To Bedfordshire.”

“I can give you the addresses of some safe houses,” Chester said. “A lot of them were in the path of the horde, but there might be a few still standing. You might find food there.”

“Well then, this might work,” Styles said. “You get me those maps. I’m going to get my gear.”

“You’re leaving now?” Nilda asked.

“I packed earlier,” he said.

“You’re not going to say goodbye to the children?”

“It’ll upset them either way. Call me a coward, but I’d rather forego that.”

“You have the map?” Nilda asked. They stood by the north gate as Styles went through his pack one last time.

“From McInery, yes. And she gave me some extra water.” He took out a bottle. “Possibly too much. Still, it’s better to be safe. I’ve got a dosimeter and the addresses of Chester’s safe houses. Give me four days to get to Wales. Three days to get back. One week, that’s how long you should wait. If there’s no sign of a boat, assume I’m dead and send someone else. Keep the children safe.”

“I will,” Nilda said, taking the man’s outstretched hand. “Good luck.”

She opened the gate and watched him leave.

7
th
October

Nilda stretched. The chair was uncomfortable, and she was glad for dawn if only that it meant she could go outside. The children had noticed Styles’ absence, but Nilda had waited until after they’d eaten before telling them where he’d gone. They hadn’t taken it well. There had been tears, tantrums, and then a refusal to sleep. So she’d spent the night sitting on a chair outside their dormitories. She’d had as little sleep as they had.

When she went for breakfast, she found the mood among the adults not much better than the children’s.

“It should have been me that went,” Greta said.

“Why?” Nilda asked.

“Because of Eamonn,” she replied.

“Yes, but why? For poetry or symmetry? Someone had to go, and Styles wanted to. It doesn’t mean Eamonn is dead. A boat may arrive tomorrow or next week.”

“We know it won’t,” Greta said. “And we have to assume Styles won’t make it either.”

“We can hope,” Nilda said.

“You can’t eat hope,” Greta said. “That’s why it should have been me. Now it feels like we’re just waiting for our turn.”

“It’s not as bleak as that.”

“It feels like it is. I’m going to take some people across to the hospital. It’s not like the supplies there will help us, but what else is there to do?”

“You’re right. We’ve got enough firewood for months. We might as well leave the rest of that furniture in the office block and get everyone to give you a hand.”

Nilda looked at the rough barricade a hundred metres north of the hospital. The largest part of it was an ice cream truck parked at ninety degrees to the path. Around it were signs, dustbins, shopping trolleys, and a plethora of other junk.

“Do you want me to climb up to the roof?” Jay whispered.

Nilda shook her head. She could hear a slow, stumbling shuffle from beyond the barricade. She glanced up at the London Assembly building. It was hard to know if the undead were inside, but they were certainly outside, surrounding it. And even if they weren’t, so what? Offices and apartments, a bottle of juice here, a can of tomatoes there. It all added up, but when there were nearly a hundred people to feed, it didn’t add up to much. She jerked a thumb west, and she and Jay went back to the hospital to help finish loading the rafts.

8
th
October

“And that’s the last of it,” Greta said. “There wasn’t as much as I’d hoped.”

Nilda picked up a shrink-wrapped set of scrubs, and put them down again. “And these aren’t exactly suited to the weather. There were only six tins?”

“That was all the food that hadn’t spoiled,” Greta said.

“At least we’ve got some more bandages. Realistically, we’ve got more than we’ll ever need. The painkillers are the real windfall.” They had brought back every bottle and jar that they could find. Nilda had thought they would have to wait for McInery to return to work out precisely what they were, but Jay had found a pharmacological directory, and so it was simply a matter of looking them up. “Though it will only be luck if we manage to diagnose anything more complex than a cold,” she continued.

“Yes, it’s a shame there were no antibiotics,” Greta said. “What we’ve found is useful, but it won’t change anything.”

“Maybe not, but there is some good news,” Nilda said. “Some of the zombies were still alive.”

“I don’t see that as a reason to celebrate,” Greta said.

“It means Styles was wrong,” Nilda explained. “Some of them
can
survive a massive trauma for more than a few days. And that means those we’ve seen collapse haven’t done so solely because of that injury. It’s time. That’s what kills them.”

“Maybe. I’m still not convinced. But it doesn’t matter either way,” Greta said. “What we’ve found isn’t going to make enough of a difference. I was thinking of taking the rafts along the river tomorrow.”

“To Westminster?”

“No, east, towards Greenwich. It’s the only place we haven’t looked.”

Nilda stood on the walls and stared at the hulk of HMS Belfast. She could just make out one of the zombies on the upper deck. Hulk, that’s what it was, a shell of a ship that was little more than floating hull. Whenever she came to this side of the castle, she always found her eyes drawn to it, as if it somehow offered the solution to their problems. If they could get rid of the undead on deck, and presumably below; if they could find a way to cut through the foot-thick cables anchoring it to the Thames; if they could carry enough supplies to last a long sea-voyage where the only method of propulsion was the tides; if they didn’t run aground, capsize or simply become lodged amidst the other debris clogging the river; if they lived long enough to finally reach land; if all of that and so much more, what then? They wouldn’t reach Wales, but somewhere on the continent, or perhaps only somewhere further down the coast. They would be taking their current dangers with them into an unknown. If. If. If. She turned away from the river, and walked back along the wall, her eyes moving from building to building, hoping for some flash of inspiration, that she might suddenly see everything differently and in doing so discover their salvation. She didn’t. All she saw was McInery jogging towards the Tower. Her clothes were ripped, and she had a bloody gash running down the side of her face.

“Did you find anything?” Nilda asked, as she helped the woman over the wall.

“There’s nothing,” McInery said. “Nothing anywhere.”

9
th
October

“Nilda? Wake up”

“What? What is it? What’s happened?” she asked sitting up instantly.

“Nothing,” Chester said. “But the early worm catches the fish. I thought I’d take you and Jay out. I’ve packed us a bit of breakfast.”

“Out? Out where?”

“Fishing,” Chester said, as if that should have been obvious.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Seriously,” he said.

“I meant,” Nilda said, sitting up, “seriously as in you’ve seriously woken me up before dawn to go out fishing?”

“You got anything better to do today?”

“I was going to go with Greta and check further downriver.”

“And she can manage that well enough without you,” Chester said. “Have you ever been fishing before?” he asked.

“No,” she admitted.

“Me neither. Still, the principle can’t be difficult. Get dressed. Meet us by the wall.”

“Why did you want us to come out here?” Nilda asked as the raft bobbed up and down in the current. “It wasn’t for fishing.”

“Actually, it pretty much was,” Chester said. “I think it would be good for us to enjoy a nice day together. Try and create a happy memory.”

“Why?” she asked.

Chester sighed. “We need to make the best of what we have. All your worrying about Graham and food and what’s going to happen next, those are problems for tomorrow. It’ll be good for you to have a day without planning and scheming.”

“But we can’t—” Nilda began.

“We can,” Chester cut her off. “That’s my point. I’ve never been fishing before. This is a new experience. There’s no reason we can’t have them. No reason we can’t try and enjoy life. There was something I read. I can’t remember where now, but it was about how if you’re a survivor and you’ve survived so long, then you’re not a survivor anymore. Survival itself becomes the norm. It becomes life. Well, this is it. This is our life. Farming, killing the undead, working today to make tomorrow a little more comfortable. That’s what we have, and as much as we might wish we had something more, we should make the most of it.”