Surviving The Evacuation (Book 2): Wasteland (21 page)

I thrust the spear down. It entered through the zombie's skull. The creature fell. The rope attaching the spear to the gantry went taut. The platform rocked and tilted, as the weight of the dead zombie pulled it down. I grabbed onto the ropes, trying to shift my weight to stop the swaying. When I dared loosen my grip and try and tug at the rope to pull the spear back up, I found it was stuck tight. I had to cut the rope loose with the hatchet before I could try again.

I was starting to think we'd have to give up on this farce and just risk the road as it was. I was one spear down, one zombie dead. Not a good ratio. I tried again, this time picking a more wizened creature as my target. The spear went in, the zombie fell, and the spear came out. I tried again, and again, and again. Keeping balance like that, judging the right force to use, only targeting the older, more time-ravaged, it wasn't easy, but it did get easier.

I lost the second spear with the fifth zombie, the third when my count got to twenty. By the twenty ninth I was beginning to tire. I'd miss-timed the spear thrust and it glanced off the creature's head. I'd lost all track of time. My world had narrowed into this one little spot, the gantry, and the undead beneath it. The scab on my wrist where I'd been bitten back at the Manor broke, and spots of blood began trickling up and down my arm as I raised and lowered it. The effort of keeping the platform steady was sending a pulse up and down my leg that I knew would soon turn to pain.

“Stop!” Kim called out at the twenty ninth.

“What's wrong?” I croaked out. My mouth was parched. I'd not thought to bring down any water with me.

“Look down!” Annette shouted back.

“You'll need to move to the other side of the platform,” Kim said. I looked down. There was a heap now, only a small one, but the zombies standing on it were noticeably higher there than elsewhere. I moved to the other side of the platform. In my head I started counting down as They fell. Twenty nine. Twenty Eight. Twenty Seven. This time, I was a lot slower, but knowing that when I reached zero we'd have to either leave or shift the platform, knowing that soon I'd get a break, made it easier.

I'd reached thirteen when I heard a scream. I glanced up at Kim, but she was looking away, towards the other wall and the other platform.

I had been lowered down first, ostensibly to work out any problems with the plan. I figured that my immunity did at least offer me a little protection. I may not like Chris and I may have no intention of travelling much further with him, but that doesn't mean I wish him or any of the others harm. Not then, not now.

It took an age to be hauled back up to the wall. Liz was meant to be helping Annette and Kim with the ropes, but she'd disappeared. By the time I'd reached the top of the wall, and then climbed down the scaffolding, I was the last to reach the small circle gathered around Chris.

He was sitting against the wheel of the truck, holding a bandage forlornly against his leg. He looked like a confused child, his face long, his eyes uncomprehending. The others were grouped, not exactly around him but clustered together a few yards away. Daphne stood slightly in front, clearly unsure whether she should approach her husband or run from him.

“The rope. It caught on one of the stones,” Daphne said. “I just didn't...” she trailed off.

“The rope broke,” Barrett said, flatly. “The gantry slipped, toppled sideways. He slipped. Fell. The safety rope wasn't tight enough.”

“You said to loosen it!” Daphne yelled at her husband. “You said you couldn't move! You told us to. You said you'd be safe!” The words trailed off into intelligible sobs.

Chris sat up, made as if to stand and go to comfort his wife. Daphne screamed. It wasn't a loud scream, but it was full of heartfelt terror. Chris slumped down again, and began to cry.

It should have been raining. There should have been thunder and lightning. It shouldn't have been a bright cloudless day. A bird should not have taken that moment to chirrup a soft song from some distant perch.

“Do something,” Kim said, walking over to Annette, who was now holding Daisy. She took the baby in her arms and then led them both away to the relative seclusion of the truck.

“You haven't turned,” I said to Chris. “You might be immune.” He looked up, his eyes brightening at the chance of a reprieve. “You might not be,” I went on, “but there's a chance.” I glanced around, considering our options. “We'll go into the kitchen. Just you and me, and we'll wait, and we'll see.” I took a couple of steps closer then held out my hand. He stared at it for a moment before he took it. I half-pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” I said, and gently pushed him towards the long prefab.

He sat on a chair, I sat on one opposite and we waited.

“How long's it been now?” He asked.

“Thirty minutes,” I said, working it out and halving the result.

“And it was about half an hour after I got bitten before we came in here, right? So it's been an hour.”

“A bit less. Fifty minutes I'd say,” I replied. “Now just sit and wait.”

“How long now? Three hours at least?”

“Time's funny like that. It's only been about an hour and a half,” I lied.

“That's at least five hours,” he said standing up.

“Sit down, Chris,” I said, taking the pistol out of my pocket and holding it loosely in my hand.

“Surely it's five hours now. In your journal that's how long you said it would take. That was the maximum, wasn't it?”

“I'm not sure. It could be longer. We just have to wait.”

“For how long? A day? Two? How long? How much longer?”

“Not long now,” I said, standing up. “So calm down.” In truth I had no idea. Some people turned quickly, some people took hours. I thought back then, and I've been thinking about it since, to the videos I saw. I remembered the footage shot at Grand Central Station, where the police chased an infected person down. I remembered how that person died, turned, was shot, but not until after others were infected. I remembered how some of those had turned almost immediately, how some bodies lay there for minutes before they reanimated. I remembered how others had fled the station only to turn outside. I remembered the terror in the recordings of the paramedics, radioing in for help, when others turned in the ambulances on the way to the hospital. I remembered all of that and a dozens of other videos I'd seen, and the simple answer was that I didn't know how long we would have to wait.

“There was a guy,” I said, “at the Mall. You remember the Mall? The attack at that shopping centre in New York? The one that was broadcast everywhere?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, though I’m not sure he was really listening.

“You read my journal. You know about Sholto, he tracked a guy from that Mall, an everyday guy who was bitten and infected. He'd been in New York on a sales tour. Something to do with 3D printers. He was trying to flog some new refinement he'd come up with in his garage by driving his machine around from company to company. He'd driven there all the way from the Pacific coast. I can't remember where from, exactly. Somewhere near Portland I think. He'd stopped in that Mall to pick up some souvenirs for his kids. Baseball stuff, you know, jackets, hats. An apology for being away so long. He's where I got the idea of five hours from. Where I think our government did too. That's how long it took him to turn. He drove from the Mall, made it as far as Hagerstown, in Maryland, five hours later. He'd spent the entire time on the phone to his wife. The call was recorded. His death was recorded. Sholto got that recording, sent it to me. Sent it to others too, I think.”

“Has it been five hours, then?” Chris asked, missing the point.

“I'm trying to say it might be longer. Why should it be five hours? Why not six, why not ten? We don't know, because none of us know how this virus works. We don't really know anything about it all.”

“It wasn't easy, you know. Out there on the farm.”

“No where's easy these days,” I replied, only half listening to him.

“There are things you do. Things that you have to do, just to survive.”

“We've all done them. Things we regretted even before the act itself. Those last desperate actions we take, when circumstance leaves you no other.”

“But you shouldn't have made us. Shouldn't have said people should leave their homes. If everyone had stayed where they were, then none of it would ever have happened.”

“No, everyone would have starved.”

“Yeah, well that would've been better, I reckon. Better for...” Chris stopped in mid sentence as the door opened.

“That's five hours,” Kim said, walking into the dormitory. “I'll take over for a bit.” She'd brought in a bowl of stew, one of the irreplaceable MRE's. As she handed it to Chris I couldn't help thinking of it as a last meal. “Go on,” she said, “You're needed outside.”

“I'm not going without Chris,” Daphne said, though she didn't sound like she meant it.

“I'm not going in a car with a zombie,” Stewart said.

“How long do we have to wait?” Barrett asked

I'll admit it, I wanted him to turn. Not out of spite, nor as revenge for the petty bitterness he had shown towards me, but so that I could kill him and we could leave. What else could we do though? We had to assume he would turn. That he would become one of Them. We couldn't take the risk of being stuck in the car with him when that happened. Leaving him here alone, surrounded by the undead would be nothing but a death sentence preceded by the worst kind of torture. Nor could we kill him then and there before he turned. That is murder, and there has been enough of that. What else was there to do but wait?

“It's been five hours, so the chances are that he's immune,” I said, looking up at the sky. “As long as the walls hold, we're safe and I don't think they're going to break any time soon. It's too late to go today, so we'll go tomorrow. That's how long we'll wait. OK?” I looked over at Daphne. She didn't seem relieved. If anything, I would have said she looked disappointed. It was as if no amount of time would ever be long enough for her. I think she wanted me to say that we should just go then and there, and leave Chris to his fate. Perhaps that's judging them to harshly, it's been a long day for us all, but I do wonder what Chris was about to say just before Kim entered the room.

“There's another thing,” I went on. “The undead outside the walls. Tomorrow, we'll need to attract Them away from the track again.”

“There's no way I’m getting on one of those platforms,” Stewart said quickly.

“Nor me,” Liz added.

“I don't like the idea much either. But we may have to. I'll go and look,” I added, forestalling another argument. I didn't go up there straight away. First I made a point of walking over to the fire and filling a bowl with stew. Then I went over to the car, where Annette and Daisy were safely ensconced in the cab.

“You alright?” I asked.

“We shouldn't hang around. Daisy doesn't like it,” she replied and for the first time I heard fear in her voice.

“Tomorrow. First thing.” I looked at the gates. “But maybe before then. You stay in here.” I thought for a moment. “You know how to drive?”

“Kim showed me. Doors locked, engine on, foot down.”

“Good enough. Stay in the truck then. I’m going to check the walls.”

It's not as bad out there as I thought. Down there, in the compound, it sounds as if the zombies are tearing the place apart. They aren't. Not quickly, anyway. Their fingers are becoming, literally, worn to the bone against the stone walls. The timbers in the gaps between the prefabs seem to be holding, I suppose because most of those must be as old and weathered as the stone. No, if the undead break through, it'll be the prefabs that give first.

What to do then? They are gathered more thickly underneath the two platforms. Under the platform I was standing on, They are standing on the bodies of the dead, almost within outstretched grasp of the gantry. We could raise it a foot or two, kill some more of Them. Is it worth the risk?

It doesn't matter. I don't want to go back out there, and none of the others are going to, not after what happened to Chris, and I doubt he'll want to go back out there. We'll just have to hope.

Day 117, Brazely Abbey, Hampshire.

03:00, 7
th
July.

At about ten o'clock last night Kim came out of the kitchen.

“Chris is sleeping,” she said. “I need to, as well. Wake me in a couple of hours. We'll swap again.” There wasn't even the suggestion between us that we would trust any of the others to take watch.

I sat on the steps leading up to the kitchen, my back to the door, remembering all the places I've ever been, trying to think of where we might go after Lenham. Where might be safe, which remote island, or peninsula might be defensible. Which country house or castle or cottage we could try to make our home. Nowhere I could think of was far enough away. Britain is just too small.

Around midnight I heard the sound of Chris getting up. I decided that it had been long enough, that I would tell him he was fine. I opened the door and went inside.