The zombie had reached fifty metres when Finnegan, on the motorbike, led the second convoy past. And then there was another zombie staggering out of a junction twenty metres away. She raised the bow. Aimed. Paused. Fired. The bolt sailed through the air, puncturing the creature’s face. It fell. She reloaded. Aimed. Paused. Fired. The second zombie collapsed. As she reloaded again, her eyes on a trio of undead coming stumbling out of a side road, a car stopped right next to her. McInery was driving, Jay in the passenger seat. She saw Mathias by the garage, winding the door closed. The cars were out. Everyone had made it. She ran to the rear door, opened it, waited until Mathias got on the third motorbike, then clambered inside, trying to find a perch amongst the boxes and crates.
They drove off. For the length of time it took her to exhale, everything seemed fine. With no seat, let alone a seat belt, the first she knew that something had gone wrong was when the car was thrown left to right, and she was hurled against the passenger door. Another violent turn, and she kicked at the boxes, grabbed at the handrail, and managed to swivel around, just as a zombie threw itself at the driver’s door. They must have been going at close to forty miles an hour. Tuck saw teeth fly off as the creature slid against the side window, leaving a dirt brown smear that blocked the view. She twisted to look out the front, and could see a car ahead of them. No, two cars, perhaps three, she wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter. All were surrounded by the undead.
McInery half-turned her head. She must have shouted something, but whatever it was, Tuck missed it. A few seconds later, the car swerved, and she was thrown from her feet. Winded, dazed, and before she could reach forward to tap Jay’s shoulder and ask him what was going on, the car came to a stop. McInery threw open the door, Jay did the same, and Tuck had no choice but to follow.
They were in a large courtyard surrounded by wrought iron railings stuck in old stone supports. And through those railings a sea of undead arms waved. There were three other cars in the courtyard, along with Mathias’ motorbike. A fourth car was stopped in the gateway, and McInery and five others were pushing it into the gap. It wouldn’t hold the undead for long.
Where were they? For a moment she thought they were in Buckingham Palace, but she’d been there, and there was too much grass and paving for that. Then she saw the sign; they were at the British Museum.
“NO! No, no, no!” she wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she could. It was too late. She looked around for Jay. He was running towards a side door. She ran after him, reaching him just as he levered the door open with the crowbar.
“What are you doing?” she signed.
“Zombies. Everywhere. The road was full. Too many.”
“Then we should have gone back.”
“Can’t. Too many,” he said, pushing back past her.
“Why?” she wanted to ask, but he was too busy waving to the others. McInery was back in the car, driving it towards the open door.
“This isn’t safe! There’s no way out,” she signed, but Jay didn’t see her and McInery ignored her as they emptied the supplies from the car into the museum. Incandescent with frustration, she had no choice but to help.
08:15
It was an hour later. Tuck stood on the museum’s doomed roof, watching the undead heave and push against the car wedged in the gateway. She was surprised it had held so long. They’d been able to unload all the supplies from the other vehicles. To her, that said there had been time for them to get away. Mathias didn’t think so, nor McInery.
“The roads were full,” Jay signed. “Mathias went ahead and tried to find a different route. Then he tried to go back to the garage. We had to go somewhere.”
“But here? A museum?” She took a breath. It wasn’t Jay’s fault. Nor was it Mathias’ or even McInery’s. If it was anyone’s, it was hers. She should have come up with a clear backup plan. They should have just split up and run. They couldn’t be more than a kilometre from the nearest rooftop walkway. Perhaps less. Or they could have tried the Underground. Or even just run to the river, jumped in, and let the tide carry them down to the Tower. Perhaps not all of them would have made it, but she knew that she and Jay would have.
“The doors are thick,” Jay said. “So are the walls. Maybe there are weapons.”
“Maybe,” she signed. But she knew there wouldn’t be. It was the wrong museum. There would be Bronze Age axe-heads and Iron Age spear points, all corroded and rusted, only some little printed label speaking to what they had once been.
“And we’ve got food,” Jay signed.
They did. Enough for weeks. Perhaps the undead would drift off, in the same way they suddenly appeared. As if to give the lie to that hope, the car shunted forward a few centimetres.
“What was it you told me back in Penrith?” Jay asked. “We’re alive now. We’ll be alive tomorrow. No one has ever been able to say any more than that.”
She nodded, but found that she could find no words of encouragement. As far as she could tell, they were trapped, and this time there was no hope of escape.
Part 3: Reunion
15
th
& 16
th
September
15
th
September - The Tower of London
“I suppose, if we were expecting people to come here,” a petite woman said to Nilda, “then it would be by… by… the…” She stumbled to a halt as Chester was helped over the battlements. “Chester? Is that you?”
“Hana? You’re alive! You can’t believe how good it is to see you. I thought you were all dead.”
“And we thought…” Hana shook her head. “What happened to you? The last time we saw you, you were going to Crystal Palace transmitter.”
“I got bitten. Figured I was going to die. Then I got trapped for a few weeks. And then it was a case of fighting every step. Before I knew it, I was out of London, helping survivors to a safe haven on Anglesey.”
“Anglesey? We heard there was a war on. Some group on the island battling some other in Northumberland.”
“The war’s over. We won.”
“Who’s we?”
“The side that isn’t the government. The good guys. All us ordinary folk. There’s about ten thousand people there, they’ve got the power station working, and are planning to try and take back the mainland. What happened to McInery?”
“And where’s Jay?” Nilda cut in, she couldn’t see him, but she was so sure she would find him here.
“Jay?” Hana asked. “How do you know him?”
“You know my son?” Nilda asked.
“You’re Nilda? His mother?” a man with a missing thumb and battered face asked.
“Where is he?” Nilda demanded.
“He’s… He’s not here.”
“Well where… I mean, is he…?” she stammered. “Is he…?” She couldn’t finish the question.
“He’s alive,” the man said. “Trapped. With the others. In the British Museum. But he won’t be for long. I’m going to rescue him.” There was an awkward shuffling from the crowd. “I am,” the man insisted.
“What do you mean when you say he’s trapped?” Chester asked. “What happened?”
Hana briefly explained how they had moved from Kirkman House to the Tower ten days before. How they had split into three convoys, and how the third one had never arrived.
“And how do you know that he is in the museum?” Nilda asked.
“Jay’s drone, of course,” Stewart said.
Nilda looked to Hana for an explanation.
“It was a birthday present,” she said, “From Stewart and—”
“A drone? Small helicoptery thing?” Chester cut in. “You flew it over the museum and saw them?”
“That’s right, yes.”
“And they were there ten days ago?”
“And eight days,” Stewart said. “And six. I’ve been checking. The drone can’t take the weight, you see. That’s why I’ve been doing the walkways. But he is okay.”
Nilda tried to find some reassurance in incomplete sentences that bore little obvious meaning. She gave up, and looked pleadingly at Chester.
“You saw him? Then you have a picture, right?” he asked.
“I’ll get it,” Stewart said and ran off.
There were pictures. Scores of them. A few showed shapes and shadows that were unmistakably people, and live ones judging by the objects in their hands, but no matter how hard she stared at them, Nilda couldn’t tell gender, age or even height. The rest of the images showed the roads around the museum, and the undead that filled them, spreading out like a moat around the old building.
They were trapped on three sides by the wrought iron railing, and on the fourth by a shallow slopping mound of rubble. The consensus of the group – who had clearly spent the last ten days pouring over the pictures when Nilda thought they should be out actually trying to effect a rescue – was that there had been an explosion, the rubble had formed a slope up which the undead could walk, but then they fell down a drop into the museum, and couldn’t then get out.
“I tried riding there,” Stewart said. “Hoped the engine might lure them away.”
“On a motorbike?” Chester asked.
“That’s right. Didn’t work. I had some following me. The rest, they can’t get out, you see. It’s the car here.” He took the tablet, and found a picture. In it, they could see the main entrance, in the middle of which was a car that had been shunted back and forth, and battered into near irrecognisability by the undead. It was now stuck, with perhaps a one-foot gap between it and the wall.
“So the undead can’t get out,” Chester mused.
“But, look,” Stewart said, “don’t worry. I mean, I know you must be worrying, but it is going to be okay. You’ve got to trust me. The walkways work, you see. I’ve just got to finish them.”
Nilda nodded and tried to smile politely, but couldn’t. Instead, taking the tablet with her, she walked away from the small group. She swiped her hand across the screen, going from picture to picture, trying to convince herself that one of them was her son.
“He’s harmless enough,” Chester said, joining her twenty minutes later. He handed her a mug. “Tea. They’ve enough of it. Fogerty, he was a retired Yeoman Warder who’s been here since—”
“Are any of these Jay?” Nilda asked, holding up the screen.
“I… I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never met—”
“They’re all the same height. And the most on the roof at any one time is four. But Jay wasn’t
that
short. So maybe… maybe… I don’t know.”
“It’s only a mile and a half from Kirkman House to the museum. They’re pretty definite that no other survivors were there.”
“But did they actually go there? To the museum?”
“No,” Chester admitted. “I asked. But no, they didn’t.”
“What about the car? The one by the gates, do they recognise that?”
“No one would recognise it now. I couldn’t even tell you what colour it had been painted.”
“So we don’t know.”
“Stewart seems pretty sure. And despite all his weirdness, I agree. So does Hana. She’s certain Mathias is there. I’m going to say this is where they are.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as we can be.”
Nilda nodded, finding little comfort in the equivocation. “Okay.” She looked at the screen. “Okay,” she repeated, but more firmly. “Then we have to rescue him. Them. All of them. How? Can we kill the zombies? What do you think of these people? Are they reliable?”
“Hana is. But I wouldn’t take her into a fight. As for the others, there’s a few faces I recognise, but I couldn’t say I trust them more than that. There’s the old soldier, Fogerty, but the operative word there is old. He’s retired. That’s why he came here. The other warders were drafted back into regular service. As for the rest, they’ve survived this long, and that takes more than just luck, but the key vibe I’m getting is that they’re glad it’s not them stuck in the museum. We could ask for volunteers, but I think it’s only Stewart who’d stick his hand up. And as for him…” Chester shook his head. “He’s been going out beyond the walls, gathering scaffolding and other materials to build a bridge. But he’s been doing it on his own. I don’t know if anyone has tried to help or whether he won’t let them or what, but all he’s achieved is a big pile of metal. Well, you’ve seen what he’s like…” he trailed off. “Stewart. Stewart.” He rolled the name around.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen the name somewhere, but I’m sure I’ve never met him—”
“Is it important? What about my son?”
“No. Right, sorry. Basically, I’d say we’re not going to find any help here.”
“That’s unacceptable. If Jay is in there, we have to rescue him.”
“I didn’t say we weren’t. But we’ll go in alone. It’s probably better that way. Short of an army, two people are better than two-dozen. Here, let me see those pictures.” He took the tablet. The battery light was blinking red.
“Alright. So the building’s surrounded.” He glanced up and west, as if hoping to be able to see the museum through four miles of intervening city. “If I was inside, I’d say tunnels. There were catacombs and vaults under the museum, and the Tube ran nearby. There’s even a disused station not far off.”
“But you’re not inside.”
“No, and looking at where that rubble is, I’d say the undead might be inside too. Besides, the Underground is full of zombies. So that only leaves—” the screen went blank as the battery ran out. “That leaves the roofs.”
“You mean more balloons? Where would we find the helium?”
“Not balloons,” he said. “I was thinking of that drone.”
“You can’t carry anything on that.”
“It can carry a camera. That’s got to be two or three hundred grams at least. Here’s what I’m thinking. The zombies are all inside the railings with some in the road outside, but not many in the roads leading up to it. Dozens, sure, but we can deal with those. We get into a building opposite the main entrance. Not through the front door,” he added, “but from the back. There’s a long row, shops on the ground floor, apartments above. We get to one on the far side from the museum, break in, and break through the walls.”
“And then?”
“Send the drone across with some thread. Attached to the thread is some string attached to the string is—”
“Cord. And rope,” she finished, remembering the nursery rhyme. “Would it work?”
“Can’t see why not. Thread’s not heavy, and that’s all the weight the drone has to take. The rest they’ll pull across. Which is a good point, they’ll need a pulley. Harnesses too. Maybe some pins to attach the rope at the other end. We’ll need to think about it, but it’ll work.”
“You think?”
“It’s about as simple a plan as you can come up with. I can’t see how anything could go wrong.”
“We’ll need to get there first. There, that motorbike.” She pointed down at the cluster of vehicles parked near the main entrance. “If there’s just the two of us, that would work, wouldn’t it? I can drive that. It’s been a while, but you don’t forget, do you?”
“How well do you know the way from here to the museum?”
“You go through the City of London, I suppose, and then to Tottenham Court Road and up.”
“I’ll drive. Seriously, I know London above and below like, well, like I’ve spent my entire life being chased through it.” His eyes glazed over for a moment as if he was remembering something he’d buried deep, long ago.
“If we take some petrol with us,” Nilda said, “we can find a van or car. Or a couple of them I suppose. Can we trust Hana with the lifeboat? If we were to drive straight to the river and jump in, do you think they’d be able to pick us up?”
“Yeah,” Chester said, slowly returning to the present. “Yeah, I think we can trust her. We can take a couple of those flares, use those to signal before we jump in. Then we shouldn’t be in the water for more than a few minutes. Less than in Hull.”
“Fine. So getting in and out is easy. Getting them off the roof, that’s not too hard. Right. Good. Okay. So when do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. First thing. We need to get everything together, and I want to have another look at those pictures.”
Nilda nodded, then realised that she had just assumed Chester would help her.
“You don’t have to come. I mean, it’s not going to be—”
“I said I’d help you rescue your son, didn’t I? And if we don’t come back…” he trailed off again. “I’ll leave a message with Stewart. If it goes wrong I’ll tell him to go to Anglesey. Tell them to send people.”
“Do you think they will?”
“If I knew that they would, I’d be tempted to go and get some help now. But they may not be able to, not immediately. Like you said, no more waiting. It’s time for this to be over.”
She nodded vaguely, the words and their possible meaning not registering until after he’d had left, in search of the supplies that they needed. When she found him, any question she had as to what he had meant was forgotten as she looked at the gear laid out by the bike. The ropes and harnesses had come from the wall, the cord, and pulleys from the Tower’s forest of flagpoles, the thread from Hana, and high tensile fishing line in lieu of string courtesy of Fogerty. He also offered them a selection of weapons. Most were formerly part of an exhibit on the Tower’s turbulent past though the steel was strong, the blades sharp. Chester stuck to his revolver and a crowbar taken from Stewart, Nilda with her gladius.
Everyone was curious as to where they had come from and what they knew, and that curiosity grew more vocal when it became clear that no one was being asked to venture into the undead city. Nilda didn’t like that. She understood it, but couldn’t forgive it whilst her son was in danger. She left Chester to regale them with increasingly tall tales, whilst she retreated to a quiet corner where she could sit, her eyes on the ravens, her mind on the past.
“You know the old legend?” It was Fogerty, the retired warder. “If the ravens leave the Tower. England will fall. So they clipped the bird’s wings to make sure they couldn’t fly away. It’s why I came here.”
“And the ravens are here, and the country did fall.”
“I meant I came here to keep an eye on the birds. Seemed unfair to leave them, not if they can’t fly.”
“And the government people, the ones inside the barricade, didn’t they mind?”
“They left me to myself. The warders and their families, they were cleared out of here you see. Don’t know why. Guess someone must have had plans for the place. Whatever it was, the fortress was empty when I came looking for them. But someone had to take care of the ravens. Superstitious lot, soldiers. The patrols didn’t mind me being here. Didn’t notice me stocking up. I could tell it was all going to fall apart. You see, I remember—”