Read Surviving The Evacuation (Book 8): Anglesey Online
Authors: Frank Tayell
Tags: #Zombie Apocalypse
Surviving The Evacuation (Book 8): Anglesey
Surviving the Evacuation
Book 8: Anglesey
Frank Tayell
Dedicated to my family
Published by Frank Tayell
Copyright 2016
All rights reserved
All people, places, and (especially) events are fictional.
Other titles:
Post-Apocalyptic Detective Novels
Strike a Match 1. Serious Crimes
Strike a Match 2. Counterfeit Conspiracy
Work. Rest. Repeat.
Surviving The Evacuation/Here We Stand
Book 1: London
Book 2: Wasteland
Zombies vs The Living Dead
Book 3: Family
Book 4: Unsafe Haven
Book 5: Reunion
Book 6: Harvest
Book 7: Home
Here We Stand 1: Infected
Here We Stand 2: Divided
Book 8: Anglesey
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Synopsis
Trapped. Alone. Unconcerned.
Eight months after the outbreak, Bill Wright is trapped during a survey mission in Ireland. Surrounded by the undead, low on food and lower on water, he’s been in this situation before. Unlike before, help is only a rifle shot away. While waiting for the rescue he’s sure will come, he records the turbulent events since his last entry.
The Welsh island of Anglesey has become a sanctuary for survivors from across the zombie-infested world. It has electricity, wheat, and not much else. Medicines and equipment, plants and fertiliser, books and batteries, and so much more are needed if this last bastion of civilisation is to survive. Scavenging expeditions depart for Svalbard, Liverpool, and the southern Atlantic, but a discovery is made far nearer, one which will change the fate of all those who’ve come to call Anglesey home.
Set on Anglesey, in Bangor and Caernarfon, and in the Republic of Ireland, Bill’s journals continue. It’s recommended that you read the spin-off stories, Here We Stand 1: Infected & 2: Divided, before this novel. Surviving the Evacuation will continue in Book 9: Belfast.
Contents
Prologue - Elysium, the Republic of Ireland
10:00, 20
th
September, Day 192
Trapped. There’s no other word to describe it.
I’m trapped in a small room with zombies beating against the walls outside. I have a litre of water, a handful of high-calorie ration bars that only the most desperate of submariners would call food, and I’m alone. Unlike when I was trapped in my flat in London, I’m not worried.
Just over a month ago, when I wrote my last entry, I really did intend it to be the end of my journals and a conclusion to that part of my life. I’d thought we’d found a refuge on Anglesey, a place where we could be safe. I wasn’t completely wrong, but that’s another way of saying I wasn’t entirely correct. I promised Annette that I’d write an account of the last tumultuous month and, as she insists on describing it, how
she
saved civilisation. As I currently have pen, paper, and little else to do until Kim rescues me, I might as well record it now, and there’s no better place to start than with where I am.
I’m a mile south of Kenmare Bay in County Kerry on the southwestern coast of the Republic of Ireland. More specifically, I’m in the garage of a walled, fifty-acre farm called Elysium. At least, that’s the name that’s carved into the plaque by the main gate. According to the address at the top of an unpaid parking ticket I found in the desk drawer, it’s called
Ifreann
. My Irish Gaelic is almost non-existent. The little I know comes from a dismal childhood holiday at Caulfield Hall, the Masterton’s family estate. It rained nonstop, and I was beyond bored as Jen spent most of that summer visiting family friends in Monaco. I found little with which to entertain myself other than a few books on Celtic legends. They were in English, but with a handful of Gaelic words peppered in. At the back was a vocabulary list.
Ifreann
was used often, and I always understood it to mean Hell, not some Elysian paradise.
The garage is large enough for four partially dismantled cars parked abreast, though there are only three in there right now. I am in the stiflingly hot office at the side. It’s about twelve feet by ten, with a door to the outside, a door to the garage, and a hatch leading to the roof. I’ve barricaded the exterior door with a filing cabinet. If I listen carefully, I can hear the zombies that chased me in here. They’re pawing and clawing at the door, but it’s sturdy and secure. I’m safe. The reason I need to listen carefully is that two dozen more are hammering at the metal shutters that cover the entire north face of the garage. Inside, there’s a set of sliding, transparent doors that can be opened so the cars can be driven out. With the shutters down, there’s no light in the garage, and no light in this office except that which comes from the hatch immediately above my head.
Beyond the zombies immediately outside, there are forty or so gathered in the driveway near the fountain. There are at least that many, and probably more, near the tennis courts and pushing their way through the trees that screen the fifty-acres of farmland from the three-storey mansion. I didn’t get too good a view of the building before the zombies appeared through that screen of trees. It’s a mystery where they came from. They. It
is
they, not They. I’ve only just noticed that I’ve been writing it in the lower case.
Kim said that my use of the capitalisation was a way of disassociating myself from the impossible horror surrounding us. I won’t lie and say I don’t fear them, particularly when I can hear their desiccated fingers dragging against the brickwork outside. It’s simply that they are no longer my greatest fear. The nuclear power plant on Anglesey could melt down. The water treatment plant could break. The old world food stores may run out before we have productive farmland. And, of course, there’re the threats that only come with people. I don’t mean disease, though it is an increasingly present danger. I mean violence and murder, and the fear and disunity those bring. That is why the undead are they not They, not anymore. Whatever I call them, and whatever my fears for the future, right now the zombies
are
my most immediate problem.
Ringing this fifty-acre estate is a wall that appeared unbroken on the satellite images. Then again, from those images we thought this property was free of the undead. A mile to the north of the wall is the Atlantic coast and a concrete jetty at which our boat is tied. It’s a racing yacht, guarded by Lilith and Will. Kim is inside the mansion with Simon and Rob. When I climbed up onto the garage’s roof, I saw her hanging a sheet from one of the house’s second-floor windows. I waved and she waved back, so I know she’s inside the mansion and she knows I’m here.
In the chaos of the fight, and the rush to reach shelter, I lost my pack. It was ripped from my shoulders by a ragged creature with blonde hair, wearing top-of-the-line hiking boots and a fleece to match. It’s telling, isn’t it, that even the best prepared stood no chance against the undead? I suppose my pack is lying in the dirt outside, only a few yards away. That’s as good as saying it’s back on Anglesey. Unfortunately, my radio is inside the bag so I can’t call Kim. She’ll have hers, and will have relayed our predicament to Lilith and Will. They have a sat-phone, so news will already have reached Anglesey. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that Sholto has drafted some sailors from the Vehement or Marines from the Harper’s Ferry, commandeered a ship, and is already halfway here. Assuming Kim can reach Will and Lilith, of course. The radios work on line of sight, and I don’t know whether the coast can be seen from the house.
Even if Kim can’t reach the boat, and Sholto isn’t on his way, I’m not worried. Though we thought there were no zombies here, we planned for the possibility. It’s just a matter of waiting a day or two. The zombies will drift away, or adopt that squatting, sedentary stance. They’ll make easy targets for Kim, Simon, and their silenced rifles. Perhaps even Rob will manage to hit one.
I’m not sure whether it can be defined as ironic, though it’s certainly amusing that I wasn’t meant to be on this trip. Sholto was. He’s as close to an expert on Kempton and this property as we have. The ironic part, and the reason he’s watching Annette and Daisy instead of being here, is that he twisted his ankle the night before the expedition was due to depart. I was meant to watch the children and spend this time planning the island’s upcoming election. Instead, we swapped places. Perhaps it isn’t ironic, but watching him supporting himself on crutches as he waved us off made me smile. It wasn’t out of enjoyment at his pain, but because such an injury is a minor irritation, not the potential death sentence it would have been out in the wasteland.
As I say, I’m not worried. I’m trapped, but I’m safe, and I just have to be patient. I’ll admit that I wish we had some of Admiral Gunderson’s Marines or some of the French Special Forces on this trip. Even with the arrival of the Harper’s Ferry and its mostly American crew, we’ve too few trained personnel to spare. Ours isn’t the only group taking advantage of this Indian summer that’s swept across Ireland and Wales. Most of the Rangers, Marines, and Special Forces have gone with Heather Jones and our newly recruited volunteers to investigate the lights seen on the Isle of Man. Others are scouting Blackpool, Liverpool and the dozens of small islands that dot the Irish Sea. The rest are going to Belfast International Airport. By comparison, our mission to loot a billionaire’s estate should have been a holiday. Certainly, we were expecting it to be straightforward. We were to see whether the solar panels were undamaged, the wind turbines intact, the electric cars were still in the garage, and whether Lisa Kempton had laid in a large stash of supplies. I don’t know what Kim’s found in the house, but there’re no electric cars in the garage, just three ancient Rolls-Royces. The solar panels on the garage’s roof look undamaged and the turbines still tower over the farmland, but Lilith will need to inspect them before we know if they still work.
I’ve just re-read that and realised I probably need to explain who Lisa Kempton was. She was a billionaire whose face graced the covers of all the right magazines, and she was part of the conspiracy that destroyed the old world. Sholto isn’t sure how much she knew, but we’re certain she bought this farm as a retreat in case the apocalypse should occur. I think that says a lot about her confidence in Quigley and his ilk. Though I doubt I need to explain who Quigley was, there are some details of the conspiracy that have come to light since I began my first journal back in March, and which I should record here.
The initial outbreak was on the 22
nd
February. The footage of people savagely attacking one another in New York was broadcast on social media and news networks across the planet. At the time, no one knew why or how it was happening. Even if the footage was disbelieved, people couldn’t ignore when their neighbours, their friends, their siblings, parents, and children were attacked and infected, died, and then returned as inhuman monsters.
Though that initial outbreak occurred in February, the foundations of this apocalypse were laid long before. Some of the conspiracy’s details will forever be clouded in mystery, and that’s for the best. We know enough to be collectively bewildered at the selfish, and ultimately misguided, opportunism of those involved.
During the early days of the Cold War, concerned with a biological attack by the Soviets, Britain began work on a super-vaccine. The goal was to create a one-injection-cures-all solution to the world’s most feared diseases. The project was an abject failure, and when the threat of bio-warfare was superseded by mutually assured destruction, the scheme was mothballed. It wasn’t forgotten. Decades later, it was resurrected by a cabal of politicians principally from Britain and the United States. Their plan was to use the super-vaccine as a bargaining chip in pursuit of a new, multilateral empire. Governments across the world would be offered the vaccine for a price, and not one that could be paid with hard currency. The cabal wanted policies and treaties favourable to western democracy. Of course, they had a very different definition of democracy than you or I. Any nation that refused would be destroyed in nuclear fire. That was their plan. It was insane, but so were its architects, consumed by an obsession with power and glory that the ballot box could never satisfy.
The vaccine worked, more or less, but with an unfortunate side effect. It turned patients into monstrous beasts for which we have to rely on fiction to name. Calling them zombies is inaccurate, but there was little time for scientific research during the initial outbreak. Not enough scientists are left to do it now. We do know that some people are naturally immune. We estimate it at around fifty percent of those who made it to Anglesey. That’s another way of saying that only those who are lucky enough to be immune, or simply very lucky, have survived.
I was not a digital spectator to Manhattan tearing itself apart. I missed the reports from New Jersey, California, and Quebec, from Mexico, France, and Korea. I missed the imposition of martial law in Britain, the nationalisation of the press, the introduction of a curfew. It happened by chance, one of those absurd twists of fate, which ultimately saved my life. As news of Manhattan was filtering through to a stunned planet, I broke my leg. I was unconscious in hospital for three days. When I woke up, the world I’d known was gone.
With one leg in plaster, I was sent home. It was a dismal little flat with little charm and less space. With nothing for company but a bottle of painkillers and an occasional visit from Jen Masterton, I came up with an evacuation plan. The less defensible inland cities would be evacuated to the coast. The people, the machinery, even some factories, would be relocated. We would create giant, fortified farms. We would survive and retake Britain, and then save the world. I’ll admit that my inspiration owed as much to the painkillers as it did to my knowledge of disaster management.
I gave my plan to Jen Masterton. She belonged to one of those old English families that could trace their lineage back for centuries and pitied those who couldn’t. Her grandfather had renounced the peerage so he could sit in the Commons. Her father had been chancellor. She, in a tepid act of rebellion, had stood for the opposition. She’d won a seat in parliament by a landslide, partly thanks to me.
My parents had died when I was young, and I’d been informally adopted by hers. Jen and I grew up together, and together we were planning her rise to the leadership of the party, and then the nation. What I didn’t know then, and only learned much later, was that her family had been involved in the super-vaccine project for decades. Because of that, and because he thought he could control her, Quigley, the foreign secretary who assassinated the prime minister, gave her a seat in his emergency cabinet.
The only similarity between the evacuation plan I devised and the one that was implemented was the name. The cities were emptied, but the evacuees were murdered. Quigley had calculated that following a global collapse there were simply too many people in Britain. Not all could be fed, and those who were left to fend for themselves could too easily become infected, and so join the ranks of the undead. There may have been some twisted logic to this perversion of the ultimate sacrifice, but there is no forgiving that genocidal act of betrayal.
Quigley’s plans were thwarted by nuclear war. It was his own fault, his and the other members of the cabal who’d seen the outbreak as an opportunity to seize power. They’d forgotten that there were other nations in the world who would hold them responsible, and so take revenge. It’s unclear who launched the first nuclear missiles. We’re not even sure how many were detonated. We do know that some commanders rebelled, some missiles weren’t launched, and some targets were changed. Even so, vast swathes of the planet are now radioactive deserts.