Surviving The Evacuation (Book 6): Harvest (16 page)

“I’m not,” Greta said. She’d gone a little ahead and was bent low over a ditch just beyond the tree. “Come and see.” They did.

“That,” she said, pointing at a rotting pear, “is a bite mark. So either the zombie’s are developing a healthier diet, or there are people nearby. People who stripped those bushes and this tree.”

“Yeah.” Chester peered at the decaying fruit. “About a week ago? Less? Not today though,” he murmured. Then he straightened, looked down the lane, and then at the fields. “Right, yeah. So…” The other two looked at him expectantly. “People,” Chester said slowly. “Enough of them to collect the fruit from the bushes. That’s… something. It’s not just survival, that’s actually living.”

“And?” Finnegan prompted.

“And what?”

“Well, do we look for them?”

Chester laughed. “Of course.”

It was easier said than done. There were no footprints to follow, no beckoning plumes of smoke to head towards. Beyond the field was a lane, and they followed it simply because they’d seen no signs of life in the direction they’d come. After they’d passed another paddock, the lane branched. They went left until they reached a crossroads and then followed a path up a hill.

“It’s getting late,” Chester said. “We’re tired. We need to stop. And at least we know that those homes are empty.” He pointed down the hill at a housing estate still under construction. The houses to the right of the graded but unpaved road had roofs, and most had doors. The ones to the left were just skeleton frames. Closer to the road there was nothing more than string markers indicating where the properties were to have been built.

They’d just passed the first of those string-marked plots when a zombie staggered out of one of the gaping doorways. It snarled as it lumbered forward, and fell straight down into the hole dug for the next house’s foundations. Chester tried to laugh, but all he managed was a weary sigh. Slowly he trudged up the road.

“You want me to finish it?” Finnegan asked.

Chester looked down into the hole. The creature was rolling back and forth, its legs churning the shallow puddle into muddy froth. “Leave it. We’ll try over there,” he said, pointing towards the finished houses. He doubted it was alone, and had that suspicion confirmed when another zombie stumbled out from behind a vacant house.

“Whose turn is it?” Greta asked, sounding as exhausted as Chester felt.

“I’ll do it,” Chester said, dropping his bicycle to the ground. He unslung the mace and noticed the strap was getting frayed. Focus, he told himself.

The zombie was wearing camouflage, and not the off-colour variety sold in surplus stores. Grunting with tiredness, he swung the mace low, breaking the creature’s knee. He skipped back a pace as it fell forward, brought the mace up again, and smashed it down. It took two blows before the creature stopped moving. He took out his long hunting knife and prodded around the zombie’s collar.

“What are you doing?” Greta asked.

“Checking for I.D.,” he said. “And there isn’t any. This wasn’t a soldier.”

“Is that important?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s another,” Finnegan said. “I’ve got this one.” He lumbered forward, axe half raised, swinging it in a lazy stroke that missed the creature’s head and sliced across its chest. The zombie’s hands swiped out. Finnegan swung a hasty backhand, smashing the flat of the blade into the zombie’s face as its other clawing hand raked down on his arm. He kicked the creature in the leg, but there was little force to the blow. The zombie rocked back, and then Greta was there, punching her axe into its skull.

“You all right?” Chester asked, his eyes on the blood beading up from the wheals on the man’s arm.

“Just a scratch,” Finnegan said with an attempt at nonchalance. “Three scratches by the look of it.”

Chester nodded. The words of comfort that sprang to his lips seemed trite after Reece’s death, so he said nothing.

The next zombie they saw was wearing the many-layered stained and torn clothing of an evacuee, and it was already dead. So was the next, and the one after that. As they moved further into the construction site, Chester realised they were following a trail of bodies, all leading to the more finished properties furthest from the road.

“I think we found who was harvesting that food,” Chester said, looking at the pile of the twice-dead around the front door of a house at the far edge of the estate.

“That one’s been shot,” Greta said, pointing. “And that one.”

“You two stay here,” Chester said.

“What for?” Greta asked.

“In case there’s a zombie in the back garden.”

“Then I’ll do it,” Finnegan said, pushing past Chester to the gate. He kicked it open and ran inside. “There’s nothing here,” he called out.

The back garden was empty. The house wasn’t, though its sole occupant was dead. They stood in the kitchen looking down at the body slumped in the chair. Chester picked up the 9mm pistol from where it had dropped out of the woman’s hand and ejected the magazine.

“Empty. She really did save the last bullet for herself.” He took out his knife, and prised back the collar. “And she was military. Derry, it says her name was.”

“There’s no food here,” Finnegan said, looking in the cupboards. They checked the other rooms in the house. They were much the same.

“This isn’t where she lived,” Greta said. “I think she led the zombies here. Do you think she knew she was dying?”

A trail of blood led from the door to a savage wound on the soldier’s leg, where it joined a pool that had dripped from a ragged gash in her arm. “Must have,” Chester said.

“Then if you don’t mind,” Finnegan said, wrapping a hasty bandage around his arm. “If she led the undead here from where she lived, I’d like to find out where that was, while I still have time.”

At the back of the building site was a bridle path. They wheeled their bicycles along it in silence, Finnegan in the lead, Greta following close behind. Chester watched the two, his mood darkening. Reece had died, and Finnegan would probably be dead soon. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d condemned them both by not leaving for Anglesey as soon as they’d returned from the British Museum. He tried telling himself that they could have died anyway, but by rigging that ballot and not letting chance choose his companions he’d marked them for death.

“And all for what?” he muttered. “All for—”

“Chester? Look at this,” Finnegan called.

They’d stopped at a wooden stile. On the field side were a trio of wooden doors. Front doors, judging by the brass number seventeen still stuck to one. A trench had been dug into the ground into which the doors had been placed and cement had then been poured.

“And look at the field,” Greta said. “The hedge has been reinforced. Can you see the wire? And the poles?”

“They’re not poles. They’re pipes,” Chester said.

“But they are reinforcing the hedge,” she said. “That’s to keep the zombies out. It has to be.”

“Then,” Finnegan said, “it looks like we’re on the right track. What? Don’t I even get a sympathy laugh for that?” He unslung his axe and stuck it in the gap between the doors.

“What are you doing?” Greta asked.

“Trying,” Finnegan said as he levered them apart, “to see what’s inside. Polytunnels. Lots of them. Different types, too.”

“All very promising,” Chester said. “You want to stay in there tonight? It’ll be as secure as anywhere else.”

“We keep going,” Finnegan said. “It can’t be far.”

“What can’t?” Greta asked.

Finnegan had already started wheeling his bike along the path. “The town,” he said. “Think about how much effort went into this. It must have taken hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. They must be around here somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Chester murmured, which was as close to a word of encouragement as he could manage. Finnegan was right; the work would have taken a large community. So where was the smoke from the cooking fires? Where were the people tending the crops? That the soldier, Derry, had saved the last bullet for herself gave the answer to that.

The track ended at the crest of a hill. Beyond was a sloping paddock filled with a multi-coloured patchwork of yellow and purple flowers. At the bottom of the hill was a twelve-foot high wall topped with spikes. Behind that, Chester could see rows of neatly dug trenches, haphazard trellises, and jury-rigged greenhouses, all filled with leaves and occasional patches of colour. The only place that hadn’t been planted was the almost circular swimming pool next to what could best be described as a mansion.

It was a three-storey building, shaped almost like a figure eight, with a long one-storey extension stretching out towards the pool. The style might have been called Spanish, but only by someone who’d never ventured further south than Dover. On the roof of the long extension, painted in red, was the word ‘Help’.

To the right of the paddock was a road that led to a wide sheet metal gate in the wall. From their vantage point, Chester could see the long curving driveway that led up to the house. But on the roadside of the gate were the undead.

“I count fifteen,” Finnegan said.

“Yup,” Chester agreed.

“I’m going down there,” Finnegan added.

“Why?” Greta asked. “It looks deserted.”

“It might not be, but it doesn’t matter if it is,” Finnegan said. “This is probably as far as I go. I don’t want to die in a farmhouse surrounded by nothing but your pity. No, I want my death to have a purpose. You saw those fields? There’s enough food there to keep everyone in the Tower alive for months. Maybe years. That’s what we came for. We’ve found it. Now we have to get rid of the undead.”

“But how do we get the food back to—” she began.

Finnegan cut her off. “That’s your problem. I’m going.”

Chester nodded to himself. “The man has a point.” He took out his revolver and checked it was loaded. “I’m going as well. Greta, you should stay here.”

“How many shots does that thing have?” she asked. “Six? So that’ll leave three each. Those are good odds.”

And before either Chester or Finnegan could argue, she’d started down the hill.

They were fifty feet away when the zombie at the rear of the pack turned slowly around and staggered towards them. The three of them stopped. Chester hated this part, the waiting. It seemed, of late, life had become nothing but.

The creature got closer. Behind it another two had turned from the gate and were making their slow slouching way towards this new prey. Were they slower than usual, Chester wondered, or was that his imagination? He tried to rid his mind of unnecessary questions and keep focused on the undead getting closer. Closer. Closer. Close enough.

He darted forward, using his left hand to bat the creature’s arm out of the way as he punched the mace at its head. It fell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Finnegan move towards them.

“No! Let them come to us,” Chester called. There were five. No, six. Now eight. “Now. Finnegan, the one in green. Greta, that one without the face.” And Chester ran forward, twisting into the strike as he hacked at a zombie between those two. It was a solid hit. The creature flew up and back. Chester kept running, changing his grip, shifting his weight, so just as the zombie hit the ground he stamped his heel down on its face. He felt the rotten bone disintegrate beneath his foot, but momentum kept it pressing down, and it kept him moving, straight into the pack beyond.

He swung left. Right. Up. Down. Slashing wildly with the mace, grabbing with his free hand, hauling the zombies off balance. He was surrounded. Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but dead eyes, peeling skin, exposed bone, rotting hair, and gaping wounds oozing that inhuman red-brown pus. He could hear nothing but the snap of teeth, the crunch of breaking bone, and the dry wheeze as decaying lungs involuntarily sucked air in through ruined mouths. No, there was something else. Someone was screaming. He realised it was him.

Chester slammed the mace into a skull and lost his grip on the gore-slick handle. It fell as hands pawed at his clothing and clawed at his neck. He had the hunting knife free, and slashed low and high, all sense and reason gone.

“Chester!”

The word cut through him, and he saw it was Finnegan’s face in front. He turned the blow just in time, his left hand grabbing the man’s coat, pulling him out of the reach of a snapping mouth. Chester turned the missed blow into a downward stab, the knife impaling the creature’s brain. The blade stuck. Fist’s raised, determined he’d die fighting and almost relishing the prospect, he looked for the next opponent, but there were only three figures still standing, not counting himself. Greta walked over to the last of the undead still pawing ineffectually at the mansion’s metal gate. She swung the axe up one last time. It collapsed without ever having turned around.

Finnegan looked around, checking the zombies were truly dead before turning to Chester. “What the hell…” he managed, before shaking his head. “That was meant to be my last stand, not yours.”

Chester tried to think of a retort. He couldn’t.

“What exactly did you do before the outbreak?” Greta asked.