Surviving The Evacuation (Book 6): Harvest (17 page)

“This and that,” Chester managed. He bent, retrieved his knife, and then kicked at the corpses until he found his mace. It needed cleaning. He looked down at his hands, his clothes. He needed cleaning. He looked at Finnegan and Greta. So did they.

“Shall we go inside?” Finnegan suggested. Chester nodded.

As he approached the gate, he saw that it wasn’t made of sheet metal, but was a set of retractable railings that could slide back into the wall itself. Onto it, and presumably preventing it from ever being opened, flattened pieces of metal had been welded, bolted, or otherwise attached.

“We won’t get these open,” Greta said.

“But they would have left themselves a way out,” Finnegan said. “And a way out can also be a way…” he trailed off.

“What?” Greta asked.

“People.” Finnegan gestured through a gap in the reinforced sections. Chester moved closer so that he could see. There were two figures. A man and a girl.

“She can’t be more than nine,” Greta said with disbelief. “Hello!” she added, calling out to the two figures.

“Hello,” the man said, and he sounded as tired as Chester felt. He stopped six yards from the gate, a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“I’m Greta. This is Chester, and Finnegan.”

“Eamonn,” Finnegan corrected her.

“Really?” she asked, turning to look at Finnegan.

“Where are you from?” the man asked.

“Anglesey,” Greta said, “by way of the Tower of London. We were out looking for farms, orchards, anywhere with food that we could harvest.”

“You came here on foot?” the man asked.

“We came along the coast by boat. There were too many undead to get back to it, so now we’re going across country.”

“Oh,” the man said. They all waited, the silence stretched, but he didn’t say anything more.

“Where’s Anglesey?” the girl asked.

“It’s an island off the north coast of Wales,” Finnegan said.

“Not America?” the girl asked, disappointed.

“Were you expecting people from the US to come here?” Finnegan asked.

“Not really,” she replied. “But we were expecting someone to come. We have been since March.”

“And we’re the first people you’ve seen?” Chester asked.

The man didn’t say anything, but the girl nodded.

“Lots of people leave,” she said, “but you’re the first to arrive.”

“Chester?” Greta asked, the unspoken question obvious.

“We’ll be going back to London tomorrow,” he said. “And you can come with us and wait there for a boat from Wales. They have electricity and people from all over the world. It’s safe there. Or safer than anywhere else.” He’d said those words a dozen times since the outbreak, always with a sense that the journey was at least half done. This time they came out flat.

“That sounds like a lot of people,” the man said.

Chester waited, but the man didn’t say anything more.

“Well, look, as I say, we’ll be going back tomorrow,” Chester said slowly. He could feel tiredness overtaking him. “But we need a place to sleep tonight. Will you let us in?”

“We should,” the girl said.

“How did you find us?” the man asked.

“Pure accident,” Finnegan said.

The man nodded to himself, thinking. What about became clear with his next question. “What’s the catch?” he asked.

“Catch?” Chester asked.

“The con. The angle. We haven’t seen anyone new for months. No planes. No signs of life, then you show up with talk of electricity on an island hundreds of miles away.”

“It’s real,” Greta said. “It really is.”

“We’re not here to rob you,” Chester said. “If you don’t let us in, we’ll go, but we’ll
have
to go, and we won’t come back. I doubt anyone ever will. You’ll be here on your own. Just the two of you.” He waved a gory hand at the undead littering the ground behind them. “It’s your choice.”

“Oh, please,” the girl pled. “We should let them in before the monsters come back.”

“Fine,” the man relented, but he didn’t seem happy about it. He disappeared behind the high wall, appearing again a few seconds later near the top. He lowered a ladder over the side. They climbed up.

Chester’s first impression was of chaos, but then he saw the order and pattern behind it all. The vast lawn had been dug up, subdivided, and planted. Some of those plots still had plants growing in them, though in many they were wilting, dying now that the warmth had gone from the year. Others had been dug over or covered with planking or plastic in preparation for a spring planting. Many more had been left uncovered with small mounds of stems piled to rot in one corner. It would have taken a lot more than the effort of a man and a child to complete this labour, let alone that in those reinforced fields nearby. He remembered the dead soldier, Derry. How many more had once called this mansion their refuge?

“Was this your house?” Chester asked the man.

“Not on my salary. Leave your weapons by the wall,” he said, adding a heartbeat too late, “if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Chester said, laying the gore-covered mace and bloody knife by the wall. And as he straightened, he half turned so the man wouldn’t notice when he checked the revolver was still secure in his pocket.

“It’s a guitar,” the girl said.

“I’m sorry?” Greta asked, laying her axe down.

“She means the house. It’s built like a guitar,” the man said. “Or that’s what it was meant to look like from the air. It was a rock star’s mansion. The swimming pool is meant to be a musical note.”

“Huh,” Chester grunted. Meetings like this were always awkward, but he didn’t have the energy for the bluff bluster he usually employed

“So what’s your name?” Greta asked the girl.

“Janine. And this is Detective Inspector Harry Styles,” Janine said, with obvious pride.

“Really?” Chester asked, giving the man a closer inspection. “Where were you based?”

“London,” Styles said. “The MET.”

“Huh,” Chester grunted. He looked over at Finnegan and noticed the man was leaning up against the wall. “We could do with somewhere to wash and some spare clothes if you’ve got them.”

“We use the pump house down by the pool for washing,” Styles said. “And we’ll see about clothes.”

“They’re Army clothes,” Janine said.

“Really?” Chester asked.

“It’s a long story,” Styles said. “I’ll tell you over dinner. Come on, Janine.”

He turned and led the girl back to the house.

“That was… odd,” Greta said.

“Yeah, a bit. Do we leave the weapons here?” Finnegan asked.

“We do. He’s no threat, so we might as well be polite,” Chester said.

“I’m not sure why we should when he didn’t even thank us for saving him,” Greta said.

“Yeah, well, people are like that,” Chester muttered, his mind already elsewhere. He didn’t recognise Styles, he was sure of that. Not that that meant anything in itself, but he would be the first police officer that Chester had met since February who’d actually admitted to have been in the force. After the implementation of martial law and their involvement in the evacuation, any who had made it to Anglesey had wisely kept quiet about it.

“How’s your arm?” Greta asked Finnegan.

“Stings a bit,” he said. “What do you think my chances are?” he asked Chester.

“You’ve not been bitten before? No? Then I’d say it’s fifty-fifty the infection got inside. If it has, you’ve a ten percent chance of turning.”

“That low?”

“I thought anyone who’s survived this far must have been exposed to the virus scores of times and so had to be immune. Reece gave the lie to that.”

They washed, mostly with bleach, and entirely in silence. Styles brought them clean clothes. They were, as Janine had said, military uniforms.

“You said there was a story behind these?” Chester asked.

“It’s pretty much the same as the story behind this place and us,” Styles replied. “I’ll tell you about it after you’ve met everyone else. After that you can have dinner.”

“There are more of you?” Greta asked.

“Get dressed, and come and see. Up the path there, that leads to the front door.” He looked the three of them over one more time and was on the verge of saying something else, but he just gave a rueful shake of his head and walked away.

“I’m not sure I should go inside,” Finnegan said as they walked up a path lined with green veined marble. “In case… well, you know.”

Chester patted his pocket. “I’ve got the revolver, if it’s necessary,” he glanced at the house. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever it is I’d rather you were there when we go inside. Ready?”

Chester pushed the door open and stepped into a vestibule with a huge glass window stretching five metres high, and just as wide. The setting sun was on the other side of the house, so it let in little light, but there was more than enough to make out each of the faces staring at the three newcomers. Some sat on the stairs, some on the floor, others stood half-hidden in the doorways leading off left and right.

Chester swallowed. “How many?” he asked, the words coming out gruff, hoarse.

“Forty-three,” Styles said. “Janine’s the oldest. Marco’s the youngest. He’s five.” The man gestured towards a tousle-haired boy barely visible behind a circular bronze statue.

“And you, you’re the only adult?” Greta asked.

“There were more. They left, looking for help, or just looking to get away.”

“Leaving their children behind?” she asked.

“Those with kids were amongst the first to leave. No, this lot all came from a boarding school down near Sevenoaks. They were brought to the enclave, and that, as I said, is a long story. You’ll want to eat.”

Hi,” Finnegan said, waving. The children watched him warily. They didn’t look scared. The expressions were far worse. They looked resigned, as if all possible disappointments had already been visited upon them. “We’ve come from the Tower of London,” Finnegan said. “We’re going to take you back with us. Then a boat will come to take you to an island in Wales. They have electricity, and lots of food. You’re going to be safe. It really is going to be okay.”

The children looked at him blankly, then at the Inspector.

“They said it better than I could,” Styles murmured. “The food’s waiting.”

He led them into a long room with a view of the garden. Dinner was a soup so thick that it almost qualified for being called vegetables boiled in sauce.

“Do you have a radio?” Styles asked, almost before Chester had sat down.

“No, sorry.”

“No way of communicating with these people on Wales?”

“No.”

“But you mentioned a boat.”

“A lifeboat,” Chester said. “It dropped us off. We’ll go back to London and arrange a point somewhere near the coast. There’ll be room for all the kids.”

“If we can get to the coast,” Styles said, walking over to an empty bar in the corner of the room. He opened a drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes. “My last pack,” he said. “I was keeping it for… I don’t know. Not this. Thousands of people you say?”

“About ten thousand, more or less,” Chester said. “Probably a bit less. Some people arrive, and they leave again. They go out searching for their families or—”

“And no one mentioned us?” Styles interrupted.

“We didn’t know you were here, no,” Chester said.

“Would you? Should you? I mean, could people have been sent from there and just not arrived?”

“If someone reached Anglesey with the news that there was a farm filled with children, help would have been sent,” Chester said.

“It’s the same in London,” Greta added. “If we’d known, we would have come.”

Finnegan nodded in agreement. Chester wondered if it was true. He was sure Tuck and Jay would have made the effort, but would anyone else?

“So no one made it. Well, I suppose I already knew that,” Styles murmured, tapping the pack on the counter. “Eat. Please. It’s getting cold.”

Finnegan did. Greta took a polite mouthful. Chester just looked at Styles.

“How many were here originally?” he asked.

“Originally? No one,” Styles said. “The place was empty when we arrived. But there were seven hundred and eighty-eight of us when we left the enclave. Men, women, children. Families and orphans, soldiers and civilians. And now it’s just me and the kids. Everyone else went looking for help. And none of them made it?”

“I’m sorry,” Chester said.

The man gave a brittle laugh. “Ten thousand in Wales, you say. How many in London?”

“Fifty,” Greta said.

“Fifty thousand?” Styles asked, “Well, that’s something—”

“No. Just fifty,” Greta corrected him.

“Oh. I see. And what about everywhere else? What about America? The kids kept thinking they’d send help. That was Amy’s fault. She kept saying that their aircraft carriers wouldn’t be destroyed. That they’d be the first to get back on their feet, you know?” He tapped the box on the table again. “I buried her last month. It wasn’t the undead. It was a fever. She wasn’t the first. A lot of people died, but most left, looking for help. And you’re sure none of them made it?”