Surviving The Evacuation (Book 5): Reunion (3 page)

“Like that Chinese guy at the Tate?”

“No, like Nicola Upton, the MP. She was a target. And there were others like…” and he stopped. Amongst the others had been Jennifer Masterton. But that, he decided, was something Nilda didn’t need to know. “… civil servants and politicians and you name it. And those were the people Quigley had us target.”

“And you knew this? I mean, you know what you’re saying, right? That you were allowing one politician to spy on another. That’s a huge conspiracy, and you’re saying you knew about it.”

“No, I’m not. I knew Cannock, not who he worked for. That Chinese guy, that was something that was all profit but Cannock got us the introduction. Upton was on one of those business select committees for foreign investment. I figured we were stealing the information for some Chinese firm, so if I ever thought I was committing treason, it was only economic, and that barely counts as criminal. But right after the outbreak, Cannock told us that Quigley was behind it all, and that’s when we should have realised how much danger we were in.”

“Because of the zombies?”

“No. I meant when we were suddenly told that the Foreign Secretary was the man at the centre of the web. For all those years, he’d stayed in the shadows, and all of a sudden we were being told. Cannock wasn’t a crook, you see. He was a killer, an assassin if you like, except he didn’t mind if he was being paid or not. He was the kind of person who really would have killed us both if we’d said no to one of his jobs. The kind who knew well enough that when I got arrested I wasn’t going to say a single word about what we’d been doing or for whom we’d done it. And because of that, you better believe we didn’t ask, and we didn’t even want to know who his boss was. When he told us, it was only a few hours after I’d met and killed my first zombie. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t really thinking at all.”

“Well, what did he want you to do?”

“It was simple enough. We were to stay in London, and we were to find others who’d stay. People we trusted, so that when the dust settled and the enclaves were secure, Quigley could return and find us there rather than some band of rebels, and that was the word he used.”

“And you believed that?”

“Of course not. It was obvious what his real intention was. He didn’t want the criminals in the enclaves. That would be too great an extra strain. I figured he wanted us fighting amongst ourselves and probably killing each other off. Whoever was left would be dependent on him for supplies. Clever, you see. Or that’s what I thought. He even called us his Home Guard. That was another joke, I suppose. But, of course, it was all just a story, something believable enough because we wanted to believe. Something that would make us take the vaccine he gave us and say thank you for it.”

“The vaccine? The one that they gave to all the evacuees at the muster points?”

“Exactly.”

“How many?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How many people were there? How many people had you gathered together? How many took the vaccine?”

“Thousands.”

7
th
March - London

Chester stared at the bodies. Some were slumped over tables, some still lay on the mattresses on which they had gone to their final sleep, others littered the warehouse floor in an erratic line that led to the door. They were all dead. He hadn’t checked each one, just enough to be sure. Two hundred people, and that was just in the warehouse. How they had died was obvious. It was the vaccine. Maybe it was a brutal accident, and maybe it was just this consignment, but he didn’t think so. His eyes on the grim scene, he backed slowly outside.

The streets were deserted. He checked the time. He took a few paces to the left, then walked a few paces back again. He didn’t know what to do. The uncertainty grated. It was unfamiliar. Ever since he’d escaped from the police and met and killed his first zombie, he’d been reacting without thinking, and now…

“Now everyone’s dead,” he said, speaking aloud to fill the grim silence. Everyone. The word jarred. He looked up at the rooftops, and it seemed as if that silence stretched out above him and across the city and beyond, to encompass the whole world.

“No,” he said. “No. It’s just here, just the warehouse. The others’ll be fine.”

But if they were, then where were they? Everyone was supposed to meet at the warehouse by noon on the day after the evacuation. That was still over five hours away, but he would have expected some people to have come early.

When they’d been given the vials, they’d been told not to take the vaccine until everyone had left on the evacuation. Then they were to stay put, and stay inside. The government was using satellite surveillance to ensure that everyone left the city, but after twenty-four hours the satellites would be retasked. At least, that’s what they had been told would happen. Told by Cannock, who had delivered the vaccine to them and—

“And no one’s here, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead. So, come on, do something. Go and find them.” But that presented a problem in itself. He didn’t know where everyone lived. For that matter, other than McInery, he didn’t know where
any
of them lived. The few that weren’t career criminals knew well enough that the rest were. Under those circumstances no one was likely to share their address, not even with McInery. But she knew where they lived. She knew where everyone lived. Attention to that sort of detail was the cornerstone of her power. McInery.

“Mac,” he murmured. Like him, she’d taken some of the vaccine home. Had she taken it? Why wouldn’t she? He started walking south towards Kensington, away from the warehouse by Paddington Station. As he reached the end of the road, the walk became a run.

He rang the bell. There was no answer. He hammered on the door. Still nothing. He listened. No sound. To dispel a growing unease that was tempered with an edge of fear, he raised his leg and slammed his boot into the red-painted wood. Once. Twice. The lock splintered. The door swung open, and he saw McInery halfway down the stairs, one hand trying to pull her robe closed, the other trying to extract a compact 9mm from its pocket.

“Chester? What the hell are you doing? What time is it? Did you—”

“You didn’t take the vaccine?” he interrupted.

“What? No. Not yet. Why?” And she saw his expression. “What happened? What’s gone wrong?”

“Everyone at the warehouse is dead. They all took the vaccine.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I… I don’t like needles.”

“Really?” For a moment she sounded curious, then the enormity of the situation cut through the haze of sleep. “And they’re dead?”

“Like I said. Everyone who was in the warehouse.”

“And anyone else?”

“I don’t have the addresses.”

“In the blue folder, on top of the bureau down in the cellar. You get it, and I’ll get dressed.”

Trying not to think of the last time he had been in the small, secret room, he went down into the cellar. But as he looked for the folder, all he could see was that figure tied to the chair. He could see himself raise the ornate revolver Cannock had handed to him. He could hear that shot, the one he had not expected would come. He saw the man fly backward on the chair, his brains sprayed out against the wall. That, he knew, was an image that would stay with him until his death.

It wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone. It was the fourth. Once it had been one of his colleagues – McInery refused to call their organisation a gang. That had been a fight though not a fair one. Before that there had been the night of confusion on the docks over a missing shipment, and that had been an overly fair fight, one he’d been lucky to limp away from. Then there had been that time with Cannock, back when he was a kid… he shook his head, ridding it of that memory. Now wasn’t the time. He grabbed the folder and ran back up to the hallway, reaching it at the same time as McInery, now dressed, came running down the stairs.

“Give me that. Quick.” She took the folder and opened it. “Let’s see.” She made no effort to hide the writing. Everything she wrote was in code. That oft-displayed lack of trust was the reason their relationship had never advanced beyond business-like co-operation. “The nearest is a flat off Onslow Square,” she said. “And there are two more close to Earl’s Court. Are you armed?”

Chester realised he wasn’t sure. He checked his pockets. The ornate revolver Cannock had given him was still there. He’d been keeping it as a reminder as much as a weapon. He took it out and checked it was loaded. That, Chester thought, was a true sign of the times, when the punishment for carrying a firearm was nothing when set against the risk of being caught unarmed.

They didn’t run to the first address, the fashionable street off an equally fashionable square was only a few blocks from McInery’s house. Nor did they talk. That he wasn’t the only person left alive was enough of a comfort that Chester could, for the first time, properly take in the silent city.

Except it wasn’t silent, not completely, but the sounds were all wrong. It had been dying since the outbreak and now it was in its death throes. Yes, he decided, that was the way to describe it. The few people he’d seen on the streets were always hurrying to somewhere from somewhere else. Usually that had been one of the Food Distribution Centres, and it had always been during daylight. At night the only people out, other than him and his brethren, were those in uniform. Then had come the evacuation, and the city had bustled once more and for one last time. And as they walked, he began to understand that it truly had been the last time.

“What if all of the vaccine is poison?” he asked, voicing his fears.

“All of it? You mean including that given to the evacuees?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“There’s no point speculating,” McInery said. “Not yet. Here. Onslow Gardens. Number 12A, Ginny Whiteacre.”

“I don’t know her.”

“She was before your time. Retired, but before that, she was a safebreaker. She got out when things started to go digital.”

They reached the front door, and he was about to break it open when she raised a hand to stop him.

“If she’s still alive, she won’t thank you for a broken door.” She nodded towards the ground floor window. “Check inside.”

The curtains were pulled back. Cupping his hands against the reflected glare of the early morning sun, Chester peered in.

“A body. Female. Five-nine. Black hair, but I’d say she was at least in her late fifties.”

“That’s her. And she’s dead?” McInery asked. She didn’t look for herself.

“Definitely.”

Without another word, she walked off towards Earl’s Court. Chester followed, pausing two streets away when they passed a boarded up property whose cellar was being dug out before the outbreak. Behind the railings, next to a stack of timbers, he’d seen a sledgehammer. He jumped over the wrought iron fence and picked it up.

“Are you coming?” McInery asked. She’d stopped a few yards further down the street. Chester hefted the hammer. It was heavy and unwieldy, but if felt more like a weapon than the small revolver did.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m coming. I just wish I knew what we were heading into.”

The house in Earl’s Court, a small, three-bedroom end of terrace, seemed as quiet as its neighbours. Resigned anticipation in her voice, McInery nodded towards the door and said, “Go on. Break it open.”

Chester did. The family, three children, husband and wife, were all dead in their beds.

“Must have taken it before going to sleep,” Chester offered. “That’s a small mercy.”

“Whether their deaths were quick or slow, their lives were stolen,” McInery said with what Chester thought was unaccustomed sympathy until the woman added, “Stolen from me.”

Chester said nothing more. The next house, two blocks to the west, told a very different story.

“Who was he?” Chester asked.

“Damien Burns.”

“Never heard of him. What’d he do?”

“Cocaine, mostly. He was a mid-level distributor. Worked his way up from the street. He was a bit like you, but he’d moved into property during the recession. He bought up houses on which their owners had defaulted, and he was very good at making sure someone couldn’t make a payment.”

Chester nodded. The man was dead. So was the woman lying halfway up the stairs. Neither had died quickly nor peacefully. In the grip of death, the woman had kicked through the wooden bannisters, raining splinters down upon the man’s body.

“There’s nothing more here. Come on,” McInery said, turning on her heels.

“Where’s the next house?” Chester asked, following her out into the sunlight. There seemed to be a fresh chill to the air.

“What would be the point of going to any more? We’d only see a hundred variations of the same scene. No, we go back to the warehouse and wait. Anyone still alive will be bound to go there. But they may well come seeking revenge, so we’ll find somewhere nearby to wait and watch.”

“Right,” Chester said, thinking that it might well be Cannock who came back, wanting to make sure his work was done. His free hand slipped down to his pocket. He patted the revolver, but neither gun nor sledgehammer offered much reassurance now.