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  “I miss sausage and eggs,” Petrelli said. “And steak. Steak for breakfast, that’s the thing. And cereal with chocolate and marshmallows. Cookies with chocolate chips and—”

  “Thank you, Private,” Whitley said. “The checkpoint’s ahead.”

  “Aye, checkpoints in Belfast,” Colm said, “but manned by U.S. Marines. I’ve tried to come up with how that’s a metaphor for the last century of history, but you know what my mind comes back to? That I wouldn’t want to be slung underneath a motorway if a horde arrives.”

  “There’s not much chance of a horde in Ireland,” Petrelli said, “not with all the mountains and bogs.” He spoke with a confidence Sholto didn’t share, but for the first time that morning, his critical eye was pleasantly surprised.

  The checkpoint was situated at the end of Dargan Road, where the harbour met the mainland, and the beginning of the motorway. It had been built in and around the up-ramps, off-ramps, and overpasses where the motorway met the minor roads for harbour traffic heading due west into the heart of the ancient city. Razor wire and cement combined with overturned cars to create an impenetrable barrier. Not only were there sentry posts at every corner of the compass, but two more Marines dressed entirely in blue and grey were in a basket slung underneath the overpass.

  “How is it, Chief?” the lieutenant asked.

  “All quiet, sir,” the senior NCO said. “Eight hostiles during the night. The last was an hour ago. Not seen any since.”

  “Good. We’re inspecting the motorway. We’ll be back in two hours.”

  They climbed through the barricade. Colm took the lead, as they headed onto the motorway.

  “This is the straightest section of road?” Sholto asked.

  “The straightest that’s closest to the harbour,” Colm said. “The M2 heads north from here, hugging the coast until you get to Hazelbank Park. That’s where we brought the boat when we went to the zoo. At the point where the motorway reaches the park, it takes an abrupt left turn, heading towards the zoo and castle. Here, to the east of the road, there are a few hundred metres of scrub, marsh, and then there’s the sea. To the west, there’s woodland, some more scrub, and a few houses, I think… It’s hard to remember, and we’ll see soon enough.”

  “We can have some boats waiting off shore, ready to collect the plane’s crew,” the lieutenant said. “Something of that size, with that noise, it’ll summon the undead.”

  “And there’s nowhere else?” Sholto asked.

  “The only other roads I can think of are so close to the airport, we might as well use the runway,” Colm said. “Long-term, that might be the answer. We could live on boats on Lough Neagh. That way, we’ll be safe from the undead, and have enough fresh water to drink and wash. The plane might summon the undead when it lands, but it won’t be taking off that often.”

  “You’ve been thinking about this?” Sholto asked.

  “I thought I’d left Belfast, and that I’d never come back,” Colm said. “Seems like my destiny is tied to this city.”

  “Movement, nine o’clock!” Private Petrelli called out.

  Sholto only saw a dense thicket of trees, a mixture of conifers and pines interspersed with an occasional deciduous that had already dropped its leaves. Then he saw the zombie, a hundred yards away. The ragged creature’s tattered shirt clung to its skeletal frame. No, it was stuck, glued on with dried blood, not all of which was the zombie’s own. The creature staggered towards the road, kicking a cloud of leaves up in its wake. Its foot hit a root, and it fell, face-first, onto the damp soil.

  “Thelonious, take it out,” Whitley said.

  “Aye aye, sir.” The tall man was a sailor, not a Marine, though he was dressed the same as the others. His weapon wasn’t a British Army SA80 from Anglesey’s stores, but a U.S-made M4 carbine with an optical sight and a factory-made suppressor. The sailor crossed to the barrier that separated the motorway from the scrub. He propped his weapon on the barrier, took aim. He fired. The zombie, still attempting to stand, fell back down and didn’t move again.

  “We need three miles,” the lieutenant said. “We’re about two hundred yards from the overpass. I’d say this is as good a place to start as any.”

  “This should do,” Sholto said. He took out the notepad. “The exact spec is two thousand metres for landing, two thousand five hundred for take-off. He can manage in less, but might require more, depending on the wind.”

  “Four and a half thousand metres?” Colm said. “What’s that, about two and three-quarter miles? I think… yes, I think we’ll be all right. We’ll have to remove the road signs, the streetlights, and the crash barriers separating the two lanes of traffic. All the cars and lorries, of course, and… and yes, that’ll mean removing the crash barriers at either side of the road as well.” Colm walked over to the nearest upright, holding the crash barrier in place. “I don’t know that we’ll be able to remove these bolts. We don’t want to rip ’em out, as that’ll tear up some concrete.”

  “We’ll need tools,” Sholto said. “But the plane was designed for rough landings.” He took out a spray can, and marked a line across the road. “That’s the starting point. Clearing the runways at the airport will take about five days counting the time it takes to get there and back. The question is whether we can clear this section of road more quickly.”

  “And how do we tell that?” Petrelli asked.

  “That’s a length-of-string question,” Sholto said. “Start by counting the cars and the streetlights. Let’s go.”

  The lieutenant switched on the pedometer.

  “What’s a length-of-string question,” Petrelli asked.

  “One that’s impossible to answer until the task is done,” Toussaint said.

  “Clearing a few planes off the runway is probably less effort than clearing the signs and barriers from the road,” Whitley said. “But here we can retreat back to the harbour at night. Out at the airport we’ll have to build our defences before we can start on the runway.”

  “How many volunteers can be counted on, Lieutenant?” Sholto asked.

  “Five-hundred-and-forty,” Whitley said. “That leaves two-hundred-and-seventeen in the camp that’d I’d call reliable. Another hundred or so fisher-folk who’ll be at sea, and a core of fifty troops in reserve.”

  “And another thousand who—” Petrelli began, but Toussaint tapped him on the arm.

  Colm walked over to a streetlight in the middle of the road. “I worked a bit of construction,” he said. “Not in recent years, but when I was younger, before the gym got going. Didn’t work demolition, but I wonder if we couldn’t fell these streetlights. Take a saw to them, cut through them here, flush with ground. Then fill the hole with dirt and rubble, top it off with cement. We’ve got plenty of that.”

  “Probably wouldn’t take longer than felling a tree,” Sholto said. “And wouldn’t leave too much rubble in the centre of the road.”

  “Hostile, nine o’clock,” Toussaint said, raising his rifle as he spoke. He fired. The creature collapsed.

  “It’s the lack of time,” Colm said. “We could find the proper tools at any of three-dozen construction firms, and haul them here. But time is calories. No, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way. Quick and hard, with saws and axes, crowbars and ropes.”

  “One day and done,” Petrelli said. “I like the sound of that.”

  “We’re clear,” Toussaint said, pointedly adding, “for now.”

  With Petrelli watching the right, Toussaint watching the left, they walked along the road. The lieutenant watched ahead, while Sholto kept track of the obstructions.

  Maybe Belfast would work, he thought. Maybe. Or Ireland would. The harbour had been depressing because it reminded him of nothing so much as a slum. It wasn’t just the fires in the oil drums, but the checkpoints, the quasi-paramilitary uniforms, the patrols, and that they now had police once again. All of that, after Anglesey, had been dispiriting. Even so, there were people who wanted to make it work, who
were thinking about how to make it work, and who were capable of turning thought into deed.

  “Tell me about Lough Neagh,” Sholto said, half crouching to look underneath a stalled van. There was nothing there.

  “You mean to live on?” Colm said. “You should speak to Kallie. It was her idea originally. We talked about it a few days after the outbreak. We’d rendezvoused at the gym. Perhaps gathered is a better word. No one could sleep. We’d lost so many people that day, mostly because none of us could really believe the impossible was happening. We were waiting for dawn, knowing its arrival would mean we’d have to depart, but we had no destination. That’s when Kallie suggested the lough. The idea was kicked around, and by the time first light came, we’d planned a floating city on the water.”

  “What stopped you from doing it?” Petrelli asked.

  “Reality,” Colm said. “It took us three days to get to the lough. We only got a glimpse of it, but we couldn’t see any boats. We did see plenty of the undead. There were too many for us to linger. Even so, we stayed too long. We lost… we lost some good people. That’s when our wandering began, but we still talked about it. When we reached a lough, we’d discuss it, we’d plan, we’d dream. The difficulty was getting the boats there. But once we had a few, we could use branches and barrels to create pontoons and floating platforms. It was… it was a fantasy that got us through a few hard months. Now it’s different. Now we’ve got the people to make it work. We’ve even got the boats if we can figure out a way to get them overland to the lough. It won’t be for long. Just a few months.”

  “You think it’ll be over, then?” the private asked.

  “By then, I hope the end will be in sight,” Colm said.

  “Amen,” Toussaint said.

  “That’s Hazelbank Park up there,” Colm said as the motorway began to curve westward.

  “That wasn’t three miles,” Whitley said. He checked the pedometer. “I make it two thousand four hundred metres. We can squeeze in a few hundred metres more, but not another two thousand.”

  “So we can land the plane, or get it airborne, but not do both?” Petrelli asked.

  “No, Private,” Toussaint said. “Since we can’t depart here until after we’ve arrived, we can land, and that’s it.”

  “How much room do you need to turn a plane around?” Sholto asked, but no one knew. “It doesn’t matter. Worst case, we’ll drag it back down the road. A few hundred people on ropes should do it.”

  “Or,” Colm said, “we stick a few litres of aviation fuel into a couple of tow trucks, and use those.”

  “Good point,” Sholto said. “So, are we agreed, this could work?”

  “I made it forty-eight vehicles, mostly cars,” Whitley said. “The two garbage trucks are going to be the biggest headache. A few saws and crowbars and ropes, and we can clear the signs and streetlights. I’d say, five hundred people, a day’s labour. A day and a half at the most, by which time, we’d only just be reaching the airport.”

  “Let’s do the half-day now, then,” Petrelli said. “There’s plenty of people kicking their heels. It’d do ’em good to get off their backsides.”

  “Thank you, Private,” Whitley said. He turned to Sholto, and raised an eyebrow.

  Sholto glanced at the sky. “It’s still early. Let’s recruit ourselves a work gang.”

  Sholto eased himself onto his cot, grateful that night had fallen. Recruiting volunteers had been easy. They’d had a hundred before the admiral had finished speaking, and six hundred a few minutes after that. Yes, getting recruits had been easy. Finding the tools was less so. They had plenty of crowbars, but few saws, and most of the rope was already in use. In the end, Colm had led a hundred people into the city to loot a plant-hire firm. They’d come across seven of the undead, but suffered no injuries. Sholto would have preferred to be with them than on the road. There had been zombies there, too. Nine in total, summoned from the woodlands by the sound of the work gang. Dealing with them was Whitley’s job. That was another task Sholto would have preferred, but he’d found himself supervising the road clearance. At first, it was a disaster that had only improved when he’d delegated its organisation to people who’d managed construction-crews before the outbreak. Even so, they’d spent the afternoon mostly getting in each other’s way, and cleared barely three hundred metres of road. It should be easier in the morning, since they’d surely made every mistake possible.

  Was it worth it, though? The idea of living on Lough Neagh was beguiling. When he’d returned, he’d looked at the maps, but there was no easy access from the sea. They could use some of the aviation fuel to power a few diesel trucks, and use those to tow some of the smaller boats there. With those as the base, they could build pontoons and… He smiled. Theoretically, it would be a formidable refuge. They could even repair a few more of the helicopters rusting near the airport. The grain could be choppered in from the cargo ships out in the harbour. Theoretically, but there was a long gap between theory and practice, and right now, they didn’t even know what state the airport was in. The satellites were no help. The clouds over Ireland were as thick as those over Britain. No, the priority had to be creating a runway, no matter how haphazard, so they didn’t lose the plane. Stage two was inspecting the Ards Peninsula. Lough Neagh and the airport would be third. After that, who knew? Maybe they could repair more helicopters. Perhaps even another plane. With those, maybe they could properly scout Ireland. Maybe. First, they had to clear the road, and for that, he really needed to get some sleep.

  Chapter 16 - Fight and Flight

  20th November, Belfast, Day 252

  “And, one… two…” Colm pushed the crowbar, levering the door of the post-office van open. “Three.” He stepped back as the door swung ajar.

  “Empty,” Sholto said, lowering his rifle. He’d not expected otherwise. Before they laid crowbar to lock, they’d banged on the side of the van and listened for a response. Establishing a procedure was important. They weren’t on Anglesey anymore. Danger truly lurked in the shadows.

  “Jen Masterton really called herself queen?” Colm asked, peering inside. “Mostly letters. There’s a few parcels, but most are like this.” He held up a slim package that could only contain a DVD or game.

  “Not queen, not in so many words,” Sholto said. “Gloria?”

  Gloria Rycroft stepped forward, knife raised, and slid it along the tape holding the box closed. “She was my MP,” Gloria said. “I never liked her. Nothing in this one, it’s just a phone.” She moved on to the next box, and Sholto turned his attention to the woodland.

  The volunteers had been split into two wholly uneven groups. Sholto, Colm, and twenty others were searching the abandoned vehicles, confirming that there was nothing of use inside, and no fuel left in the tanks. The other group, of nearly six hundred, was working its way down from Hazelbank Park, clearing the road. That task was under the command of Lieutenant Whitley, but being managed by Julio Evora, who, a year ago, had been in charge of the construction of a new hospital on Cape Verde.

  In another hour, they’d have searched the last van. Then they’d head north to see whether the different style of management had led to better progress.

  “Candles!” Gloria said. “That’s more like it.”

  “Pop them in here,” Reg Cafney said, holding out his bag. His rich baritone was incongruous, coming from a man of such small stature and slight a frame. He’d been a voice-over actor before the outbreak, famous mostly for work on adverts, but he was famous. Rather, his voice was among the British survivors. Sholto had made a mental note to get Kim to recruit him for her radio project. Cafney’s voice was one to read the news, even if it would be a while before they had much news to report.

  “Lavender and patchouli oil,” Colm said, coming over to Sholto. The two men walked a little distance from the group. “It might help with the smell, at least until we’ve more water with which to wash.”

  “It’s not much of a haul,” Sholto said. All told, from all
of the vehicles abandoned on that section of motorway, including two post-office vans, they had filled twelve suitcases and eight hold-alls. The cases had come from the cars, left there by survivors who’d packed too much. The clothes had been shared out, and the group had stripped and changed there on the exposed, sea-mist-drenched road. Sholto was already looking forward to his return to Anglesey where the washing machines still worked. “But it’s better than nothing.”

  “Jen Masterton really wanted to be queen?” Colm asked.

  “You should speak to Bill,” Sholto said. “By the time I got there, she was dead.” To make the morning go by faster, he’d given the highlight reel of Quigley’s demise. “But if I had to make an assessment, I’d say she went along with whatever Quigley said because she thought the rest of the world was dead. Doesn’t excuse what she went along with before the outbreak, or during the evacuation.”

  “It’s hard to live a life without being guilty of something,” Colm said, “and seeing where we are, it’s hard to blame anyone for anything. Not now, when there’s so little left. Ah, looks like we’re done.”

  The post-office van had yielded little. It was the same with both of the cars the rest of the group had searched. There were batteries, some of which had leaked, more clothes, a few tools, but the only find of real note was the six shotgun cartridges.

  “No sign of the shotgun,” Gloria said. “And no fuel in the tanks, either. They drove until they ran out of fuel.”

  “The handbrake’s off,” Sholto said, slamming the doors closed. “Let’s push it to the kerb, and call it lunch.”

  “Zombie,” Gloria said. “Over there, coming across the marsh.”

  “How did it get out there?” Colm said.

  “Just one?” Sholto asked, raising his rifle.

  “Looks like it, yes, only one,” Cafney said. “Looks like it’s in uniform. Proper uniform, I mean.”

  “That’s army surplus,” Sholto said. He fired. The zombie collapsed. Silence reigned. But only for a moment. It was broken by a different sound. A strange, and unfamiliar one. A low rumbling. He turned north, half expecting to see a truck. It was people from the work gang further up the road, running, escaping.