Surviving the Evacuation 14 Mort Vivant by Frank Tayell

Author:Frank Tayell [Tayell, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Butch
Published: 2018-08-29T03:00:00+00:00

Chester climbed down the ladder, and luxuriated in the feel of concrete beneath his feet. It truly did feel warmer today. Even the nearest pothole was only half full, the rest of the snowmelt-and-rain cocktail having already evaporated. Despite what Sorcha and Bill might think, he’d happily take a warm winter over the alternative.

The shotgun dug into his back. It wasn’t a weapon he was happy with, bringing back too many memories of life before the outbreak. Like all weapons he’d acquired since, it was better than nothing, and would do until he found something better.

Scott was deluding himself, making plans for the future to avoid thinking about the present, or, more likely, the past. His family were probably dead, but even if they weren’t, they would have moved since the outbreak, running, hiding, until now, they could be almost anywhere. A trip might be arranged to Tasmania to see whether their evacuation had been more successful than the British attempt, but even that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. What they’d not really discussed since the crash, and what they couldn’t mention when the French survivors were within earshot, was that the food supplies on Anglesey had been low. In Belfast, they’d be worse.

In London, they’d been living off stores left by Quigley, but they would have been abandoned when Nilda departed. Yes, she’d look for him, and Sholto would look for his brother, but everyone else would have to look for food. Within a few days, that latter search would take priority. When he and the others reached Belfast, it would become a priority for all.

He had no idea what the solution was. Perhaps they might loot a port-city on the French coast. Perhaps the French islanders had enough food to share, though that begged the question of how they would get the supplies to Ireland, or the people to France.

His foot kicked against a metal bracket, grinding it into the runway’s cracked surface. This airfield was beyond repair. Although… Scott’s words finally bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. A plane was how they’d get the food to Belfast. They’d cleared that stretch of motorway to use as a runway, hadn’t they? There was the small matter of where the food would come from, but if the islanders couldn’t spare any, perhaps they’d find some crates of rations at the other airfields. Fly the helicopter from one to the next, like Scott had said. Why not? It would only take a few days. Which brought him back to the reason he’d climbed down the ladder: he needed to find some paint.

He found his route taking him past the tanks. He didn’t like relying on the satellites spotting the message, and since the weather had improved, driving to the coast truly was a one-day trip. Even with his poor eyesight, he could tell from a hundred yards away that the tanks were unserviceable, but he walked closer to confirm it. The storm hadn’t been kind to them. All six had sunk deeper into the ground, with a drying coat of mud caking treads and carapace.

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