Surviving The Evacuation (Book 3): Family by Frank Tayell

find a bike, go back down to the boat, get some petrol, cycle back up here. We find a car, one that’s close by since we don’t want the undead to end up on the roads between here and the boat. I’ll drive it, up past the gardens and get Them to follow. I’ll head north, for as far as I can. I don’t know where that will be, but I reckon I can give you an hour.”
    “And then?” Kim asked.
    “And by then you better be back at the boat. I still say you should stay up here with the rifle, and Sholto goes down there. But,” I raised my hand, “I’ll leave that up to you.”
    “Maybe Sholto should drive the car.”
    “I know London.” I shrugged. “Besides, I can’t run. The car suits me better. And there’s another reason it would be better if you stayed up here on the roof.”
    “Oh?”
    “If it works, then you cut down these sheets. I’ll take the bike with me. When I find a likely spot, somewhere out of sight, I’ll ditch the undead. I managed it before. It won’t be too hard. I’ll cycle back this way to make sure you got away. So if the sheets are gone I’ll know you’ve made it back to the boat.”
    “OK,” she said reluctantly. “And then what?”
    “You get back to the boat. I’ll head down there. If the zombies have followed you, you just take the boat back up stream. They’ll follow the engine, then you just turn it off and let the current carry you back downstream.”
    “And you’ll meet us down by the bank?” she asked.
    “Yep. And if I can’t, then we’ll meet on that beach in Wales.”
    “It’s a bit...” Sholto began.
    “Non confrontational?” I suggested. “Getting the girls somewhere safe, that’s the important point. I’ll be fine. You get them there, get them safe.”
     
    By five am we’d found four bikes. The one I claimed for myself was a carbon fibre, long distance touring bike that, judging by the flags and photos pinned onto the wall, had been along The Great Wall, across the Sahara and up Everest. I’d seen those pictures through the window when we’d been looking for a way into the building. One of the pictures had the bike standing next to a barbecue, pedal-deep in snow, the owner clutching tongs in one hand and a burger in the other. I’d seen the owner through that window too, but even if I hadn’t I’d have known he was in there from the smell. He was sitting against the wall, his legs splayed. He’d written a letter, and then he’d opened an artery on his wrist. The blood had soaked the piece of paper, making it unreadable, his last story forever unknown.
     
    We found bikes for Kim, Sholto and Annette in the back gardens of a row of terraces a few blocks further east. Their gears were rusty, the tyres perished and the chains loose, but that didn’t matter. They’d only be cycling the few miles between Kew and the boat. One even had a child seat at the back.
    Then we had to find a vehicle. Anything built in the last fifteen years, with the focus on crumple-zones and limiting damage to pedestrians in a collision, was out. So were the more sturdy looking diesel powered vans and trucks. It was the wrong kind of neighbourhood. The cars were a mixture of the relatively upmarket and the cheap run-about.
    I was about to send Sholto back to keep an eye on Kim and continue my search on the way down to the river when we found the Land Rover. It was one of those old Defender models, a battered behemoth that guzzled petrol and belched fumes, built for fields and hills not the restraints of urban driving. It was perfect.
    The spare keys were hanging on a hook within easy reach from a broken window. We didn’t have to break into the house.
     
    “I can go with you. To the boat and back,” Sholto offered.
    “Keep an eye on Kim. Make sure she doesn’t... Well, just keep an eye on her, OK?”
    “Sure.”
    “Right.”
    I felt I should say more but didn’t know how, let alone what. I got on the bike and cycled south, alone.
     
    Getting back to the boat