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

tying it to the cross-bar. By then the boat had drifted back out into the river. I was tempted to just go. The sun was up, the day was starting to warm, and I wanted to get the next couple of hours over and done with. But I had no real confidence that I was ever going to see the boat again. I tugged at the rope again, went back on board and stuffed my bag with ration packs. Only then did I head back towards Kew.
     
    I tried singing to myself, but I couldn’t remember any tunes. I tried to recite poetry, but couldn’t recall more than the first few words. I tried making up limericks, but couldn’t think of a punch line. No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind from it, as I cycled back through those deserted streets I kept seeing it as it had been, as it would have been if not for the outbreak and my evacuation.
    And the thought that I kept returning to was that all of the other cities of the world must be worse. An empty world, crowded with death. That’s the legacy we leave the next generation.
    I shouldn’t have been thinking like that. Here and now, with a fire and in relative safety, it’s not helpful. Cycling alone through London it almost got me killed.
     
    I was on just another road, approaching two vans I thought had been parked. It was only when I was level with the rear tyres of the nearest that I registered the broken glass on the road.
    Not wanting to get a puncture, I swerved at the same time as a zombie seemed to dive out from underneath the van. It flew head first into the bikes front tyres, knocking me, and the bike over.
    I fell in a tangled heap, the full weight of the petrol can falling on my crippled right leg. The leg brace took most of the impact, but the sudden jarring of metal on those never-healed nerves sent a shooting pain right up my spine.
    Something tugged at my left foot. A hand. I kicked out. It was gone. I tried to pull myself upright. The hand was back, gripping my ankle, pulling and tugging and getting tighter. I screamed and kicked and managed to pull myself free. I staggered upright. I couldn’t see straight. I kicked and stamped down randomly, as I grabbed the bike and limped clear. My hand went to my pocket, my fingers fumbling with the buttons. I pulled out the pistol. The barrel wavered as I tried to focus. As my vision cleared I saw it. Not right in front of me as I thought, but still there, on the ground where I’d fallen off the bike. Its legs were missing below the knees.
    “No,” I remember saying, as a hysterical laugh escaped my lips, “not missing.” They were both visible, stuck under the front wheel of the van. The zombie must have been between the two vans when they crashed and it had been stuck there until time had done its work, wearing down the sinews and tendons, until I came along. And then when it heard me, it leapt, leaving its trapped legs behind.
    I kept my mind focused after that.
     
    Kim was waiting by the Land Rover.
    “You took your time,” she said.
    “Zombies. By the boat. Three of Them.”
    “Oh.”
    I started filling the tank.
    “You should be keeping watch. On the roof,” I said.
    “Sholto’s doing that. I...” she trailed off. I put the cap back on the fuel can, and put it into the back.
    “Would you give me a hand with this?” I asked, hefting the bike up. Together we got onto the roof and tied it down. And then there was no more reason to delay. I turned to Kim.
    “I may not make it back to the boat,” I said.
    “No, probably not,” she said.
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I tried to grin, to show it was a joke. I don’t think it worked. “Get clear of the undead, get the boat across the river, find a car, keep driving north until you see signs for Wales. Avoid the motorways, avoid the cities. I’ll see you on the beach.”
    “Will you?”
    “I’ll do everything I can to...” I began, but she interrupted.
    “I can tell when you’re lying. You’re going to go after that Doctor.”
    I sighed. “Perhaps.