Surviving The Evacuation (Book 8): Anglesey (19 page)

“Ah. You’d already thought of it,” I said. “Of course you did. It’s blindingly obvious.”

Mary smiled. “My first thought is that we should plant the seeds, at least those that bear fruit. Lemons, oranges, bananas, imagine eating those again. It would take years before we’d have a crop, but the same can be said of any plants we gather from the mainland. Travelling to Spain or Sicily would be dangerous and a tad redundant as we’d be getting the oil from Svalbard where we could get the seeds. That being said, the seeds are secondary to the people. They are the real prize.”

“I have to say,” the admiral said. “It’s a shock being here. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”

“Everyone says that,” Mary said, with a touch of pride.

“She was telling us you tracked down the man responsible,” Devine said.

“Quigley? He wasn’t exactly responsible, but he was one of those who took advantage of an accident to try to seize power.”

“We got the highlights,” the admiral said. “What are the details?”

I glanced at the wide classroom window. Daisy and the other children had been corralled around the big desk, but they were still watching the newcomers. “Okay,” I said. “It began a long time ago. In a way, it began with my father. Speaking of which, you’ll want to talk to my brother to get that part of the story, but…”

I began recounting the now far too familiar tale, and had reached Brazely Abbey when, through the gate, I saw Donnie cycling towards us at breakneck speed.

“Something’s wrong,” I said.

The captain’s hand dropped to the sidearm at her belt. The admiral narrowed her eyes. Mary pushed her chair around. We all waited as Donnie sprinted the last few feet and almost threw himself off the bike.

“It’s Llewellyn,” he said. “He’s dead.”

“What?” I asked.

“Are you sure he’s dead,” the admiral asked.

“Yeah. Positive,” Donnie said. “It’s… well…” He glanced at the window, at the children, and then down the road.

“Spit it out, son,” Mary said.

“It sort of looks like a zombie did it,” Donnie blurted.

My blood froze. “No,” I murmured.

“I said sort of,” Donnie said. “That’s why I came here instead of raising the alarm.”

“What do you mean?” Mary asked. “Be succinct.”

“There’s bite marks,” Donnie said. “I mean, you can see them, and it looks like he was eaten, but the gate was closed and there’s no zombie in the garden. It’s got a high fence so it can’t have got out. It doesn’t seem right. That’s why I came here.”

“The gate could have banged closed in the wind,” I suggested.

“Sure,” Donnie said. “But the wind couldn’t have pulled the bolts back after it.”

“Bill, will you go and have a look,” Mary said. “I’ll get…” She paused, as if trying to think of whose opinion and experience might be relevant.

“Do you have police on the island?” the admiral asked.

“No,” Mary said. “We’ve been discussing it, but haven’t appointed anyone yet.”

“I’ll go, then,” Devine said. “Do you have a car?”

“We have bikes,” I said, gesturing to the rack near the entrance. Half a dozen bicycles, all belonging to various employees at the school, were stashed there.

Donnie led us to a two-storey cottage opposite the entrance to Willow Farm. The cottage’s upper level was built into the eaves. The brick was crumbling, the paintwork recently washed though cracking around the lintel. In the front garden, to the left of the path leading up to the front door, was a heap of cut branches, bracken, and leaves. To the left of the path was a patch of recently dug dirt. At the side of the house was a metal gate with a bolt at top and side.

“You closed it?” Devine asked Donnie.

“I did,” he said.

She drew her sidearm. Following her lead, I did the same.

“What’s going on, Donnie?” a voice called from the other side of the road. A group was gathering by the gate that led to Willow Farm. None of them looked worried.

“Keep them back,” Devine said, examining the path, and then the muddy garden. Donnie went to speak to the neighbours.

“Open the gate,” Devine called to me, gesturing at it with her stump. Her gun was kept unwaveringly pointed down the narrow alley between wall and fence. I hurried over, reaching through the railings, and pulled the bolts. I pushed the gate open. Devine went through. I followed, down the narrow path, to the rear garden. It had been entirely dug over. Not a single errant blade of grass remained of the lawn that had been there a few weeks before. The fence was eight-feet high and covered in a web of string and wooden trellis. It was an impressive amount of work for such a short time.

There was nothing else to see in the garden, and so I had no excuse not to turn my attention to David Llewellyn. He was lying on a metal-framed reclining chair, positioned on the patio at the rear of the house. Above him was a retractable canvas awning, bolted to the wall. Below him was a congealing pool of blood. His legs were stretched. His arms hung limp either side of the chair. His eyes were open, and he was unmistakably dead. Blood had stained the chair’s yellow padding and dripped onto a plastic crate underneath.

“What do you know about him?” Devine asked, holstering her gun.

“He joined us a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “We were in Bangor, the city on the mainland. We’d gone ashore searching for sat-phones and other supplies. Half the group had rigged up a barricade at a pier. We’d made a stand there, and killed a few hundred of the undead. As we were checking the bodies, he… he staggered towards us. I thought he was a zombie at first. He was reasonably incoherent, suffering from dehydration, exhaustion, and fear. But he’d found a map directing him to Anglesey.”

“A map?”

“It’s something old George Tull’s been doing,” I said. “Or organising, at least. People go out, they set up safe houses, and leave some food, water, and a map telling people to come here.”

“And so he came. What else? He was alone?”

“When he reached us, yes,” I said. “Originally, he was with a group of survivors. He was bitten, and they left him behind, handcuffed to a bed.”

“So no friends, no family?” she asked.

“Not when he arrived. Not that I know of.”

“Did you know he was British Army?”

“He was?” I asked.

“The regimental tattoo on his arm,” she said. “Did he say anything about the people he was with? Were they soldiers? Civilians?”

“He didn’t say, not to us, not then.”

“Interesting,” she said, though I wasn’t sure why. “Can you secure the house? Check there’s nothing inside?”

There was a momentary flash of fear. Though I had a deep sense of foreboding, it wasn’t for my immediate safety, but for the consequences of what I might or might not find inside. The back door was unlocked. It opened onto an immaculate kitchen. The surfaces were empty except for a kettle. A doorway led to a living room furnished with a wooden table and two chairs, a bookshelf with an eclectic collection, and an armchair with an easy-table on one side and the window on the other. On the table were an exercise book and a mug. It was half full of something that might have been tea or coffee. The room’s other door led out into an entrance hall. The front door was to my right, with a door to a small cloakroom immediately opposite. To my left were stairs going up. I climbed them. Upstairs were three rooms. The bedroom held a made bed and a wardrobe that contained the mismatched clothes of someone who’d arrived with only the rags on their back. The bathroom contained a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a flannel, and a stack of faded, cut-to-sheets newspaper. A box-room overlooking the front garden contained absolutely nothing at all.

“It’s empty,” I said, going back outside. “Not just of zombies, but almost of everything. Except you weren’t expecting to find any zombies here, were you?”

“Any signs of a struggle?” she asked, avoiding my question.

“No,” I said. “Do you think there was one?”

“Hard to say.”

“But it wasn’t a zombie,” I said.

“Why do you think that?” she asked.

“Look at how the garden’s been dug up,” I said. “It was done recently and hasn’t yet baked hard. Aside from the question of how a zombie got out through a closed gate, there should be footprints in the dirt, and the only ones in it match Mr Llewellyn’s boots. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I think so,” she said, her eyes fixed on the corpse. I forced myself to look at the body. I’d been trying not to.

The left trouser leg was torn, with the skin around the shin gashed as if it had been scraped off. The bottom four buttons of his short-sleeved shirt had been ripped, exposing his stomach. Just above the hip was a bite mark where the upper set of teeth had left a perfect indentation. There was another bite on his right forearm, though it was more scabbed with blood, and so less distinct. A finger was missing from that hand. It lay amidst the blood below. Most of that had come from the savage wound on his neck. It was as if a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his neck and shoulder.

“Why do you think this wasn’t a zombie?” I asked.

She didn’t immediately answer, but squatted down, peering at the man’s right hand. She stood, but kept her back to me, her eyes on the man’s ruined face.

“We were gathering evidence for a war crimes trial,” she said. “For a trial we knew would never happen except in the court of public opinion. Did you see the footage?”

“From the civil war? Sure.”

“That wasn’t even the half of it. You can’t force an ordinary person into savagery overnight. But if you nudge them along, each day getting them to do something only marginally worse than what went before, then it’s not long before you’ve created a monster prepared and willing to do more than your worst nightmares. Did you see how unconcerned the neighbours were? How they came out of their cottage curious as to what had happened? They didn’t hear any screaming.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know human behaviour,” she said. “If they’d heard screaming, they would have come to investigate. If they knew the victim was dead, and as they didn’t report it, they would have stayed in their homes when we arrived. They would have stayed inside, not drawing attention to themselves. No, the victim died quickly, before he had time to call out. If there was a fight, it was a brief one. From the blood underneath the seat, and on the cushions, he bled out here.”

“From the neck wound?” I asked.

“Yes. Do you see the bite marks?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Precisely. Look at the one on the arm. It’s partially covered in scabbed blood. Now look at the wound on the side.”

“There’s very little blood,” I said.

“Because he was already dead. The leg was done first. That was a practice, hence the blood on his calf, and on the cushions. Then the finger was bitten off because this was meant to look like a zombie attack and what do zombies do? They go for the extremities. The bite mark on the victim’s side was done last. It was an afterthought, after the killer had taken a look at his masterpiece and decided that it was sorely lacking one final element. Look at where you’re standing, someone walking in would see the body, see the hand, and then see the side. They were meant to run, screaming in panic, calling for others. Dozens would come, trampling the evidence, or lack thereof. Is it common knowledge there are no police here?”

“It is.”

“Then I’d say your killer has at least some experience of law enforcement and procedure.”

“That doesn’t help us too much,” I said. “But it was the neck wound that killed him? So… are you… you’re saying that someone grabbed him, and bit his neck?”

“No. Look at the teeth marks. They’re too perfect. I think they were made with a set of false teeth. What killed him was a knife. He was stabbed in the neck. The blade cut the carotid artery. It was quick, at least. The muscle and tissue were ripped and scraped away to cover the wound, but you can see a section where the neat cut is visible. This must have been at night. The kitchen light is still on. Open the door and find the light switch. Don’t touch it.”

“There’s a switch just inside the door,” I said.

“And no security light, so the work was done by the light coming through the kitchen window.”

“Or by torch,” I said.

“Unlikely. If it were, then a better job would have been done disguising that first wound.”

“This was planned, then? Just not very well. I mean, who carries around a set of false teeth with them?”

“Someone who wears false teeth?” she suggested. “But yes, I’d say this was planned. The crate suggests it.”

“The crate?” I bent down so I could see it better. I’d noticed it, but not what was inside. “Looks like beer.”

“Sixteen bottles,” she said. “Half with their tops missing, the other half unopened. We’re meant to think he was drunk. That would explain why he didn’t wake up when the supposed zombie attacked. I’m guessing the killer brought the beer here with him, and it’s that gift that got him access to the property. I doubt any was drunk, but the autopsy will confirm it. The killer stabbed the victim and then held him down on the chair as he bled out. The killer then attempted to leave bite marks on the skin, but it proved more difficult, and so took longer, than he’d planned. By the time this last set was left, there was little blood left in the victim. We can take a cast of the knife wound, and another of these teeth marks, but if the killer has an even an ounce of sense, both knife and teeth will have been disposed of. Even so…” She shook her head. “What kind of sick place is this?”