Lawrence looked over at Cooper and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t knock it,’ Cooper whispered, ‘at least he’s here.
As long as he gets that bloody plane up in the air I don’t care what state he’s in.’
The two men stood and watched as Keele climbed into the cockpit of the plane and began to nervously run through his series of pre-take-off checks. In the back of the aircraft twelve equally nervous survivors sat strapped in their seats, surrounded (as they had been for more than half an hour now) by all the bags and boxes of useful supplies the group had been able to safely cram inside. Five more people, Donna and Clare included, emerged from the office building. With her arm wrapped around the shoulder of Dean McFarlane, the youngest survivor at only eight years of age, Clare made her way over to the plane.
‘You make sure you don’t do anything stupid when you get there,’ Jack Baxter shouted to her from where he stood next to Cooper at the edge of the runway.
‘I won’t, don’t worry,’ she smiled as she buckled up her safety belt. She glanced across at him nervously. ‘I’ll send you a postcard. Let you know what the place is like!’
‘Don’t bother,’ Baxter grinned, taking a couple of steps forward so that he could be sure she was safely strapped in.
‘We’re all planning on being over there with you in a few days time. I’ll be with you before the postcard gets here!’
Keele emerged from the cockpit of the plane. He climbed out onto the runway again and looked up and down the length of the aircraft and then up into the sky, obviously psyching himself up for the flight. Richard Lawrence turned and spoke to Donna who was stood nearby, watching anxiously.
‘Looks like we’re ready,’ he said, taking hold of her arm and gently ushering her forward. ‘Go get yourself on board.’
Donna nodded and made her way over to the helicopter where three other survivors were waiting. Cooper watched her as she walked away.
‘Think this lot are going to be okay?’ he asked.
Lawrence nodded.
‘Should be,’ he replied. ‘I reckon as soon as Keele’s up there he’ll start to get his nerve back.’
‘Either that or he’ll go to pieces. What if he loses it?’
‘Then it’ll be a short flight, won’t it? And I’ll end up spending the next week flying backwards and forwards between this hole and the frigging island.’
Keele was walking towards them.
‘Ready?’ Cooper asked.
‘Suppose so,’ he replied, his voice sounding less than certain.
‘You know the route, don’t you, Keele?’ Lawrence checked. Better to be safe than sorry.
‘Think so.’
‘You shouldn’t have any trouble finding the place. If the worst comes to the worst just head for the east coast and then follow it up north until you find the island. You’ll see the smoke and the people and they’ll see you before you can…’
‘I know,’ Keele interrupted, ‘you already told me.’
Cooper and Lawrence exchanged quick glances. Both were still dubious about the pilot’s mental condition and his ability to fly.
‘Get going,’ Cooper urged. Keele jogged back to the plane.
‘We should be back later today,’ Lawrence shouted over his shoulder as he walked towards the helicopter. He stopped and turned around to face Cooper and Baxter. ‘I’m aiming to be back here by mid-afternoon. Just do me a favour and make sure that everyone’s ready to do this again first thing tomorrow. I want to get this done quickly, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he replied.
Baxter and Cooper, suddenly the only two survivors remaining out in the open, moved away from the runway as first Lawrence and then Keele started the engines of their respective aircraft. A sudden increase in wind and noise accompanied the take-off of the helicopter which rose up and then gently circled the airfield, driving the rotting masses beyond the perimeter fence into a violent frenzy.
Keele began to taxi down the runway and then increased his speed. Lawrence hovered high above the ground and watched as the other pilot cautiously coaxed the plane off the ground and lifted it into the air. A few nervous rabbit hops and then it climbed quickly and powerfully towards the grey cloud.
At the edge of the airfield the body of Kelly Harcourt began to move.
The dead soldier had lain motionless where she’d fallen for two days through the wind and rain and darkness. Now, beginning deep inside the paralysed brain of the corpse, and showing itself first at the very tips of its cold and lifeless fingers, the change was starting to happen.
It spread along the body, the movement building gradually until its dead, clouded eyes flickered slowly open and its torso and clumsy arms and legs became animated again. With awkward, involuntary and uncoordinated movements the body hauled itself up onto all fours and then stood and began to stumble forward and then to walk.
Gravity and the uneven lie of the land were the only factors which affected the random direction which the dead soldier took. It tripped through the long grass and kept moving until it clattered into the border fence.
In common with the basic reactions of the thousands upon thousands of other bodies which had previously dragged themselves up from the ground and begun to move in this way, the shell that had once been Harcourt turned and tried to walk away. But it couldn’t move. It was trapped, held tightly from behind by the grabbing hands of numerous rotting bodies on the other side of the fence.
Already agitated by the noise of the plane and the helicopter flying low overhead minutes earlier, the resurrection of the dead soldier had provoked more basic, brutal reactions. The most dexterous of the vicious creatures managed to poke their decaying fingers through the wire mesh and held onto the cadaver’s hair, clothing and whatever else they could grab onto. The bodies pulled relentlessly at Harcourt’s remains, trying hopelessly to drag them back through the fence, not understanding that the wire barrier was stopping them. Eventually the numb fingers lost their grip and slipped away, allowing the corpse to stumble off again in the opposite direction.
On the other side of the fence, just to the right of where Harcourt’s body had been momentarily trapped, another body was reacting in a different way. Eight weeks ago this creature had been a young, intelligent and attractive clothing store manager with a bright future ahead of it.
Now it was a mud-splattered, half-naked, emaciated collection of brittle bone and rotting flesh. Unlike the majority of the huge, seething crowd, however, this one was beginning to exhibit signs of real control and determination. Unlike those which simply stood there vacantly or those which ripped and tore at the other corpses immediately around them, this body was beginning to think. Pressed hard against the fence and surrounded by many thousands of creatures on either side and a similar number behind, it knew that it needed to move to survive.
On the other side of the mesh it could just about make out the dark blur of Harcourt’s body tripping away with relative freedom and it decided that was what it needed to do. It grabbed the wire with cold, bony hands and began to shake it. Other bodies began to do the same.
With Danvers Lye now almost completely cleared and the majority of Cormansey’s dead population destroyed, the group on the island set about moving from building to building, removing the last remaining corpses and beginning to try and clean and disinfect the various isolated houses and other buildings which were dotted around the bleak landscape.
Michael, Danny Talbot and Bruce Fry had taken the jeep down to the southernmost tip of the island and were beginning to slowly make their way back north along the simple road network. They had cleared and emptied one house already and were now getting ready to start work on the second. In comparison to the gloom of the previous day this morning was bright, dry and relatively warm.
Conditions were good and they could see the next building from a fair distance away as they approached. Its red-bricked frontage contrasted obviously and starkly with the rest of the predominantly green, brown and grey land surrounding.
Michael stopped the jeep outside the house. The three men crossed the road and walked the short length of
