Free Surviving The Evacuation (Book 6): Harvest by Frank Tayell Page B

you hit the sea, follow the coast until you see the electric lights.”
    “So, we have a plan,” Hana said in an attempt to regain control of the meeting.
    “Looks like it,” Chester said. “And it’s a clear night, not much point waiting for dawn. So, who wants an autumn getaway to the seaside?”
     
    “Let’s go,” Nilda said to Jay as Chester handed out pieces of paper for everyone to write their names on.
    “What? Where?” Jay asked. “We haven’t put our names in.”
    “And we’re not going to. Chester’s right. I’m not going to be running anywhere for a day or two.”
    “But I can,” Jay said.
    “And you’re coming with me to Kent. We’ll pilot the boat, but we won’t go ashore.”
    “Why not?” Jay asked.
    “Because someone has to stay on board.”
    “Then you can do that,” Jay said. “You don’t need me to stay as well. Look, Mum, I fought my way down from Cumbria. I know how to handle myself, and I’m better at it than most of the people here. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”
    “Why do the young always think it’s about themselves?” Nilda asked of the world at large. “Jay, less than a month ago I was on an island out in the middle of the Atlantic wearing nothing more than rags. I had to watch as every last one of the people that saved me from a watery grave died from radiation poisoning. And then I had to bury them with my bare hands. The closest I’ve come to a day’s rest since was on the boat from Scotland down to Anglesey. I’m tired. I’m sore. I thought my son was dead, and now I find he’s alive. Forgive me if, after all I’ve been through, I want to spend a couple of hours with him in relative safety.”
    “Right. Yeah. Sorry,” Jay mumbled.
    Nilda immediately regretted her words. They were true, and it was important that Jay understood, but the tone was half a year out of date. As Chester gathered the scraps of paper and placed them in an upturned Roundhead’s helmet, a dozen lies that would have better salved Jay’s young ego came to her. But it was too late.
     
    Reece, Greta, and Finnegan had drawn the short straw and were going to Kent with Chester. As soon as their names had been drawn out, Chester hurried them to get ready, and then hustled them out to the boat with hours to go before the tide changed. Nilda followed them, finding a perch by the lifeboat’s controls. The three people looked reliable enough, and Tuck had given her stamp of approval on the volunteers. So why did she feel such a foreboding weight of anxious finality when she looked from one face to the next?
    Finnegan pulled out a long bayonet, then took off his belt and adjusted the scabbard. Chester had made them swap the long spears that had become most of the survivor’s weapon of choice for the less imposing but far more practical hand-axes. The bayonets had been Tuck’s suggestion. They were early twentieth-century models from the small Fusiliers museum that took up one corner of the inner Tower’s grounds. She’d also had to tell them to get rid of the armour that most had taken. Plate and chain mail might stop a bite, but the best protection against the undead was speed.
    Finding a farm shouldn’t be difficult. They just had to follow the coast with an eye on the shore and another on the map. As Chester had said, it should almost be like a holiday, and then they’d return to the Tower with the tide. Perhaps they’d have time to gather some food, perhaps even to fill the boat. Probably not, but either way they should be back at the castle before the next evening meal.
    No, that wouldn’t be difficult. It was the next part that would be deadly hard. They would have to take as many people as they could down to the farm and fill every bag and container they had. There was no way of doing that safely. If they filled the rafts and towed those behind the boat, they would be able to bring back more. And they would need to. In a few weeks the true autumn storms would set in. At