Dead Eyes: A Tale From The Zombie Plague by James Dwyer Page B

motto. Back then, I had no idea how useful those words would be.
    Most of the tents were a similar size to the examination tent I had been placed in. I noticed that the others were labelled alphabetically. Survivors stood at the entrance to the tents, chatting or smoking. These must be where the survivors slept.
    I was not surprised to see a wide variety of different ages, ethnicities and body types amongst the different survivors. There was no survivor model. No one type of person who survived better than another. It was a combination of luck and proactivity.
    “And ruthlessness,” my grandfather’s voice spoke inside my mind. I hated how he seemed to linger just out of consciousness, waiting to provide his sick little input at an inopportune moment.
    In the past, I would have agreed with him. This time, I couldn’t. Camp Churchill was testament to cooperation and compassion. And it seemed to be working. “You must hate this,” I whispered quietly, “How everyone is doing so well without following your own twisted rules.”
    “It won’t last,” said my grandfather, “It never does.”
    His voice faded away, quicker than usual. Things really were looking up.
    Aside from the many smaller tents were two huge canopies that sat in the centre of the camp. Most of the activity was focused around them. I could see one was filled with chairs and a podium, what must have been the briefing area. The other had a large number of tables and chairs, the mess hall. I spotted Maggie standing outside the briefing area and she waved me over.
    “How was the check up?” she asked.
    “I passed,” I said, “Not sure what criteria the doctor was checking though. Has he been here long?”
    “A few months. Bit of a loner really. Haven’t seen him much until recently. The other doctor’s time came up and he left on the airlift. Didn’t want to stay behind, no matter how much Stone tried to convince him. Can’t blame him really. Morgan was the alternative. Emphasis on alternative.”
    “Yeah, I’ve never had a check up like that before.”
    “To be fair, he is suffering at the moment. A woman he had grown close to went out on a scavenging trip a few days ago. Haven’t heard from them since.”
    “Why hasn’t Stone sent out a search party?” I asked.
    “Because the trip was unsanctioned. We have everything we need here. They didn’t agree.”
    Maggie took one of my bags from me and led me toward Tent F. “You can stay in here. The number of survivors has dropped so there’s a bit more space. Each tent has room for ten. You’ll be sharing with another three.”
    She unzipped the tent and walked me inside. A small camp light hung from the ceiling, dimly illuminating the interior. Immediately my eyesight began to suffer, the tent around me becoming unfocused, like looking through frosted glass.
    “Pleased to meet you.”
    One of the blurs rose and walked towards me; offering out what I hoped was his hand. I shook it and smiled, trying to hide my distress. “The name’s Stevo. You’ll find us a welcoming bunch. We’re quiet, like to read. How does a peaceful tent sound?”
    “Sounds good to me,” I said, trying to remain upbeat.
    “You’ll fit right in. The other two Matthew and Patrick are out on guard duty. I’ll introduce you later.”
    “Thanks,” I said.
    Maggie waved at me to come over to one of the empty beds. “You can have this one. Dump your bags here for now, they will be safe. I would give you some time to relax but the captain will be calling a meeting soon. He wants to update us on the next airlift.”
    “Has he heard anything?” said Steveo, his voice full of hope, a subtle tinge of desperation beneath the surface.
    “I think so,” she said, “He’s not told anyone much since the last incident.”
    “What happened?” I asked.
    “The airlift came and went without landing. Pilot said it was too risky. Stone was furious.”
    “Never seen him like that,” said Steveo.
    “It was certainly