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

about the same time, the diesel would run out, and any fruit left on the trees would have fallen to add its bulk to the leaf matter fertilizing the orchards. Then there would be no more food until they’d grown it. And that was where the true danger lay.
    If they found nothing in Kent, or if they didn’t find enough, or if there was no food to spare in Wales, or if the boat they sent was lost at sea, or if one of a hundred other possible calamities befell them, they would face starvation before winter began and would all certainly be dead long before the spring.
     
     

 
    Part 2:
    The Ruins of Whitehall
     
    18 th September
     
    Tuck slowly lowered the packs and improvised oars down the side of the Tower. She and McInery were going to Westminster alone. Perhaps out of guilt that they’d escaped the obviously more dangerous trip to Kent, people had volunteered to go with them. Tuck had turned down their offers of help. It was Nilda’s fault. Or it was Chester’s. Or maybe it was no one’s.
    She’d never entirely trusted McInery. During their days trapped in the British Museum she’d realised there was something inherently dangerous about her. Those suspicions, confirmed by Chester and his revelations about the woman’s past, had now grown to encompass nearly everyone in the Tower. Finnegan, for example, had seemed to be a close confidant of the woman back in Kirkman House. She was equally wary of Greta and Reece. That was why, when Chester had asked who would be most reliable on the trip to Kent, she’d given him those three names.
    The rope went suddenly slack. She’d not noticed that the bundle had hit the ground. She grabbed the other pack, clipped it onto another rope, and began lowering it. She felt slightly guilty about helping Chester arrange that lottery. It wasn’t that— Tuck’s thoughts were interrupted by a tap at her shoulder. It was McInery.
    “I didn’t think we were due to leave for an hour,” McInery said.
    Grateful that her hands were full, Tuck finished lowering the bag to the ground, perhaps a little more slowly than she needed.
    “I woke early,” she signed.
    “Yes. So did I,” McInery replied. “You don’t need to come. I am more than capable of completing this chore on my own.”
    “I’d rather do this than spend the morning watching water boil,” Tuck replied, and that was partly true. Standing by the great stainless steel urns they used to sterilise the water was the very definition of watching one’s life tick away. “Besides,” she added, “it’s Jay’s drone. He made me promise no one else would use it whilst he was away. Sorry.”
    McInery shrugged and seemed indifferent. Tuck couldn’t tell if that was genuine or a front. That was the problem; she now saw everything McInery said and did as an act.
    Tuck took one last look at the Tower. Constance was shooing away the ravens while Hana fed the chickens. Or she thought it was Constance and Hana. It was hard to tell from this distance when everyone wore the same mismatched, ill-fitting clothing, but those two were always among the first to wake. Had there been a few more people up and about, then they could have used the gate, but with no one to close it behind them, they had to resort to the ropes. It was an unwelcome addition to the morning’s exertions.
    Tuck couldn’t sleep inside the castle. The rooms were too small, the ceilings too low, the windows too narrow. It felt claustrophobic and crowded. Instead she’d created a bivouac on top of the Wakefield Tower. She didn’t sleep much outside either, but from there she could stand up and see the lifeboat when it was tied up. When she sat with her back against the old stone, all she could see were the tops of the skyscrapers and pretend, if only for a moment, that the world hadn’t changed.
    She checked her gear one last time, grabbed a rope, and climbed over the wall. At least there were no undead on the river path this morning. When dawn had arrived and