Surviving The Evacuation (Book 5): Reunion by Frank Tayell

square. That’s got to be safer than using some fire door and hoping there are no undead in the road outside.”
    “But—”
    “No,” Chester cut him off. “We stand out front, and we wait. We’ll see the undead coming, or we’ll hear them, and there are plenty of roads for us to escape down. If these people don’t return, we’ll go back to Farringdon. We know where they are, now. We can come back tomorrow. Or we can write them a note, or we can do one of a hundred other things, none of which involve coming across like looters.”
    He wandered across the road, and leaned against the garden’s railings. It wasn’t a large space; about twenty metres on either side, with some grass, a few trees, and a handful of benches.
    “Good spot for the chickens,” Dev murmured.
    “If it wasn’t for the undead,” Chester replied, turning his attention to the roads. The background noise of the city was one of clinking and crunching as things fell. Not all of those things were the undead, nor were all the sounds caused by them, nevertheless he felt exposed. He glanced up at Kirkman House and its huge, wide windows. In none could he see any sign of life. He remembered when they’d built it. The press had been divided. The part of it that was affiliated with the stations that were about to take up residency were in favour, naturally. The rest were against, and he’d assumed the outrage at the design was used to mask competitive rivalry. Looking up at the building, he wasn’t sure. It did seem out of place amongst the centuries old houses.
    “We’re too exposed here,” he said. “We’ll leave a note. You got any paper?”
    “Somewhere. Hang on.”
    As the young man was rooting through his pockets, Chester heard another sound. A different sound. Voices. They were muted, too soft to hear the words, but they were very definitely human, and they were coming from the direction of Oxford Street. Chester took a few steps away from the railings, so he could get a better view of the road.
    Five people approached. Two women, three men, all carrying heavy packs, all holding a variety of tools in their hands. They stopped when they saw Chester and Dev. Except for the oldest of the men, they appeared tense, expecting trouble. Chester’s eyes narrowed as he judged distances, preparing to fight.
    “Professor!” Dev said, stepping forward and addressing the older man with breathless excitement, “we heard you on the radio!”
    “You heard the broadcast?” the man asked with a matching eagerness.
    “We did,” Chester said.
    “But you didn’t stay inside.” It was a woman, one wearing a bright red coat, who had spoken, and it wasn’t a question.
    “Neither did you,” Chester replied.
    “How did you find us?” the professor asked.
    “There aren’t that many places in London you could broadcast the signal from,” Dev said as if the idea had been his own. “We split up to search.”
    “There’s more of you?” the woman asked.
    “A lot more,” Chester said.
    “And we’ve got pigs and chickens,” Dev added.
    There was a widening of eyes at that. Chester gritted his teeth, but then wondered why they should bother hiding it.
    “Where are you based?” the woman asked.
    “Farringdon,” Dev said, promptly.
    This time Chester bit back a curse. That was something Dev should not have told them.
    “Perhaps you should come inside,” the professor said, but Chester noted he looked to the woman in the red coat before making the suggestion.
     
    “So what’s your plan with the radio?” Chester asked, taking a sip of the scalding-hot tea, his eyes fixed on the kettle. It, a fridge, a freezer, and a collection of hot plates originally designed to plug into the socket in a car, took pride of place in a room next to the generator.
    “To keep on broadcasting as long as we can,” the professor said. “Using just one long wave frequency, we think we can keep it up for three months.”
    “Right. And then what? I mean,