Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

to eat. The first smoke from the canteen drifted towards them.

A red-haired woman appeared below, her head part-covered with a bandana, her face pale, drawn and anxious, still buttoning up a man’s shirt several sizes too big for her. She raced up the stairs to join Jack and the group on the raised walkway. Passing Zed halfway up the stairs she paused to stare at him as he brushed past her. She waited for an explanation, but he ignored her puzzled look of reproach.

“What was it?” asked Terra, catching her breath, watching Jack peering through his binoculars.

“Hard to tell from here,” said Jack, squinting, “but looks like he was infected. Been a while since one made it all the way out here along the shingle. We saw a few in town yesterday, so maybe he followed our trail.”

“Why did Zed have to shoot him, for God’s sake? Couldn’t he have just warned him off? Told him to go away?” said Terra naively.

“You really think harsh language would have made him turn around? They don’t take no for an answer. Either way, they’re dead now.”

“Not before that shot will have drawn every living soul for miles around.”

“Or unliving, you mean…” said Tommy, a gangly adolescent standing nearby.

“Ah, Tommy, our resident comedian. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to roll the cart out and dispose of that body before we sit down for breakfast. Take young Samuel to help.”

“Sure, no problem, Skip,” said Tommy with a hint of mockery, punching Sam on the shoulder.

“Nice one, dickhead,” mumbled Sam under his breath.

As the others drifted off to find breakfast, Terra remained behind with Jack, looking back over the camp towards the lighthouse and beyond towards Southampton. In the distance, Fawley Oil Refinery belched smoke hundreds of feet into the air leaving a grey smear across the morning skyline. A burst pipeline or perhaps a storage container left to burn. There was no one left to put it out. It would burn until the oil ran out.

“What we wouldn’t give for a few hundred gallons of diesel for the generator,” said Terra quietly.

“We’ve drained every garage and farm for miles around, but we’ll find more. Don’t you worry,” reassured Jack.

His elbows touched Terra’s as they both leaned over the railing. A comfortable silence passed between them. They watched the camp below as it came to life. Hurst’s inhabitants busied themselves with washing, preparing food, stitching and sewing, feeding the animals and generally cleaning up the night before. It was a hive of organised activity. Everyone played their part.

Terra turned her head towards Jack and smiled. “You need to get a handle on that Zed. He sets a bad example.”

“I know, Terra. I’ll talk to him, okay? He’s never going to change though, you know that. His heart’s in the right place, but he does things his own way. I don’t want to drive him away. He’s one of the best scavengers we’ve got. We need him.”

“He fights for himself, Jack. He’d turn on you in a moment if you got between him and his prize.”

“You’re wrong, Terra. His loyalties are very much with us. He’s just got a case of cabin fever, cooped up here for too long. That’s all. Will do him good to get out and about.” Jack wrinkled his nose, sniffing at the wind. There was something foul in the air, downwind of the latrines. “He thinks we should be doing more to form alliances with the other survivor groups inland from here, that we have our heads in the sand.” He shook his head. “I’ve said it’s too dangerous. We don’t want to go stirring up a hornet’s nest and draw attention to ourselves. He doesn’t agree.”

“You need to keep an eye on him. That’s all I’m saying,” she said, stroking Jack’s arm affectionately. “Same goes for Riley. I don’t trust either of them.”

Jack cleared his throat, intrigued by Terra’s views on two of his most trusted lieutenants. “Don’t you worry about Zed. He’s just a big kid. His bark’s worse than his bite. Reminds me of my lad Jason. Bless him.” There was a distant look in Jack’s eye as he was reminded of his son. He hadn’t thought of him in months now. It was just too painful. “Just needs a firm hand and a kick in the backside from time to time.”

Jack beamed a broad smile and playfully nudged Terra in the ribs. He wandered off to eat, leaving her alone to digest his response.

Chapter Three

Out on the shingle, Tommy and Sam pushed the low-slung cart towards the crumpled heap in the distance. The tyres needed some air. Tommy was trying to make light of their task, but Sam was having none of it.

“What did you have to go and say that for? Now I’m stuck here with you when I could be having breakfast,” grumbled Sam.

“Oh, quit your whining, will you? It’s not like you haven’t got me into trouble before.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you? I’m always covering for you,” continued Sam. “Anyway, what did Zed have to go and shoot the guy for? What was he going to do, start climbing the walls? This place is a fortress.”

“The state he was probably in, he was on his last legs, anyway. If you ask me, Zed did him a favour. Put him out of his misery. Saved him a long walk back to whichever hellhole he came from.”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t agree with violence, unless there was no other way.

It took both of them to push the cart up the small slope and along the raised roadway that joined Hurst Castle to the mainland. Roadway was perhaps too grand for what it really was. In truth, it was no more than a man-made shingle bank, reinforced with concrete and strengthened periodically to keep out the worst of the weather. South-westerly storms had a habit of battering this stretch of coastline, washing away whole sections. But that hadn’t happened for years now.

The shingle was just wide enough for a Land Rover or four-wheel drive vehicle. In the early days, they had shuttled stores to the castle from local shops but now it was too dangerous, for fear of ambush by rival groups. Supplies came by boat from the island or trade with the network of Solent forts which formed part of the wider coastal defences built almost five hundred years ago by King Henry VIII to defend the south coast against invasion by the French. Today those same forts, or at least those modernised and fit for habitation, had formed a loose alliance to work together where possible. They exchanged goods and skills, occasionally joining forces to form raiding parties when making scavenging runs into local towns. It was safer that way.

Once at the top of the slope, Tommy jumped into the cart, laughing as they bounced along. He had known Sam since school. Sam had never truly forgiven Tommy for stealing the love of his life, Sarah, who worked at the local dairy. But “mates is mates” and their friendship was strong enough to get over that little wrinkle.

Tommy’s old man had run the local butcher on the high street for eleven years until he got sick with throat cancer and died the following year. While his mother mourned, Tommy had grown up fast and volunteered to take over the family business, setting aside his aspirations for apprenticeships and further education. It was his way of treasuring the memory of his father. When he closed his eyes, he could still picture him standing behind the counter in his striped apron, smiling at customers. He remembered the old-fashioned bell that rung when the door was pushed open, the tiled floor covered in sawdust.

There were two other young lads who helped out in busy periods and at the weekends. It had been an uneasy working relationship. Tommy was only nineteen, no more than a year or two older, yet Tommy was a fair boss. He was firm when he needed to be, like when they turned up late or when one wasn’t pulling his weight. He always made a point of buying his workers drinks at the end of the week on a Friday night in their local pub. It’s what his father would have wanted.

Sam had been a pillar of support when Tommy’s dad was enduring the daily torment of chemotherapy, growing weaker by the day. He used to come round with a four-pack, a party bag of Doritos, and play FIFA Football on the PlayStation to cheer up his friend. Sam was the strong silent type, with an intelligent thoughtful look about him. He was a good and loyal mate.

Back then, Tommy still lived at home with his mum. Just the two of them once they’d buried his father. She had become withdrawn after his father’s death, as if her pilot light had been dimmed by the months of caring, knowing that nothing could save her childhood sweetheart. Her days were lost in reverie, an air of melancholy settled on her every thought and deed. Tommy was the only one who could still make her smile and restore something of her former cheery self.

When the Millennial Virus had first struck, his mum was among the first to fall. He suspected her job at the chemist was to blame, through regular contact with the sick. But in reality, the virus had struck seemingly at random and with the speed of wildfire. It was all over mercifully quickly for his mum. He had taken her to A&E but the place was like a refugee camp. After a cursory look from a distracted nurse, they had sent her home with painkillers to get some sleep. By morning, she was dead.

Sam’s quick thinking had saved both of their lives. That fateful morning Tommy had been woken by the blare of a car horn. Staggering downstairs in his dressing gown after a sleepless night, he unlocked the front door, eyes bloodshot, nose red from blowing, to find his best friend gesticulating wildly and shouting out the half-lowered window for him to get dressed and get out.

Sam had seen the morning news and driven straight round. Panic had started. The emergency services were being overrun. Cities were emptying as the sickness spread. Lines of cars blocked exits. A tide of humanity staggered under the weight of its worldly possessions. People carried what they could. Impractical valuables soon to be discarded. Irrelevant and redundant in a world turned on its head. A litter of suitcases abandoned on the side of the road.

Tommy had packed a rucksack in two minutes flat with some clothes, a torch, food and water. They had driven to the seafront, running through their options. Where could they go? Where was safe? In the end, they drove back to the house, locked the door and perched nervously on the edge of the sofa watching BBC News 24. Clutching a can of lager at ten in the morning, Tommy kept repeating himself in disbelief every two minutes, to the annoyance of his friend. The pair had watched with increasing alarm, batting theories around about Ebola or bird flu. Whatever it was, it looked really bad. The authorities were doing their best to contain the outbreak, telling people to stay indoors and avoid contact with others. A succession of health experts argued about cause and origin. Some said it was a strain of avian flu. Others said it was like nothing they’d ever seen before. A designer virus or even a new kind of terrorist attack? In truth, no one knew. There was no vaccine, no cure. Things happened so fast.

Sam and Tommy reached the body on the shingle beach. The man was probably in his thirties, lying awkwardly, his leg at an unnatural angle. But what was most disturbing was his face. His lower jaw hung loose, one side blown away. The back of his head was a mess where the bullet had exited. The whites of his eyes