Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

were yellow and flecked with blood, like someone who hadn’t slept for days, staring lifelessly skywards. The sickness was etched into his face. The typical grey pallor, sunken eye sockets, and evidence of dried blood in his nose and ears. Considering the trauma to the head, there was surprisingly little blood.

“You get the head end,” said Tommy, barging his friend out the way. “Ready on three.”

Sam wore garden gloves, avoiding direct contact. The body was skeletal thin yet surprisingly heavy. As the trolley bumped and bounced along the roadway, the man’s leg slid over the side. The material rode up, exposing two inches of skin, blotched and covered in sores.

They dumped the body next to a pit some thirty feet across and ten deep. They rolled the man over the edge, sliding down to join the other human shapes at the bottom. Tommy grabbed a jerrycan and poured kerosene, dowsing the bodies, splashing indiscriminately. He struck a small flare and threw it down on to the funeral pyre. They both stood there impassively watching the blaze, enjoying the warmth on their legs and bare arms.

Chapter Four

Jack strode back through the main castle gate next to the guardhouse. He stepped over the narrow-gauge rail tracks and crossed a weathered patch of grass. The tracks had been laid in Napoleonic times to deliver stores to the castle from a military dock and landing area, long since dismantled. He continued to the old white lighthouse, set apart from the eastern end of the castle fortifications.

The lighthouse was modest but comfortable. There he lived a simple, almost monastic existence that imitated his former life aboard merchant ships. After the hustle and bustle of the castle camp, the silence and solitude were a welcome relief. Many of the rooms were unfurnished, filled with salvaged equipment and gardening tools. The views across the Solent stretched uninterrupted in multiple directions.

Jack paused at the doorway, a puzzled expression etched on his face. He noticed the tide slowly rising to cover the salt marshes and sheltered estuary towards Keyhaven and Lymington beyond. Something about the smell of the place reminded him of a former life. He had served in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary for twenty-five years, before using his pension to buy his very own fishing boat, the Nipper.

The modest vessel had become his pride and joy, not to mention his livelihood. He had skippered the boat for the last few years, sometimes on his own, but mostly with a deckhand. He knew these waters well. Every rock, every tidal eddy. The narrow western entrance to the Solent was notorious for its strong tides. The Needles rocks at the tip of the Isle of Wight were a graveyard to dozens of sailing ships and steamers in days gone by. Some of those ships had paid the ultimate price.

As the skipper of a small fishing boat, Jack had a profound respect for the sea. A capricious playground for yachtsmen but a series of calculated risks for fishermen like him who plied their trade hauling lobster pots in all weathers, day and night. There had been a small but established community of fisherman in Keyhaven, and Lymington five miles beyond. Jack was well liked and respected and knew most of the others. They were territorial, drank in different pubs, fished their own particular sites. Each meticulously mapped by GPS above water and by depth sounder below.

The unexpected sight of a sail rounding the headland to the east interrupted Jack’s reminiscences. It was a small sailing boat. He estimated it was no more than thirty feet in length. He slid his wire-framed glasses up on to his forehead and peered through the binoculars. On board and hailing him with a slow wave was a man he didn’t recognise. There was a small child beside him, wearing a yellow oilskin jacket.

Jack made a mental note to reprimand whoever was on lookout this morning. There had been no warning of the stranger’s approach.

The man on the boat looked back at Jack through his own binoculars and raised his hand again to wave. He cupped his hands, shouting as loud as he could. Jack wasn’t sure he heard what was said but waved back, more through habit than genuine welcome. He did not approach the quay to help, keeping a safe distance.

When the sailor had finished mooring up, attaching lines fore and aft, he cupped his hands again and called out in an educated voice, enunciating clearly as if Jack might not speak English: “May we come ashore?”

“Stay where you are,” cautioned Jack, gesturing him to stop.

“Please. We’re not sick. Can you at least spare us some food and water? We’re willing to trade.”

“You can moor up and shelter for the night and then be on your way. We might be able to spare you some water and bread, but we’ve precious little else.”

“We don’t have much food, but we have some flares and a first aid kit. Look, we’re both healthy. We’ve not been in contact with anyone for days. In fact, it’s nice to have a conversation with someone for a change. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s too risky to let you in.”

There was an uneasy silence as the man on the boat stroked his son’s hair and whispered something in his ear.

“What are your names?” offered Jack.

“I’m Simon, and this is Toby.”

“Where have you sailed from?”

“Weymouth. We left yesterday, borrowed this boat, grabbed what we could. I’m no great sailor, but we got this far.”

Jack stood impassively still, his arms crossed. Simon shifted uneasily, wracking his brains for another way to convince Jack to take them in.

“Please, just give us a chance. We’re hard workers. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Jack looked him up and down and tried to guess what Simon had been before the outbreak. He wore an open-necked striped shirt frayed at the collar and red trousers that bulged slightly at the waist. His Nike running shoes were heavily worn. Jack’s guess was a City worker, maybe an accountant or solicitor. Someone who had never done a real day’s work in his life. Never felt the sun on his back as he toiled. He embodied everything that Jack despised: blood, privilege and money.

“We don’t have much use for lawyers and accountants round here,” he taunted playfully. “This is a working community. What skills do you have? Any trades?”

Simon blushed, pushing his glasses up his nose, alert to the edge in Jack’s questions. “Funnily enough, I was a solicitor. I ran my own practice.” He smiled defensively. “But…but…” He looked like he was searching for something, then erupted enthusiastically, “I know first aid. I used to grow my own vegetables…” His voice tailed off, trying hard to think of something else he could claim to be good at.

“We’ve got a doctor already. Can you cook?”

“Yeah, not bad. My mother was Italian,” he said, nodding confidently. “I make a mean spaghetti bolognese, if you can find me the ingredients, that is. Fresh herbs, tomatoes, oregano, mother’s secret recipe. I could tell you but I’d have to kill you,” he snorted. “I see you have a greenhouse back there, so you must have quite the set-up here. Surely you have room for a couple more?”

“Simon, I’ll level with you. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed already, and we’re just barely getting by as it is. But if you’re not afraid of hard work, can pull your own weight around the place, and do your bit, then maybe?”

There was a look of desperation about the pair of them that Jack had seen so many times before. The boy looked close to tears.

“Look, please,” continued Simon. “We’ll do anything. Just give us a chance. It’s hard out there, just the two of us. The boy needs a proper home, kids his own age. You have other children, right?”

“We have children, yes. Lots of children,” said Jack with a sigh, remembering why he enjoyed the solitude of the lighthouse. “How were things in Weymouth? Are there many survivors?”

Simon stared at the ground, lost in thought for a second, his voice softer: “Not many. We got hit bad, no warning. I lost my wife and daughter early in the outbreak. Me and Toby didn’t get sick. We moved around a fair bit, from house to house, living off whatever we could find. It was hard, but we survived. We had some close shaves. Things got crazy. Gangs rampaging, looking for food. We hid during the day and moved around at night. We got caught a couple of times, had all our food stolen. One time, they left us for dead—” He broke off, remembering the horror. “I don’t want to live out there, not any more. I’m begging you…please. Just give us a chance.”

“Listen, I’ll speak to the others, okay? That’s the best I can do. No promises. Stay here. Consider yourself in quarantine. If you’re both fit and healthy with no sign of infection in forty-eight hours, then we’ll talk. In the meantime, keep yourselves to yourselves. Don’t go wandering around. If you approach the main gate, you will be shot. Am I clear? If you need anything, shout. My name’s Jack, everyone knows me.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack. And thank you!”

Jack turned on his heels, shaking his head. He was getting soft in his old age. Just what they needed. More mouths to feed. More blooming kids. He smiled to himself and walked back to the lighthouse.

Chapter Five

Jack finished getting dressed and grabbed a rucksack from behind the front door. He wandered back the short distance that separated the lighthouse from the castle walls through the main gate to the canteen to join Terra and a small group of others who were still finishing their breakfast. The smell of coffee and fresh bread lingered.

Terra poured him some coffee from a large catering kettle, burning her hand on the metal handle. She sucked at her fingers, wincing as the pain subsided. Jack studied her with a glint in his eye. There was something different about her today, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

She was an attractive woman, almost two decades his junior, but old beyond her years. This morning she had made little effort with her appearance. She wore loose-fitting clothes fit for a day’s work. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was tied back under a headscarf. Jack lifted the cup to his lips and blew away the steam, still too hot to drink.

“Who’s meant to be on lookout duty this morning? A yacht’s just arrived. No warning. They just crept in without anyone noticing,” said Jack flatly.

The others stopped what they were doing and leaned in excitedly.

“Really? How many are they? Where did they come from? What did they say?” asked Terra, curious to hear about the world outside and whether Jack would let them stay. At times it felt so claustrophobic here. So little was known about what was going on beyond the castle walls. When the broadcasts had ceased all those months ago, the world got smaller quickly. They relied on word of mouth, rumours, and stories from other survivor groups.

Jack told them what little he knew and cautioned them against approaching the boat until the new arrivals had passed quarantine. They would need to decide whether to accept Simon and Toby, but in the circumstances, he could hardly turn them away.

They had already taken in five more the previous week, swelling their numbers to breaking point. But with two team members gone this last month, one from a suspected tumour, the other missing, captured or killed by a rival group, they needed to maintain their strength. They needed a full complement of working men and women.

According to Jack’s roster, all told, there were sixty-two able-bodied adults living at Hurst Castle, himself included; thirty-seven men and twenty-five women. Then there were three unable to work through injury or old age, and twelve children, the youngest being five years old.

Jack considered himself a good judge of character. He