Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

An idea began to form. A conspiracy. Was it possible they were all working together? A powerful alliance that would stop at nothing to see the plans for Camp Wight fail and chaos continue in the region. But why? To what end?

“Poor Jack,” King continued. “You really don’t understand, do you? You really think that the Americans can just waltz in here and everyone will roll over and welcome them with open arms, share all our food and resources with a foreign power? Don’t be so naive.”

“Au contraire,” gambled Jack. “You’re the one who’s being naive. Perhaps you haven’t heard? Oh, how silly of me, I forgot. You’ve been stuck in here. Out of the loop.”

“Very well, Jack,” he said with a sigh. “What have I not heard? Surprise me.”

“The Parkhurst crew. Dead. Destroyed.”

King pursed his lips and grimaced: “Parkhurst Prison? What are you talking about?”

“Your friend Briggs is dead. The axis of evil is finished, before it ever had a chance to get going.”

King laughed again, throwing his hands up in mock despair but showing no flicker of recognition that he knew what Jack was talking about. Jack’s gambit had failed. His lie about Briggs fell on deaf ears and he did a poor job at concealing his frustration.

“Axis of evil? If that’s what you really think then you’re even more deluded than I thought. Please don’t kid yourself that the world is somehow a safer place now you’ve captured one evil genius hell-bent on your destruction. The new world is full of people like me. I’m just like you, Jack. Fighting for what I believe in, looking after my own. Trying to make a better life. You want to know the difference between us? You see the world through rose-tinted glasses. You think everyone is inherently good. I don’t. I’m a realist. Life is a game and people are merely pieces on a chessboard. You just have to figure out how to use them to win.” King shook his head with a pained expression, enjoying the moment. “You still don’t get it, do you? You think because you live in a castle you’re better than the rest of us? You’re pathetic. You see the world in absolutes. Good versus evil. Life is never that black and white. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Next, you’ll be telling me that living in a lighthouse makes you a shining beacon to others, you self-righteous arse.”

Jack was shaking with rage, his left eye flickering involuntarily. “No, King, you’re wrong. Our actions define us as people. Not our clothes, or what we say. You see the world in shades of grey. I don’t. I draw the line at killing innocent people.”

“Innocent? Guilty? The search for a cure is what matters. Our very survival depends on it. The end justifies the means. If that means a few thousand extra people need to die while we test a vaccine, isn’t that a price worth paying? That’s progress, no?”

“I’m not talking about all those hundreds of people you killed in the name of science. I’m talking about the women and children you murdered in cold blood, right here. My people. They were unarmed. They didn’t stand a chance.”

“You think the death of your people makes the slightest bit of difference? Don’t be so sentimental. Thousands of people are dying every day.” He clicked his fingers repeatedly to emphasise the point, then paused and smiled, remembering something. “Curious to think that your people were put out of their misery by former policemen. Interesting, no?” He put his finger to his lip, tilting his head before continuing in a mocking voice laced with irony. “How quickly people change. It didn’t take much to persuade men who dedicated their lives to upholding the law that killing others is right and necessary. The rules of the game have changed. Wake up and smell the coffee, Jack. The world has changed and it is you who haven’t kept up. You bury your heads in the sand here like ostriches. You’re no better than me or anyone else. You just think you are. If you’re not careful, you’re going to find yourselves isolated and alone here. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that Camp Wight will be on the wrong side of the Solent.”

“We fought you off before. We’ll do it again.”

“Really? How can a bunch of fishermen like you hope to protect this castle against a whole army of trained paramilitaries? My men won’t give up until this place is razed to the ground. Next time, you won’t stand a chance, even with your new friends.”

“You really think they’ll come back and risk their lives to save you? They’ll leave you here to rot.”

“My men won’t come back here for me. So long as they have breath in their lungs and bullets in their guns, they’ll keep coming until your pathetic group is wiped out. It’s just what they do. Your people came to Hurst to die. They just don’t know it yet.”

Jack had taken all he could take for one day, but King wasn’t finished yet. He had one last poisonous thought to share.

“Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that I could be a carrier, slowly spreading the virus. Immune myself, but infecting you and your people even now. Bet you didn’t think of that. Careless, Jack, sitting so close, breathing the same air as me.”

Listening to the man in black’s hollow laugh, Jack shuddered. It had occurred to him that the girls may not be the only ones immune to the virus, but the chances of any of the rest of the hospital group being immune were a hundred-to-one. He shook his head, refusing to rise to the bait.

“I have better things to do than listen to the delusions of a man who’s never going to see the light of day again. I’ll leave you to your twisted thoughts. We’ll talk again when I’m good and ready. Enjoy your silence and solitude. That’s all you’ll get from us.”

Jack had had enough of this goading. For the last few minutes, he’d been clenching his fists, tighter and tighter. He could feel the veins on the side of his neck throbbing. He swore that if he spent one more minute with this man, this monster, he’d tear him limb from limb. He stood up too quickly, clumsily kicking over the lantern that stood between them. The glass smashed and the flame was extinguished in the dust on the ground, its wick and mounting tumbling clear.

The whole room was suddenly plunged into darkness. Jack scrambled towards the doorway, feeling with his hands in front of him. He started hammering and shouting Tommy’s name, trying to keep a lid on his mounting fear. The man in black’s disembodied voice in the darkness seemed to come from multiple directions, echoing off the walls of the dry storage room.

“Poor Jack,” he repeated, followed by that same hollow laugh.

Jack banged louder before the key turned and Tommy’s friendly face appeared in the doorway, peering in to see what was happening. Jack wrenched the door open wider and barged Tommy out of the way, desperate to get as far away from the prisoner as he could. Tommy stood for a second, staring after Jack as he hurried away. Behind him, Tommy looked back into the darkness, wondering what had spooked Jack, searching out the face of the man inside. All he could see were his legs and the smashed lantern on the ground. He stooped to pick up the lamp and the larger shards of glass and slammed the door shut.

On the stairs, he found Jack limping heavily, perspiration on his forehead. Tommy supported him through the narrow doorway to the roof of the Gun Tower. Jack fell on his hands and knees and dry retched, breathing hard. When he had recovered his wits, he hobbled over and found Nathan looking out over the battlements, surveying the USS Chester’s progress east towards Cowes and Southampton Water. Jack snatched the walkie-talkie from Nathan’s belt and depressed the talk button.

“Peterson, it’s Jack here.”

There was a few seconds delay before a voice he recognised well came back loud and clear. “Go ahead, Jack.”

“We’ve got a major problem. I don't know how, but they know. King knows all about Camp Wight.” There was no response from Peterson so Jack continued, the stress obvious in his voice. “And it sounds like the story about the girls is bona fide. They do have immunity to the virus.”

There was a long silence, while Jack checked the volume on the radio to make sure it was still transmitting and the battery hadn’t failed, before he heard the American’s response. “Copy that. Let’s continue this conversation face to face. Be careful what you say, Jack, this is an unsecure line. Let’s get those girls to a safe location.”

“Okay, one of them is safe. And we think we know where to find the other one. We’re going to need some transport though.”

There was another silence. “We’ve got our hands a little full right now, but we’ll send the chopper as soon as it can be spared. Hang in there, Jack.”

Jack signed off and looked back towards the island. Dark clouds were blowing in from the south-west. He could see light rain falling underneath. The dull ache in his shoulder intensified as the painkillers began to wear off. His heart sank and his eyes closed as he remembered the loss of Terra. It was as if he’d locked that memory away and stumbled across it again unexpectedly. Sam was right. She was a resourceful woman. She would do whatever it took to stay alive. He had to believe that and trust to luck.

Chapter Fifty-seven

It was late on the second day after the attack on Hurst when the helicopter was released from its more pressing duties ferrying military personnel. Osborne House had been set up as a temporary command centre for the newly formed Camp Wight, under the protection of a detachment of US marines led by Sergeant Jones.

Peterson had re-established communication with the Royal Navy and now had a permanent liaison officer based in Portsmouth to foster improved relations between the two allies. As a gesture towards reciprocity, Captain Armstrong had installed one of his trusted deputies on board the USS Chester to act as local guide and pilot to orient the Americans around the Solent waters.

Peterson and the helicopter crew collected Riley from the grassy area next to the lighthouse, where she had been waiting for some time, scanning the skies. Once she was safely on board and the crewmen had helped secure the straps of the jump seat next to the sliding door, they took off towards the Chewton Glen hotel in search of Stella.

The helicopter flew low over the trees and houses of Milford, hugging the water’s edge towards Christchurch. Riley braced herself by the open door, thrilled by the sensation of speed, wind blowing in her hair, straining against her seatbelt to see below the aircraft. Her long brown hair flicked in her eyes and face and she held back a handful of fringe with her free hand. With her other hand, she gripped the handle nearest her. They passed over a golf course, where grass grew long and verdant on deserted fairways and greens. Turning inland over Barton-on-sea, they traversed roads and roundabouts clogged with stationary traffic.

She gestured to Peterson to slow down and the nose pitched upwards as they lost speed, coming into a hover above the main road and front gate to the hotel fifty metres below them. Riley leaned out as far as the seatbelt straps would allow. The truck blocking the front entrance was gone. Something was wrong.

She pointed towards the main block and cluster of buildings a few hundred metres away and Peterson relayed the message to the pilot. They continued onwards, following the path of the driveway that curved left and then right past trees and the first of several planted fields and vegetable patches. The fire