Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

the looters to keep back. The police never came. Those that stayed behind in the towns had most likely died. Only those that got out survived.

Zed’s team operated in silence. Hand signals were passed between the team members as they crept along separate sides of the street. They stopped several times to listen and observe. There was no one around. Halfway along, they reached a large town house with a front window smashed in, its front door intact. They crowbarred the top and bottom hinges. After some brute force and grunting they levered open the lock. Zed gestured to Sean to take the left and Mila the right as they stepped inside.

The hall and staircase were deserted, untouched by the chaos outside. The living room to the left was filled with bookshelves, two large brown leather sofas and an armchair. Family photos of holidays and Christmases spoke of happier times. Sean picked up a framed photo and smiled at the laughing faces of children playing on a beach. The shelf had a heavy layer of dust. He replaced the silver frame carefully, opening drawers one by one, looking for anything usable.

Mila ran a finger along the spines of several of the books. The castle library was well stocked, but they were always on the lookout to add to the collection. She grabbed a couple of novels that looked unfamiliar and a large visual encyclopaedia the children would like, together with a French dictionary. She stuffed them into the large rucksack.

In the kitchen, the cupboards were mostly bare, aside from tinned tuna and vegetables. They grabbed some spices and wrapped the sharp knives from the drawer in a tea towel to keep them safe as they continued their search. Under the stairs they found tools, oil, glue, cleaning products and other household items that were always in demand.

A noise from the floor above made all of them look round. Sean and Mila stared anxiously at Zed, who gestured for them both to stay calm and follow him. He normally stuck to the ground floor, but something told Zed that it was worth the risk to continue the search upstairs. They crept silently, planting one foot in front of the other, carefully, step by step. They kept their eyes focused on the landing above through the banisters. Zed’s revolver was drawn, though he only had two bullets loaded. A large creak betrayed them and they froze for a few seconds to listen.

At the top of the stairs, outside the first door, Zed signalled to the others, counting down to zero from three. They barged through, splintering the lock and swept the room, pointing their weapons into each corner. There was nothing. Just a large bed and two wardrobes.

They tried the next bedroom. A child’s room with movie posters of Transformers and James Bond. There was a PC monitor, keyboard and desk, a Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillowcase.

They readied themselves outside the last bedroom, nodding to each other, weapons ready. Zed kicked open the door and charged inside, closely followed by the others.

The stench was overpowering. Mila recoiled, covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve. Lying on the bed was a family of three, the mother and child locked in a final embrace. Their skin pale and drawn tight across their faces, mouths open in a silent cry of anguish, their eyes blank, staring at each other.

Sean approached the bed and peered over them.

“Poor bastards,” he whispered.

At the sound of his voice, the father’s mouth opened and let out a pained groan. Sean jumped back startled, his knife drawn. “Holy crap! That scared the bejesus out of me.”

Zed barged Sean out the way, covering the bed with his weapon, keeping his distance.

“He won’t hurt you. He’s barely alive. The other two are long gone,” said Zed, dispassionately.

“Shouldn’t we put him out of his misery,” suggested Sean, recovering his sangfroid, but still visibly trembling.

“No point,” countered Zed. “Leave him be. Check the bathroom and study and then let’s get out of here.”

They regrouped downstairs, their rucksacks half-filled with an eclectic selection of batteries, books, food and tools. They moved on to the next house, this time empty. The occupants had left a chaotic trail of clothes and personal items discarded on the stairs and in the hall in their hurry to get out.

Above the mantelpiece Sean spotted a ceremonial sword, perhaps an antique relic of a military career. He turned it over in his hands, testing the weight. It might make a useful weapon if sharpened up a little, its edges dull, never before used in anger. He grabbed a stack of CDs for their sound system back at the camp. On special occasions, Jack would let them power up the generator, drink some of Liz’s home brew and toast departed friends. Then there was the thorny issue of Jack’s limited CD collection, consisting mostly of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Anything new or modern would be cheered by one and all.

Their rucksacks virtually full, they were just sweeping the third house when Zed’s radio crackled into life. A loud beep signalled that one of the other team was trying to contact him.

“Zed, it’s Joe.”

“Go ahead, Joe.”

“Four cars, repeat four, just drove into town and are heading straight towards you.”

“Thanks, Joe. We’ll sit tight and wait this one out,” replied Zed. “Bob? You there?”

“Yes, mate. We’re nearly done. Riley is upstairs, Will is keeping watch by the doorway.”

“Okay, Bob, let’s keep our heads down and wait for this lot to pass through.”

“Roger that.”

Zed and his team had learned the hard way that tangling with rival groups was best avoided. Live and let live. Fighting was a last resort. You tended to live longer that way. The team would lay low until the threat had passed.

Chapter Seven

In the row of shops and flats across the street, the other team was finishing their sweep. They had a decent haul of tinned food, pasta, some clothes, several bottles of spirits and cans of fizzy drinks.

Will stood outside the house scanning the high street in both directions, humming a nursery rhyme about a “springbok jumping over the moon” that had just popped into his head. Where had that come from? He took a long draw from a cigarette and exhaled noisily. A thin plume of smoke funnelled upwards into the grey overcast sky, as his mind wandered to happier times growing up. He felt a long way from his family home just outside Johannesburg.

Bob joined him on the top step and shared his cigarette.

“Tell me again where you were before Hurst,” asked Bob, clearing his throat.

“Not far from here actually. I was holed up in a new-build town house for a while with a couple of lads I worked with on construction projects. When things started breaking down, we got out of town and drove straight to this old farmhouse we knew. The property had been empty, mid-renovation. The owners had moved out to escape the dust and disruption. They were living abroad in Portugal or Spain, I can't remember which.”

Bob nodded, keeping watch up and down the street, waiting for Will to continue.

“We got by, picking fruit and vegetables from the garden, helping ourselves to whatever we could find. They had this walk-in larder there with dry stores. When one of the others got sick, I panicked and bolted. Never went back. I wasn't taking any chances. I'd seen how quickly the sickness spread. I just left everything behind. My clothes, my mates, everything and just drove until I hit the coastal road. I sat in the car for an hour with the engine running, staring out to sea. For the first time since I immigrated to England, I felt completely isolated, divorced from everything I had known. I realised that it was up to me to make a new life somewhere safe, to find other survivors and rebuild.”

Bob took another drag from the cigarette, flicking the ash and wheezing again. “You were like me. You got lucky, eh? How did you find Hurst?”

“I spotted Jack's headlights bumping along the shingle roadway and followed him out to the castle after dark.”

Will remembered his first impressions of the place. The precautions they had taken with him. Held at gunpoint, quarantined until proven fit and healthy, treated with suspicion, questioned.

“You guys were different from the other groups I’d encountered. You took no chances. I was a potential threat to your way of life. I respected that. Like the old days back home in South Africa. Living in fear of carjacking and armed robbery, HIV and infection, snakes and spiders, crocs and hippos. Being surrounded by danger keeps your senses alert. I never allowed myself to drop my guard. That's what kept me alive. Survival meant finding a community, sharing resources, having others watch your back, pulling together. I didn’t want to live alone, not any more.”

“You're lucky though,” repeated Bob. “You've got skills, something Hurst needed.”

“What's that then? My rugged good looks?”

Bob laughed, shaking his head. “No, I meant your builder skills. The fact that you can fix stuff. Repair walls, plumbing, that kind of thing. Those are in demand now. So much to do all the time. You take all that for granted, but the rest of us have had to learn most of that for the first time. How to fight, look after animals, grow food, store rainwater. You learned all that growing up.”

Will squinted at Bob, sizing him up. He was an office worker, ill-suited to this new world. Bob was right; he took his upbringing for granted, but it had trained him to survive, to stay alive. He took another draw on the cigarette and turned his head towards the squeak of brakes and a low rumble in the distance from a diesel engine. There was an urgent tap on the window from the upstairs room.

Riley was gesturing for them both to get inside. The approaching convoy navigated around the debris in the street. In the distance a delivery lorry was parked perpendicular to the road, backed up to a shop. Its doors were still open. Its driver slumped over the wheel, the windscreen shattered by a bullet.

Will ducked, wondering if they had seen him. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter from the top step and went back inside, closing the door quietly behind him. Bob beckoned him over, put his finger to his lips and they both crouched under the windowsill as the convoy came into view. They could hear Riley’s footsteps on the floor above as she took up position watching the road from the upstairs bedroom.

The convoy slowed and stopped not twenty metres from where they were hiding. The lead vehicle was a top-of-the-line Range Rover, an Overfinch with four male occupants. Just behind were a red Transit van, a people carrier and a beaten-up Peugeot estate car, panting noisily at the rear.

Will peeked again but ducked quickly as the car doors opened and he saw about a dozen men begin unloading their gear. They were well organised, heavily armed with automatic weapons. Several of them were dressed in dark combat fatigues and camouflage jackets. Shielded from view behind a white net curtain, the pair watched the group. The leader, a clean-shaven man with slick brown hair, black combat trousers and a dark Barbour jacket stood talking to two others. He was giving instructions and pointing towards the shops and houses down the road.

One of the men with an automatic rifle slung under his arm looked over towards the house where they were hiding. He was studying the door with crowbar marks near the lock. His eyes flicked down and locked on to the still-lit cigarette smouldering in the gutter. He whistled through his teeth to get the rest of the group’s attention and wandered over, scanning the first-floor windows. He picked up the cigarette butt, put it to his lips and inhaled deeply before stubbing it out under a heavy boot. Pressing his face to the