by Robin Crumby
“Right, what can I do?” said Jack as Flynn pointed him towards the console with the pumps.
“Keep your eye on those readings and shout if they change. Let me check in with the Chester and give them the good news. If we can just ride out this storm, then we can take her into port when it eases a little.”
“Can we claim salvage on the cargo, Sarge?”
“Very funny, Lucas. What, you think you’re a pirate do you? If you’re lucky, I’ll treat you to a cup of tea. We’re not out of the woods yet. Let’s keep focused on the job at hand, okay?”
“Yes sir,” chimed the marines in unison.
On Jack’s screen, an alarm sounded followed by a warning message and a flashing icon indicating that one of the pumps had failed. Lucas rushed over, nudging Jack out of the way.
“Uh oh. What did I do?” asked Jack.
“No, it’s nothing you did. The bilge pumps are working beyond their normal parameters. Thousands of gallons of water to pump out and looks like it’s just shorted out. Let’s give it a minute and try resetting it, shall we?”
“Can we still make it with the pumps we have left?”
“There’s built-in redundancy on these things, so even if one fails the others can take up the slack. It’ll slow things down but providing the hull’s still watertight and the rivets and bulkheads hold together, we should be fine now. See how she’s riding the waves now rather than nose-diving into them? Another couple of hours of pumping and we should be ok.”
“That’s a relief. Didn’t fancy dying today,” stuttered Jack. His whole body was shivering from the soaking wet clothes clinging to his body, now that the adrenaline had begun to subside.
“That makes two of us,” said Flynn grimacing, rubbing his bruised shoulder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peering out of a small iron-framed window made of single-paned glass, Riley was trying to make out the island in the distance across the narrow waterway. There was a gap between the window frame and the stone wall that allowed a steady draft of cool damp air, whistling in with each gust. When the wind strengthened again and rain lashed against the alcove windows on the first floor of the castle, she shivered involuntarily.
It had been a comparatively mild start to the autumn months thus far. After weeks of seemingly incessant rain throughout June and July, the skies had finally cleared, giving way to several weeks of sunshine. It was only late September, but it was beginning to turn colder. The south-westerly storm currently venting its fury was the first tell-tale sign of the approach of winter.
Since the arrival of the first detachment of soldiers, things had started to change at Hurst. The mood was different somehow. The peace and harmony of the survivor community were irrevocably altered. There was now a restlessness, a sense of foreboding. It was almost as if the presence of soldiers, far from making the occupants of the castle feel safer, actually made life more dangerous.
The more horticultural amongst them were grateful for all the rain and they had ensured that they stored as much water as possible. A system of water butts and gutters funnelled rainwater to a large storage tank beneath the castle. Riley wondered whether this was the first of many storms to come. The previous winters had been mercifully mild here, but no less grim. Living in a castle so exposed to the elements, everything remained dark and dank throughout the long winter months. Jack said it had been like this living on a merchant ship; nothing ever really got dry. Everything always smelled damp.
How many months had she been at Hurst now? She had lost track after the second year. Riley had been part of the second wave to arrive, part of another group living outside Everton at a large farm. They had been forced to abandon the farm when resources had run scarce following an unexplained illness that had affected their herd of cows. Without a vet, all they could do was put the poor beasts out of their misery and move on.
Perhaps she would spend the rest of her days here. There were worse places to live out your time. She had grown to love the place; its history, its austerity. It was a constant, unchanging monolith, impervious to man’s desperate fight to survive. There was a sense of permanence here, of continuity through the ages.
She had come to think of the other survivors as her family. They had been through so much together. It would be hard to leave all this behind.
Hurst’s remoteness and inaccessibility by road were becoming problematic. They had made some running repairs to the roadway over the hot summer months but without heavy earth moving equipment, concrete and diggers to reinforce the sea defences, the next storm system, in all likelihood, might punch a hole clean through. It had happened many years before, when storm force winds had battered the shingle spit. Even now, the roadway was increasingly impassable to all bar farm tractors and four-wheel drive vehicles.
After a busy few months, the fields that surrounded Keyhaven were awash with colour. Corn, wheat, and maize grew long. In the Spring, they had dug row upon row of vegetables, now rewarded with carrots, potatoes, and turnips. Nearer to the farm buildings were lush pastures, dotted with sheep and cows huddled together in the shelter of an old stone wall. Most of the team’s days were spent tending to the animals. Their herd of dairy cows was a rich source of milk, yoghurt and an assortment of cheeses stored in the cool cellars with mixed results.
As a fisherman, Jack had often reminded Riley how grateful she should be. They were blessed with a whole ocean full of fish, right on their door step. They only had to row out a weighted net to the buoy in the main channel and on the incoming tide would be rewarded with an extraordinary haul of mackerel, skate, or bass. The pots they hauled up daily never failed to catch a large crab or lobster. Jack said that the ocean was slowly healing itself after years of overfishing. In a few more years, he predicted a return to fishing hauls not seen since Tudor times when the Solent was teeming with a multitude of now rare species.
Unlike other survivor camps, Hurst’s food supplies were fairly secure. Water and fuel remained their biggest challenges. Even with butts collecting rainwater from every gutter and rooftop, it was never enough.
She was sure there were other places where life was a little easier. Rumours told of a new world on the island. Electricity, running water, virus free. It all sounded a little too good to be true. Besides, they had a job to do. A renewed sense of purpose that required discipline in their defensive role, guarding the western entrance to the Solent. She had to admit, the plans for reconstruction had instilled in her, in all of them, a new hope for the future.
The door slammed behind her and Tommy appeared, his sweater soaked through. His hair was lank, sticking to his brow, flattened by the rain.
“Hey Riley, have you seen Will or Scottie?”
“Nope, not since lunch. What’s up?”
Tommy said he had been out repairing a slow puncture on the Land Rover. It was about the fifth time they had fixed it and spares were in short supply. He looked out of breath, waiting by the door, panting noisily.
He noticed the fire almost burned through and the empty basket for logs beside it and slapped his forehead. “Liz asked me to bring more wood in. Completely forgot.”
“You’d forget your own head if it wasn’t stuck on.”
“Liz told me forgetfulness is the only way she can get through the day without screaming at me. Don’t know what she was banging on about, though.”
He made to leave before turning round. “Oh, Zed was looking for you. I think he was heading down to the beach at the far end. Take a raincoat, eh, it’s filthy out there.”
“Will do, thanks, Tommy. Tell Scottie when you see him, he never brought me that cup of tea.”
“If I find him, he’s helping me fix that blooming tyre first before it gets dark. He can bring you tea later when he’s done his chores.”
“Go on then,” she smiled. “Off with you.”
The door slammed shut again and Riley let out a deep sigh and lowered a red-jacketed book with gold embossed letters onto her lap. She was reading Tess of th
e D’Urbervilles for the third time. It was one of her favourites. There was something about Tess and fatalism that chimed with Riley.
Zed would make fun of her when she railed against the world, of “blighted stars” or “troubled hearts”. Riley was fond of speaking of fate, how things were the way they were, because that’s how they were meant to be, and there was little anyone could do about it. Zed said that you made your own luck. That nothing was pre-determined. He said there was no plan, no divine intervention. Riley refused to believe in a universe that was somehow indifferent. Most of all she believed in herself. “Bless thy simplicity” taunted Zed when she spoke of fate.
Since their escape from the clutches of the Sisterhood at the Chewton Glen Hotel, a veil of sadness had settled on Riley. Leaving Stella behind had been a body blow. They had only known each other a short time but the circumstances of their meeting, Stella’s vulnerability during her pregnancy, had developed in Riley as an emptiness since their return to Hurst. It was a void she found difficult to bridge. Stella reminded her so much of the younger sister she had so tragically lost to meningitis when she was a student.
She had grown adept at disguising this sadness from others. Heaven knows, everyone had suffered loss and hardship over the last few years. This was certainly nothing unusual that warranted special treatment. Every survivor of the Millennial Virus had their own stories of loved ones lost, mistakes made, opportunities missed; but somehow Riley’s thoughts always returned to Stella. She could not explain it rationally to others, but she felt strangely responsible for her. It was Riley who had found her at the hospital while searching for Will. Stella had been abused, beaten and experimented on by the men there. If it hadn’t have been for Riley, who knows what would have happened to her, in the name of science? She had returned her safe to the bosom of the Sisterhood, and yet gratitude had been short lived when the Sisters had blamed the Hurst team for the fire and the escape of Joe and the others. They would at least care for Stella, support her through her pregnancy, of that she was sure.
She stood up and determined to take a turn round the battlements, find Zed and try and shake off these dark thoughts.
She found Zed taking advantage of a break in the weather to stretch his legs and walk round the castle walls before it got dark. At the far end of the complex, he took a seat on the battlements, his legs dangling over the side. He was watching with some amusement as Corporal Ballard put his Royal Marines through their paces, doing push-ups and sit-ups till it was too dark to see. One of the party was standing to one side with his head between his legs, throwing up on the grass, exhausted by their physical exertion.
Zed was scanning the horizon, his hair flattened by the wind, squinting into the distance. There had been a lull in the storm. The enormous waves were breaking on the Needles, sending spray high into the air. Those that raced towards the shingle beach smashed against the shore, sending pebbles flying over the top of the causeway. It was bracing sitting up high, a witness to the full force of nature and the sea. Riley wondered who else was fool enough to be out in weather like this.
Riley admired the soldiers. They were disciplined, professional. Out here, rain or shine, whatever the weather, day or night. Considering the rest of the world was falling apart, people like Flynn and Ballard gave her hope. They were driven by an unfaltering set of beliefs. A life in the military had taught them to be resilient, to make do with what they had, to respect the chain of command. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but it meant something to Riley. It chimed with her memories of childhood and being sent away to a boarding school at an early age when her father was sent overseas for work. With her mother working to make ends meet, she was told it was for the best. Her father had been a disciplinarian and had little time for sentimentality or homesickness. He had been intolerant of weakness, unforgiving of failure. It had influenced her life choices greatly.
She could hear Ballard barking orders at the dozen men who were running relays back and forth. It made Riley tired just watching them. The wind masked her footsteps as she approached and it was only when she coughed that Zed spun round a little startled.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?”
“Not at all. Just watching our friends from the military. Pull up a pew and come and join the fun.”
She sat next to him, their elbows touching in silence. Zed glanced across at Riley and noticed her eyes welling with tears.
“Hey, what’s up?” said Zed putting his arm around her, pulling her in. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sniffed.
“It’s silly really. Just can’t stop thinking about Stella, that’s all.”
He squeezed her tighter. He was trying to think of the right thing to say. He probably didn’t dare tell her what he was really thinking.
“Listen. She’s in good hands, right? The Sisters will take good care of her, be there for her when the time comes, when the baby is born. Talk about support network, just think about all those women clucking and cooing over the baby.”
Riley smiled. Zed could always cheer her up when she was feeling down. It was why she sought him out, despite their differences. He had a big heart, buried deep beneath that thick skin of his. She wondered whether anything ever got to him.
“I suppose it’s just…” her voice trailed off. “I feel responsible for her. It was me who got her out of that hospital, away from those monsters, returned her safe to the Chewton Glen. I know it was her choice to stay with her people, but part of me wishes we had forced her to come with us here. Liz and Greta could have looked after her. Jean is good with young children.”
“She chose to stay, Riley. We tried to persuade her to come with us, but she was adamant that she should stay put. You must respect her decision.”
“But where are they? We’ve been back to the Chewton Glen three times since and, by all accounts, they never came back. We’ve searched the whole area and still no sign. No one has heard or seen anything of them for months.”
“If you ask me, they’re long gone,” admitted Zed with a resigned sigh.
“Maybe, maybe not. The nurse said they would come back as soon as it was safe to do so.”
“They are a large group so they probably ventured further afield, Christchurch, Ringwood, even Bournemouth. Chances are they are all fine,” suggested Zed, trying to make light of it. “Maybe they found a better set up, easier to defend, more plentiful resources. Who knows?”
“Do you think we’ll ever see them again?” wondered Riley with a note of anguish she was trying to suppress. She didn’t want to blub in front of Zed. She was too stubborn and proud for that.
“I honestly don’t know. If we kept looking, headed further west, then maybe we’d find them. But it’s not worth the risk. Even with our new friends riding shotgun,” said Zed gesturing towards the soldiers.
Riley knew he was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. She blamed herself, whether rationally or irrationally.
“Do you ever think about Stella’s baby?”
“Can’t say I do, no. Was never much one for infants. I was on overseas trips when both my two were born. I was never exactly the hands-on parent.”
“If Stella’s immune, do you think the baby will be immune too?”
“Professor Nicholas said that immunity is most likely hereditary. That anyone who survived the first outbreak, their children would inherit whatever immunity their parent had.”
“Makes sense. Maybe the next generation will have better luck. Maybe there will be no need for a vaccine. The virus will just die out and that will be the end of it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe this is just the beginning of the outbreak?”
There was a moment of silence as they both looked out into the distance, listening to the roar of the waves.
“Come on,” said Zed, nudging Riley in the side. “It’s getting dark. Let’s leave these guys to it.”
Zed levered himself up and brushed white dust from the seat of his trousers, before helping her up. Riley looked
back along the beach, pulling the coat tighter around her body. Far off in the distance, she noticed the beam of a torchlight dancing along the shingle in the falling light.
It was getting too dark to use the binoculars. She couldn’t make out the shape to determine whether it was male or female. Zed put two fingers to his lips and whistled loudly to get the attention of the soldiers below. One of them looked up and signalled to Corporal Ballard who called a halt to the drill, looking up curiously at Zed. Zed didn’t attempt to shout down, his voice would have disappeared on the wind.
He pointed in the direction of the approaching figure along the beach that stretched away towards Milford village and silently relayed the warning by hand signals, as he had taught Riley and the others on the scavenging trips into town. Ballard acknowledged and the men grabbed their weapons and lay in wait.
By the time the person reached the end of the shingle causeway and the small slope that ran down to the roadway running round the castle walls, the soldiers were hiding out of sight. Riley and Zed had run round and stood in the shadows.
“That’s far enough. Who are you and what are you doing here?” challenged Ballard.
A woman’s voice, that Riley recognised but couldn’t place, flatly answered: “I’m unarmed.”
She was plainly dressed in a long dark blue rain coat that stretched from top to bottom to protect her slight frame from the elements. A hood covered her head and face. Her nose and mouth were all that was visible. The woman calmly raised her hands high into the air as one of Ballard’s men approached with a rifle pointing at her chest. They kept their distance, following their training, nervous about contamination.
“What do you want?” repeated Ballard.
“I’m looking for someone. A young girl. I’m told she came here. Her name is Jean.”
The soldiers looked at each other, shaking their heads, unfamiliar with the name. Riley stepped forward, still puzzling over the voice.
