by Robin Crumby
Zed was mumbling, delirious again. His eyes flicked open as if remembering something. There was a look of alarm, close to panic, in his eyes.
“What is it?” asked Riley, suddenly worried.
“Briggs knows. He asked me all about Wildfire. I don’t know how he found out, but he knows. I couldn’t stop them. One of the scientists must have mentioned it. I tried my best to resist, to hide the truth, but they beat it out of me.”
He held the stump of his left hand up as proof.
“It cost me an arm and a leg,” he laughed in spite of himself.
Riley noticed the pain returning on Zed’s face as he was reminded of the living proof of the injury he had sustained.
“If he has the Professor, then he could make him talk, confirm the rumours. Even without direct evidence of collusion, conspiracy theories have a habit of being believed. It could spread quickly.”
“Like wildfire, you mean?” joked Riley, regretting it instantly.
“You’re right. The Professor could provide legitimacy to their story, confirm the rumours. They might even be planning to use him as a puppet to foment rebellion against the Allies.”
“Somehow, we have to stop the Professor from talking,” said the Colonel. “He could do untold damage to our efforts to establish Camp Wight. If we can’t get him back alive, then we will have to silence him,” sighed the Colonel.
“You mean kill him?” checked Riley.
“If that’s the only way, then yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Heather woke startled in the darkness. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings. She checked the Casio digital watch she had been given for her birthday by her father. It was barely after six-thirty. She was under canvas, in a six-person tent at the refugee camp on the island. A man’s voice was shouting for the new arrivals to wake up, banging on their canvas roofs as he strode along the line sending the rain pooling on sloping roofs cascading down on to the grass below. Heather and the other occupants emerged, bleary-eyed from their slumber.
This was their second night on the island. Heather and her newly adopted family still displayed no symptoms of the virus. In another twenty-four hours, they would be passed fit and shipped out to their future lodgings where they were told they would live and work. Today was the day they would finally be told where they were each heading.
The paraffin lights were relit in some of the tents as they dressed quickly. Each of the groups headed in turn to the canteen for a hot drink and a chunk of stale bread. Guards watched them disinterestedly, hurrying any laggards on their way with a firm shove or a kick up the backside, haranguing them with jibes and insults. No one was exempt to their personal attacks. Short and tall, thin and fat, white and black. Discrimination in all its forms. Heather wondered what gave them the right to treat people like this, as if wearing a uniform gave them some kind of licence of impunity. It was almost as if the new arrivals were an underclass, immigrants in their own country in this upside-down world. Only the timely intervention of an officer in a raised voice seemed to keep their behaviour in check.
When it came to be the turn of Heather’s group they were marched to the canteen in silence. Talking was forbidden here if you wanted to avoid a rifle butt in your back. Several had found out the hard way that it didn’t pay to stand out from the crowd. Heather had spent the last two years perfecting the art of keeping a low profile, putting the hood of her coat up and keeping her face hidden, her body language defeated. Rowan had taught them well, how to think, how to behave to stay alive. She had him to thank for the skills they had acquired. How she wished he was here now and the rest of their group. They would know what to do and how to find Connor again.
Her adopted family was a few steps behind her. The boys were whispering quietly to each other. Heather flipped round scornfully, putting a finger to her lips to silence them. One had a blanket round his shoulders, the other was chewing on something. They both ignored her, staring back affronted, screwing up their faces as if to say “who are you to tell us what to do?”.
Heather recognised one of the soldiers from the ferry terminal and stepped out of line to speak with him. In an instant, one of the guards watching the line broke off his conversation and rushed forward, pointing in her direction, gesturing for her to get back.
She ignored him and in her most polite voice addressed the soldier.
“Excuse me, I’m trying to find my brother, Connor. He’s nine years old. Brown hair, blue eyes, about so high,” she gestured.
“What do I look like? A childminder? How would I know?”
“You were there at the ferry. You took him off, put him in quarantine. He had a cough and a cold, that’s all.”
He softened a little, remembering the pair of them. “Oh yeah, I remember. Well, if he wasn’t sick, and he’s still alive, he’ll go to one of the camps for kids. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Not many of the infected survive.”
“He wasn’t infected though.”
The soldier shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
“How do I find him again? Who should I speak to?”
He ignored her questions and resumed his conversation with another. Her adopted mother was waving, imploring Heather to retake her place in the line. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the guard who had been advancing towards her gesticulating.
“You. Yes, you. Get back in line, now.”
Heather rejoined the family who had advanced a few paces forward. The guard was distracted by something behind them. She couldn’t see but perhaps someone else had dared disobey orders. Heather escaped with a passing glare as he raced on, policing the line.
They shuffled forward until they reached the stairs that led inside a farm building which had been set up as a field kitchen, with large boiling cauldrons of water set on top of fire pits. A small team of women were handing out polystyrene cups with a hot milky liquid that passed for tea, poured from large metal catering pots. The bread was flat and hard and difficult to eat with a dry mouth and parched throat. Heather put hers in her pocket for later and drank the tea on the move while it was hot.
The line continued forward into a barn with a farmyard beyond where several hundred people were waiting, huddled together for warmth. Several hay bales had been stacked next to the wall as a makeshift stage and Heather could see a group of uniformed men welcoming someone who looked important. She couldn’t make out his face from this distance. There was a swagger about him, a coolness towards others that made her think he did not belong. Something about his stance reminded her of a gunslinger in a western, with a pistol on his hip. She assumed he must be American. The other soldiers were deferential towards him and she noticed him shaking hands with another, giving him a box that looked like a carton of cigarettes. A vicar joined the group, wearing black with a starched white collar. He had greying hair and glasses, but his shoulders were broad and his frame athletic, like someone who might have played football for the local team on Sundays. He shook hands with the soldiers and was introduced to the American.
As the last of the refugees shuffled into the barn and they closed the doors behind them to keep out the wind, an officer clapped his hands and appealed for quiet.
“Good morning and welcome to Camp Wight. My name is Captain Armstrong, I trust you have been well looked after. I know many of you will have come a long way and suffered unbelievable hardship just to reach the island. Your presence is hugely appreciated.”
His accent was British, educated, slightly affected. Posh, thought Heather. It reminded her of the Vice Principal at her old school whose life-time in academia had made his language awkward, institutionalised somehow. Despite his best intentions, the Vice Principal had become an instant figure of fun for the children. Much imitated and derided, in equal measures. She wondered whether the officer standing on the hay bales had suffered the same ignominy.
“Father Davy will be coming round to talk to each of your groups later to forma
lly welcome you to the island and to answer any questions you have. I’m sure you have plenty right now.”
There was a murmur from the crowd as if that was the biggest understatement of the year.
“We’re all keen that you clear quarantine and head to your new homes. First thing you should know is that, here on the island, everybody works. No exceptions. You’ve all been interviewed and assessed. Those with qualifications and trades will be put to good use. Those without will join work parties and construction crews. You’ll all be assigned to teams based on your skills and knowledge. We try our best to keep families and groups together, but as I’m sure you can understand, that’s not always possible. Any unaccompanied minors without their parents will be taken to Ryde Boarding School not far from here.”
Heather’s newly adopted mother patted her shoulders and gave her an encouraging squeeze. Heather had expected something similar so wasn’t entirely surprised. In some ways, being placed with other children her age, was the best to be hoped for. After the last few months of scraping a living, fending for themselves, the idea of living in a boarding house, protected and warm, with enough to eat, almost sounded too good to be true.
There was a commotion at the front as a man who had been quietly mumbling his dissent, openly heckled the officer. Despite those around him encouraging him to be quiet, he erupted into a tirade of abuse. Two of the soldiers approached him, fending off his punches and kicks before wrestling him to the ground and dragging him away, blood streaming from his nose. The vicar interceded on behalf of the man, cautioning the soldiers against further violence. Heather could hear the heckler shouting in defiance. “I’m not working for you. I’m not working for any of you bastards.”
The officer standing on the hay bale platform tried awkwardly to laugh the interruption away, before being joined by the American who took over.
“Listen up. My name is Lieutenant Peterson from the United States warship the Chester anchored there in the Solent. I’m here to tell you that not everyone is going to agree with the way we do things round here. If you don’t like it, you can leave. There’s a ferry waiting to take you back to the mainland any time you like.”
The American paused, surveying the crowd, enjoying their shakes of the head.
“No, I didn’t think you wanted to leave so soon. Well, life is different now, the rules have changed. You don’t get something for nothing. You either work, or you leave. It’s that simple.”
The British officer took over with a nod, now that the mood in the crowd had calmed down a little after the American’s intervention.
“We’re building a new community here at Camp Wight. There can be no passengers, no bystanders. Unless you agree to these terms, there can be no room for you here,” he warned.
“We each have a duty to educate ourselves, to put our skills to full use. Every man, woman and child must continue their education and keep learning. Not just about the world or traditional subjects like maths, geography, religion, but also practical skills like first aid, medicine, animal husbandry, how to fix a car, hunt and fish. In short, survival skills.”
A voice from the front shouted out again.
“But what use is algebra or trigonometry now? Why waste time learning about things with no relevance any more?”
“It may not be so important now, but think to the future. We are the new custodians of human knowledge. We have a duty to our children and our children’s children to acquire and share the skills and knowledge we need not just to survive but to thrive. In years to come we’ll need to rebuild, to make this place what it once was, maybe even to build a better world.
“But what if we don’t know any of those things? Who’s going to teach us?”
The officer smiled and turned to the vicar, sharing a private joke.
“It is a foolish form of vanity,” smiled the vicar, “to think we are above the skills we need or that we are incapable of learning. Ignorance is not a sin, but remaining so, certainly is. Through God’s grace, we all enter this world knowing nothing. As of today, you are each reborn.”
Armstrong nodded and took over.
“Spread the word. Starting today, let it be known throughout this land that Camp Wight is open for business. We are recruiting. We need to train doctors, nurses, soldiers, fishermen, farmers, engineers. So if you’ve always worked in an office, now’s the time to retrain and learn a trade.”
“Time is not on our side,” continued the American. “Winter is coming. We’re going to need enough food and supplies to last out. As we speak, crops lie withering in the fields, needing to be harvested. There won’t always be these inexhaustible stores. In time, the shelves will be emptied, the warehouses full of dried goods and tinned food will be used up, then what? How will we survive? Or the generations to come? That legacy will be short-lived. We must fend for ourselves, become self-sufficient. If we don’t maintain the vehicles and machinery we need, then we’ll quickly return to a pre-industrial age, reliant on horse and cart for transport. We’ll look back on these first five years as the easiest. What comes next will be the harder, believe you me. We need to dig in fast to avoid a slippery slope to savagery.”
Captain Armstrong stepped forward again, surveying the crowd. Their words seemed practiced as if they had used the same speech many times to successive groups.
“The last few months have been a much-needed pause for breath. What comes next will be far worse. We have a moment of respite to collect ourselves, to prepare. If we don’t do that, then the danger is that we embark on mankind’s last stand. Let me tell you that the threat of the virus remains very real, even here on the island. If the virus jumps again, if a new strain appears, more resistant than before, then God help us. We can’t let that happen. We have to take steps now, to protect ourselves, to build the defences to prevent that happening. We are not helpless, nor should we behave so.”
“In the morning, those that are passed fit will go forward to their new lives. I encourage you to make the most of this opportunity, seize it with both hands. This is a fresh start. With your help we can make Camp Wight a beacon to the country and to the rest of the world.”
There was a ripple of half-hearted applause as Lieutenant Peterson and the other officer shook hands and congratulated each other. Heather puffed out her cheeks. Were these just more words or did they reveal a renewed purpose?
Could she allow herself to believe things would really be better now? Or was this just someone else peddling hope to the desperate? She shook her head, refusing to accept that hard work alone could fix the world. She had seen with her own eyes that the virus was an irresistible force. Even if they could ensure the island was virus free, it would take more than that for man to prevail again. As her father liked to say, to the disapproval of those who bothered to listen, mother nature had a habit of disrupting man’s best laid plans.
The officers at the front of the room stood and watched as the barn began to empty. The mother of her adopted family shepherded the children towards the exit, keeping them close together. Joey leaned in to his brother and whispered: “What a load of happy clappy crap” and the two boys sniggered. “Joey,” shouted his mother. “Mind your language, young man.”
Heather smiled to herself, sincerely hoping the American’s speech wasn’t just another set of platitudes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Saying goodbye to her adopted family had been harder than Heather had expected. The mother hugged her and wished her good luck. The father had meekly patted her shoulder like a faithful dog. The boys couldn’t have cared less, until their mother nudged them in the back and they managed a forced “Good luck”.
They had all been rechecked that morning by a medic for any symptoms of infection before being cleared for departure from the compound. She was to be taken to the boarding school in Ryde, where all the other unaccompanied minors were being placed. Perhaps her brother would already be there. She hoped she might find other kids from Hayling Island who had made the crossing. She
wouldn’t be alone, she thought, but being around other kids would feel weird after all this time.
There was an old school mini-bus waiting at the end of the compound, near the farmhouse. One of the guards collected Heather from her tent and walked her over, making sure she actually boarded the bus. Her name was ticked off a list and with a final look behind her, she climbed the steps. Inside, there were a dozen or so kids of all ages. The two youngest children at the front were no more than five or six years old. Their faces dirty. They looked forlorn and lost. She imagined they had already been passed from pillar to post, only to be displaced once more. Heather wondered how they had made it this far and what had happened to the families who had brought them here.
Towards the back were older children, boisterous and excitable. Clearly, leaving the refugee camp and heading to their new home was a big deal for them, like going on holiday. To Heather, she felt nothing. She was punch-drunk. Refusing to believe she was going to a better place. In a moment of cynicism she admitted to herself that there were no better places, just more of the same.
She took her seat and used her sleeve to wipe some condensation from the window to see outside. The lines of green canvas stretched as far as the trees in the distance, as a low mist hung above the fields. It was still early and there was a bleak beauty to the place that she would remember. Those that progressed from this stepping stone, would start a new life on the island, cleansed and passed fit. They were being handed a passport to something better.
The bus bumped along the heavily rutted road, splattering mud up the lower side of the windows, making slow but steady progress to avoid getting stuck. They had seen so many other vehicles before this one get bogged down and towed out by the farmer’s tractor. The driver showed some considerable skill in avoiding the deeper furrows and water-filled potholes, weaving along the road ahead.
