The Moon Stealers and The Children of the Light

by Tim Flanagan

  The dockworkers shouted to each other, their voices carried on the breeze that blew off the Solent.

  ‘Everyone into the back of the lorry,’ ordered the guard that had escorted them on and off the ferry the previous day.

  The shallow back panel of the lorry was pulled down and left to loosely swing against the rear frame. A ladder was hooked over the ledge and each survivor took it in turn climbing into the back of the lorry and finding a seat along one of the sides. The lorry reminded Rhys of one he had seen in a military film many years ago, one the army would transport its troops in. Once everyone was in, the back flap was lifted up and bolts slid across to hold it in place once again. Even with the panel up at least half of the rear was open and exposed. Rhys watched with interest as the guards packed as much as they could into every vehicle ready to transport it to Osborne House. After a few minutes of waiting, half of the dockworkers climbed into the vehicles ready for the journey whilst the other half remained to man the dock. The engine of the lorry rattled into life, shaking the metal sides and vibrating the wooden benches they sat on, and it began to drive away from Yarmouth.

  The ride along the north coast was slow and uncomfortable. There was very little conversation between the survivors, some sobbed quietly into their hands, whilst others stared vacantly at the pattern of rust on the opposite side of the lorry.

  Rhys pulled the photograph of Steffan out of his pocket. By now he had looked at the photo so much that he thought he had memorised every line on his son's face.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Will quietly asked Rhys.

  ‘My son. I haven’t seen him for twenty years. I’ve come to the Isle of Wight to find him.’

  ‘What if he’s not here?’

  ‘I will head back to the mainland. There is somewhere else to look, a community in Halstead in Kent.’

  ‘I have a feeling that everyone that comes to this island is expected to stay.’

  Rhys nodded. He had also thought that travelling back to the mainland might not be as easy as it had been coming.

  ‘What did you do before all of this?’ Rhys asked, trying to make conversation.

  ‘I was an engineer. Or at least I was going to be. I had a job offer from a company in India. My girlfriend was going to come with me, she was going to teach English while I worked. It was only for a year, but it would give us chance to save enough money to buy a house when we returned.’

  ‘I have no doubt that your skills will be in great demand at Osborne House.’

  The lorry rumbled on, along narrow roads with fields on one side and a wide view of the Solent on the other. They passed occasional houses that stood empty and silent, whilst abandoned cars lined the route, their rear ends raised in salute due to their front lying sunken in the roadside ditch. Moss and algae had already begun to grow in the joints between the metal panels where water had collected. Scratches and dents to the body work were turning an orangey red colour as rust rapidly developed in the salty air that blew off the sea.

  Their route took them inland and quite quickly they lost sight of the Solent on the horizon.

  Time was always something every survivor was conscious of. Everyone knew that once the sun began to drop or the cloud cover increased, the creatures would be out once more to begin hunting. And no one wanted to be abandoned or stranded without cover at night.

  The lorry continued to bump along the road at a steady speed. It was uncomfortable in the back, but they would all rather reach their destination as soon as possible.

  They drove through a town then turned northward back towards the coast and into countryside once more. The convoy stopped briefly at a roundabout. A guard poked his head round the back of the lorry and looked in at the new batch of survivors. Whatever he was or wasn’t looking for, he seemed satisfied and slapped the metal side of the lorry with the palm of his hand indicating that it could continue on its journey. The driver of the lorry revved his engine and the lorry began to crawl forward once again. Eventually the lorry slowed down with a loud squeal of the brakes then turned into a narrow road that, from the back of the vehicle, looked like a private estate. The narrow road, which was bordered on both sides by a neatly clipped hedge, wound between trees and passed signs for a car park and visitor's centre. Through the trees Rhys could see the outline of people standing in fields working on the land some distance away. They drove up alongside a large cream coloured building then turned into a courtyard.

  The engine stopped and the lorry rattled to a standstill.

  The back was immediately unlatched and pulled down so that everyone could get out. The newcomers now stood within a magnificent courtyard surrounded by cream stone walls that shone in the daylight. In the centre of one of the walls was a grand entrance. Some of the guards had already begun carrying boxes from the vehicles, between the smooth stone entrance pillars and through a dark wood door.

  'Come with me,' the guard instructed.

  Obediently, they all followed the guard into an elaborate hall and an adjoining room. More detailed information was taken from each survivor and documented inside a thick log book before they were allocated a sector of the community to work in. As they were sorted they were placed in groups and told to stand in different corners of the room, none of them quite understanding what was happening.

  Rhys had been placed in the Health sector, together with two nurses and a carer. He sat down on the carpet and waited, carefully looking at the faces of every new guard that entered the room, to see if they looked like Steffan. He decided that, for now, he would follow the rest of the survivors and see what happened. Once he was part of the community he should be able to search the rest of Osborne House for any sign of his son. Those hopes were quickly extinguished when two other guards entered the room with a box full of rusty ankle restraints.

  Once everyone had been processed, one of the guards stood in the centre of the room and made an announcement. 'For your own safety you will be paired with another survivor from your group,' he shouted to everyone in the room. 'You must work together, eat together and sleep together. That way, no one will wander off. For your protection there will always be armed guards with your groups at all times, especially if you leave the safety of the house to work on the land or transfer to another building.'

  Two of the guards approached a pair of female survivors in the group opposite Rhys. The women backed away nervously, but the wall of the room prevented them from going too far. One of the guards roughly grabbed the ankle of one and began fastening a clamp around it. A short length of chain trailed off the clamp to another, which was secured around the second woman's ankle.

  They then moved onto a pair of men that sat on the floor in the same group.

  'I'm not going to be chained,' said one of them defiantly.

  'House rules, I'm afraid,' replied the guard, as if that was sufficient excuse.

  'I don't care if it's your rules; I'm not going to be chained like some sort of prisoner.'

  The second guard stepped forward. He held a gun in his hands then swung it down between the man's neck and shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The other guard quickly clamped an ankle restraint on whilst the man was vulnerable and in pain. The guard had demonstrated that resistance would only be met with violence and it was in their interest to comply with the rules. There was no other way to describe the situation they were in - they were prisoners and slaves to the community.

  No one else resisted the restraints.

  The silence inside the room was suddenly broken by the sound of a loud hollow horn that rang outside.

  'They've called the workers back to the house,' said one of the guards to another. 'It's getting earlier every day.'

  Once each of the survivors had been paired they were led down a narrow staircase and into a basement. It took concentration and coordination for them to work out how to walk in unison with the chains on, otherwise they would stumble forward.

  Inside the basement they were placed in chairs at a table. Within minut
es of hearing the horn, other survivors were led into the basement by their guards who automatically grabbed a bowl of food and sat at a separate table keeping a clear division between the workers and the management. The basement quickly began to fill up with more people.

  One of the last groups to come down the stairs seemed different. Rhys sensed something about them. Instead of the despair and sadness that seemed to radiate from the other survivors, this last group still held their heads down, but there was a confidence in the way they walked and strength in the way they held themselves. The four guards that led them into the basement stood in the centre looking around at their surroundings.

  Rhys glanced across to a group of other survivors that were muttering excitedly. For the first time he saw a faint glimmer of a smile on a survivor's face. He looked back to the guards in the centre of the room and smiled to himself.

  28. Return to Osborne House

  A loud siren echoed through the afternoon air like the mating call of a male deer but amplified ten times louder. It was the signal that told every guard to return the survivors back to the house before the creatures came out to play.

  Steven was standing beneath the shadow of the garden porch, hidden from view but watching similar groups of chained people emerging from different parts of the surrounding countryside and entering the house through a small entrance to the right of the courtyard.

  'The number of guards depends on the size of the group they are allocated to watch over,' Steven whispered to Georgia who had just appeared at his elbow.

  'How many guards do you think there are altogether?'

  'I'm not sure, there could be many more inside the house watching over the workers there. But, from what I've seen, there are about five survivors to each guard. Given the right incentive and motivation we should easily be able to take the house.'

  'I hope so.' Georgia placed her hand gently on Steven's arm. 'Have you seen any sign of Annie?'

  Steven turned to face Georgia. 'No,' he said shaking his head. 'Maybe she's working on a job inside the house?'

  They heard the crunch of gravel behind them and turned to see Tracker approaching. There was a noticeable limp from his leg wound but he didn’t appear to notice it.

  'We're ready,' he said.

  Steven, Georgia and Tracker put on the jackets they had taken from the captured guards, together with baseball caps. Georgia stuffed her hair beneath the cap to look more masculine and tucked her injured arm inside a pocket. They had left the guards tied up inside the workshop and made sure all the windows and doors were locked. If the guards hadn’t been given the antibiotics, they would be too terrified to leave the workshop during the night with the creatures prowling around, but they also needed to prevent them coming into the house until they had it under control.

  Tracker led the survivors out through the porch and onto a path that would take them towards Osborne House. Each survivor obediently filed out with their heads cast down and their ankles chained together once again. They each carried their gardening equipment with them and slowly trudged along the slope towards the house. Steven, Georgia, and one of the other survivors, pretended to guard the line and motivate them forward.

  Tracker watched another group of survivors emerge from a path that led back towards their car. Ahead of him was the front of the house with a tower and grand entrance overlooking a courtyard with a raised bed of plants in the centre. But, this was not where the other group was heading. Instead they were being led towards a smaller door immediately to the right of the courtyard. The lead guard walked up a couple of steps between two stone carved boars and pushed the door open. Tracker briefly caught a glance of a corridor beyond, as well as a man with a gun slung over his shoulder and a clip board in his hand. Taking a small precaution just in case it was the old man that had admitted them into the Bank of England, Tracker pulled the peak of his cap further over his forehead to shield his eyes. Fortunately over the previous days a blonde growth of hair had begun to cover his cheeks and chin, making him appear different.

  The repetitive clanking of chains slowed as the line of survivors automatically merged into a single line ready to enter the house. So far all of the survivors had played their part perfectly. No one had aroused suspicion, acting like they had done on previous days under the suppression of Coldred's community. The only difference this time was that their ankle clamps were being held together with nothing more than small sticks that could be opened when the time was right.

  Several of the survivors looked up nervously, glancing between Tracker, Steven and Georgia. They all knew that once they were inside the house they would have to go through with the plan. If it failed, escape would be difficult, or worse, they could be left as food for the creatures as punishment.

  Tracker walked up the steps and pushed his weight against the door. It swung into a long corridor that had arched glass windows along the left side looking out into the courtyard. The long strip of carpet that had covered the corridor had been rolled up and was stacked in stages along one side, successfully merging amongst the numerous marble pillars and pure white statues that lined the way. The floor was a mosaic of tiles, far more hard wearing for workers to walk along than the carpet. The corridor was broken up by several white arches with doors to the right leading through to other rooms and sections of the house, but everyone else seemed to be heading straight down the corridor and turning left at the end.

  'Afternoon,' Tracker casually said to the guard at the door. He purposely tried to avoid eye contact, hoping that the guard wouldn’t recognise him, or realise that he was not a guard he had seen before.

  'Which section?' the guard asked.

  'Walled garden.'

  'They can't bring in their tools,' said the guard looking at the survivors lined up behind Tracker with the long handles of hoes and rakes sticking up, whilst others leaned on spades and forks.'

  Tracker had anticipated that there may be some difficulty getting the gardening equipment into the house, but for their plan to work, the survivors would need weapons.

  'They've been ordered to sharpen and maintain them over night.'

  'I wasn’t informed this.'

  'That doesn't surprise me,' bluffed Tracker, 'I was only told this morning by Kilmartin as I took them across the grass.'

  'This morning?'

  Tracker quickly realised his mistake. He had forgotten that the creatures didn’t go into hiding until mid day when the sun was at its strongest. 'I meant this afternoon. I made sure they brushed all the mud of their equipment before bringing it to the house, so there won't be a problem. Considering the amount of work they've been doing lately, it's no wonder they are getting blunt. If they can't sharpen them, it makes the work slower and less productive. Orders were to increase productivity. The amount of food is starting to decrease, fresh food and vegetables are needed as soon as possible.'

  'OK, take them into the Pavilion,' the guard reluctantly said.

  Tracker turned to the survivor immediately behind him.

  'Move through,' he shouted.

  The first survivor stepped into the corridor closely followed by the colleague he was chained to. Tracker stood aside letting a few of them begin walking down the corridor, before falling in alongside them.

  As they walked along the corridor Tracker slipped the key to the ankle chains into the pocket of the nearest survivor.

  'The key to the chains,' he whispered. 'You know what to do.'

  The survivor gave a shallow nod, but didn’t dare raise his head in case one of the house guards was watching.

  They all moved slowly through the door and into the house. Once they were inside the door closed with a bang that echoed down the empty corridor to the head of the line.

  Towards the end of the corridor was a turning on the left which the other survivors had followed, however before he turned Tracker noticed a glass panelled door on the right through which he could hear the crackle of music that sounded like it was being played on an old gramop
hone record player. The tunes were ones he recognised from the Second World War; American Big Band and George Formby.

  The corridor turned to the left and through two archways. Just after the second arch there was a small door that opened into a dull undecorated gap with stairs heading up as well as down. Tracker walked just behind two of the survivors so that they could show him where to go. For a pair of survivors who were chained together, managing to manoeuvre down the steps towards the basement was difficult. Tracker could hear a muted chatter coming from the grey rooms below. At the bottom of the stairs the narrow passage connected to a series of rooms that were all linked by open doors. Tracker could see some of the rooms had mattresses lined up along the walls, whilst others had basic metal framed bunk beds.

  As soon as they had descended the stairs it felt like there was a change in the atmosphere. The survivors began to lift their heads and show a confidence that they had not had above ground. Here, in the basement, the survivors were in their own world. Guards kept themselves to a side room, eating separately from the others, but took it in turns strolling amongst the survivors checking that everyone was being kept in order.

  The line of survivors that Tracker was leading automatically dispersed and merged into the thick group of others that had returned to the house for their evening meal. The level of chatter began to increase. Tracker hoped that the survivors from the walled garden were spreading the word and gaining support for an uprising. He stood with Steven, Georgia and the other fake guard in the centre of the room, noticing the occasional nervous glance towards him by some of the other survivors that confirmed the plan was being spread. The tools the group had brought with them from the garden appeared to have discreetly vanished, hidden in dark corners ready to be retrieved when needed.