by Robin Crumby
At the junction, they rejoined the main road, back on to a hard-top tarmac surface, picking up speed. In the morning daylight, Heather had the chance to look around the countryside and notice other camps like hers in the distance. A forest of canvas, interspersed with portacabins and temporary structures. There must be hundreds, if not thousands of refugees already here on the island with more arriving every day.
They passed convoys heading away from the ferry terminal, heavy earth-moving equipment and a low-loader with something that looked like a combine-harvester. Military vehicles were also heading inland. She recognised Humvees and personnel carriers, a light armoured tank, a rocket launcher, and Toyota pick-up trucks mounted with machine guns. Heather wondered why on earth they needed so many weapons on the island.
After a half-hour on the road, they turned off and headed towards Ryde town centre. Compared to the mainland, Ryde had escaped relatively unscathed by the chaos that followed the outbreak. Most of the buildings were intact, with their roof tiles in place. Here and there were burned-out shells of houses, some had been abandoned with smashed windows and boarded-up doorways. Parks and graveyards were overgrown, reclaimed by nature. On the whole, the town still looked like a town. Roadways were kept clear, vehicles had been towed or were pushed to the side to allow traffic to pass through unhindered.
What Heather noticed most were the people. Normal-looking people going about their daily business. Cyclists with parcels strapped to their baskets, shopping trolleys being wheeled along, brim-full with books and other assorted items. She saw men and women on horseback. There was a street market with dozens of people lining up to trade items they had scavenged. Life had returned to a loose imitation of normality. Of course, there was a military presence, the same as everywhere else on the island. On each corner, and down side streets, camouflaged army trucks lay in wait, maintaining a visible deterrent against lawlessness. She noticed civilians with red armbands, the same as they had at the refugee camp. It must signify some position of responsibility, she thought. At the camp it had been a licence to bully and harry the new arrivals without censure. Rounding a corner, she snatched a glimpse of open water, of Spitbank Fort, of Portsmouth far away in the distance, with a ferry emerging from the harbour, bringing more refugees to the island.
Finally, they reached a grand-looking building with an impressive frontage where a group of adults were waiting outside to greet them. One by one, they shuffled down the steps and stepped off the school bus onto a tarmac surface, tinged with green. They gathered all the children together, separating them into two groups by age, keeping the youngest together, before leading them off inside.
The building still had the look and feel of a school, although many of the classrooms had been cleared and converted to dormitories for the many children now living here. There were still posters of upcoming school events on the walls. Concerts and art competitions, photos and trophies still in their cabinets. It was enough to make Heather believe that life might just be different living here. Two officers were talking to a smartly dressed woman who might have been the school principal.
Heather was shown in to a girls’ dormitory where sixteen camp beds and mattresses were laid out in rows against the walls. Someone had hung sheets down the middle of the room, creating a separation into two rooms. Most of the other girls were of a similar age to Heather, eyeing each other suspiciously in silence. So this was going to be her new home, thought Heather. It was warm and dry at least. Better than roughing it or spending any more time in the caravan. She picked one of the three beds that were still spare nearest the door and set her rucksack against the wall. Lying down, she gave in to her exhaustion, using her backpack as a pillow and closed her eyes.
What felt like a few seconds later, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. Looking around her, she realised that the room had emptied and a teacher was standing over her, not looking best pleased.
“Didn’t you hear the bell? Everyone else is in the hall. Come on, let’s be having you. Leave your things here, you don’t need your backpack.”
Heather hurried down the hall with the teacher behind her, passing classroom after classroom, rows of lockers and doorways to changing rooms, before finally arriving at some double doors that led into the main hall. They were already closed and she could hear a large body of people inside. The teacher arrived behind her and waved her in with some impatience.
A hundred faces simultaneously turned to stare at Heather as the principal at the lectern paused mid-sentence to look her up and down. She pointed at a space on the floor in front of her. Heather apologised, feeling her face flush as she took her place on the wooden floor right under the nose of the speaker.
“For the benefit of our late arrivals,” she peered down at Heather to reinforce her point, “here at Ryde, your days will consist of classroom work in the morning, where you will resume your school education in core subjects such as English, Mathematics, History, and Science. We have a hot lunch at midday here in the hall. In the afternoons, you will learn practical skills such as carpentry, plumbing and heating, electrical engineering and car maintenance, as well as many other everyday design and technology tasks.”
“Our goal is to equip you with a hands-on knowledge of the world so that you may serve your community. In the evenings and on the weekends you will join volunteer groups assigned to clear houses for accommodation for the new arrivals, repair vehicles, and work in our vegetable gardens or on our farms here at the school. Through the hard work of our community, we aim to be self-sufficient, but with winter nearly upon us, we need to redouble our efforts so that we have enough stores to last us through.”
“Right, do any of you have any questions, before we send you off to orientation?”
A forest of arms went up, including Heather’s. One by one, her fellow arrivals asked everything from how long they would be here, when they would have new clothes, whether they played any sport at Ryde, whether they could swap rooms to be with a friend, on and on until Heather could detect the Principal’s tolerance and patience, wearing thin.
“Miss, why do we have to study geography? It’s not like any of us will get to travel abroad again.”
“That’s no reason to limit the scope of our learning. Who knows, one day very soon, I hope many of you will venture beyond these shores. Explore new countries. Yes, you there with your hand up. Blue jumper. Yes, you.”
Finally, she noticed Heather’s hand still raised underneath the lectern.
“Miss, I came to the island with my younger brother but we got separated. Will he be sent here when he clears quarantine?”
“Right, I’m sure there are plenty of you with friends, brothers and sisters who got separated. If they are unaccompanied minors like you, then they will eventually find their way here to Ryde. But there’s a chance that they could have initially been sent to one of the other schools. There are several not far from here in Newport, Cowes, Yarmouth, Shanklin, Sandown, and Ventnor that he might have been taken to. Don’t worry, they’ll get everyone where they’re meant to be, one way or another.”
Heather nodded in gratitude, but didn’t feel overly reassured. If Connor had been cleared of the virus, he could have been sent anywhere. How on earth was she going to find him? She didn’t imagine she would be allowed to just wander the island unsupervised, looking for him. Her only hope was that he would be sent here. In which case, why wasn’t he here already? Perhaps, those suspected of infection had a more rigorous process to pass before they were released.
A sharp kick from behind, just below her ribs, made her wince in pain and nearly cry out. She whipped her head round and recognised the mean girl from her tent at the refugee camp. For reasons known only to her, she had taken an instant dislike to Heather. Just her luck to be stuck with her again. She rubbed her back to soothe the throbbing pain, staring back at the older girl. She glared back, nudging the person next to her and sniggering at Heather’s expense. The girl drew a line across her thro
at, tilting her head to one side as she held her stare, until Heather looked away again. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, thought Heather. She patted the penknife hidden deep inside her trouser pocket. It was the one Rowan had given her. She had refused to give it up at the checkpoint back in Portsmouth. She hoped she would not need to teach that girl a lesson and prove to her that she was not to be trifled with.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“We’re running out of time, sir,” said the co-driver of the Humvee, nervously looking at his watch. What remained of the convoy of vehicles from Porton Down threaded its way through a series of obstacles and abandoned cars. Debris blocked their route, forcing the convoy to pause while two soldiers jumped down and lifted a man-made barricade out of the way. They were already well behind schedule. At the Anchor Inn at Eling, the two R.I.Bs and a shallow-draught passenger ferry from the island would be waiting for them on a falling tide.
For the last two hours they had managed no better than walking pace. Riley shifted anxiously in her seat watching the soldiers lift the last of the cut timber and crates, pushing an SUV with flat tyres out of their path. They ran back and moved off, leaving a cloud of diesel smoke behind them.
A few hundred meters further down the roadway, they turned the next corner to find a low-loader positioned to block the road. It was impassable, they would have to find another way round to reach the RV point. Two figures in camouflaged fatigues emerged from behind the blockade, their arms raised, walking slowly towards the convoy. In his right hand, one of them held a rifle high above his head in a gesture of amnesty.
“Thank God. They’re Royal Marines from Portsmouth naval base,” said the Colonel, to Riley’s immense relief.
He jumped down to greet them and stood listening, hands on hips, as the soldier pointed back the way they had come, directing them towards a narrow lane to their right.
The two Royal Marines walked the convoy back until they were able to mount the pavement and turn around. After a small detour through a car park, in between two warehouse buildings, they bumped back onto the main road, two hundred meters beyond the barricade.
The Colour Sergeant came on the radio to relay the message that had been received while the Colonel was out of the vehicle.
“Colonel, the pilot radioed to say we have less than fifteen minutes before the tide drops far enough that the boats get grounded where they are. I’ve told them to stay afloat whatever happens. If worst comes to the worst, they can come back on the next tide and we’ll have to make camp where we can,” said the Sergeant.
“You tell that pilot that it’s a matter of life and death. He’s to wait in the channel until we get there. We’ll swim to the boats if we have to.”
“Copy that sir. He’s going nowhere.”
“It should be just up ahead sir,” said the driver. “Providing we don’t encounter any last-minute hitches, we’ll make it.”
“We better do, Private. The last thing we need is to get marooned on the quayside. If we don’t get those casualties to a hospital, they won’t last the night.”
Round the next corner they were met with a hail of gunfire from a building to their left, that left its mark against the bullet-proof windshield.
“Keep going,” shouted the Colonel, crouching down low. “Corporal, I thought you said you cleared these buildings already. Any chance of some covering fire?”
Behind them, the gunner on the other Humvee opened up, swinging the machine gun round and raking the second floor, as broken glass and masonry rained down on to the pavement below. At the sound of gunfire, Zed’s eyes flicked open and he sat up to see what was going on.
“Don’t worry, it’s just some half-arsed locals giving us a send-off,” reassured Riley.
From their right-hand side, a man ran forward holding a bottle stuffed with a flaming rag. He hurled it towards the windscreen of the lead Land Rover. It shattered on the bonnet, engulfing the vehicle in a fireball. The driver kept going as best he could, but misjudged the next corner, ploughing straight into the back of a parked car. By the time the gunner had swung round, the assailant was gone, disappeared into an alleyway that ran between a row of council houses.
The Land Rover reversed out, its windscreen shattered but unbroken. They limped on with one of their front tyres smouldering, as the flames licked the blackened paintwork.
“Another hundred yards and we’ll have eyes on the quay sir. We still have five minutes before they run out of water.”
“Don’t let me down now. We might still get out of this.”
Ahead of them, two soldiers emerged from their firing positions behind a low wall, waving the convoy onwards on its final leg. As they approached the last corner, they could see the quay and small flotilla waiting to take them to the island.
“Don’t slow down till we get there. Get everyone ready. I want a fast turnaround here,” said the Staff Sergeant’s voice on the radio.
“Please tell me you have the quay secure, Sergeant?” asked the Colonel wearily.
“Yes sir, we have the whole landing area surrounded.”
The convoy rounded the final bend, tyres screeching on tarmac. The driver braked hard as he brought the Humvee alongside the passenger ferry. The doors of the three vehicles flew open and their occupants jumped down, helping out the wounded and those unable to walk unassisted. Riley supported Zed towards the larger of the rigid inflatable boats with a gun mounted on the bow, where Sergeant Jones and the Americans were heading. Two of Jones’s men had taken up firing positions to left and right, covering the roadway.
“Riley, stick with us. We’re going to detour to the Chester. We can get the Doc to patch Zed’s arm up if you like, once he’s treated these gunshot wounds.”
Riley glanced at Zed and nodded back. “Thanks Jones.”
Behind them in the distance, there was the unmistakable sound of a motorbike revving its engine, going through the gears as it accelerated towards them, zig-zagging through the obstacles littering the surrounding streets. They all turned towards the sound.
There was a bend in the road some two hundred meters behind them that obscured the approaching rider. Jones put his fingers to his lips and whistled to get the squad’s attention. With rapid hand signals, he split his team to provide covering fire whilst they finished loading the rest of the injured on to the waiting boats. The soldier helping Zed broke off and hurried over to join the rest of his squad. Riley noticed he had a different type of gun with a longer barrel and a telescopic sight that Riley assumed was a sniper rifle. He knelt behind the low brick wall and took up a firing position, looking back the way they had just come.
“Everyone get down,” shouted Jones. “Kavanagh, talk to me. What have we got?”
“Single motor cycle. Rider is wearing a helmet, can’t see their face,” he said peering down his scope. “Looks like they’re carrying a package.”
“Colonel, anyone expecting visitors today?”
“Negative, assume it’s hostile. Could be carrying a bomb or anything.”
“Confirm, Kavanagh, if they don’t slow down, you take the shot.”
“Male or female?” asked the Colonel.
“Hard to say, sir. Probably female.”
The bike showed no sign of slowing down, rounding the corner and accelerating again towards the landing area. The rider’s head seemed to come up from its hunched position seeing the group in the distance, one hand on the handle bars, the other gripping a canvas holdall with an oversized shape sticking out the top. The bike was no more than a hundred meters away making straight for them.
Without warning, the sniper fired and the rider lost control, lurching to the left before being thrown over the handle bars and skidding to a halt next to the pavement on their side. The bike lay twisted and broken, its wheels still spinning. Riley could still make out the deep throb of the engine, stuck in gear. For some reason it hadn’t cut out when it crashed. Jones and one of the others double-timed it up towards the bike and crouched down next to t
he body, leaning close to the helmet to raise the visor and see whose face lay within.
Riley was too far away to see what was happening, but noticed Jones stand upright suddenly and start waving towards Riley, shouting her name. She ran up the roadway towards them, wondering why on earth they needed her. She wasn’t qualified to treat this type of injury. She wondered why Jones hadn’t asked for the Porton medic instead. She was terrified it might be someone she knew. Why else would they ask for her?
“I’m sorry, we had no idea. She didn’t slow down, we had no choice,” said Jones as Riley approached the injured rider with some trepidation.
“I don’t understand. Who is it? Is it Terra?” trying to reconcile the shape of the person lying prone with what she remembered of Terra. This person was wearing a black leather jacket zipped up to the top, biker boots and blue jeans. Nothing she recognised immediately. There was a black canvas holdall a few meters away that the rider was reaching for.
“She asked for you by name Riley. Said her name’s Jenny.”
Riley saw the pained expression in the eyes within the visor for the first time and recognised Doctor Chengmei from the forest camp. Her breaths were coming in short gasps, clutching at her midriff, as her body convulsed again. They rolled her onto her back and lifted up the jacket to expose an entry wound from the sniper’s bullet that was oozing dark blood, staining the top of her jeans. The soldier felt behind her back and found where the bullet had passed clean through her. They could only hope that it had missed her vital organs. The medic arrived out of breath, unpacking some field dressings to staunch the flow of blood that was already pooling on the ground. He looked up at Jones and shook his head.
