The following morning Zed woke with a splitting headache, barely remembering how he got home. He washed and dressed quickly, determining to set aside his suspicions, resuming his assigned role observing Doctor Hardy’s team. They were to escort a truck laden with vaccine to a local clinic in the seaside resort of Shanklin up the coast as soon as the roads reopened after the night’s curfew.
By the time they reached the Shanklin Medical Centre, a line of people stretched down the road. Zed and Doctor Simms took over a tiny office behind the clinic’s reception desk. They spent the first hour scanning page after page of test results from the previous week, listening distractedly to the waiting room conversations through the open door. Simms handed Zed another batch of trials data.
“Seaview looks promising,” said Simms, pointing to his scribbled notes. “Seventy two percent of the nearly three hundred participants all show increases in antibodies.”
“Impressive.”
“But that’s not even the best bit. There’s a halo effect in their social circle.”
“Meaning non-vaccinated subjects also experience increased levels of protection?”
“Correct.”
“But for how long?”
“We don’t know, but Doctor Hardy’s convinced immunity will be temporary.”
“Even if that’s true, surely we all just need regular booster shots?”
“Doctor Hardy is demanding something longer lasting. Puts less pressure on already over-stretched production and supply lines. Still, it’s a start.”
Zed scanned the summary page noting fluctuations on the graph. “Why is protection so inconsistent across age groups?”
“Age is one factor, but there are others. Underlying health issues, diet, lifestyle, even ethnicity and gender play a part.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Age is straightforward. As people get older, their immune response becomes more muted. It’s the same reason we used to recommend the flu jab to people over sixty-five. Gender and ethnicity are more complex. Sadly with such limited supplies of the vaccine, we’ve had to prioritise younger patients in the trial.”
As if on cue, a heated exchange arose from the reception area. Both men stuck their heads around the open door to find an octogenarian being restrained by his embarrassed wife.
“First you tell us the vaccine’s compulsory. Now you’re telling me it doesn’t work. Which is it?”
“Please, if you’ll just…” said the nurse, trying to calm the situation, but the elderly troublemaker pushed her aside, determined to reach the front of the line.
“I’ve lived here all my life. I’m not one of these Johnny-come-latelys,” he said, gesturing to the queue of refugees from the mainland.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, grabbing hold of his tattooed forearm.
Doctor Hardy emerged from the treatment room to investigate the source of the disturbance. “Excuse me. Either you leave now or I’ll have you sent to the back of the line,” he said, pointing out the main entrance.
“Who do you think you are then?” replied the senior citizen, squaring up to the doctor. For one glorious moment, Zed thought he might throw a punch.
“Wait your turn like everyone else, Grandpa,” jeered one of the bystanders.
“Guard,” shouted Hardy, trying to make himself heard over the commotion.
A stout nurse in uniform bustled through from the treatment room, leading the old man to one side, checking his name against the register. “Mister Soberton, here you are. We’re not expecting you until Tuesday,” she raised her voice as if he might be hard of hearing. “There’s a second delivery coming in next week.”
“We’re the ones who should get this first, not this lot,” he insisted, gesturing at the refugees queuing around the corner. “We’re the most vulnerable.”
“You’ll need to come back next week. This vaccine wouldn’t work properly for someone your age. You need a special formulation.”
“What happens if I grow sick in the meantime?”
“You’ve already had your first shot. You’re protected. The second injection is just a booster.”
“Then why are so many people still dying? The vaccine doesn’t work against this new strain, does it?”
“Who told you that, Mister Soberton?” dismissed the nurse, making light of the suggestion. “The more of us get vaccinated, the safer everyone is. Herd immunity protects everyone.”
The octogenarian seemed to relax a little in her professional care. Two guards forced their way into the room and made as if to grab the old man.
“It’s alright, Corporal,” she intervened, “Mister Soberton was just leaving, weren’t you, dear?”
The troublemaker allowed himself to be escorted away, though not without a final glare over his shoulder.
Hardy called the corporal back. “One of your men needs to be inside at all times. I can’t have my team threatened like that.”
Zed returned to his work, exchanging a weary shrug with Simms.
“It’s happening more and more,” admitted the Porton scientist. “Everyone thinks we can just conjure up thousands of vaccine shots. They forget it takes time to test, years to perfect.”
“It was a mistake telling people we had the cure. We’ve only got ourselves to blame.”
“What we have is, at best, an interim solution. If the virus jumps again, or a new strain emerges, it will put us back months.” Zed fell silent, considering the implications. “The people who annoy me most are the wealthy who try to buy their way to the front of the queue.”
Doctor Hardy appeared at the doorway, intrigued by their conversation. Simms avoided his boss’s stare, shuffling through the bundle of test results, scribbling some notes.
“Haven’t you finished that report yet, Simms?”
“Just doing it now.”
“Perhaps if you chatted less…”
“I’ll have it on your desk in half an hour, sir.”
As their convoy arrived back at The Winter Gardens, Major Donnelly’s staff officer waited in the car park, impatient for their return. They were ushered into the cafeteria where a dozen men crowded round some communication equipment. A thick black cable ran out the side door to a military vehicle with an antenna array on its roof.
“What’s going on?” asked Zed.
“We’ve just received a distress call from Commander Bonner,” explained the major, “He’s requesting terms of engagement.”
“HMS Tracer,” whispered Doctor Hardy, by way of explanation.
“Where is she?” asked Zed.
“Ten miles north of Jersey. She’s attempting to make contact with the relief ship the Chester tracked on radar.”
“And break quarantine? On whose authority?” demanded Zed, incensed by the stupidity of the provocation.
“I gave the order,” admitted Captain Armstrong with no hint of apology. “There was no time to convene the Council. We lost contact with Commander Bonner at 15:30 hours. He reported sighting a frigate on an intercept course. He was attempting to hail her when we lost contact.”
“Is the Chester still tracking their location?”
“No, sir, both ships are now out of range,” answered the radio operator.
“For all we know she could have been sunk.”
“The Channel Islanders did try to warn us. The United Nations have standing orders to board any ship leaving the quarantine zone.”
“How many crew?”
“Twelve.”
“And we’ve tried to get an answer from the United Nations?”
“No-one’s responding.”
“What are your orders, Captain?”
“Until we know exactly what happened, there’s not much we can do except wait and hope.”
“Recall the Council immediately,” suggested Major Donnelly rather forcefully. “If this is an act of aggression, we should prepare all forces.”
“To fight who? The United Nations?” challenged Zed in disbelief.
“If that’s what they’re calling themselves.”
Zed swallowed hard. Things were getting out of hand. The sooner the colonel arrived back the better.
Chapter 19
“It’s a risk,” acknowledged Riley, looking at the ordnance survey map spread out on the dining hall table at Hurst Castle. She looked around at the faces of her most trusted deputies. “But if the Becton Bunnies really have upped sticks and left, we could replace half the stuff we lost over the winter. We have to check it out.”
“How do you know those lads were telling the truth?” cautioned Will, referring to the two youths from Bournemouth Riley and Heather ran into at the farm. “What if it’s a trap?”
“The Bunnies would never let their guard down,” added Scottie. “They’re pros, like us. They take isolation very seriously, avoid contact with other groups.”
“It only takes one mistake,” said Riley. “Imagine what they may have left behind. It’s got to be worth the risk.”
“Aye, I’m not eating army rations a day longer than I have to,” joked Scottie.
Riley was well aware of the new hardships they faced daily at the castle. Since returning home from Freshwater, the entire group had tightened their belts. “Will, you’ve been to Barton enough times, what do you think? Is it worth it?”
“It’s a big site. Maybe forty properties within a secure compound,” said Will, pointing to a residential area on the map. “There are barricades on Becton Lane here, Grove Road and Marine Drive. The entire golf course here has been fenced off, ploughed, ready for planting. If those lads were lying and the Bunnies are still there, then we pay our respects, have a cuppa and head home. But if no-one’s home, then we make the most of it before someone else does.”
“How many working vehicles do we have?”
“Three at a push. The Defender’s all fixed up, I fitted that new tyre for the Cruiser and the Peugeot’s battery should be fully charged by now.”
“The sooner we leave the better,” admitted Riley to the nods of those around her. “Liz, I want you to lock down the castle until we get back.” Liz nodded and relayed the command to the others standing nearby who hurried off in opposite directions.
The group met outside the front entrance to begin the mile-long walk along the spit towards the secure lock-up in Keyhaven. Scottie handed out surgical masks, gloves and the best of the remaining weapons from the castle’s armoury. Two hunting rifles with telescopic sites, four military-issue SA80s and a pair of shotguns. The rest made do with knives and long-handled machetes. Between them they carried two serviceable short range VHF radios.
They joined the tidal road running along the estuary towards the old yacht club, littered with flotsam and jetsam washed in by the tide. In the distance a forest of dinghy masts and rigging tapped out a familiar rhythm, sails and rain covers flapping in the breeze.
Will ran ahead to prep the vehicles, topping off their fuel tanks from an underground store. He had proven himself an inventive mechanic, lovingly restoring the Land Rover, improvising spare parts from other rusting hulks, re-welding the chassis, rebuilding the engine, stripping out the air-conditioning unit and entertainment system to reduce weight. After the attempted theft of the Peugeot, he equipped each with hidden ignition switches. By the time he drove the three vehicles onto the road ready to depart, it was mid-morning.
Riley took the lead, riding shotgun with Will in the Defender, closely followed by the bulky Toyota Landcruiser and the Peugeot estate, which Tommy had seen fit to repaint in camouflaged colours. It was a beautiful Spring day, clear skies, scattered clouds, though still cold for this time of year. Visibility was almost perfect. As they drove along the coastal road out beyond Milford, she could see all the way from the Needles to Studland and Swanage almost ten miles away. Compared to the previous day’s conditions, the sea was flat like a mill pond.
She wondered how many other groups there were in towns and villages between here and Bournemouth in the distance. She knew communities had emptied in response to the Allies’ rallying call. The promise of food, vaccine and security in return for hard labour. Larger cooperatives in prime locations, like Hurst, had wagered they might survive as independent entities, trading with their neighbours. One in particular, known locally as the ‘Mafia’, were based in Christchurch, at Highcliffe Castle. Led by Salieri, a former Italian restaurant owner and entrepreneur. In truth, at least from the photos Riley had seen, Highcliffe was more stately home than castle, a grade-one listed gothic-revival building never built to fight a war, let alone a so-called ‘invisible enemy’. What the site lacked in defensive qualities, it made up for in location, size and scale. She wondered whether word had reached Salieri about the Bunnies’ demise. With any luck, her team could be in and out before the Italians were any the wiser. Temporarily at least, Barton was up for grabs.
Beyond the golf course, the convoy turned off the New Milton road, passing fields dotted with lazy cows and grazing sheep. A tractor stood idle, next to what Riley took to be an old fairway, ready for planting in earth softened by the Spring rain. On their right care-homes turned over to accommodation, large private houses, their windows boarded against looters.
“That’s odd,” exclaimed Will, pointing to a wide driveway. “There’s normally a truck blocking the entrance.”
Riley gestured for the other vehicles to slow down as they swung left and climbed a shallow slope in sight of the barricade.
“Looks deserted,” agreed Riley. She got out, walking alongside the Defender as it inched forward, using the car door as a shield, listening carefully, taking in their surroundings.
Riley raised her hand and the convoy rolled to a halt. Scottie and Tommy fanned out on the grass verges, taking up covering positions to left and right. Will pulled over and switched off the engine, checking for any signs of movement ahead. Riley scanned the barrier through binoculars.
Heavy iron gates blocked their path. A raised platform protected by sandbags covered the approach, but there was no one in sight. Fluttering proudly above the barricade was the Bunnies’ homemade flag crudely embroidered with a skull and crossbones, oversized teeth and bunny ears. On another day it would have brought a smile to Riley’s lips, but not today. The flag was at half-mast.
She lowered her binoculars, taking a few more tentative steps, her senses alert. As she got closer, she unzipped her jacket and raised her shirt, turning slowly around to show she was unarmed. She lowered her surgical mask to show her face to anyone watching her progress. Her heart skipped a beat as a startled crow took flight from an overhanging branch, cawing in protest. She took another step forward and paused, controlling her breathing. Her eyes flicked from the top of the barrier back to the gate. Still nothing.
She glanced at Will, his hands gripped the steering wheel, scanning to left and right, a shotgun across his lap, out of sight. From a distance, the message was clear: ‘We come in peace’.
A padlock and chain secured the main gates but pedestrian access was possible via a side entrance. Perhaps others had already been here, or the occupants had left in a hurry. Riley unclipped the walkie talkie from her belt and radioed Will to confirm she was heading inside.
The narrow passage ran alongside a tight chicane, designed to contain new arrivals to the compound within a confined space, overlooked from the rampart above, formed by household detritus, old refrigerators, rusting garage doors, radiators and soft furnishings.
Beyond the barricade, a residential area was enclosed on all sides. It appeared untouched by signs of the breakdown. To left and right, overgrown lawns, vegetable patches and the regular hum of spinning wind turbines installed along the seafront facing the island and Needles rocks. Solar panels glinted in the sunlight on every rooftop. It was not hard to imagine the sleepy, idyllic seaside community that existed here before the pandemic.
Orderly rows of recently-dug graves lined the grassy area nearest the clifftop, a simple wooden cross marking each death. She counted twenty three in total. If
the outbreak had been as severe as she imagined, they could expect more bodies unburied inside the houses.
Riley jogged back to the barrier, satisfied the compound was deserted, signalling for the others to join her.
“Where’s everyone else?” asked Riley.
“Scottie ran round to the far entrance on Marine Drive. The others must have gone to the care home.”
Tommy set to work on the heavy padlock securing the front gate. After a couple of minutes grunting, wrestling with the reinforced chain with a pair of bolt croppers, he admitted defeat.
“Out the way. Let a real man have a go,” joked the burly South African.
“Save your energy,” instructed Riley. “We’ll leave the vehicles here. It’s not far.”
The others returned from the care home with similar stories of a chaotic departure, cupboards already stripped bare. Riley divided the group into work parties to explore the compound.
“I want everyone back here ready to leave by 5pm.”
Everyone nodded, checking their watches. That left just under three hours.
“Sam, can you stay with the vehicles? We’ll rotate every hour.” Sam was disappointed to be missing out, but reluctantly agreed.
“The rest of you, stay in your pairs. Prioritise what we need. Don’t bother with any discretionary items. Save that for tomorrow, if we get a second chance. Remember to wear your masks and gloves. Any questions?”
“What do you want us to do if we find bodies?” asked Tommy.
“Stick to the empty houses for now. We have to assume anyone still here is infected. Don’t take any risks.”
They all nodded their agreement, impatient to get started.
“Who are we missing?” asked Riley, noticing they were an odd-number.
“Heather,” realised Tommy with a weary shrug, pointing at a figure in the next road, practising with a throwing knife against the trunk of a tree. Each time the point of the knife found its mark in the wood. Riley had to admit Heather was good. She had proven a fast learner. Despite Riley’s initial misgivings, Will had trained her how to handle a wide range of weapons. From semi-automatic rifles to shotguns.
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 13
