Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  “Me? I’ve been on the island most of my life. My parents lived on the south coast, near Sandown.”

  A strange structure caught her eye to the right. From a distance, it looked like a cross between an obelisk and the giant sculptures of Easter Island, remembering the conversation with Scottie about druids and pagans.

  “What’s that weird pyramid thing?”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, the driver replied, “Oh, that old thing. Ashey Seamark. In the old days, it guided ships into Spithead Harbour. Apparently, you can see it way out to sea.”

  “I imagine the island’s changed quite a bit since the allies arrived.”

  “You could say that again.” He laughed dismissively as if it were the biggest understatement of the year. “We were lucky in the outbreak. We didn’t get it nearly as bad as you lot on the mainland.”

  “So I hear.”

  “But when the ferries stopped running, we were cut off. It didn’t take long for all the supermarkets to run out of food. We had to make do with what we had. When the military showed up, things started changing quickly. They claimed all the best stuff for themselves, took over the big houses, commandeered the remaining stores. To us locals, it felt like an occupation.”

  “Wait, I thought you’d be grateful. Didn’t they bring security, get the electricity working again, make it safe from the virus? They must get some credit for that?”

  “Not really. If you ask me, I wish they’d leave us in peace.”

  “I appreciate things look different on the island. You have a different perspective living here.”

  “Always have, always will.”

  They both fell silent again until Riley pointed off to their right at a grass-covered military installation on top of the hill. Something about it reminded her of Hurst Castle.

  “That’s Bembridge Fort,” he said. “Been there for hundreds of years. There’s a bunch of soldiers living up there now.”

  “There must be lots of forts like that all over the island. I hear they were built to defend the south coast against invasion by the French or Spanish.”

  “If you say so. I never did have much time for history.”

  “I only know that because one of our group is fanatical about local history. He’s always collecting things. Memorabilia, paintings, sculptures, art. All sorts of things that no one else seems to care about these days. He thinks that if we don’t keep history and culture alive, then our children’s children won’t know what life was like.”

  “He’s got a point.”

  “All that knowledge will be forgotten, forever.”

  “You’re not from that place in Ventnor then?”

  “Which place?”

  “The one where they invite young men to sign up for the breeding programme.”

  “I heard about that. Run by a bunch of nuns. They used to be based at the Chewton Glen Hotel before they relocated to the island. I’ve had a few run-ins with them. They’re not very nice people.”

  “Still, I hear the waiting list is about a hundred names long right now. Lucky buggers.” He winked in the rear-view mirror. “Still, you can’t blame them, I suppose. There aren’t that many of us good-looking folk left.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. They’re only taking blue-eyed blondes with A-levels,” she teased.

  “I don’t suppose…” His voice trailed off, staring at Riley in the rear-view mirror, running his eyes down her sweater.

  “Do I look that desperate?” Riley frowned, remembering the way she had caught him staring at her this morning. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

  “No harm in asking is there? You won’t tell the chaplain, will you?”

  “How old are you anyway? Eighteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Well, I’m nearly twice your age. I could be your mother for goodness’ sake! Cheeky sod.” Riley shook her head and did her best to ignore him for the next five minutes, secretly flattered that a nineteen-year-old could still find her attractive.

  The centre of Ryde had the look and feel of an occupied town during wartime. The first things she noticed were the dark green military vehicles on every street corner. She had seen the same thing in Yarmouth. The soldiers were maintaining a visible deterrent. They wanted to manage the experience of new arrivals. A show of order and control. The reality, she now knew, was somewhat different.

  Ryde seemed relatively unscathed by the lawlessness that had laid waste to more populated areas. Market stalls and shops were open for business. Mothers dragged reluctant children along crowded pavements, pushing shopping trolleys loaded with items.

  “It all looks so normal here.”

  “It was very different before the soldiers showed up. Don’t be fooled by appearances. There were raids from the mainland, and widespread looting.”

  “But the shops and people. I wasn’t expecting that. What do they use for money?”

  “Everything’s bartered these days.”

  “Makes sense. That’s what we did back at Hurst. We traded with all these other groups. We grew our own vegetables, made our own cheese and beer. We were mostly self-sufficient, but for everything else, I suppose, well, we found a place in the new economy.”

  “Bet the fishing was good at the Needles?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. Crab, lobsters, prawns, shrimps, cod, haddock, skate, plaice, you name it.”

  “That’s what I miss most, fish and chips on a Friday, and a few pints of local ale.”

  “Tell me about it. It’s the little things you miss most. There’s something so satisfying about being self-sufficient.”

  “On the island, we’ve been doing it for years. I never liked having bottled water and food flown halfway around the world. It was such a waste.”

  “You’re right. Being dependent on the land and the sea again has brought us all back closer to Nature. Eating what’s in season, following her cycles. We got so used to eating bananas from St Lucia, avocados and strawberries from Israel all year round. Makes the winters hard though, eating potatoes, carrots and turnips all the time.”

  On their left, they passed a large cemetery, overgrown with weeds. Smoke drifted across their path from a large burial pit. Before she could close the small crack in her window, the whole car filled with an intolerable stench Riley was all too familiar with. The mental image of their own plague pit at Hurst was hard to forget. Bodies piled on top of others, charred and blackened beyond recognition. It was the only sure way to kill the infection and safely dispose of the bodies.

  They passed All Saints’ Church, its rafters and brickwork exposed to the elements where the roof had caved in. Ahead of them, she glimpsed the Solent, stretching back towards the mainland. They turned left and pulled over on the right in front of the school gates. Terry flung his door open and jumped out to help with the rucksack.

  “I won’t be long. You coming in?” asked Riley.

  “I’ll wait here if that’s all right.”

  Riley hobbled inside to the sparsely furnished reception area where an officious-looking woman behind the wooden counter had her head buried in a large ledger. She was scanning pages full of names and details. Without looking up, she barked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve come to pick up one of your students – Heather Samuels,” said Riley brightly.

  “I know who she is. And you are?” growled the receptionist in a supercilious manner that Riley took an instant dislike to.

  “Riley Stephens.”

  “Relative or guardian?”

  “Neither. I’m a friend of her father’s. I have a letter from your principal,” said Riley, handing the woman the envelope. The receptionist removed the letter and scanned the handwritten sheet through glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  “You’ll need to talk to the principal. Mrs Shirley is not here this morning. She’s been called away. You can try again later or come back another day, it’s up to you.”

  Riley felt her hackles rising at the woman’s
intransigence.

  “We’ve come all the way from Freshwater. I’ve got a car waiting outside.”

  “I see. I’m afraid without Mrs Shirley’s permission, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Can I speak to Heather?”

  “She’s not here either,” she said, checking her ledger.

  “Sorry? Where is she then?”

  “I’m not allowed to discuss student whereabouts without—”

  Riley slammed her hands down on the counter, rocking back on her heels, infuriated by this woman’s attitude. She leaned forward and grabbed hold of the woman’s lapels, ruffling the mauve jacket and dislodging the floral pin that clattered on the counter.

  “Now you look here, you crusty old bat, you either tell me what I want to know or I’ll get my friend outside to put a ferret up your dress.”

  The woman looked genuinely terrified at the prospect of wild creatures in her underclothes and started whimpering, struggling to free herself. At her cries for help, there came the scrape of a chair from the next door room. A hunched man in his early seventies hobbled in, his expression thunderous. He had an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. From the look of him, Riley thought he must be the school janitor.

  “What on earth is going on here?” he yelled, his eyes narrowing to slits. “How dare you come in here like this? You leave Mrs Thompson alone, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

  “No, not until someone tells me what happened to Heather Samuels,” said Riley, releasing the receptionist who fell back into her chair, cowering in fear.

  “There’s no need to be uncivilised,” he reprimanded with a wagging finger. “Heather was picked up yesterday. Mrs Thompson wouldn’t know; she wasn’t here.”

  “Picked up by whom? Her father?”

  “No, it was a woman. One of the sisters from Ventnor.”

  “Sister Imelda?”

  “I think that was her name,” he said, running his finger down the register. “She wrote her address here in the ledger. Here we are. The Royal Hotel in Ventnor.”

  Riley felt her eye twitch involuntarily. What possible reason could the sisters have had to remove Zed’s daughter? They had interfered once too often. She promised herself that this would be the last time.

  Chapter Seventeen

  With a curt knock on the door, Zed and the others entered a vast library with thousands of books and reports lining all available wall space. At the head of an old oak table was a stooped man of advancing years with bright blue eyes. He looked like an academic, slightly eccentric with white hair, combed to the side, a green tie and sports blazer. He remained seated, studying the colonel and Zed, clearly sizing them up.

  “These are the visitors I was telling you about, Ephesus,” said the orderly in a raised voice.

  The old man seemed to angle his head as if struggling to hear. “Yes, yes, do sit down. I hear you’ve come a long way. What exactly can I do for you?”

  “Ephesus, my name is Colonel Abrahams, formerly of GCHQ. We’re hoping you can help us. Mr Samuels here would like to ask you a few questions. He’s conducting an independent investigation,” said the colonel in a loud voice.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up. My hearing is not what it used to be.”

  “I said Mr Samuels here is exploring various alternative theories about the source of the outbreak, such as a terrorist attack or accidental leak. He needs your help to learn about any state-sponsored research into flu viruses you may know about.”

  “I’ve been through all this before with one of Doctor Hardy’s team.”

  “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to show Mr Samuels here what you showed them.”

  “Assuming the major will allow that. He’s quite protective of who he lets me talk to these days.”

  “Major Donnelly has authorised you to answer Mr Samuels’ questions.”

  “Only the questions relevant to his investigation,” added the major.

  The old man laughed to himself, tickled by something. “Very well. I’ll do my best. Where would you like to start?”

  Zed reached into his briefcase for the notepad containing his many questions. “We’re looking for any pre- or post-war documents that track attempts to use viruses as biological weapons.”

  “I see,” said Ephesus, raising his eyebrows.

  “If you indulge me, I’d like to go all the way back to the Second World War,” said Zed, leaning forward in his chair and unbundling the folders he had brought with him. He noticed the doctor shaking his head.

  “The colonel was kind enough to provide me with a number of documents from the Porton archive that reference the earliest known attempts to develop biological weapons. From what I understand, both sides developed a range of chemical and biological weapons in the Second World War, but they were never used. Is that correct?”

  “I may look that old, but I’m afraid that’s a little before my time. Professor Durant was in my role back then. He started this whole archive. He convinced the Minister that the government should have a permanent record of its various research programmes. He realised how important it was that we compile everything into one central archive for posterity. Of course, back then, Porton Down was just a few humble sheds and warehouses filled with amateurs.”

  He sighed, a nostalgic glint in his eyes as he surveyed the packed shelves and dusty box folders, reports and books.

  “This is where it all started, you know. We documented every chapter of chemical and biological warfare. If you ask me, this remains the finest institution of its kind anywhere in the world. But then, I’m sure the Americans or Russians would have something to say about that now.”

  “Mr Samuels is going to be talking to our Russian expert later.”

  “Anton? Yes, he’s always good company. Full of stories.”

  “One of the earliest intelligence reports I found claimed that the Nazis explored the potential use of influenza as a weapon of war.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I suppose they were inspired by the success of ‘Nivum 11’. It was one of the Nazis’ so-called Wunderwaffen they hoped might turn the tide of the war.”

  “Was this in 1943?”

  “Probably, but that’s debated by various experts. The Allies certainly had earlier suspicions, but nothing was confirmed until 1943.”

  “It was a coup for British Intelligence, as I remember,” boasted the colonel.

  “That’s correct. They captured a top-ranking German scientist in Tunisia. His name doesn’t appear in the official war records, but we know he was a biologist based at the main research laboratory at Spandau. Under interrogation, he confessed that they were working on an experimental agent he said mimicked the effects of Spanish flu. It stimulated the victim’s immune system to attack itself, similar to the effects of Blitzkatarrh, or lightning flu. The codename the Germans used was ‘Nivum 11’.”

  Zed was scribbling everything down as fast as he could, underlining ‘Nivum 11’.

  The old man continued in a faltering voice, “It caused quite a stir in Whitehall, I can tell you.” He chuckled. “Developing new Allied biological weapons was considered of vital importance to the war effort.”

  He was wracked by a coughing fit as he took a slug of water from a glass.

  “Churchill was convinced that ‘Nivum 11’ marked a new era in modern warfare. He authorised a massive increase in funding and resources for the team at Porton Down to accelerate research into our own biological weapons, in the hope that they could come up with a defence against this new class of threat. So began the research programmes into better understanding different viruses and their potential as weapons. But without a sample of ‘Nivum 11’, there was a limit to how much we could do to prepare the country against such an attack.”

  “Surely,” deflected Major Donnelly, “biological weapons were in their infancy? The Allies were much more worried about nerve gas and other chemical weapons.”

  “Yes, but Churchill was equally worried about the scale of Hitl
er’s ambitions with biological weapons. He secretly ordered half a million anthrax bombs from the US. You see, most of the large-scale weapon production at the time was outsourced to Fort Derrick, in Maryland.”

  “Was there any evidence these new biological weapons were ever used?”

  “Had the war not ended when it did, there’s no doubt that anthrax would have been used for the first time in Europe.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “They were desperate times. America had just dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The Allies were using firebombs to destroy civilian population zones. The scale of destruction was unimaginable. The prevailing wisdom was that the Allies would stop at nothing to bring an end to the war.”

  “But if Hitler had those weapons, why did he choose not to use them?”

  “Indeed. His V2 rockets were already terrorising British cities. What was stopping him from using the rockets as a delivery mechanism for an anthrax payload? The result could have been devastating.”

  “Surely he was facing certain defeat. Using anthrax would have turned the tide of the war.”

  “True, but it would also have opened a Pandora’s Box. An anthrax attack on London would have rendered most of the south-east of England uninhabitable for decades. If the Allies had retaliated in kind, the same would have been true of large swathes of Germany. It would have been a terrible price to pay, greater even than atomic weapons.”

  “And what about this ‘Nivum 11’? Is there evidence that it was ever used?”

  “Good Lord, no. It was still experimental. It would have taken many more years to perfect as a weapon. No one at Porton seriously considered a virus could pose a credible threat.”

  “The technology of the time was much too primitive to turn a virus into a viable weapon,” added Major Donnelly. “Nerve gas was the real threat.”

  “Our team’s energies here were going into defence. Mass-producing innovative ways to protect our soldiers from chemical or biological attack. Clothing, respirators, detectors, that sort of thing. The major is right. Attack by nerve gas was considered most likely. Just the threat of attack was enough to render most of our forces completely useless.”