by Robin Crumby
There was silence, bar the static.
“Keep trying. We have no idea if this message is getting through or not,” encouraged the captain in a low voice. “Someone out there has to be listening.”
“To all survivors of the Millennial Virus, this is Camp Wight—” He was suddenly cut off by a loud digital burst, like a set of beeps and then dashes, almost like Morse code. Then silence.
“Hello, your message was garbled. Repeat, please.”
A faint male English voice said: “Hello, hello. Can you hear me? We can hear you, colonel.”
The captain leaned in and increased the volume, adjusting another dial to boost the signal from his end.
“Yes, go ahead. Repeat, this is Colonel Abrahams at Camp Wight, on the Isle of Wight. We hear you.”
“It’s very good to hear your voice on this sunny day in Jersey,” said the voice brightly with a local burr.
“New Jersey?” whispered the lieutenant.
“No, I suspect he means the Channel Islands,” mocked the captain.
“And yours too. How many in your group?” asked the colonel.
“Here? Oh, just me and the wife.”
There was a collective outlet of breath as if they all realised this was too good to be true.
“Just the two of you then?”
“And the dog…” The voice trailed off, perhaps sensing their disappointment. “But there are other groups. Quite a few of them, actually. Here on the island and Guernsey. There are others we trade with on the Cherbourg Peninsula and down into Brittany.”
“Thank God. We were beginning to think we were the only ones,” admitted the colonel. “What’s your name?”
“Cyril. The wife’s Deidre. We’ve not heard from the UK mainland for months since…” His voice fell away and all they heard was the word quarantine.
“Sorry, Cyril, you cut out. Can you repeat?”
“I said that we haven’t been able to reach anyone back in the UK since the quarantine came into effect.”
“What quarantine?”
“Where have you been? There’s been a ten-mile exclusion zone around the British coast for two years.”
“By order of whom?”
“The United Nations.”
The colonel looked around the table, but they were all as puzzled as the next person.
“Sorry, Cyril, you’re saying the whole country was quarantined?”
“Or at least that’s what I heard.”
“Then why has no one come here in all that time?”
“I expect they’ll get to you in due course. They’ve probably just got their hands full right now. You’re not the only ones, you know.”
“What about a vaccine? Does the UN have a vaccine?” asked the doctor, hopeful.
“I can ask Deidre, if you like. She might know. A vaccine, you say?”
The doctor leaned in towards Zed and whispered, “Of all the people who could have answered our call, we’re stuck with this moron with a CB radio.”
“Cyril, perhaps you can pass on a message to the other groups you’re in contact with and advise them that there’s a military-led relief operation based at St Mary’s hospital, in Newport, on the Isle of Wight. We urgently need to speak with anyone in authority. The police, the military, civic leaders.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but it might not be for a few days. It’s a bit of a trek into town from here. I’ll see if I can pop down later, mind.”
“We’d appreciate that, Cyril. We’ll be waiting. Camp Wight out.”
“Corporal, disable the channel, will you?” ordered the captain.
“Confirmed, transmission ended. Just us now.”
“I want you to keep trying, on all frequencies. Make contact with whoever you can. If there’s one group in Jersey, there might be other groups within range of the transmitter. Report in as soon as you know more. St Mary’s, out.”
The captain sat back in his chair, exhausted. “So it would appear we are not alone. If there are survivors in the Channel Islands, then there must be survivor groups throughout the region.”
“It stands to reason,” confirmed the doctor. “Our pandemic modelling indicated that coastal and rural areas had the best chance of survival.”
“We suspected this would be the case, but we didn’t dare hope,” admitted Captain Armstrong.
“Now we know, the question is, what do we do about it?” asked the colonel.
“We’re in no position to expand our range of operations.”
“But we are in a position to ask for help.”
“Aren’t you forgetting that until the country is free of infection, we’re still subject to international quarantine? We cannot allow this new strain to spread further. You know how this works.”
“I’m aware of that, captain, but if we’re going to survive, we need their help now, before it’s too late.”
“Then we don’t tell them about the new outbreak until we’ve secured their support,” suggested the politician.
“That would be grossly irresponsible.”
“I agree, but it might also save lives and get help here quicker.”
“And risk a second global pandemic? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m just saying it’s an option that would get us the resources we need earlier.”
“No, we come clean and explain what’s happened. That’s the only responsible path. We take our chances and hope the United Nations is in a position to send help.”
“Very well, then. Let us hope this is the turning point.”
Zed sat back in his seat, trying to take it all in. He had been studying Lieutenant Peterson during these final exchanges. While everyone else around the table had reacted with myriad emotions, his face had remained a mask. He kept looking at his watch, perhaps distracted by another agenda that superseded their own. It was almost as if this was all part of a larger plan that Zed could only guess at.
He thought back to the printed report on his desk. On a whim, he had pulled some data on communication systems, curious to know more about the Roweridge transmitter. He had stumbled across a paragraph about ELF, the system American submarines used to communicate over long distances, virtually anywhere on the planet. If he could prove that the Chester had ELF, then their claims about communication blackouts must be incorrect. The Americans might be the only ones who really knew what was going on in the outside world. It was another intriguing puzzle that had jumped to the top of his list.
Right now, the only person he could really trust was Colonel Abrahams. This fresh outbreak gave him a renewed urgency. If he was going to get closure before his self-imposed four-week deadline expired he would need to eliminate all distractions, redouble his efforts, work every hour until he found the answer. It might be the only way to save his daughter and Riley, assuming it wasn’t already too late.
Chapter Forty-eight
No one knew quite what to expect back at Hurst. Corporal Carter had already confirmed what Riley guessed: the castle was abandoned.
When the fighting moved east towards Southampton and Portsmouth, Hurst had become an unjustifiable outpost in the allies’ sphere of influence. With resources stretched to breaking point, Captain Armstrong could ill afford three squads of men twiddling their thumbs while the danger moved closer to their centre of operations.
That said, Riley knew only too well that no major site would be left empty for long. As soon as the soldiers pulled out, the castle would have been taken back by groups travelling east from Bournemouth or Christchurch.
Carter’s truck from Needles Battery dropped the first group from Freshwater Hotel later that morning in Yarmouth. They waited by the quayside near the ferry port for Scottie to bring the Nipper round from its river mooring.
With some amusement Riley watched the locals going about their business. It reminded her of a scene from the Blitz. Children in school uniform, blazers and ties, wearing surgical masks, heading to the park. The youngest of them held hands in pairs, gawpin
g at the group from Freshwater like aliens from another world. The teacher at the rear hurried them along, glancing at Riley with suspicion.
Two soldiers from Yarmouth Castle strode over to check their paperwork before one of Carter’s men interceded.
The journey across to Hurst Castle was short and uneventful. Aside from a light swell from Christchurch Bay, it was a dry, grey, overcast day. It felt good to be back out on the water; the sea air, the open space, the peace and quiet.
It was clear from a distance that the castle had seen various alterations over the past few weeks. The soldiers had wasted no time in bolstering the castle’s defences. Rolls of barbed wire lined the seaward-facing walls, repainted in camouflaged stripes that seemed to serve no purpose other than decorative. Perhaps Flynn’s men simply wanted to leave their mark on the place.
As they approached the end of the Hurst Spit, they could see the eastward-facing dock had been further upgraded to allow stores to be uploaded from larger vessels. In all likelihood, following the latest set of powerful storms, deliveries to the castle could only now be made by sea. The roadway that ran along the top of the shingle bank back to Milford had been repaired many times during their tenure.
It was approaching high tide, so Scottie ignored the East dock and continued round to the small harbour nearest the castle gate where the ferry used to deposit day-trippers.
Parked near the main castle entrance was an army truck with a flat tyre. The castle drawbridge was down and the gates left open. The group waited onboard the Nipper, scanning the ramparts for movement.
There was further evidence of the soldiers’ upgrades to the fortifications. Surrounding the main gate were rolls of barbed wire and the scars of previous battles, bullet holes and scorch marks in the stone. The drawbridge had been reinforced with inch-thick armour plates.
There were other small differences, too numerous to take in and yet, despite the meticulous attention of the military, slowly but surely, Mother Nature was beginning to reassert herself here on the spit. The grass grew long, and every crevice in the walls was colonised by weeds. Brambles and wildflowers swayed in the breeze, indifferent to their return. The signs above the entrances had been smartly repainted in red and black.
When they were satisfied there was no one there, Riley waved them forward, a pair of shotguns at their head. A dog barking made them stop and listen, checking around them.
“Be careful,” she whispered.
Will and Joe went first, disappearing around the corner towards the Tudor gate, making no sound. They were gone for several minutes, just long enough for Riley to start to worry. She heard the dog again, joined by another, alarmed by the men’s approach, growling and snarling. Two shots fired, and then silence.
Will and Joe jogged back into view, signalling it was safe to approach.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here.” Will shrugged.
Riley split them up into pairs to search the rest of the large site, room by room. Liz went with Riley to check out the old kitchen canteen. They found the store cupboard bare, aside from a few tins of vegetables.
“Why do they always leave the green beans and horse chestnuts?” Liz wondered out loud.
In the cold cupboard were some fresh items gathering mould, a jug of curdled milk, the white bone from a leg of lamb that had been picked clean. Judging by the state of it, Liz said it would have been boiled several times. Liz had her hands on her hips, lamenting the time it had taken to fill the storeroom. It would take weeks of scavenging to return the kitchen to its former glory, with enough stock to sustain the group over another harsh winter on the spit.
A gust of wind made the door creak on its hinges, groaning in protest. There was dried blood on the ground by the door. Riley stooped to touch it, but it was weeks old, possibly from the last attack on the castle.
They met the others back inside the Tudor gate in the courtyard at the heart of the castle complex.
“Storeroom’s bare,” announced Riley. “Someone’s eaten us out of house and home. How did the rest of you get on?”
“The soldiers must have left in a hurry.” Will said. “Anything they couldn’t carry got left behind. There’s a 50mm GPMGs up top plus boxes of ammunition.”
“There’s what’s left of an armoury in the cellar. Three semi-automatic rifles, ammunition, two pistols, a few grenades, tactical vests, helmets, the lot.”
“Excellent. How did you get on, Nathan?” asked Riley.
“The soldiers have been busy. They must have been worried about getting attacked again. There are lots of upgrades. Repairs, barbed wire everywhere, concrete posts to stop people driving up the spit, new defensive positions with sandbags covering the East dock area.”
“What else?”
“All the water butts are full. The main storage tank too.”
“There’s tonnes of army-issue clothing, spare bedding and mattresses in the storehouse,” said another, already wearing a new blue sweater with a Royal Marines insignia on the chest.
“Someone’s been repairing all my guttering and pipework,” said Will, following the line of the roof with his eyes.
“I’ll be sure to thank Flynn next time we see him,” suggested Riley with heavy sarcasm. “What’s the bad news?”
“All the animals are gone.”
“I expect they were slaughtered weeks ago.”
“Or maybe the soldiers moved them back to the farm at Keyhaven,” suggested Greta hopefully. She was fond of riding the horses along the beach in the surf. Riley said she only did it because Scottie found it titillating.
“No, there were a few butchered animal carcasses by the lighthouse.”
“Not the horses?” pleaded Greta.
“I think so.”
“There appears to be a family living over there. I don’t think they’re very pleased we shot their dogs.”
“Should have kept them locked up then. You did the right thing. They could have been rabid.”
“Did the family say anything else?”
“Yeah, friendly bunch once they’d calmed down. Apparently, most of the soldiers left weeks ago.”
“I know no one else gives a hoot, but half the stuff in my museum has been nicked,” cursed Scottie.
“Our museum, don’t you mean?” corrected Will. “We all helped you lug that junk back here. The paintings, the heavy sculptures, books, records, film props. For posterity, you said.”
“Because it’s important. Well, some genius sprayed graffiti on some of my paintings and used the sculptures for target practice. My Picasso’s ruined.”
“Philistines.”
“And loads of books are missing from the library. Some of those were first editions. They’ve burned all the furniture.”
“Shame. Still, maybe Picasso would have approved of someone reusing his canvas.”
“Very funny. Well, I don’t.”
“None of those things matter,” challenged Liz. “Getting the castle back is what counts. Having a roof over our heads for winter.”
“Vandalising a Picasso doesn’t matter? Is that what you’re saying? Art doesn’t matter? What about Dickens, Shakespeare, Larkin, or Keats? I suppose none of them matter either?”
“Get over yourself, man. It’s just stuff,” dismissed Will. “You can’t take those books with you, can you? You live your life, then you’re dead. Make the most of it.”
“Typical bloody South African. If it’s not a stuffed animal or lion’s head as a trophy on your wall, it’s nothing.”
“Don’t stereotype me, Braveheart,” he shot back testily.
“The true mark of a man is what he leaves behind.” Scottie nodded. “His legacy, whether it’s something tangible, like a book or a painting, or something intangible like the Nobel Peace Prize. That, my friend, is how we transcend our time on Earth.”
“No way!” Will scoffed. “It’s what we do that makes us who we are. Actions are what define us, not just pretty pictures or words on a page. Making a difference
to our fellow man. Freedom, equality, liberty.”
“You can start by making yourselves useful,” interrupted Riley. “Like cleaning up this place?”
“At least now we know that, whatever we do, wherever we go, we’ll never be safe,” cautioned Will. “All these guns and high walls may not be enough, you realise that?”
“Until someone finds a cure, we’ll always live in the shadow of the virus.”
“Let someone else worry about that.” Scottie shrugged. “Jack would have wanted us to carry on. To do what’s right. Our first duty has always been to survive.”
“We don’t need a bunch of fancy scientists for that. At least here we can hide from the virus like we did before. Jack’s quarantine measures kept us safe for two years. We can do the same again.”
“I’d rather live out our remaining days and die here together.” Greta smiled, stroking Scottie’s back.
“Greta’s right. If this is going to be our end, then to hell with it!” shouted Scottie with renewed vigour. “We die with our heads raised high, not running in fear into an uncertain future.”
“Then this is where we make our final stand, at Hurst Castle,” proclaimed Riley with growing authority.
“We’ll shrug our shoulders and carry on.”
“In honour of Jack and the ‘spirit of the blitz’ he always talked about.”
In a moment of solidarity, they embraced each other in turn. Riley pulled Scottie in close and whispered something in his ear. He nodded with a smile and hurried off towards the stores.
“Go on, the rest of you. Let’s put this place back the way it was.”
Riley watched everyone go back to their former dormitories and workstations to make repairs and prepare for the arrival of the others on the next ferry trip from Yarmouth.
She wandered back through the castle gates, heading west along the roadway alongside the towering stone walls facing back towards Keyhaven and the salt marshes, eager once again to enjoy the solitude of the spit and the uninterrupted views back towards the Needles.
To her right, she passed the firepit where they had burned the dead. The stench still took some getting used to. Will was not far behind her, wheeling the carcasses of the dogs they had shot. The barrow’s rusted wheel squeaked on its half-inflated tyre. Riley helped sling the limp bodies of a Golden Retriever and a Labrador over the raised edge into the pit below.
