by Robin Crumby
When the sickness had first appeared, Jack had calmly packed his old grey Land Rover with tools, food, a shot gun and his fishing gear as if he was going to sea on the Nipper, but this time, headed straight to Hurst. After years of cruising past the castle on his way out to pick up his lobster pots, he had admired the impressive fortifications. He made a mental note that should the world end any time soon, there were worse places to hole up and wait things out. Hurst had much to recommend it. It had its own generator, was only reachable by boat or by 4x4 along a mile and a half of shingle spit and could sustain a large group of people in relative comfort. The thirty feet high walls would keep out any undesirables and with a bit of luck, they could rebuild again from here.
In the first few weeks, Jack had welcomed successive survivor groups from the local area. He had established a quarantine zone in the inner courtyard where new arrivals could wait the forty-eight hours to show they were clear of infection. He provided them with shelter, warmth and what little food they had in the early days. He had provided refuge and sanctuary from the chaos outside and got things restarted.
He wasn’t everybody’s first choice for leader. He was fond of rules, which others disagreed with, or saw as petty and unnecessary. He insisted that all weapons be surrendered at the gate and put in the castle armoury for safe storage. All food was stored in the cool dry storerooms beneath the castle walls, several feet thick, where shells had been housed. Food was rationed out equally. Everybody worked their fair share. Everyone had a role to play, including all but the youngest children. There were no freeloaders, no passengers. It wasn’t much, but people respected Jack and rewarded his trust with their loyalty and hard work. As a result, the community had grown, swelling to a size where their resources were stretched.
He had made Terra his second in command. Together with an inner circle of advisors and lieutenants, sub-dividing responsibility for food, accommodation, and animal welfare for their small herd of cows, pigs and a handful of sheep. If Jack was the patriarch, then Terra was Hurst’s unofficial matron and mother. She was a capable woman. She had been reticent about sharing too much about her story when she had first arrived. Everyone assumed it was too difficult for her to talk about, some personal tragedy. They had all suffered in some way. Jack never suspected that the real reason Terra remained silent was that she revelled in her anonymity here. Her slate had been wiped clean. She could be anyone she wanted to be without being dragged back to the mistakes of her past. The new Terra she chose for herself was authoritative yet likeable, confident and sassy, accessible yet complex. For the first time in a long time, she looked in the mirror and liked who she saw. Terra wasn’t even her real name. She had deliberately severed all links with the past.
The whole place ran like clockwork thanks to her. She cared for the sick, ran the kitchen canteen, looked after the kids and kept things organized. She had hit it off early with Jack and they had a close friendship. In the goldfish bowl that was life at Hurst, people whispered. The pair’s mannerisms and body language were scrutinised intently. When they exchanged stolen glances or sat together, talking conspiratorially in hushed tones, most likely about planning and operations, people noticed and winked quietly.
In charge of defence, Jack chose Zed. What Zed lacked in discipline, he made up for in survival skills and what Jack called ‘bush craft’. Though he had never admitted as much, Jack suspected Zed had spent time in the military. Hurst Castle had provided a rich cache of weaponry from its museum displays covering five hundred years of history. From ornate swords, axes, and maces through to whole suits of armour dating back to Tudor times when Henry VIII had the castle built. The museum also had an impressive collection of World War II weaponry. It included Sten guns, Bren guns, rifles and pistols, though mostly useless without their firing mechanisms and bullets. The search parties that Zed or Jack had led in search of food and supplies made a curious spectacle. Standing ready for inspection before they headed out, a motley crew carrying a smorgasbord of knuckle-dusters, helmets, firearms and swords. Zed had kept the best for himself, a double headed axe, sharpened daily that split logs with a single blow. On trips to the forest tracking deer and rabbits, gathering mushrooms and berries, he liked to keep the axe strapped between his shoulder blades like a hunter.
Zed and Jack had fallen out publicly many times over the smallest of things, from castle rules to food rationing. Zed held that the guys who took the risks deserved the lion’s share of the rewards, but in the end Jack could normally talk him round and make him see sense. Terra had never trusted Zed and she made sure that one of her own people kept an eye on him and reported back to her. Zed was the source of many of their discussions, but in the end his good deeds outweighed the bad. Terra knew in her heart that a time would come when Zed's loyalty would be tested and she knew he would put his own interests ahead of the community’s.
Chapter Six
Zed loaded up the last of the gear into the Land Rover and wandered back to join the scavenging group of seven. Lucky seven, as Zed thought to himself. Two teams, two cars, the way they had done it for weeks. He got the ordinance survey map out and checked today’s search area one more time. The map was marked with large red and black felt-tip crosses and blocks, showing where teams had already searched. Red circles marked where supermarkets, hardware stores, pharmacies or other areas of potential interest were located. Though most of the obvious places had long since been ransacked and looted. Black circles with skull and crossbones were unsafe and to be avoided, where rival groups had set up camp but also where pockets of infection remained.
The group was standing huddled together, smoking and chatting. There was an air of ease and normality about their conversation. Bob, Riley and Joe had made these trips dozens of times. It was routine. But it was Zed’s job to prepare them properly for each and every trip and remind them of the very real dangers ahead. Each three-man team carried water, food, torches, a rope, plus a radio with a range of about two kilometres. The seventh team member was held in reserve and stayed behind to guard the vehicles, while the two teams conducted house-to-house searches and systemically swept larger stores. If one of the teams got into trouble they could radio the other team and the cavalry would come to support them, together with the seventh man, who also carried the spare radio. Every team member carried a weapon. Several of them had both blade and a firearm, chosen from the armoury this morning. Riley knew how to handle herself. Zed had trained her well. She tied back her long brown hair in a ponytail, sharing a joke with Bob. She wore a grey puffer jacket and jeans with ankle high walking boots. Once she’d rechecked her rucksack, she inserted a long handled machete in the sheath attached to the front of her webbing and jumped up and down a couple of times to check for any noise, any rattles.
The rest of today’s team was made up of three recent arrivals, whose turn it was on the camp rota system. Will was a jovial thirty-something builder, originally from South Africa. He was a bear of a man with a luxurious beard. He looked in good shape, despite months of living rough, scraping an existence before coming to Hurst. The other two were younger, probably in their late teens. Mila and Sean had arrived together. They were bold as brass, cocksure in their youthful arrogance, but underneath the bravado, Zed could tell they were bricking it. Everyone did on their first trip. Zed did his best to settle their nerves, brief them and assign them roles, teaming them up with the more experienced guys. Zed would drive Mila and Sean in the Land Rover. Will would stick with Bob and Riley in the Mitsubishi Land Cruiser with Joe as their driver and seventh man.
As the two-car convoy rounded the wall and headed out west, a silhouetted figure on the battlements waved them off with a mock salute and a smile to Zed, which he acknowledged with minimal effort by raising his index single finger off the steering wheel.
After bumping along the spit at a steady crawl they joined the coastal road that ran along the seafront at Milford. They turned on to the main road out towards Lymington, passing dozens of abandoned cars
. Many had their doors opened, some burnt out, some with bodies still visible inside. They had cleared the road some time ago and pushed the cars on to the grass verges and pavements. In places, the convoy had to slow to walking pace to navigate the resulting obstacles and rusting metal chicanes.
Today their search area was a row of houses on Lymington high street, some five or six kilometres away. They would be outside of radio contact with home base. That meant that they were on their own if things went ‘turbo’ as Bob was fond of saying. That didn’t worry Zed though. They had made these trips dozens of times, in and out, with few complications.
Coming along the main road through a fire-damaged Pennington and into Lymington town centre, they passed Waitrose. The supermarket had been swept clean in the first few days of the outbreak. Nothing now remained, except shopping trolleys, smashed together at one end of the car park by the recent storms, a twisted pile of rusting metal.
“People would have paid good money for that back in the day,” joked Joe pointing.
“Yeah. Deserves to be in the Tate Modern. ‘Shopping trolley sculpture’ by Damien Hirst. Price tag two million pounds,” added Sean with no small degree of sarcasm.
They all laughed, despite the nerves they were all feeling.
“Not any more Sean. Those times are gone,” said Zed. “And good riddance.”
“The only thing money is good for is burning,” said Sean laconically.
“Right on brother. Citizen Sean here has spoken,” mocked Joe.
Along the high street they inched forward cautiously in silence. All of the team were watching for movement on either side as they progressed. The car in front pulled up in a side street so they could start their search on foot.
There was an eerie quiet at street level. A lone seagull soared on the breeze, scanning for scraps. A cardboard box skated along the pavement. Newspaper rustled where it had got caught on the railings of the local bank, its ATM screen dark and lifeless. There were no signs of bodies here but there was widespread evidence of a rapid exodus. Unchecked looting, storefronts smashed in, doors kicked down. Loss of power had silenced the alarms and blinded CCTV systems. Some storekeepers and homeowners had stayed behind to protect their property, shouting impotently at the looters to keep back. The police never came. Those that stayed behind in the towns had died. Only those that got out survived.
Zed’s team operated in silence. Hand signals were passed between the team members as they crept along separate sides of the high street. They stopped several times to listen and observe. There was no one around. Half way along, they reached a large town house with a front window smashed in but its front door intact. They crowbarred the hinges at top and bottom. After some brute-force and grunting they levered open the lock. Zed gestured to Sean to take the left and Mila to take the right as they stepped inside.
The hall and staircase were deserted, untouched by the chaos outside. The living room to the left was filled with bookshelves, two large brown leather sofas and an armchair. Family photos, of holidays and Christmases, spoke of happier times. Sean picked one up and smiled at the laughing faces of children playing on a beach. The shelf had a heavy layer of dust, with a clean spot where the silver picture frame he held had stood. He replaced it carefully and looked around, opening draws one by one, looking for anything usable.
Mila ran a finger along the spines of several of the books. The castle library was well stocked, but they were always on the look out to add to the collection. She grabbed a couple of novels that looked unfamiliar and a large visual encyclopaedia the children would like together with a French dictionary. She stuffed them into the large rucksack.
In the kitchen, the cupboards were mostly bare, aside from some tinned tuna and vegetables. They grabbed some spices and wrapped the sharp knives from the drawer in a tea towel to keep them safe and to prevent rattle as they continued their search. Under the stairs they found some tools, oil, glue, cleaning products and other household items that were always in demand.
A noise from the floor above made all of them look round. Sean and Mila looked anxiously at Zed, who gestured for them both to stay calm and follow him. He normally stuck to the ground floor, but something told Zed that it was worth the risk to continue the search upstairs. They crept silently, planting each foot carefully step by step. They kept their eyes focused on the landing above through the bannisters. Zed’s revolver was drawn, though he only had two bullets loaded. A large creak betrayed them and they froze for a few seconds to listen.
At the top of the stairs, outside the first door, Zed signalled to the others, counting down to zero from three. They barged through, splintering the lock and swept the room, pointing the revolver into each corner. Nothing. Just a large bed and two wardrobes.
They tried the next bedroom. Again nothing. A child’s room with movie posters of Transformers and James Bond. There was a PC monitor, keyboard and desk, a Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillowcase.
They readied themselves outside the last bedroom, nodding to each other, weapons ready. Zed kicked open the door and charged inside, closely followed by the others. The stench was unbearable. Mila recoiled, covering her nose and mouth with her sleeve. Lying on the bed was a family of three, the mother and child locked in a final embrace. Their skin pale and drawn tight across their faces. Their mouths open in a silent cry of anguish, eyes blank, staring at each other.
Sean approached the bed and peered over them, gingerly.
“Poor bastards,” he whispered.
At the sound of his voice, the father’s mouth opened and let out a pained groan. Sean jumped back startled, his knife drawn. “Holy crap. That scared the be-Jesus out of me.”
Zed barged Sean out the way, his revolver drawn, keeping his distance.
“This one is barely alive. The other two are long gone,” said Zed dispassionately.
“Shouldn’t we put him out of his misery,” suggested Sean, recovering his sang froid, but still visibly trembling.
“No need,” countered Zed. “He’ll do us no harm, we should leave him in peace. Check the bathroom and study and let’s get out of here.”
They regrouped downstairs. Their rucksacks were half filled with an eclectic selection of batteries, books, food and tools. They moved on to the next house, this time empty, the occupants having left a chaotic trail of clothes and personal items discarded en route down the stairs and in the hall in their hurry to get out. Above the mantle piece, Sean spotted a ceremonial sword, an antique relic of a military career. He turned it over in his hands testing the weight. It might make a useful weapon if sharpened up a little, its edges dull, never before used in anger. He also grabbed a stack of CDs for the sound system back at the camp. On special occasions, Jack would give permission to fire up the generator, drink some of Liz’s home brew and toast departed friends. The only problem was Jack’s CD collection. It mostly consisted of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Anything new or modern would be cheered by one and all.
Their rucksacks virtually full, they were just sweeping the third house when Zed’s radio crackled into life. A loud beep signalled that one of the other team were trying to contact him.
“Zed, it’s Joe.”
“Go ahead Joe.”
“Listen up. Four, repeat four, cars just drove into town and are heading straight towards you.”
“Thanks Joe. We’ll sit tight and wait this one out,” replied Zed. “Bob? You there?”
“Yes mate. We’re nearly done here. Riley is upstairs, Will is keeping watch by the doorway.”
“Ok Bob, let’s keep our heads down and wait for this lot to pass through.”
“Roger that.”
Zed and his team had learned the hard way that tangling with rival groups was best avoided. Live and let live. A fight was a last resort. You tended to live longer that way. The team would lay low until the threat had passed.
Chapter Seven
In the row of shops and flats across the street, the other team was finishin
g their sweep. They had a decent haul of tinned food, pasta, some clothes, several bottles of spirits and cans of fizzy drinks.
Will stood outside the house scanning the high street in both directions, humming a nursery rhyme about a ‘springbok jumping over the moon’ that had just popped into his head. Where had that come from? He took a long draw from a cigarette and exhaled noisily. A thin plume of smoke funnelled upwards into the grey overcast sky as his mind wandered to happier times growing up just outside Johannesburg.
He felt a long way from home. Before reaching the sanctuary of Hurst castle, Will had been holed up in a new build townhouse for a couple of months, with two other lads he had worked with on construction projects. When things started breaking down, they got out of town and drove straight to the farm. The property had been empty, mid renovation. The owners had moved out to escape the dust and disruption, living abroad in Portugal or Spain, he couldn’t remember which. Will and the others had got by, picking fruit and vegetables from the garden. They helped themselves to what they could find, dry stores in cupboards and the large walk-in larder. When one of them got sick, Will bolted wide-eyed and didn’t look back. He’d seen how quickly the sickness spread and wasn’t taking any chances. He left everything behind. He left his clothes, his mates, everything and just drove until he hit the coastal road and sat in the car with the engine running staring out to sea. He was alone again. For the first time since he had emigrated to England, he felt isolated, divorced from everything he had known. It was up to him to survive, to make a new life somewhere safe. Find other survivors and rebuild. But where?
