The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (2 page)

Chapter Three

Out on the shingle, Tommy and Sam pushed the low-slung cart towards the body, a crumpled heap in the distance. The tyres needed some air.

Tommy was trying to make light of their task, but Sam was having none of it.

“What did you have to go and say that for? Now I’m stuck here with you when I could be having breakfast,” grumbled Sam.

“Oh, quit your whining will you? It’s not like you haven’t got me into trouble before eh?”

“You’re joking aren’t you? I’m always covering for you,” continued Sam. “Anyway, what did Zed have to go and shoot the guy for? It’s not like he was going to start climbing the walls and get in. Besides this place is a fortress.”

“The state he was probably in, he was half dead anyway. On his last legs if you ask me. Zed did him a favour. Put him out of his misery. Saved him a long walk back to whichever hell hole he came from.”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t agree with violence, unless there was no other way.

It took both of them to push the cart up the small slope and along the raised shingle roadway that joined Hurst Castle to the mainland. Roadway was perhaps too grand for what it really was. In truth, it was no more than a man made shingle bank, reinforced with concrete and strengthened periodically to keep out the worst of the weather. Storms had a habit of battering this stretch of the coast. Southwesterly storms had been known to smash a hole and wash away whole sections of the shingle bank. But that hadn’t happened for years now.

The shingle roadway was wide enough for a Land Rover or four wheel drive vehicle. In the early days, the roadway had been used to shuttle stores to the castle from local shops before rival groups stripped them bare.  It was mostly too dangerous now to ferry supplies by land for fear of ambush. Supplies came by boat from the island, or trade with other survivor groups. The network of Solent forts formed part of the wider coastal defences built almost five hundred years ago by King Henry VIII to defend the south coast against invasion by the French. Today those same forts, or at least those modernised and fit for habitation, had formed a loose alliance of sorts to work together where possible. They traded goods and skills, occasionally forming raiding parties to ensure strength in numbers when making scavenging runs into local towns. It was safer that way.

Once at the top of the slope, Tommy jumped in the cart for a bumpy ride along the roadway, laughing as they bounced along. Tommy and Sam had known each other since school. They had grown up together in Milford-on-sea, shared the same friends, been out with the same girl, Sarah, who worked at the local dairy. Sam had never truly forgiven Tommy for stealing the love of his life. But ‘mates is mates’ and their friendship was strong enough to get over that little wrinkle.

Tommy’s old man had run the local butcher on the high street for eleven years until he got sick with throat cancer and died the following year. While his mother mourned, Tommy had grown up fast and volunteered to take over the family business, setting aside his aspirations for apprenticeships and further education. It was his way of treasuring the memory of his father. When he closed his eyes, he could still picture him standing behind the counter. Striped apron. Smiling at customers. The old fashioned bell that rung when the door was pushed open. Tiled floor covered in sawdust.

There were two other young lads who had helped out in busy periods and at the weekends. It was an uneasy relationship at times, what with Tommy being only nineteen and the age difference between them being no more than a year or two. Yet Tommy was a fair boss, firm when he needed to be, like when they turned up late or when one wasn’t pulling his weight. He always made a point of buying them drinks at the end of the week on a Friday night in their local pub. It’s what his father would have wanted.

Sam had been a pillar of support when Tommy’s dad was enduring the daily torment of chemotherapy and growing weaker by the day. He used to come round with a four-pack, party bag of Doritos and play Fifa Football on the PlayStation to cheer up his friend. Sam was the strong silent type, with an intelligent thoughtful look about him. He was a good and loyal mate. Back then Tommy had still lived at home with his mum, just the two of them once they’d buried his father. She had become withdrawn since her husband’s death. It was as if her pilot light had been dimmed by the months of caring, knowing that nothing could save her childhood sweetheart. Still she went about her daily chores, held down a job in the local chemists. Her days were now lost in reverie, an air of melancholy settled on her every thought and deed. Tommy was the only one who could still make her smile and restore something of her former cheery self.

When the Millennial virus had first struck, his mum was one of the first to fall victim. He suspected the job at the chemists was to blame, through regular contact with the sick. But in reality, the virus had struck seemingly at random and with the speed of wildfire. It was all over mercifully quickly for his mum. He had taken her in to A&E at the hospital but the place was like a refugee camp. After a cursory look from a distracted nurse, they had sent her home with painkillers to get some sleep. By morning, she was dead.

Sam’s quick thinking had undoubtedly saved both of their lives. That fateful morning Tommy had been woken by a car horn just after dawn, beeping repeatedly outside his house. Staggering downstairs in his dressing gown after a sleepless night, he unlocked the front door, eyes bloodshot, his nose red from blowing to find his best friend gesticulating wildly and shouting out the half-lowered window for him to get dressed and get out.

Sam had seen the morning news and driven straight round. Panic had started. The emergency services were being overrun. Cities were emptying as the sickness spread. Lines of cars blocked exits. A tide of humanity staggered under the weight of its worldly possessions. People carried what they could. Impractical valuables. Phones, laptops and money soon to be discarded. Irrelevant and redundant in a world turned on its head. A litter of suitcases abandoned on the side of the road.

Tommy had packed a rucksack in two minutes flat with some clothes, a torch, food and water. They had driven to the sea front and sat there staring out to sea, running through their options. Where could they go? Where was safe? In the end they drove back to the house, locked the door and perched nervously on the edge of the sofa watching BBC News 24. Clutching a can of lager at ten in the morning, Tommy kept repeating “No way” in disbelief every two minutes to the annoyance of his friend. They had watched with increasing alarm, batting theories around about Ebola or bird flu. Whatever it was, it looked really bad. The authorities were doing their best to contain the outbreak, telling people to stay in doors, avoid contact with others, they said. A succession of health experts argued about cause and origin. Some said it was a strain of avian flu. Others said it was like nothing they’d ever seen before, a designer virus maybe, a new kind of terrorist attack perhaps. In truth, no one knew. There was no vaccine, no cure. Things happened so fast.

Back on the beach, Sam and Tommy reached the body. The man was probably in his thirties, lying awkwardly, his leg at an unnatural angle. But what was most disturbing was his face. His lower jaw hung loose, one side blown away, the back of his head a mess, where the bullet had exited. His eyes open, staring lifelessly skywards, were flecked with blood and a pale yellow, like someone who hadn’t slept for days. The sickness was etched into his face, the typical grey pallor, sunken eye sockets, dried up traces of blood from his nose and ears. Considering the trauma to the head there was actually little blood at all. Sam gagged, his hand covering his mouth.

“You get the head end,” said Tommy barging his friend out the way. “Ready on three. One, two three.”

Tommy grabbed the man’s feet while Sam more cautiously hoisted the man by the sleeves. He was wearing ski gloves, but wanted to avoid touching his skin if you could help it. The body was skeletal thin yet they had to swing it from side to side with some difficulty to heave it up and on to the trolley for the ride back. As they bumped and bounced along the quarter mile of shingle round to the back of the castle walls, a leg slid back over the side. The material rode up, exposing two inches of skin, blotched and covered in sores.

They dumped the body on the ground again, next to a pit some thirty feet across and ten deep. They rolled the man over the edge, sliding down to join the other human shapes at the bottom. Tommy grabbed a jerry can and poured petrol in to the pit, dowsing the bodies, splashing indiscriminately. He struck a small flare and threw it down on to the funeral pyre. They both stood there impassively watching the blaze, enjoying the warmth on their legs and bare arms. 

Chapter Four

Jack strode back through the main castle gate next to the guardhouse. He stepped over the narrow-gauge rail tracks and crossed a weathered patch of grass. The tracks had been laid in Napoleonic times to deliver stores to the castle from a military dock and landing area, long since dismantled. He continued on to the old white lighthouse, set apart from the eastern end of the castle fortifications. The lighthouse was modest but comfortable. There he lived a simple, almost monastic existence that imitated his former life aboard merchant ships. After the hustle and bustle of the castle camp, the silence and solitude were a welcome relief. Many of the rooms were unfurnished, filled with salvaged equipment and gardening tools. The views across the Solent stretched uninterrupted in multiple directions.

Jack paused at the doorway, a puzzled expression etched on his face. He noticed the tide slowly rising to cover the salt marshes and sheltered estuary towards Keyhaven and Lymington beyond. Something about the smell of the place reminded him of a former life. He had served in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary for twenty-five years, before using his pension to buy his very own fishing boat, the 
Nipper
.  The
Nipper
had become his pride and joy, not to mention his livelihood. He had skippered the boat for the last few years, sometimes on his own, but mostly with a deckhand. He knew these waters well. Every rock, every tidal eddy. The narrow western entrance to the Solent was notorious for its strong tides. The Needles rocks at the tip of the Isle of Wight were a graveyard to dozens of sailing ships and steamers in days gone by. Some of those ships had paid the ultimate price. As the skipper of a small fishing boat, Jack had a profound respect for the sea. It was a capricious playground for yachtsmen but a series of calculated risks for fishermen like him who plied their trade hauling lobster pots in all weathers, day and night. There had been a small but established community of fisherman in Keyhaven and Lymington five miles beyond. Jack was well liked and respected and knew most of the others, though they mostly kept themselves to themselves. They were territorial. They drank in different pubs, fished their own particular sites. Each meticulously mapped by GPS above water and by depth sounder below.

The unexpected sight of a sail rounding the headland to the east interrupted Jack’s reminiscences. It was a small sailing boat, he estimated it was no more than thirty feet in length. He slid his wire-framed glasses up on to his forehead and peered through his binoculars. On board and hailing him with a slow wave was a man he didn’t recognize. There was a small child beside him, wearing a yellow oilskin jacket.  

He cursed and made a mental note to reprimand whoever was on lookout this morning. There had been no warning of the stranger’s approach.

The man on the boat looked back at Jack through his own binoculars and raised his hand to wave again. He cupped his hands, shouting as loud as he could.

Jack wasn’t sure he heard what was said, but it sounded a lot like: ‘Ahoy there. Hello, hello.”

Jack waved back more through habit than genuine welcome but did not approach the quay to help, keeping a safe distance.

When the sailor had finished mooring up, attaching lines fore and aft, he cupped his hands again and called out in an educated voice, enunciating clearly as if Jack might not speak English: “Hello there. May we come ashore?”

“Stay where you are, don’t come any closer,” cautioned Jack, holding both hands up gesturing him to stop.

“Please. We’re not sick. Can you at least spare us some food and water? We’re willing to trade what little we have.”

“You can moor up and shelter for the night and then be on your way. We might be able to spare you some water and bread, but we’ve precious little else to offer you, unless you have something to trade?”

“We don’t have much food. Mostly cans. But we have some flares and rope if that would be of interest. Look, we’re both healthy. We’ve not been in contact with anyone for days. In fact, it’s nice to have a conversation with someone for a change. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I’m sorry. We can’t take any chances. It’s too risky to let you in.” There was an uneasy silence as the man on the boat stroked his son’s hair and whispered something in his ear.

“What are your names?” offered Jack.

“I’m Simon and this is Toby.”

“Good to meet you both. Where have you sailed from?”

“We left Weymouth yesterday, borrowed this boat, grabbed what we could. I’m no great sailor, but we got this far.” Jack stood there impassively still, his arms crossed. Simon shifted uneasily, wracking his brains for another way to convince Jack to take them in.

“We’re hard workers. We’ll do whatever it takes. Please, just give us a chance.”

Jack looked him up and down and tried to guess what Simon had been before the outbreak. He wore an open-necked striped shirt frayed at the collar and red trousers that bulged slightly at the waist, with heavily worn Nike running shoes. Jack’s guess was a City worker, maybe an accountant or solicitor, never done a real day of work in his life, never felt the sun on his back as he toiled. He embodied everything that Jack despised: blood, privilege and money.

“We don’t have much use for lawyers and accountants round here,” he taunted playfully. “This is a working community. Do you have any skills, any trades? Anything useful?”

Simon blushed, pushing his glasses up his nose, alert to the edge in Jack’s questions. “Actually, if you must know, I was a solicitor, ran my own practice,” he smiled defensively. “But…but..” he looked like he was searching for something, then erupted enthusiastically, “I know first aid, er, I grow my own vegetables…” His voice tailed off trying hard to think of something else he could claim to be good at.

“We’ve got a doctor already. Can you cook?”

“Yeah, not bad. You know, I get by. My mother was Italian,” he said nodding confidently. “I make a mean spaghetti Bolognese, if you can find me the ingredients that is, fresh herbs, tomatoes, oregano, mother’s secret recipe. I could tell you but I’d have to kill you,” he snorted. “Yeah, I used to make my own pasta. I see you have a greenhouse back there, so I’m thinking you’ve got quite the set up here. Surely you have room for a couple more?”

“Simon, I’ll level with you. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed already here and we’re just barely getting by as it is. But if you’re not afraid of hard work, can pull your own weight around the place, and do your bit then maybe?”

There was a look of desperation about the pair of them that Jack had seen so many times before. The boy looked close to tears.

“Look, please,” continued Simon. “We’ll do anything. Just give us a chance. It’s hard out there, just the two of us. The boy needs a proper home, kids his own age. You have other children here right?”

“We have children, yes. Lots of children,” said Jack with a sigh, remembering why he enjoyed the solitude of the lighthouse. “How were things in Weymouth? Are there many that survived?”

Simon stared at the ground, lost in thought for a second, his voice softer: “Not many. We got hit bad, no warning. I lost my wife and daughter early in the outbreak. Toby and me didn’t get sick. We moved around a fair bit, from house to house, living off whatever we could find. It was hard, but we survived. We had some close shaves. Things got crazy. Gangs rampaging, looking for food. We hid during the day and moved around at night. We got caught a couple of times, had all our food stolen. One time, they left us for dead,” he broke off remembering the horror. “I don’t want to live out there, not any more. I’m begging you…please. Just give us a chance.”

“Listen, I’ll speak to the others, OK, that’s the best I can do. No promises. Stay here. Consider yourself in quarantine. If you’re both fit and healthy with no sign of infection in forty-eight hours, then we’ll talk. In the meantime, keep yourselves to yourselves. Don’t go wandering around. If you approach the main gate, you will be shot. Am I clear? If you need anything, shout. My name’s Jack, everyone knows me.”

“Nice to meet you Jack. And thank you!”

Jack turned on his heels, shaking his head. He was getting soft in his old age. Just what they needed. More mouths to feed. More blooming kids. He smiled to himself and walked back to the lighthouse.