The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (26 page)

Chapter forty-eight

Back on the island, Sam supported Jack the last few yards through the long grass to the helicopter as its engines went into their start up cycle and the rotors began turning. The airmen hauled Jack through, laid him flat and strapped his legs and torso down tight, before taking a pair of surgical scissors and cutting the material of his blue woolen jumper exposing the wound on his shoulder. He made Jack comfortable for the journey, setting up a drip and stabilizing the injury before take off.

Sam looked on in some distress. He couldn’t stop thinking about Terra and what could have happened to her. The American had said they would take her back to their camp near Newport, but how did they really know where they would take her? He was shown to a jump seat just behind the pilot, facing backwards. When Peterson and the two other navy personnel were safely inside, the airman gave the nod and the two Seal team members who had been covering the aircraft as they loaded up, left their kneeling positions and double-timed it to the aircraft, clipped into the safety harnesses and sat on the floor sill, their feet dangling free, weapons poised and ready. Peterson handed Sam what looked like a large pair of headphones with a microphone attached. He weighed the headset, turning it over in his hands before putting it on. The cabin was suddenly silent, the noise of the engine almost eliminated and he could hear Peterson talking to the pilot, briefing him with his instructions and relaying a message to the
Chester
with an update on their status and due warning that they would be on deck in less than fifteen minutes.

The helicopter, an MH-60R Seahawk, achieved full power and with a gentle tug on the stick lifted off into the night sky. Its navigation lights remained off as it banked round a few meters above the tree tops, staying low following the river valley that led straight down hill back to the open water of the Solent. Peterson spoke rapidly into the radio, though the military jargon was hard to follow. Outside it was pitch black, Sam craning his neck to peer out of the right side of the aircraft. The pilot’s night vision goggles allowed him to see in complete darkness. Sam could just make out treetops and the sweep of fields and farmland as they headed back out to sea.

Flying low, they banked left when they were over water. In the distance towards the mainland, they could just make out the oil refinery at Fawley bathed in orange light from billowing flames that leapt unchecked into the night sky. Further to the west, two tower blocks in the Southampton city smoldered from fires long since burned out. The inferno that had engulfed them had moved on, spreading slowly across housing estates and residential areas, fanned by the night’s breeze. Below them, the sea state was relatively calm in the lee of the land, but further out Sam could make out white horses as the waves rose and fell, their crests foaming and breaking in the wind. The helicopter hugged the coastline of the island, accelerating as it headed west towards Yarmouth and Hurst castle, before heading southwest into Christchurch bay where the
USS Chester
was cruising at impulse power towards them, closing the gap.

As they flew towards the western end of the island, Peterson’s voice came over the headset.

“Sam, you better take a look at this.”

Sam unclipped his safety harness and looked out of the cockpit window, clinging on tight as the aircraft lurched violently. Out in front of them, he saw suddenly what Peterson was worried about. In the distance, they could make out the sweep of the shingle spit that joined Hurst to the mainland, with the castle at its Eastern tip. Part of the castle was ablaze, flames leaping up above the walls and parapet. Sam couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He pleaded with Peterson to slow down and circle the castle to see what was going on. The instruction given, the pilot pulled the nose up to slow their airspeed as the helicopter came into a hover around a hundred meters above the eastern wall, circling slowly around the gun tower, its search light powering up and picking out several figures on the roof. Peterson pointed towards the fire and the helicopter proceeded along the southern wall trying to make out what was going on beneath them. As they neared the center of the complex, a hail of gunfire pinged off the underbelly of the aircraft as the pilot begun an evasive manoeuver. One of the Navy seals had been hit and was hanging by his harness, clinging on to the doorway, while the other Seal returned fire towards the origin of the muzzle flashes. As soon as they were back over the water, he reached a gloved hand down and hauled his squad member back up, slamming the sliding door shut.

Peterson was shouting over the intercom for the pilot to gain height and get the hell out of there. They had seen enough action for one night and now had another casualty to bring home. 

Sam stared out of the window, his eyes wide in disbelief. One of the crewmen put a hand on his shoulder as his whole body seemed to sag, head in hands, he started sobbing, tears streaming down his face, imagination running wild. The castle and the flames slipped from view as the helicopter headed past the Needles, flying fast and low back out to sea across Christchurch Bay towards the
USS Chester
five nautical miles south of Portland Bill cruising north east to meet them.

Chapter forty-nine

In the bowels of the castle, deep within an alcove of one of the dark, dank basements that had once been a dungeon for prisoners held at Hurst, Simon and his son Toby sat shivering under a blanket listening to the faint sounds of the battle above them, with the dim flickering light of a candle for company.

“We’re going to be fine Toby. There’s really nothing to worry about. We’re all perfectly safe down here.”

Toby pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, clasping the two corners in his clenched fists in front of his chest and nodded, but said nothing. From the first explosion, he had been terrified, cowering behind his father as they shielded their ears and watched the dust rain down upon them from the ceiling. They were not alone, there were as many as twenty others hiding down here, on the instructions of Liz. It was the safest place in the castle. The only way in was defended by a dozen armed men, not to mention countless feet of thick stone and concrete. It was a bunker complex that would probably withstand any number of direct hits from heavy weapons and certainly impenetrable to small arms fire. And yet, knowing all that, did little to reassure the younger members of the Hurst group. Many of them still carried the very real and psychological scars of the breakdown. They had each seen more than their fair share of death and destruction. They had witnessed sane people driven to extreme behaviours. It had been every man for himself, a race for survival. They had seen neighbours fighting, riots in supermarkets, men shot in cold blood before their very eyes. Hearing the explosions and firefight above them, brought those memories flooding back in full technicolour.

Toby had seen his mother die. She had been wrenched from his hands, knocked down and killed, not by the virus, like so many others, but by a motorbike, stolen and out of control. The driver had been hell-bent on getting out of town. Dodging in between stationery traffic and pedestrians carrying their worldly possessions, trying to get away from the sickness, he had mounted the pavement and clipped a bench, lost control and careered into two children holding hands, before striking his mother. She had died instantly, her eyes fixed with a look of surprise that was seared into his memory and nightmares forever.

Footsteps in the stairwell shook Toby from his melancholy, clasping his father’s hand tighter. Tommy stuck his head round the corner, putting on a brave face. His cheer was paper-thin. His eyes betrayed him.

“How we all doing down here?” He stuck his thumbs up, trying to make eye contact with Toby and some of the other children, who looked at their feet, nodding their heads. “Good, good. Simon, Gerry, Shannon, we need you up top. Rest of you, stay put, we’ll bring you down something to eat as soon as we’re done, but for now, this is the safest place in the castle. OK?”

Simon and the others got gingerly to their feet, sheepish glances exchanged between them. Toby started moaning and whimpering, clawing at his father’s leg, pleading with him not to leave. Simon smiled back at him and reassured him he would be back soon.

At the top of the stairs, there was a very real sense of tension in the air, with half-seen faces hurrying through the dimly lit passageways, torchlight dancing on walls. Heading up into the top floor of the gun tower, Tommy handed Simon a revolver and deposited a box-full of bullets in his outstretched hand. He handed out an antique sword and a machete to the other two and motioned them to huddle in close, leaning his head forward in a moment of intimacy, fixing each of them in turn with a serious stare. “You three, I need you to help secure the Drake doorway on the ground floor level. Barricade it with whatever you can find. And if anyone or anything tries to come through, shoot them. This is our last line, we have to defend this bit of the castle, at all costs. All our lives depend on it.”

They hurried down to their station, checked the door was locked and bolted top and bottom and started piling chairs and boxes, with an old carpet dumped on top to hold everything in place. They stood back and admired their handiwork. It would hold. Tommy was sure of that. No one was going to push their way through that lot, especially with him taking pot shots at them. He loaded the revolver with six bullets and emptied the rest of the box into his waist pocket, discarding the empty carton.

Tommy froze. From just outside the door, they could hear shuffled feet, scuffed footsteps on the stone floor and muffled voices. The three of them swapped worried glances and unconsciously stepped backwards, clutching their weapons awkwardly in front of them.

There was a series of quick thuds against the door, though it didn’t sound like they were trying to force entry. Another louder thump and then the sound of liquid, like someone urinating against the door. They smelled the fuel before they saw it as a rivulet snaked under the door pooling directly below the stack of chairs and boxes, soaking into the cardboard. They heard the strike of a match and then a whoosh as the fuel vapour ignited.

Tommy reacted first. He ran down the corridor back towards the basement where Toby and the other children were cowering. In the corner of the room was a bucket that the children had all been using as a toilet. It was half-full, stinking and slopping as Tommy ran back towards the doorway. When he reached the passageway, the smoke on the inside was already spreading rapidly throughout the complex, blown by drafts and air currents that made the castle freezing in the winter. He got as close to the door as he could and threw the bucket load of slops across the floor, trying to sluice the petrol away. It did little more than disperse the fuel more widely around the doorway.

The three others had raced off to try and find more buckets, leaving Tommy alone, watching the fire take hold. He kicked at the furniture stack trying to dislodge the nearest item. Their hard work to secure the door had turned out to be misplaced effort. The chairs and boxes were wedged solid and he was forced back by the heat and choking fumes. He tried one last time and grabbed hold of the carpet they had balanced on top and dragged it away. With it came half the pile, toppling precariously towards him and blocking the passage, but it had done the trick. The door was burning only from the petrol and should hold, the inferno now less concentrated, spread over a large area, flames harmlessly licking the stone walls.

Tommy stepped back, his sleeve clamped to his mouth, shielding his face from the heat and fumes. He retreated back down the passageway, bent double, staying low, till he reached the junction where the smoke was lighter. Above him and beneath him, he could hear men and women shouting, panicked by the flames as they headed further from the smoke which seemed to be coming from several sources.

Nathan raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time and stopped mid-stride to shout at Tommy and the others to get back to their posts. “Put out those fires for God’s sake. If you don’t have water, then smother them in blankets, whatever you can find, don’t let them take hold. They’re trying to smoke us out. We can’t let them succeed.”

***

At the western edge of the castle, Will was taking no chances and creeping very slowly beneath the outside of the southern wall, making no sound on the grass verge and staying to the shadows, invisible to anyone watching from further away. He was keeping his eyes on the vessel that had moored up a few minutes ago. He counted eleven men when they had dashed across the roadway one by one and now stood waiting outside the main entrance, fifty meters up from his position, half-hidden by a gorse bush. He advanced slowly, making as little sound as he could manage, his feet crunching on the loose pebbles if he wasn’t careful. It was slow going.

When he had heard the explosions and firefight, he crouched down paralysed for a few minutes. He was unarmed and stood little chance against trained former policemen with weapons. His best chance was likely to be stealth, trying to sneak up on one of the men and disarm him, take his weapon, take down some more from the rear where they would least expect it. He thought he glimpsed the man in black in the distance giving orders, but he couldn’t be sure.

He lost sight of the group as they headed inside when the drawbridge had been blown apart and now only one man stood by the entrance scanning left and right, before peering through the blast hole, trying to see what was going on inside.

Will crept closer. He was no more than thirty meters away and recognized the man guarding the entrance. He was a spotty youth, seventeen at most. Will fancied his chances and readied himself to pounce. He was a dozen footsteps away when Will’s boot slipped on a rock.

The kid whipped his head round, a look of surprise and panic, reaching down to his semi-automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, glancing down to flick the safety off before bringing it up to bear. It was as if the next few milliseconds were in slow motion. Will threw himself the last few meters, lunging at the weapon, trying to knock it from his grasp. The boy fumbled with the safety catch but was a fraction of a second too slow. The gun fired just as Will’s lead hand knocked it sideways, the bullet passing harmlessly through the fabric of his shirt. He wrestled the gun from the boy’s hands and brought the butt down heavily against the side of his head, knocking the youth out cold.

Will searched the boy’s pockets and found a torch and two more clips. He stuffed them in his trouser pocket and climbed through what remained of the gate and drawbridge. In front of him were two more of them, standing in the courtyard, facing away from him, guarding the entrance, unaware of his approach. One of them turned his head and he recognized his guard from the hospital, responsible for many of the beatings and blows he had suffered. The other man he had seen at the pub. Will’s lip curled into a snarl, as he squeezed off a short burst from the hip at close range, knocking both of them off their feet, propelling one forwards against the wall. He paused to watch the startled look in their eyes, enjoying their pained expressions as they writhed on the ground, before stepping over them, into the courtyard.

He stood with his back against the wall, beneath the window to the guardhouse, considering his next move. A face appeared at the window behind him before darting out of sight again, a blur of red hair still just visible. Will smiled, struggling to contain a laugh. It had to be Scottie. There couldn’t be more than a hundred people left alive in the world with hair like that. He put his face close to the glass and whispered quietly. “Scottie, is that you?”

Scottie recognized the South African accent and voice instantly, but sat gawping, not believing his ears. “Will? Will, is that really you?”

“Who else would it be you giant sporran? Get this door open will you and get out here. I need your help.”

There were a few seconds of loud scraping and thumps as Scottie moved the desk and cabinet out of the way. The key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Scottie’s beaming smile greeted Will and they hugged each other.

“Right, laddie. Time to get our own back.”