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

  Wildfire

  by Robin Crumby

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter One

  “He who is far off will die by the plague,

  and he who is near will fall by the sword,

  and he who remains and is besieged will die by the famine. Thus will I spend my wrath on them.”

  Ezekiel 6:11–12

  The days had grown noticeably shorter. As autumn gave way to winter, darkness fell earlier. For those who clung to survival, the nights proved long, damp and cold. When the rains came, they seemed to last for several days at a time, washing the earth clean.

  Word had spread far and wide. People came from all over the south of England, desperate to escape the Millennial Virus and the chaos of the mainland. They joined lines of refugees said to stretch for miles, waiting patiently for their turn to make the crossing.

  The Isle of Wight had become a sanctuary. For those fortunate enough to clear quarantine, a land of plenty awaited, complete with fresh water, shelter and secure food supplies. The dull fluorescence visible at night from the mainland confirmed the rumours that they had got power back online. If they could do that, what else was possible?

  The reality was a little starker. Camp Wight was an ambitious reconstruction project, a safe zone under military control. Naval patrols were tasked with preventing unauthorised access. Strict controls remained in force. Smugglers and people traffickers were routinely intercepted, their vessels sunk. Operating under impossible conditions, the allies were doing their best to take back control.

  For all the hype, the island was at least free of the virus. Riley and the other survivors relocated from Hurst Castle could attest to that. That was not to say this was any kind of ‘new paradise on Earth’, as religious leaders had claimed. The island certainly hadn’t flowed with milk and honey. In the political and moral vacuum that followed the breakdown, survivors grasped for new meaning. The Church and State were only too happy to oblige.

  Those who feared for the future and yearned for the past found this approximation of freedom somehow disturbing. Like a funfair hall of mirrors, everything seemed distorted. Most had already come to terms with compromise. New arrivals traded their freedom for a fresh start. The allies promised security in return for blood, sweat and tears. In a wasteland of hope, Camp Wight offered renewal and purpose.

  ****

  Riley hobbled out of the rear doors of the Freshwater Bay Hotel, limping painfully towards the weathered bench seat which had become her favoured spot, overlooking the cliffs to the east towards the southerly point of the island. The bullet wound to her calf was taking an age to heal. She was at least mobile now, thanks to Sam. He had fashioned her a crutch from a broken broom handle recovered from the outbuildings at the hotel.

  “I made it for you,” Sam had said warmly, his hollow cheeks a sign that he had not been himself lately as he waited anxiously for news of Jack.

  “What would I do without you?” She ruffled his mop of blonde hair, pulling him in for a hug, noticing his sadness. “We all miss him, Sam.”

  “If anything’s happened to Jack, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  She noticed Sam repeatedly clenching his fists, staring at his shoes. She tried to reassure him. “Stay positive. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “It’s not like him though. He would have sent a message by now. Someone somewhere must know where he is.”

  She had been worried about Sam for the last few days. He was bottling up all his anger, refusing to talk about how he was feeling, like a powder-keg waiting to explode.

  Riley and the others had settled into their new life on the island with mixed emotions. They had their work cut out to restore the hotel at Freshwater Bay from a near derelict structure into something they could call home. The main building was sizeable but weather-beaten, stripped of furnishings by rival groups living nearby. Over the last few days, they had begun to scavenge beds and mattresses from the local area, doing their best to make the place habitable before winter set in.

  They had much to be grateful for. This was a prime site in the west of the island. Set atop steep-sided chalk cliffs, the village of Freshwater was surrounded by farmland on one side and ocean on the other. She told everyone that she would never get tired of the views out across the English Channel, but privately, Riley acknowledged that the hotel was a poor substitute for the bleak beauty and high walls of Hurst Castle. They were all so vulnerable here.

  “We should never have let Captain Armstrong take the castle,” lamented Sam.

  “We didn’t have a choice. It was the only way of making the Solent safe. You know that,” said Riley, stroking his arm. She would never admit it to Sam, but Jack had much to answer for.

  No one liked the idea of giving up the castle. In the end, Captain Armstrong had left them little choice. Jack’s hand had been forced. The allies needed Hurst to secure the western approaches to the Solent. Riley shook her head thinking back to the hardships they had endured to transform that place from a decrepit museum into a vibrant working community.

  They had been happy at Hurst, living a simple, sustainable existence. Trading with other survivor groups, working the land, rebuilding lives, they had become a tight-knit group, pulling together. Now all that was gone, torn from their hands by Briggs and King.

  Riley felt a lump in her throat, remembering what Briggs had done to Zed; torturing him until he told them what he knew. His inhuman screams had shaken her to the core.

  “We’ve got to put the past behind us. Focus on the future. That’s what Jack would have wanted us to do. We all need to look forward.”

  “You talk about him as if he’s already dead.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. Listen, all I’m saying is that Jack would have wanted us to keep busy. Winter’s coming, and there’s so much to do. We need to get on. We can’t wait for Jack. We’ll need food, water, and wood to burn.”

  She pointed at her leg and grimaced. “I just
wish there was more I could do to help.”

  With Jack still absent, the other members of the Hurst council had rallied, but it still felt like their beating heart had been ripped out. As the days went by, her worst fears about Jack were playing out. No one knew for sure what had happened to him. They assumed he had been captured but, secretly, Riley feared he was already dead.

  Riley had been one of Jack’s fiercest critics, but now he was gone, she quietly missed his pragmatism. For all his faults, he had brought unity to the group. Without him, she worried their fragile harmony could fracture. A thirst for revenge would be irrepressible for Sam and those most loyal to Jack.

  “Has there been any word from Zed?” asked Sam.

  “Not yet. I’m sure he’ll send news when he can.”

  Since Zed left for the new research station at St Mary’s, Riley had grown increasingly frustrated, eager to follow him across the island to keep her promise. It still seemed improbable that Zed’s daughter could have survived. The unexpected letter from Ryde Boarding School had confirmed that she had been evacuated from the mainland, along with all the other unaccompanied children separated from their families.

  “I’ll ask the soldiers in town if they’ve heard anything, okay?” said Riley.

  Sam nodded and sloped off with his hands in his pockets. Riley shouted after him.

  “If you find Tommy, you tell him that Liz has a whole list of jobs with his name on.”

  “He’ll be fishing on the beach.”

  Riley watched Sam go before hobbling round to the front steps of the hotel to wait for her ride into town. Will emerged from one of the outbuildings, wheeling the largest of the communal bicycles. Even with the saddle up as high as it would go, it was still too small for his enormous frame. A narrow trailer cart was hitched behind.

  Will held out his arm for Riley to steady herself as she removed her rucksack and lowered herself awkwardly into the trailer. He pushed off, standing up on the pedals, crashing through the gears until he picked up speed. With a bump, they bounced through the water-filled potholes that marked the short tarmac drive. It was an ungainly way to travel. At least she could get out and about to see what was going on.

  On the main road into Freshwater, the military had set up a barricade, guarded day and night. The whole island remained under special measures. Freedom of movement was strictly limited to anyone with a military pass.

  Each evening, like clockwork, a siren sounded to mark the beginning of the nightly curfew on the island. Anyone foolish enough to be caught wandering after dark was routinely rounded up. To many, the fences, barricades and curfews made it feel like an island prison camp, a distorted version of liberty.

  Will supported Riley over to a wooden bench by the old Freshwater Lifeboat station. Sheltered from the wind, it was a pleasant spot to watch the world go by. She studied the notices and signs pinned to a community notice board. Locals and new arrivals searching for friends or loved ones. Scraps of paper carrying drawings and messages fluttered in the wind. The handwriting was hard to make out, its ink smudged and discoloured by the elements.

  A commotion at the checkpoint drew their attention. The first of a convoy of red double-decker buses crested the hill and rolled to a halt before the barricade. Each of the buses was covered in colourful graffiti that Riley recognised from elsewhere in her travels. These stylised words and symbols were used by local groups to mark their territory.

  One of the guards approached the convoy, his arm raised. Riley noticed his partner draw his sidearm, covering their approach. From a distance, Riley could still hear the diesel engines panting noisily. The engine housing at the back rattled, its rusting exhaust belching fumes into the morning air like some primitive machine.

  The double doors hissed open and the driver emerged with a clipboard, followed by a soldier in uniform. The military men saluted each other. They seemed in no particular hurry to execute their duties, handing out cigarettes. Riley watched with interest, wondering whether she might recognise any of the new arrivals. After the news about Zed’s daughter, they all secretly hoped friends or relatives might be next. So many people had been displaced in their attempts to make it here. The refugees were said to come from all over the south of England.

  The driver finished his cigarette before climbing back onboard the bus. He revved his engine, thick smoke billowing into the air. The bus rolled forward through the raised barrier into Freshwater and, after a short delay, the rest of the convoy followed. Through the steamed-up top deck windows, Riley could make out dozens of expectant faces, eager to start their new lives on the island.

  Each bus began disgorging passengers. The new arrivals stood squinting into the light, taking deep breaths of clean, sea air. One by one, the man with the clipboard called forward small groups and directed them in turn to designated accommodation. They set off up the road, staggering under the weight of all their worldly possessions. On their backs were rucksacks stuffed with spare clothes, sleeping bags and pots and pans, like ramblers setting off on some camping adventure.

  Studying their grimy faces, some of them seemed almost shell-shocked, like returning veterans from the Western Front, struggling to readjust to civilian life. Perhaps the horrors were still fresh in their minds. The residual guilt of survival.

  A shrill voice from the last bus interrupted the sombre procession. A woman in a headscarf and black overcoat was gesticulating at the soldiers. They seemed to straighten as she advanced towards them. Something about her gait and manner was familiar.

  Riley blinked, widening her eyes. She hadn’t worn her glasses for some time and had gotten used to being short-sighted. The woman seemed to recognise Riley and changed course towards her. It was only when she was a few steps away that Riley realised who it was.

  Chapter Two

  “Riley! What on earth are you doing here?” exclaimed Sister Imelda, her cheeks flushed. She had noticed Riley’s awkward stance and the crutch resting against the bench seat.

  Riley’s face remained expressionless, struggling to hide the conflict in her emotions. “I could ask you the same thing.” She pointed up the hill towards the hotel. “We live just up there. I thought you knew.” The memory of all the unpleasant things she had wanted to say the next time she saw Sister Imelda came flooding back. The sister seemed to read her mind.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what happened back at the castle. Believe you me, I was as shocked as you were. We had no idea what Briggs would do.” She swallowed. “How many of you made it across?”

  “All but one.”

  “Jack?”

  Riley’s eyes narrowed, unsure how much the sister really knew. “I don’t suppose you can tell us what happened to him after we left?”

  “He was alive. I saw him with that other woman. She seemed to know you.”

  “You mean Terra? Yes, we know each other,” Riley retorted with thinly disguised venom.

  “I’m confused. I know Terra was captured in the attack on Osbourne House, but I got the distinct impression she was a willing participant. She didn’t seem to be under any kind of duress.”

  Riley had last seen Terra at the forest camp near Porton Down. Back then, her behaviour made Riley suspicious. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Much as she disliked Terra, Riley didn’t think she could ever be a willing party to torture and murder. What they had done to Zed was unforgivable. Terra would never allow Briggs to hurt Jack. Her Jack.

  “Sister, I’m assuming this not a social call?”

  “No. There are some rather troubling rumours about exploitation and brutality here on the island. Apparently, there have been multiple cases of people disappearing, human trafficking, slave labour, that sort of thing. Captain Armstrong asked me personally to oversee the transfer of refugees,” she boasted.

  “You’re a curious choice to act as moral arbiter,” challenged Will, overhearing their conversation.

  Sister Imelda tried her best to ignore his barbed comment but knew he wasn’t done.
/>
  “After the way you treated Joe at the Chewton Glen, the sisters’ human rights record is hardly above reproach.”

  “Those men were willing volunteers.”

  “Is that why you keep them locked up? I’d love to know what Captain Armstrong makes of your breeding programme.”

  “Actually, he’s one of our biggest advocates.”

  “I doubt that.” Will laughed at the sister’s hypocrisy.

  Riley swallowed her anger, refusing to engage with the sister on this point. “What about Stella? Where’s she now?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Not far from here, just along the coast. Over at the Royal Hotel, in Ventnor. There’s a women’s commune there. The sisters provide pastoral care and spiritual guidance to the new arrivals at Camp Four, just outside the town. That’s where most of this lot have come from.” She gestured towards the refugees. “They’ve all been assigned to the farms around here. All the skilled workers get sent to Newport, Yarmouth or Ryde. You should come and visit Stella and her little boy.”

  Riley hesitated. The sister knew full well how much Riley yearned to see Stella. After their brief time together at the Chewton Glen, she had come to think of her as an adopted sister. Riley knew the sister was twisting the knife again, playing with her emotions. Stella was so close, but with Riley’s injury and no means of transport, she might as well be a hundred miles away.

  “I’d like that very much.” She sighed. “How is baby Adam?”

  “He’s gorgeous,” Sister Imelda crooned. “Beautiful blue eyes and a good pair of lungs. There’s a nursery set up now. Thirteen newborns already this year. We’re expecting another fifteen by Christmas.”

  “So the programme is really taking shape then?”

  “Captain Armstrong had set aside the whole of Ventnor,” the sister said brightly. “We’ve set up hospitals, nurseries, you name it. In time, there will be a whole generation of children born there. Hundreds of young women are volunteering.”

  Something about the sister’s enthusiasm for the programme irked Riley. She acknowledged the need for population renewal, but a breeding programme, for heaven’s sake? Could no one else see where all this was heading? It all sounded so totalitarian.