The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst Read online

  “We have, how do you say…” paused Victor considering for a second, “established lines of communication.” He was most likely Polish or Latvian, Jack wasn’t sure, he couldn’t place the heavily accented English, other than somewhere in Eastern Europe.

  Anders took over the story, his patience with Victor’s amateur dramatics exhausted. “We have established communication with your Royal Navy at Portsmouth. Or rather what’s left of them. Out of 17,000 personnel, there are less than four hundred remaining alive, holed up like rats in the old naval dockyard. It would seem that all their weapons and fences and ships couldn’t keep the virus out. Victor here met with their leader, Captain Armstrong. He is someone we can do business with, I think.”

  “And what news from anywhere else? Are they in contact with other groups?” asked Jack hopefully.

  “He did not say,” said Victor curtly with a dismissive wave. “I did not ask. We were too busy talking about other things.” Victor leaned back in his seat, looking relaxed and smug, like the cat that got the cream.

  Anders took over again. “You tease them too much. Look, we have something, maybe, you might be interested in Jack. Something good. You want a look?”

  Jack looked intrigued and nodded. They rose as a group and Jack and Sam followed the other two men down a long narrow corridor, under strip lighting that flickered slightly. They entered a larger hold below the main deck. In boxed wooden crates, their lids already crowbarred open, lay what looked like rifles secured in grey cut-out foam to protect them in transit. Anders reached in and lifted one out. Turning it over to inspect the sights and stock, he pulled back the firing pin and inspected the empty chamber. Jack recognised them instantly from his time in the service. They were standard issue SA80s used throughout the British military. What he wouldn’t give for a few of those for the guys back at the castle, rather than farmers’ shotguns and barely-functioning museum pieces.

  “We also have ammunition, 9mm pistols, grenades and this beauty.” He reached down and patted a larger tripod mounted machine gun, with boxes of ammunition stacked next to it.

  “Quite a haul, yes?” Anders looked incredibly pleased with himself.

  “Impressive Anders. How much did that little lot cost you?” asked Jack.

  “A pretty penny. But worth it. Your Royal Navy was very willing to trade. It took a bit of persuasion of course, but they have hundreds and hundreds of weapons and no one left to fire them. They are as useless as ice cream to Eskimo. Is that the expression? Or coals to Newcastle, I like better. Meanwhile they have no, shall we say, creature comforts. Food, yes but hardly any cigarettes, drink and certainly no recreational drugs. What can I say? The Captain likes his Russian vodka. We let him have half a dozen cases, for now. And enough pills to make them forget all about the virus.”

  Jack eyed the merchandise greedily again, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But Anders, we both know he doesn’t have what I have. Fresh vegetables, bread baked this morning, home-grown apples picked yesterday from our orchard. Very hard to come by. I have your usual delivery if your men can give me a hand. It weighs a ton. And in exchange, shall we say five rifles and a couple of pistols? We’ll take as much ammunition as you can spare.”

  Anders wagged his finger. “Well, it is true, we are very fond of Hurst potatoes and cabbage. Not so much the carrots, too sweet. Makes a change from tinned vegetables. Keeps us healthy, no.” He laughed, stroking his paunch. “We grow fat and lazy here. Not like you Jack. While you work, we have little to do here but eat and drink all day long. It is very tiresome.”

  He chortled at his own joke and considered Jack’s proposal, moving his head from side to side. “But as you and me we are old friends, why don’t we say three rifles, two pistols and bullets for both. When you bring me more, we can trade again. There are plenty more where these came from. And our new friends at the Royal Navy have unlimited stores to equip a whole army. I’m sure if we asked nicely we could get you a helicopter perhaps. He has a whole store of engine parts and electrical spares. You name it. Victor has seen it. They have a set up to die for. They have a hospital, accommodation for hundreds, fences and soldiers to keep them safe, cooks and kitchens. It is sanctuary my friend. They could take all of us.”

  “So why are you still here Anders? Why did Victor come back? Sounds like you found something better. A way out of all this. A return to normality. A new start.”

  “Because…” said Anders, wagging his finger at Jack. “I do not trust him. And besides,” he went on stretching both arms wide, looking around him. ”How could I leave the Charlotte? This is my home.”

  Jack drained his cup and nodded. He knew exactly what he meant. He felt the same way about Hurst. It would take something special to make him leave his adopted home.

  Chapter Eleven

  They unloaded the share of their cargo of fresh produce that now belonged to Anders. In return they took on board the rifles, boxes of ammunition and a few other assorted items, including personal gifts from Anders. It was his ‘thing’, an indulgent and entirely sentimental act he always undertook when he knew Jack was coming. He took great care in selecting some toys for the Hurst children, whom he knew by name. Boxed Transformers for the boys, Toy Story figurines for the girls. He normally added a couple of bottles of vodka and cigarettes for the grown ups. Jack shook hands with Anders, the two of them standing on the bottom step of the stairway exchanging warm farewells. Sam uncleated the bowline and left it on a slip, ready to cast off as soon as Jack was back on board. There was a strong swell running that made the Nipper's gunwhale rise and fall two meters as each wave surged past. The small fishing boat was also lurching from side to side that made jumping the gap treacherous. Jack stood poised on the narrow platform at the foot of the stairway and waited patiently for the optimum moment when the Nipper rose up on an approaching wave. He stepped down gracefully on to the raised gunwhale and jumped the last few feet on to the deck next to some fishing nets. Sam cast off the stern and raced the length of the boat to do the same at the bow. They drifted back along the towering hull of the Charlotte, angling away and heading west, onwards on the last leg of their journey.

  Their final destination on this morning’s excursion was Spitbank and No Man’s Land forts. The two forts, passive sentinels for some one hundred and fifty years, stood guard over the shipping lanes at the Eastern end of the Solent. They were both accessible by boat from the mainland via Gosport or Portsmouth or from the Island via Ryde. Together with Hurst and the other Solent forts, they made up a formidable chain of castles, forts and shore batteries constructed during Napoleonic times to defend Portsmouth against the threat of invasion by the French. The fortifications had made this stretch of English coastline one of the most heavily defended in the world. In the end, the forts had fallen victim not to attack but to the advance of naval weaponry. Modern, longer-range cannon, not to mention the advent of peace, had combined to ensure the forts' obsolescence, soon after completion.

  Today, the forts stood isolated and windswept. Yet they had lost nothing of their imposing grandeur.

  Like Hurst, the inaccessibility of Spitbank and No Man’s Land was both a tonic and a boon to the survivor groups that occupied them. On one hand, the forts provided a sanctuary from the chaos and disorder that had befallen towns and villages on the mainland. On the other, their inaccessibility was a curse.

  The occupants of the forts had watched the events on the mainland unfold with a strange detachment. Huddling round their single working radio set, they listened to the news reports of spreading sickness and widespread rioting from the relative safety of the forts. It all reminded the older members of the group of the Blitz, so many years before. They shook their heads with growing concern until, several days later, all live broadcasts ceased transmission. Recorded public safety announcements were all that remained on a loop, telling people to stay indoors. When the power grid failed, all they heard was white noise.

  Fuel for the forts' generators ran dangerously lo
w, and was held in reserve for winter. When the oil ran out, they became wholly dependent on scavenging trips for fuel and food. Their first choice was to head to the island where the lower population density made things a little safer, though not much. Scavenging trips to Portsmouth and Gosport were more lucrative but considered too dangerous. Their occupancy numbers had dwindled as supplies grew increasingly scarce, driving many away. Today, only a small group could be sustained at both sites, of some twenty or thirty souls each.

  Jack stopped first at No Man’s Land and stood on the Nipper’s foredeck exchanging pleasantries with Shannon, who ran things here. He had known her for many years. Formerly a café owner from Cowes, she had led a party to No Man’s Land shortly after the outbreak.

  Sam secured the large lifting hook from the pulley to the last of the sacks in the stern while a young man at the top waved and hoisted away. During the first part of its ascent, Sam held the sack steady as it swung out over the water in the light breeze. A grey foam clung to the lower rungs of the ladder. Waves lapped rhythmically against the base of the fort, alternately exposing and covering the green and brown seaweed that clung to the stone. When the last of the sacks was lifted off the deck, they lowered two large fuel drums full of diesel and a small Kawasaki portable generator being offered in exchange before casting off. Jack steered the Nipper the short distance to Spitbank, as a strengthening wind drove them onwards.

  They had made this trip a dozen times. The Nipper came surging up to the rusted iron and steel stairwell that stretched from the very top of the wall and plunged fifteen feet into the murky depths below the water line. The waves here rolled in from the Channel smashing against the stone and sloshing between the supporting columns. At the last minute, Jack jammed the engine astern and the Nipper slowed abruptly to a complete stop, two or three feet from the platform. Sam looped a line round an iron ring as the boat began drifting back on the tide.

  Spitbank fort was circular in shape. Its thick stone walls were reinforced with iron, built to withstand cannon fire from the marauding French. Its own gun ports now stood vacant and bricked up, where cannon would have faced seawards to provide covering fire.

  Jack reached up at head height and heaved himself off the Nipper, climbing the stairwell towards the main entrance set thirty feet clear of the waves. He stopped mid-way up to look back and admire the Nipper from above. The reinforced glass in her small wheelhouse reflected the morning sun as she wallowed in the light swell. Sam was busy tidying ropes and putting out extra fenders to protect the bow against riding up and scraping against the jetty.

  At the top of the stairwell, Jack found the place deserted, its heavy doors closed to visitors. He had grown used to a welcome party, half a dozen smiling faces, waving as they approached the fort. There were around thirty of them at the last count, four of five families, a few children he had grown fond of. Nice bunch, Jack thought to himself. This morning there were no children’s faces pressed to the glass, no look out in the main building, nothing. Perhaps they were all inside having a late breakfast, he wondered.

  He tried the door handle but found it locked. Where was everyone? He cupped his hands to the glass trying to peer inside, scanning for movement. He tried to wipe the salt and spray from the glass but it was condensation on the inside. He rattled the door and banged forcefully to get their attention, listening at the glass for the sound of footsteps. The dark shape of a woman near the door startled him as she rose slowly from the shadows, adjusting her hair and wiping tears from her eyes.

  She was no more than thirty, but looked older, her face weathered, pressed up close, her breath hot against the glass. Jack recognised her instantly. Susan, or Susie, as he liked to call her. Her appearance was altered. She looked pale and drawn, dried up tears had left dirty tracks down her face. Her eyes were dull and lifeless.

  The reinforced glass of the window was built to withstand the worst of the winter storms, thick enough to muffle her voice. He cupped his ear, trying to make out what she was saying against the waves and wind swirling around him, lip-reading mostly. Her words sent an icy chill down Jack’s spine. She repeated them shaking her head until he understood. “I can’t let you in Jack.”

  Jack gulped and took an involuntary step back. “When did this happen?”

  “Last week. One of the children got it first, we’re not sure how. Little Grace coughed all night and the following morning, two more had come down with it. We were too slow Jack, we didn’t isolate them fast enough.” She shook her head and the tears started again. “In three days, half of us had it and by then it was too late. It spread so fast.”

  “I’m so sorry Susie. Is there anything we can do for you? We have food and supplies.”

  “Save it,” she said bitterly, forcing a smile. “Don’t waste it on us.”

  She pressed her moist palm to the glass and looked mournfully into Jack’s eyes. He put his own hand up to mirror hers. The glass was cold, but he thought he could feel the faint warmth of her skin on the other side.

  “Pray for us. But don’t come back.” she called out, her voice breaking with emotion.

  Jack managed a weak smile, “We will,” he mouthed, nodding his head gently. He turned, closed his eyes for a moment and then hurried away.

  At the top level of the platform, before he left, he scratched a large skull and crossbones with his knife into the stone, to warn others never to approach this cursed place again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Picking their way along the main road at walking pace, rounding abandoned cars and other detritus that littered their path, Zed cursed under his breath. The bulky Mitsubishi Land Cruiser in front was carrying Mila and Riley and bumped heavily over some loose rubble. With a loud hiss, their back right tyre deflated. The Mitsubishi rumbled over to the side of the street and stopped, scraping on its rims.

  Zed pulled in behind them and switched off the Land Rover’s ignition. He leaned forward over the steering wheel and peered out of the windscreen up at the buildings to the left of them. It was a row of suburban houses on the outskirts of town that overlooked what would once have been tidy flowerbeds full of roses and hydrangea bushes and manicured lawns. Today, those same gardens were an impassable tangle of weeds and bushes, grass growing lush and long. Zed shook his head. “Not good, not good at all,” he muttered to himself. Sean sat beside him in the front passenger seat of the Land Rover, looked back at him puzzled.

  “So what?” he said shrugging his shoulders, unfazed by this latest set back. “We got a spare, yeah? We fix it and be on our way. It’ll take ten minutes. Tops.”

  Zed shook his head. “Not here. Not now. In broad daylight? It’s too dangerous. If that convoy comes past again we’ll be sitting ducks.”

  He jumped out of the car and closed the driver’s door quietly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. They were vulnerable here and needed to get moving fast. Riley was already out inspecting the damage, her hands on hips, shaking her head.

  Zed got down on his hands and knees and felt round the circumference of the tyre feeling for a hole. He found it quickly. There was a large gash made by a fallen piece of sharp masonry and glass, some of which was still lodged in the gash. He picked out a couple of smaller shards and dropped them clinking on the tarmac. He sat back on his haunches scratching the back of his head.

  Sean stood behind him. “What do you want to do boss? Fix it or dump it and come back later when it’s dark?”

  “We leave it some place safe and come back for it. There’s a lock up round the corner we can use, nice and quiet. Transfer all the gear to the Land Rover and we carry on.”

  “You sure about this Zed?” asked Riley. “With what happened to Bob and Will. Now this? It’s not our lucky day, eh? I say we cut our losses and come back tomorrow and start again.”

  “I’m not leaving Will out here. We find out where they took him and then we make the call.” He un-holstered his revolver and put another couple of rounds from his breast pocket into the empt
y chambers. He span the wheel and snapped it shut with a tilt of his wrist. A boyish grin illuminated his face. Life felt better with a loaded gun. “Boys and their toys,” mocked Riley. Zed looked back at her, his head cocked to one side. “We owe it to Will to at least try, don’t we? You’d do it for me right Riley?” he smirked. Riley shook her head and walked away. They both knew the answer.

  Mila and Sean helped transfer their gear to the other vehicle. Cardboard boxes and rucksacks were packed full of the stuff they had scavenged from this morning’s house searches. It was food mostly, plus a few other assorted items, CDs, books and tools. The back of the Land Rover was packed to bursting. They had stacked a couple of boxes on the back seat, making things a little cramped when they all climbed back in, shoulders touching. Sean was suddenly aware of the warmth of Mila’s wrist resting on his thigh. Her hand was trembling ever so slightly. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. She looked deep into his eyes and whispered “I’m scared Sean.” He forced a smile to reassure her. “We’ve been in worse scrapes than this. We’ll be fine.”