The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (22 page)

Chapter forty-two

They had still receiving no word from Zed and the scavenging party, though it was not unheard of for them to venture further enough afield to require an overnight stay. When they still hadn’t returned, Nathan had hesitated. Protocol dictated that a search party should be mounted but with Jack, Terra and Sam also not returned, they could ill afford to send release more of the team, when in all likelihood they would be back at any moment. Unknowingly, Hurst was at its most vulnerable in some time. No additional precautions had been taken and the camp was blissfully unaware of the imminent threat to their security.

In the courtyard, Tommy tossed another log into the fire pit. The red hot ash spat sparks at his bare ankles and made him flinch. He kicked at a few wood ends with the toe of his boot where the logs had burned through in the middle, sending smoke and embers curling up into the night sky. Long shadows danced on the steep walls of the castle that towered over the small group as they sat round in a semi-circle telling stories and enjoying each other’s company.

Tommy stood staring, unblinking in to the heart of the fire. He was lost in thought for a few seconds. He reached behind him and grabbed another log from the pile of wood they had unloaded from the trailer and threw it on top. His work done, he slumped down, resuming his perch on a tree stump next to Liz and half a dozen other companions. Tommy picked up a half empty can of lager planted in the earth next to the stump and saluted the assembled company: “Cheers eh? Here’s to better food courtesy of our new American friends. Hamburgers, pizzas, hotdogs. May they save us from Liz’s cooking.”

Scottie and Greta raised their cans. Liz delivered a two-fingered response adding “Up yours, rat boy.” The assembled friends could always count on a steady back-and-forth banter between the two of them. They enjoyed what could reasonably be described as a love-hate relationship. Tommy had a rare knack of getting right under Liz’s skin and she never failed to bite, or bite back.

Scottie’s booming voice from the other side of the fire added to their toasts: “To Hurst. May Jack and Terra bring us good fortune, and, aye, better food.”

Scottie revelled in his role as Hurst’s resident entertainer and adopted star. He never failed to draw a crowd. Most evenings he would hold public readings from well-known works in the ever-expanding Hurst library. He was a genius at voices, accents and bringing the words on the page to life, in a way that captivated and mesmerized young and old. 
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
 for the youngest children before bed time, 
Harry Potter
 for the teens and even the adults would sit enthralled by readings from Dickens, Hardy or Hemmingway. Scottie was forever nagging Riley to find them more books. Books, books, books, as if that was more important than food and supplies. Riley dutifully obliged and usually brought home a paperback or two. Occasionally she found a first edition or rare tome that had Scottie stroking its cover, enthralled by dedications or author signatures. He was something of a collector.

Everything just sounded a little bit better when Scottie read it. He added a vocal range and dramatic delivery to even the most boring of roll calls and memos. He had a knack of making anything sound more interesting. It reminded Tommy of how TV commercials used to get well-known Hollywood actors like Michael Douglas or Harvey Keitel to do voice-overs.

Behind the group was a large white-washed section of the castle wall where they would project a feature film for ‘Movie Night’ every third Friday in the month, one of the more popular and social evenings at Hurst. The tradition had been made possible when one of the scavenging teams brought back an old-fashioned reel projector and two boxes of 8mm films. They had found them searching the attic of a house owned by a movie fanatic or someone working in the business. The house had been cluttered with film props and memorabilia, photos of movie stars, past and present. Scottie made a habit of collecting such trophies and had taken it upon himself to update the museum at Hurst with whatever the teams had recovered from the local area. From paintings, books, statues, even larger antiques, he considered it his life’s work to salvage art and preserve it for future generations. The walls of the museum were now adorned with old masters, a Constable together with several impressionist works from Cezanne, Monet and a Pizarro. They even had a piece by Damien Hirst, which divided opinion, but Scottie loved it all the same.

The movies they showed on those special evenings were mostly classic war movies and Westerns. There was nothing more modern in the collection, but it didn’t seem to matter. They would sit outside on milder spring or summer evenings under the stars. Lying on picnic blankets or sitting out on deckchairs late into the night, Scottie would operate the projector, changing reels to the groans of audiences. The changes always seem to come at a particularly gripping cliff-hanger moment, scrambling around to locate and mount the next reel. Tommy would never tire of the 
Magnificent Seven 
and
 The Guns of Navarone
. He knew every scene, every line, every word. He annoyed the hell out of whomever he sat next to by mouthing the words and telling people his favourite bit was just coming up.

“Remind me what we’re really celebrating?” asked Liz, who was lying on her side, toasting her toes against the blazing fire.

“Oh don’t be such a grouch. Do we really need a reason? We’re alive. Isn’t that enough? Jack’s away, I don’t know. Any excuse to get our hands on some grog eh?” joked Tommy.

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” added Scottie, lounging back against Greta’s bare legs, who was sat behind him on one of the deck chairs. Greta was tenderly stroking the back of his head and shoulders as he nuzzled his head back against her thigh.

Tommy was jealously watching their quiet intimacy. It bothered him that Scottie of all people had scored the best looking girl at Hurst. A slightly effeminate, camp Scotsman at that. There was no justice. Greta had her eyes closed, her head turned towards Liz. It looked almost like she was seeking her friend’s approval.

“Come on Liz. What do you miss about the way things were?” Scottie was always asking questions, he was good at getting people to talk. He collected not just things but stories of people’s lives before the virus. He was a master of detective work and could normally guess a person’s job before they told him. It annoyed the heck out of Tommy.

“Not much,” answered Liz. “It’s just that, well, I suppose the world is so much smaller now. Without television, without the Internet, it’s just us, cut off from the rest of the world. I kind of like that.”

“But don’t you feel a bit disconnected now?” continued Scottie. “Are you not a wee bit curious to know what’s going on out there? Don’t you miss that feeling of connectedness? I don’t know, the scope and scale of the way things were. Being part of something bigger.”

“I miss the people, that’s for sure,” said Liz. “My family, my friends. I miss stupid stuff like Sunday newspapers, taking the day to read all the supplements. I miss sitting in a pub, next to a roaring fire, drinking a half of Ringwood ale pumped by hand. I miss the Colemanballs column in
Private Eye
. So many things we just took for granted. What about you?”

“I miss going to the Rose Bowl to see Test match cricket. I appreciate that’s a wee bit odd for a Scotsman but I loved it. What’s not to like? Beer snakes, Mexican waves and the barmy army. Anyone remember beer snakes? Stewards wading into the crowd to grab ten feet high stacks of empty plastic glasses. What a sight. Ridiculous.”

They all laughed, lost in memories.

Tommy was silent staring into the fire, shapes and figures dancing in the flames. He let out a deep sigh and lamented: “I miss summer holidays to Spain with my girlfriend.”  The others blew kisses and catcalls in his direction, mocking his sentimentality.

“More like holiday with your mum,” mocked Liz.

Tommy spun round and scowled in her direction before continuing undeterred, unable to suppress a smile. “No seriously, we went this one time to Palma, Majorca. Sandy beaches, sunburned Brits, beer bellies and cheap cocktails. It was brilliant.”

“Remember just going on a plane to somewhere far away? Needing a passport? Airports? Duty free?” said Greta.

Scottie went next: “I miss live music, going to see a rock band at the O2 or Wembley stadium. Seeing Rod Stewart, U2, or Bruce Springsteen? Thousands of fans packed together, dancing, cheering, laughing?”

The group fell silent, overwhelmed by a hundred memories, each lost in their own private reverie.

Greta’s voice broke the silence and sounded fragile, fearful of the answer. “Do you think things will ever get back to the way they were?”

“Of course,” responded Scottie without hesitation. “We gotta believe that. It may take time, but it’ll happen. Maybe, things won’t be exactly the same, but come on, humans are a resilient bunch. We have faced similar threats to our way of life. Just think. The bubonic plague, Spanish flu, acts of God like earthquakes, meteor strikes, typhoons. Then there was the Holocaust, world wars, nuclear explosions, the list goes on, and somehow, I don’t know how, life finds a way.”

“Unless you’re a dinosaur, that is. They didn’t fare too well,” challenged Tommy, smirking mischievously.

“Yeah, but how many times has that happened in, like, a hundred billion years of history on this planet? A true global killer event? Once, ever? And we’re only talking about an extinction event for humans, not all the other animals and insects and life on this planet. Life goes on regardless.”

“Maybe humans are the next lemming, or dodo, driven to extinction by forces beyond their control?” added Liz.

“I doubt it,” reassured Scottie. “Human kind has a good record of triumph in the face of adversity, of overcoming all odds. It’ll be like that again. Somewhere, somehow it stands to reason that other countries are doing better than us. We can’t be the only ones to have survived and holed up somewhere safe. Maybe whole populations and countries have immunity, some gene that protects them from getting it. Or the warmer climate prevented a flu like virus from taking hold in the first place? Maybe right now there’s an armada of ships heading our way with a vaccine, a cure for the virus? You never know, right?”

“I wonder how Jack and Terra are getting on,” added Tommy, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I know they headed East towards Portsmouth again but they wouldn’t say where they were going or why.”

“It’s got to be something to do with the Americans,” reckoned Liz. “Nathan said it was all top secret and he couldn’t breathe a word about it. All sounds very mysterious.” She winked at Scottie, a playful mischief between them.

Tommy leant forward, animated and energized by something. “What if there was a whole convoy of ships heading our way right this moment? Some massive rescue mission. Maybe they’re evacuating Britain and they need our help. Typical Americans, always have to save the world.”

“Right, trust the Americans to turn up two years late.”

“Don’t go getting people’s hopes eh?” cautioned Scottie. “There’s not going to be any relief convoy. I seriously doubt there’s anyone left to rescue us. The rest of the world is probably in just as much of a mess as we are.”

“No one knows that for sure,” replied Tommy. “You can always count on the Americans to save the world. I’ve seen a lifetime of disaster movies and Will Smith always saves the day, right? And when the Americans come, they’ll do it in style. Two world wars proved that. It’s normally just when Britain’s on its knees, they show up and turn the tide.” He paused, troubled by something he remembered. It was just a feeling, a hunch really that had been nagging him. “There was something not right earlier when they turned up like that in a helicopter. Out of the blue, acting all suspicious, not telling us anything. Who do they think they are? Makes you wonder whether we’re all on the same side after all.”

“Oh, we’re on the same side alright,” asserted Scottie confidently, affecting an Alabama drawl straight from the deep south. He was reprising the role of Atticus Finch in 
To Kill a Mocking Bird
 he played a few years back, continuing in character: “Right now, there’s a whole task force en route from the US of A. Ships filled with corned beef and ketchup. Frozen steaks as big as Frisbees. Cheerleaders with pompoms on the foredeck. Jet fighters streaming red white and blue vapour trails. Ticker tape parades on the docks as they unload crate after crate of vaccine, all washed down with good ole American lite beer, flowing from every porthole.”