The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (23 page)

Tommy didn’t look so sure. “Yeah and pigs might fly too. I reckon they’re here to steal all our women, drink our warm beer and eat all our food. Don’t worry Liz, I’m sure they’ll leave yours well alone.”

Liz belted Tommy with the back of her hand and he fell backwards off his stump, clutching the side of his face. “Hey, there’s no need for violence, woman.”

“That’ll learn you, big mouth,” said one of the others.

Tommy jumped back to his feet and dusted himself down, glaring at Liz. He gestured that he was watching her.

Greta stretched her pale thin arms high above her head, sweater pulled tight across her chest, yawning loudly and very deliberately. She looked longingly in Scottie’s general direction. “Right, think I’ll turn in. You coming?”

Tommy made to go with her but she wagged her finger. “Not you Tommy. Scottie?”

“Can’t. Not tonight. I’ve drawn the short straw. On watch with this reprobate. I’ll come and tuck you in when I’m done.”

“Go on then,” said Liz getting to her feet a little slowly, clutching her back from a hard day in the kitchen, preparing meals. “Early start tomorrow, best turn in and leave you boys to it.”

“Night Liz, night Greta. See you ladies in the morning,” said Scottie.

The two women wandered off into the darkness towards the old castle keep, leaving the remaining group following them with their eyes. A door slammed and Nathan appeared out of the gloom heading towards them from the canteen, jangling a large bunch of keys. Tommy smuggled his can of lager behind a trouser leg to avoid it being seen. Nathan didn’t approve of drinking, particularly when someone was on duty.

“Right Scottie, Tommy, we’re all locked up. Everyone’s accounted for. The castle is yours. Try and keep it together out there tonight, yeah? No sleeping on duty and no messing about.” He checked his clipboard, angling the paper towards the light to read the rota. “You’re on till two and then Roger and Simon are next on after you. Remember, perimeter walk every half hour, one of you stays at the main gate at all times. Here are the keys to the castle.”

“I’ve always wanted to say that. These are quite literally the ‘keys to the castle’. You know we’ve done this a hundred times before? I could walk the walls with my eyes closed.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, you sleep walking again,” joked Scottie.

“Like to see you try,” came a voice from the group round the fire.

“No trouble. I could get round the place with my eyes closed. How much do you want to bet?” boasted Tommy.

“Gentlemen, please. Just do your jobs properly, just this once. No messing around, no backchat, just try and behave like professionals. Please?” implored Nathan.

The pair of them burst out laughing. “Aw, we’re only joshing with you Nathan. We’ll do our best, don’t you worry. We’re a crack team, we are, ain’t we Scottie? The A team. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Batman and Robin, Bonnie and Clyde, you name it, that’s us,” said Tommy.

“Bonnie was a woman ya giant dunderhead,” corrected Scottie.

“OK enough already,” said Nathan growing tired of their levity. “Right I’ll leave you to it. Just do your duty please. No heroics, no pranks, Tommy. The castle is yours. Look after it. And keep your eyes peeled for the
Nipper
and Zed’s team. They might put in a late appearance. Unlikely, but you never know.”

“Oh we will, won’t we Tommy? Come on, let’s go grab our stuff.”

The two of them said their goodbyes and left the rest of the group to enjoy the remains of the fire. Scottie put his arm around Tommy, but he pushed him away. They meandered unevenly towards the armoury to collect a rifle each and the flare gun just in case of emergencies. No doubt it would be another quiet night, uneventful like all the others, but better to be safe than sorry.

Chapter forty-three

The first R.I.B with Copper and his men was making steady progress up the channel. With Trevor at the wheel, he was keeping the engine’s propellers turning over as quietly as possible. The wind had died down, but there was still just enough breeze to disperse what little noise they were making. The seventy-five horse twin Yamaha outboard engines were on impulse power only, driving them forwards against the incoming tide which was slackening by the minute as it neared high-water.

Copper was worried about the noise of the engine. Surprise was critical. Their plans depended on the five-man team getting over the wall and making their way to the main gate on the northern side of the fortifications to knock out the guards and secure the entrance for the main attack group who would be waiting for their signal. They had been through the plan so many times already. When Copper closed his eyes he had a mental map of the castle. He’d been there once before with his then girlfriend, a local girl who he’d met on a double date. It had been her suggestion, a boat trip from Keyhaven and a walking tour of the castle. It had rained the whole day and they cut their losses and made a cursory tour of the battlements. They saw the museum and displays, walked round the original castle dating from the 16th century, took the early ferry home and had fish and chips on the village green at Milford. He couldn’t remember her name. Sarah or Serena, something like that. It didn’t matter now, she was likely dead long ago, along with all the rest.

He berated himself for his wandering thoughts and got his mind back on the job at hand. If what Will had told them was to be trusted, they could expect only limited resistance. Two guards, lightly armed. It would be a turkey shoot. Once they had the two girls, Adele and Stella, together with the Hurst leaders, the rest were expendable. They didn’t need more mouths to feed. They might keep a few alive to take back as guinea pigs for their medical trials, but the wards were mostly full. They had all the human specimens they needed. Still, if there were young women amongst them, they might spare them, take a few back to keep the men entertained. Their nights were long and empty after all. Play it by ear, that’s what he’d do. He was trusted to make his own decisions, keep or kill.

As they passed a line of yachts on river moorings, the rhythmic throbbing and gurgling from the engines grew louder, echoing momentarily across the water. There was nothing they could do about it, other than cut the engines and paddle the rest of the way, but that would take them forever. The engines were a necessary evil.

Trevor was keeping to the left side of the channel, staying out of the last of the tide and keeping clear from the shallower waters marked by wooden posts every fifty yards or so, leading them out towards open water at the mouth of the Lymington river.

The R.I.B was built for coast guard use so had been well maintained with the latest equipment. It had a functioning radio, proper seating for its crew of four to six RNLI coast guards, searchlight, oars and flares. Copper’s men were relaxed but focused. None of them was particularly enjoying being on the water. There were a few green faces amongst them as the waves began to rise in the deeper waters and their craft began to pitch and yaw. The men tightly gripped the handles nearest them as they were tossed around, bouncing off waves, buffeted by the wind which seemed to strengthen now they were in open water beyond the shelter of the harbour and river estuary.

In the distance they could see the dark outline of the castle. It looked enormous, several hundred meters from end to end, more like a small citadel than a castle. Beyond Hurst spit, on the other side of the Needles channel was the Isle of Wight. A shapeless mass in total darkness, stretching as far as the eye could see, punctuated by the Needles rocks, like giant jagged teeth facing Christchurch bay. The land mass was shielding them from the worst of the waves and the wind, blowing in from the Channel Islands, Cherbourg peninsula and France. The remnants of the earlier storm had blown itself out in the churned up waters of the English Channel.

For a moment, the wind seemed to pick up again, gusting and swirling. Trevor pushed the throttle further forward to power them across the waves. Every few seconds, a new torrent of water broke against the bow of the boat, soaking the men at the front with spray. The pitch of the engine note changed slightly, lost against the sound of their wash and waves. They turned their faces away from the wind, bracing themselves each time the boat pitched into a wave. In a few minutes their clothes and equipment were soaked. The men licked salt from their lips, as water sloshed around their feet, making the floor slippery.

The castle came closer into view and they could make out the battlements and towers of the old fort and outline of the lighthouse towering over the encampment, set back behind. There seem to be a dull orange glow from inside the castle walls, which Copper guessed was from a campfire. He smiled to himself, thinking practically about the impact that would have on the defender’s night vision.

Rounding the Hurst headland, they kept their distance. They stayed in the main channel around two hundred yards off shore, fighting against wind and current now, where the incoming tide was constricted by Hurst spit and funnelled over rocks in the western entrance to the Solent. Copper’s men shrank down and stayed as low as their bulky equipment and weapons allowed. Only Trevor remained upright, keeping his eyes focused on the shoreline. His senses were alert, ever vigilant for any waves breaking against obstructions in the water, buoys, posts, or fishing nets. He was fairly sure there were no sea defences installed by the Hurst crew to protect against shore landings by an invading force. Trevor checked his bearings and pointed the bow of the R.I.B towards their landing area, nudging Copper to make sure he was happy for them to head in. Peering over the bow of the boat, Copper had one final scan of the beach and the battlements but saw no one. Safe to proceed.

Despite what they knew of Hurst’s defences, they had all agreed that it would be unwise to underestimate their adversaries tonight. They would be well organized and posed a significant threat. A threat that needed eliminating once and for all. One side of Copper’s mouth curled upwards, he was looking forward to getting his own back on the Hurst group. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold. Trevor killed the engines and they surfed in the rest of the way to the beach.

Chapter forty-four

Will was fairly sure that he was not being followed. He had remained hidden, gasping for breath behind an abandoned truck along the water front near the sailing club, or what was left of it. It was little more than a burnt out shell, ravaged by fire and the winter storms. The car park was part waterlogged, scattered with abandoned vehicles, still waiting for their owners to return to pick them up. Most were rusting heaps, their batteries long since flat and their ignitions dead. They were of no use to Will.

On the grass beside a band stand and ornamental pond he noticed a large mound, with black plastic sheeting flapping in the breeze. He squinted trying to discern its shape and purpose in the darkness. With a shudder of realization, he recognised it as man-made. A stack of bodies, collected from the houses that lined the riverside, ready for collection and disposal by clean-up crews who never arrived. Perhaps they themselves had succumbed to the sickness. After all this time, he recognized the faint stench of decay, of bodies left to rot and decompose above ground. A feast for rats.

He turned away, his chest still heaving and slumped down on a bench, keeping his eyes fixed on the road behind him where he had run from. There were no footsteps, no movement, no torchlights searching out their quarry. Why hadn’t they followed him? Wasn’t it obvious he would head this way, making for Hurst? His thighs were burning from the exertion of jogging the short distance from the town quay. He had kept to side streets as much as possible. Either he had given the men from the hospital the slip, or else, they had decided it no longer mattered whether he lived or died. He had served his purpose already and sooner or later they would have killed him, of that he had little doubt.

Will was just getting his breath back and ready to start jogging again when he spotted something unexpected. Tucked behind a boat trailer, half buried under some race buoys, coiled polypropylene rope and other nautical paraphernalia were the handlebars of a bicycle. His hands were still tied behind his back though, so he debated whether it was worth burning time here to try freeing his hands to get the bike out or whether he should continue on foot.

For three long minutes, half crouching, he gyrated his whole body up and down, rubbing his wrists against some rusted metal on the trailer. The backs of his hands were raw from the friction and incessant scraping, but eventually with a final grimace and a gasp of elation, the plastic ties broke and he pulled his hands free. He massaged his shoulders and biceps, and started to relax a little, manipulating his painful fingers to restore full circulation. He levered the trailer upright, dragged the bicycle out from its hiding place, and let the trailer crash down behind it. He looked round him half expecting to see a dozen men racing his way, but there was silence, other than the faint sound of rigging tapping against masts.

The bike was in poor condition. It had two flat tires and was missing its saddle. It looked like someone had discarded the bike here with good reason, its frame rusted, but intact. He swung his leg over and tested the pedals. The chain squeaked round, crying out for some lubrication. The brakes were non-existent or missing, he couldn’t tell in the darkness. Compared to running another ten kilometres, the bike was better than nothing, but only just.

He pushed off, wobbling unevenly down the tarmac surface before picking up speed and getting some improved stability. He didn’t risk going through the gears and peddled slowly on the rims at little more than walking pace. Passing the last of the boats in their cradles, beached like whales stranded by a falling tide, he left the boatyard behind him. He maneuvered the bike through a kissing gate, lifting the back wheel through. Beyond, the asphalt path stretched out ahead of him. The Lymington river on his left, moonlight reflecting off its undulating surface.

He picked up his speed a little and quickly lost control, veering to the right down the bank and ending up in a watery ditch. He picked himself up, relieved to find himself unhurt, his left side coated with what felt like mud but smelled worse. The fetid water reeked of methane and sewage. He wheeled the bike back up the bank, and noticed the chain was hanging loose. He stood there alone in the darkness shouting obscenities. A pair of birds nesting in the gorse and bushes below him was sent fluttering into the night. He wasted a couple of minutes trying to get the chain back on, but couldn’t see anything, feeling the teeth of the gear wheels with his fingers. He tried to relocate the chain manually, but each time, the tension was too loose and the chain fell straight back off. He tried one last time, kneeling down, the back wheel between his thighs to get a better angle and managed to spin the tyre before the chain could come loose again. With a sigh of relief, he straddled the frame, standing high on the pedals and pushed off once more.

The footpath meandered across the mudflats, jagging left away from Hurst before looping round across a small tidal lock with a gate at each end. He caught his first sight of the castle in the distance. He was still some way away, perhaps as far as five kilometres. It looked like a slumbering beast, a dragon, smoke just visible rising from the western end. He picked up the pace again, making sure to stick to the middle of the path, beginning to get the hang of being on a bike for the first time in years, albeit one with no tyres.

The footpath eventually re-joined a narrow single-lane road at Keyhaven. He recognized the small quay, low buildings of the sailing club and car park beyond. Keeping the water on his left hand side, he cycled down the lane nearest the salt marshes that led out towards the shingle spit and tidal road that flooded in spring tides. The roadway was littered with seaweed and other detritus.

The bicycle would be useless on shingle so he dumped it in a bush near the footbridge just in case he needed it again. He started running, his feet slipping on the loose pebbles, reducing his progress to a fast walk only. In the distance, he could see Hurst. He was so close now. A short walk, no more than a mile or so and he would see his old friends, to warn them, providing he was not already too late.