The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (4 page)

Chapter Seven

In the row of shops and flats across the street, the other team was finishing their sweep. They had a decent haul of tinned food, pasta, some clothes, several bottles of spirits and cans of fizzy drinks.

Will stood outside the house scanning the high street in both directions, humming a nursery rhyme about a ‘springbok jumping over the moon’ that had just popped into his head. Where had that come from? He took a long draw from a cigarette and exhaled noisily. A thin plume of smoke funnelled upwards into the grey overcast sky as his mind wandered to happier times growing up just outside Johannesburg.

He felt a long way from home. Before reaching the sanctuary of Hurst castle, Will had been holed up in a new build townhouse for a couple of months, with two other lads he had worked with on construction projects. When things started breaking down, they got out of town and drove straight to the farm. The property had been empty, mid renovation. The owners had moved out to escape the dust and disruption, living abroad in Portugal or Spain, he couldn’t remember which. Will and the others had got by, picking fruit and vegetables from the garden. They helped themselves to what they could find, dry stores in cupboards and the large walk-in larder. When one of them got sick, Will bolted wide-eyed and didn’t look back. He’d seen how quickly the sickness spread and wasn’t taking any chances. He left everything behind. He left his clothes, his mates, everything and just drove until he hit the coastal road and sat in the car with the engine running staring out to sea. He was alone again. For the first time since he had emigrated to England, he felt isolated, divorced from everything he had known. It was up to him to survive, to make a new life somewhere safe. Find other survivors and rebuild. But where? 

By chance, he had spotted headlights in the distance from Jack’s Land Rover bumping along the shingle roadway. He had followed him out to the castle after dark. He remembered his first impressions of the place. The precautions they had taken with him. Held at gunpoint, quarantined till proven fit and healthy, treated with suspicion, questioned. They were different from the other groups he’d encountered. They took no chances. He was a potential threat to their way of life. He respected that. It reminded him of back home, living in fear of car-jacking and armed robbery, HIV and infection, snakes and spiders, Crocs and Hippos. Being surrounded by danger kept your senses alert. He had never allowed himself to drop his guard. It’s what had got him this far. Survival meant finding a community, sharing resources, having others watch your back, pulling together. He didn’t want to live alone, not any more.

He had quickly found favour within the Hurst community. His practical skills with carpentry, brickwork, plumbing, and electrical were much needed by Jack and Terra. He was soon put to work and much valued for fixing things long since broken.

He had told his story many times to the other Hurst survivors sitting round the fire in the evening. His regrets at leaving the others behind, how close he’d come to contracting the virus, his relief at having escaped unharmed. He reminded them how lucky they were.

Will took another draw on the cigarette and turned his head towards the squeak of brakes and a low rumble in the distance from a diesel engine. There was an urgent tap on the window from the upstairs room from Riley gesturing to get inside. The approaching convoy navigated round the debris in the street. In the distance a delivery lorry was parked perpendicular to the road, backed up to a shop. Its doors were still open. Its driver slumped over the wheel, the windscreen shattered by a bullet. Will ducked down, his brow furrowed. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter from the top step and went back inside to warn the others, closing the door quietly behind him. Bob beckoned him over, put his finger to his lips and they both crouched under the windowsill as the convoy came into view. They could hear Riley’s footsteps on the floor above as she took up position watching the road from the upstairs bedroom.

The convoy slowed and stopped not twenty metres from where they were hiding. The lead vehicle was a top of the line Range Rover Overfinch with four male occupants. Just behind were a red transit van, a people carrier and a beaten-up old Peugeot estate car, panting noisily at the rear.

Will peeked again but ducked down quickly as the doors opened and he saw about a dozen men get out to start unloading their gear. They were well organized, heavily armed with automatic weapons. Several of them were dressed in dark combat fatigues and camouflage jackets. Shielded from view behind a white net curtain, the pair watched the group. The leader, a clean shaven man with slick brown hair, black combat trousers and a dark Barbour jacket stood talking to two others. He was giving instructions and pointing towards the shops and houses down the road.

Just then, one of the men with a machine gun slung under his arm looked over towards the house they were hiding in. He was studying the door with crow bar marks near the lock. His eyes flicked down and locked on to the still lit cigarette smouldering in the gutter. He whistled through his teeth to get the rest of the group’s attention and wandered over, scanning the first floor windows. He picked up the cigarette butt, put it to his lips and inhaled deeply before stubbing it out under a heavy boot. Pressing his face to the glass, he cupped his hands to the ground floor window, shielding the reflection and peered in. One of the other men joined him outside the house and with a silent nod from his partner he raised his rifle butt and smashed in the window.

Glass showered down onto Will and Bob. They didn’t have time to get away, falling backwards, hands hiding their faces from the glass and glare of the outside light. A rifle was now pointed at their heads by the silhouetted figure.

“Keep your hands up where I can see them. Stand up. Slowly, slowly.”

Bob and Will did exactly as they were told.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” demanded the man with the rifle. He moved further towards them, no longer haloed by the bright sunlight, so Will could get a proper look at him without squinting. He looked like a paramilitary type, wearing the same improvised uniform as the others they had observed. Probably stolen en masse from a department store or outfitters. He was heavily bearded with steely eyes slightly too close together. Will determined to appeal to his better nature, though he doubted whether this man had any vestiges of mercy left, if he had any in the first place that is.

“Please, we’re just looking for food, that’s all.” Will kept his hands behind his head, trying to remain calm and not provoke the man, feeling the blade of his knife pressed against his thigh in its leather scabbard. He wondered whether he could distract him and make a lunge for his throat.

“Where’s the rest of your group?” said the man towering over Will, pointing the rifle from one to the other. He was on edge, try to keep him calm thought Will, keep him talking.

“There’s just the two of us,” Will lied. “This is Bob and I’m Will.”

The man looked past them into the room, unconvinced. He waved to the other men to take a look inside.

Just then, the radio in Bob’s pocket crackled with static.

The man with the rifle looked disappointed, scowling at Bob, his hand outstretched. “Give me that.”

He was local Will was sure of that. He looked half familiar. Bob reluctantly passed over the radio. The guy with the rifle turned it over in his free hand. He stepped aside as he was joined by the man from the Overfinch, who was clearly their leader. He went inside the building and stood in the doorway, shaking his head at Bob and Will. The black Barbour jacket he wore looked brand new, with a crisp black shirt and tie underneath, cargo trousers and polished shoes. He looked a little like a bailiff to Will. He had the same air of menace and efficiency about him.

“Just the two of you, eh? So who’s that on the radio then?”

His voice was distinctive, educated. Will was convinced he had met him before, but couldn’t place it. He was never very good with regional accents. Somewhere up north, Mancunian was his best guess. Bob stared back, trying to think of a convincing response. “That’s not ours. I swear. We just found it.”

The man in black stared back at him, his head tilted to one side. “Don’t try my patience.” He raised the radio to his mouth and pressed the button to talk. “This is a message for the friends of Bob and Will. If you want to see them again alive, come out now and show your faces. You will not be harmed.” There was nothing but static and silence. “Last chance. I’ll count to five and then one of them dies.”

He started counting slowly, staring blankly at Will and then Bob in turn. They shifted uneasily. Bob glowered back defiantly as the count reached its conclusion.

The man raised his gun and pointed directly at Bob’s head. “Time’s up. Wherever you are, this is your last chance before one of them dies. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…”

Bob interrupted him. “Look, we’re just looking for food. Please, check the rucksacks, take what you want, just let us go.”

The man in black gestured to one of his men who rummaged in the packs and confirmed their contents. “How many of you are there? Where’s your base? Tell me, now,” he shouted, frustrated with their refusal to cooperate. He looked like the sort of person who was used to getting his own way.

Will shifted uncomfortably, chewing on his lip. Bob glared at him, cautioning him to keep quiet. The exchange of glances was not lost on the man in black. He nodded back at the man with the rifle, pointed to Bob and slid his finger across his throat before turning to leave.

Chapter Eight

The single shot was muffled but unmistakable from across the street where Zed’s team were hiding. Zed cursed loudly and shook his head.

“Goddamit. We can’t risk going over there. There’s too many of them,” he whispered, peering through the shaft of light between the curtains. “It’s too dangerous.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing,” said Mila angrily.

“Listen to me. You two are not going to do anything. Think about it. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Best-case scenario? They’re bluffing and trying to lure us out. Worst case, we come out guns blazing and take a few of them with us, we all get captured or we all die. It’s lose-lose. This way, we live to fight another day, we manage our losses. So we sit tight and wait this out. Am I clear?”

Mila scowled at him. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t have a better plan. She knew he was right. Maybe just maybe, they were bluffing and they would take the others back to their camp alive.

Across the street, the door opened and Will was marched out towards the people carrier, his hands behind his back. There was no sign of the others. The men loaded up their gear again together with Will and Bob’s rucksacks, took a final look around the street before climbing back into the vehicles and the convoy pulled slowly away.

Zed waited five minutes to make sure no one had stayed behind and then stole across the street. Inside, he met Riley coming down the stairs. “Where’s Bob?” she said, her concern manifest in her face and body language, fearing the worst.

On the living room floor, Bob’s body lay prone. There was a perfectly round dark hole in the middle of his forehead. A circle of blood stained the carpet spreading slowly outwards. Zed rubbed his chin and put his head in his hands. “There was nothing we could do Riley.”

“What about Will? Where’s Will?” said Riley anxiously, the colour draining from her face.

“They took him,” said Zed leaning out the window and looking right back down the street where the convoy had headed. “But don’t worry, I’ve a good idea where they’re taking him.”

Chapter Nine

Jack grabbed the last of the sacks. It was heavier than the previous dozen. With Sam’s help, they cradled the load between them walking sideways, cheeks puffed out the rest of the way down the pontoon towards the fishing boat. Its engines were throbbing rhythmically, ready to leave, water spurting from the engine outlet every few seconds. They stowed the last sack, brim-f of potatoes and carrots, with the others. They were neatly tucked in rows, made fast with a frayed rope under the bulwark at the square stern. They hauled a large blue tarpaulin tight over the top to keep their cargo dry and stop it from sliding with each roll of the waves, not to mention the wind and weather on this morning’s voyage.

Jack looked up at the grey skies, his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of dark clouds threatening in the southeast, bringing squalls and rain. Nothing to get excited about, mind you. He was experienced enough as a skipper never to underestimate a storm and its ability to create havoc even in the sheltered waters of the Solent.

Fishing boat
 Nipper
 cast off and angled away from the jetty heading out under full engine into the deeper waters of the marked shipping channel. They made towards their first port of call just a few miles away east towards Cowes. Looking south towards the Isle of Wight, they passed Fort Albert, converted into luxury apartments several decades ago but unsuitable to host a group of any reasonable size. Despite its Napoleonic grandeur and imposing position, facing Hurst on the opposite side of the western entrance to the Solent, it looked deserted. Passing Yarmouth, Sam pointed to the harbour entrance where The George hotel had stood next to the ferry port. Little now remained. It was a burned-out wreck. Its ancient timbers lay blackened and broken where it had collapsed in a fire some time back. Jack shook his head remembering the many nights out he had enjoyed in Yarmouth pubs with friends and acquaintances long since dead.

In the distance loomed the enormous hulk of the 
Charlotte Maersk
, its decks stacked seven or eight stories high with containers of all different colours. Jack thought from a distance it looked like a giant Lego ship, but as they got closer its true scale was breath-taking. Nearly one thousand feet of Sovereign class shipping vessel. Its hull was painted a pale blue, with a rectory-red water line just visible, fully laden as she was. On board, its modest crew of fifteen had been swollen by dozens of others taking refuge on-board. Their cargo was mostly useless or inaccessible without unloading the containers on shore. However, many of those opened yielded unusual and unexpected treasures. Four hundred thousand litres of bottled water, three thousand kilos of white rice, a dozen Yamaha pianos, four Kawasaki motorbikes, cut timber, plastic sheeting and tents. Humanitarian aid no doubt heading for Somalia, Ethiopia or Sierra Leone. The list of containerized goods went on and on, a veritable treasure trove, a modern day Aladdin’s cave. The ship had set up shop as a floating trading post, open for business day and night, ready to trade with whoever and whatever came their way.

The 
Charlotte Maersk’s
 captain, Anders Bjorklund was an amiable Norwegian. Like Jack, he had served in his country’s navy for many years before retiring and taking command of a container ship. He had travelled the world and had the t-shirts to prove it, literally. He had more tall tales of nautical adventures, of wives and beautiful ladies, to entertain the small company who gathered to drink Ukrainian vodka and eat meatballs in their comfortable ship’s canteen. Somali pirates had boarded him no less than three times, or so he said.

Rounding the stern and entering the wind shadow created by the ship’s enormous hull that towered vertically fifty feet away, Jack shifted the throttle into neutral. Using the tide to take weigh off and come slowly alongside, he waited patiently for the stairway to be lowered. The 
Charlotte Maersk
, like so many of her sister ships, had been heavily fortified to counter the threat of pirates in the Gulf of Aden on its route through the Suez canal and past Somalia. Its walkways were caged, with gates compartmentalizing access to parts of the ship. Fire hoses were mounted on the guardrail to ward off any skiffs or high speed launches that got too close. These defences had provided welcome protection against unwanted visitors in the Solent. Her hull was rough painted with warning messages to deter the curious and inquisitive. The most prominent of them read ‘Boarders will be shot: do not approach within 50 meters’.

One of the crew appeared at the rail and waved to them, cigarette hanging from his lips. He grabbed the bowline from Sam and fended off the fishing boat as it came alongside. Once they were secure fore and aft, Jack and Sam climbed the stairs and came aboard the 
Charlotte Maersk
.