The Hurst Chronicles (Book 1): Hurst (8 page)

Chapter Seventeen

As the council members shuffled out of the room, still deep in conversation, Terra rested her hand lightly on Nathan’s shoulder standing behind him as he finished up the notes from the meeting. She sat down opposite him and sighed, exhaling forcefully enough that he looked up eyebrows raised, but she invited him to finish.  The room was silent other than the sound of the ink pen scratching on the yellow pad and Nathan’s shallow, efficient breaths as he concentrated on the task at hand. Terra noticed his tongue peeping out furtively between his lips. She was troubled by the question of the missing food and curious about Liz’s reaction. She didn’t trust her, but it seemed unlikely that she was implicated in any way. Sloppy and careless maybe, but she wasn’t dishonest. It took a liar to spot another. Liz didn’t have the brains or the imagination for it. She wasn’t a match for Terra. Riley on the other hand and that Zed. She didn’t trust them as far as she could throw them, but she had someone watching them and reporting back, though they had no clue.

Outside, the early evening rain had eased and grey clouds were being chased away, replaced by clearer skies and the faint streak of a rainbow in the dying light of the setting sun.

He collected the papers and headed downstairs, pulling the heavy oak door closed behind them with a metallic clank as the locking mechanism engaged. They slowly descended the uneven stone steps, treading carefully to avoid where deep grooves and marks worn over hundreds of years, where heavy objects had been dragged down to the courtyard below. Two children raced up the stairs past them, the first nearly knocked Nathan over. The second one feinted left then right before squirming past, head down. Nathan grabbed the lopsided pile of papers before they could slip from his grasp. Terra stopped and watched the children go with a wry smile on her face, shaking her head.

They froze suddenly mid-step and both looked up at the sky.

Echoing off the walls came a familiar rhythmic hum that made both of them stare at each other. It was a sound they had not heard for many months. A helicopter. But that seemed totally incongruous, implausible even after all this time. It couldn’t be.

They hurried outside to the courtyard and stared up in to the sky. Looking in every direction, they tried to place the sound that echoed off the old brickwork and stone.

The metallic throbbing grew louder and louder as the black shape of a helicopter hove into view. Terra got a fleeting glimpse only as it swept over the castle and banked round making several passes, perhaps scanning for movement and a place to land below.

Dozens of people dropped whatever they were doing and headed out of the main gate, some still holding tools and whatever they had been doing. In a few short seconds, the whole of Hurst had emptied out on to the flat grassy area outside the main walls and stood staring up into the dying light. A young girl was pointing up in to the evening sky, following the movement of the helicopter with her finger. Its red navigation lights started blinking on and off as it circled the castle at about one hundred feet.

Terra didn’t recognise the make of helicopter at first. It was long and angular, stealthy and graceful at the same time. Bit like a Lynx. But definitely not like the more portly Sea Kings she had grown used to seeing on rare occasions shuttling in and out of the Royal Navy base at Portsmouth. It was shark like, powerful and menacing. She had never seen one like this in real life, but had watched enough war movies and the like to know that this must be a Blackhawk or something very similar, which meant only one thing: it had to be American.

Nathan shouted something at Terra, but she didn’t catch it cupping her hand to her ear. He paced over and shouted directly into her ear: “We shouldn’t take any chances. Break out the weapons, I want everyone armed just in case.”

Terra nodded and Nathan ran off to tell the guards to be ready for anything.  

Chapter Eighteen

The Seahawk, the Navy variant of the Blackhawk, banked over Hurst one more time, its engines flaring as the pitch and direction of the sound changed again, noise funneling through the gate and reverberating off the walls of the passageway. The helicopter’s searchlight slung under the nose powered up illuminating the landing zone behind the gathering horde. It came into a hover over the flat grassy area, sending dust and loose grass flying in all directions.

The crowd that had assembled, tightly packed together, retreated a few yards shielding their eyes from the glare and dust storm that swept over them. The young girl was still pointing in disbelief. She wore a loose hand-me-down dress embroidered with faded violets. Turning her back to the helicopter, she held the hem of her skirt as it fluttered against her skinny legs, her hair swirling in the wind, covering her face.

The Seahawk touched down and almost immediately the twin engines started powering down, its rotor blades slowing and the high pitch whine abating rapidly. There was a pause before the door slid open and two soldiers in battle gear jumped down, boots landing heavily on the shingle, automatic weapons held tightly at the ready, pointed downwards. Their faces were obscured by what looked like gasmasks. They were clearly taking no chances with infection.

A well dressed officer in military fatigues appeared behind them, looked left and right and strode confidently towards the group. He pulled up around ten meters short, keeping his distance, a surgical mask hid his nose and mouth. He kept one hand resting lightly on a pistol holstered at the waist, unbuttoning the safety strap. He cupped one hand to the side of his mouth and shouted over the dying engine noise to make himself heard.

“Who’s in charge here?”

His voice was a little muffled by the mask, but his southern American drawl was unmistakable. There was a slight pause as eyes turned towards Nathan and Terra standing near the middle of them, the crowd parting to reveal their leaders. Terra stepped forward holding one arm half raised in acknowledgement.

“I am,” she volunteered calmly.

“Mam. My name is Lieutenant Peterson from the warship
USS Chester.
Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

Terra gestured towards the lighthouse. “Yes, of course. Follow me.” Nathan put a hand on her shoulder and motioned as if to come with her, but Terra shook her head. She walked over to where the American was waiting.

He had turned his back on the Hurst group and was relaying commands to the two soldiers through the microphone in his sleeve. He pressed the earpiece more tightly into his ear and listened for their response. They stood guard by the helicopter, surveying the crowd and staying alert to any danger. The two soldiers acknowledged his instructions with a nod. He turned to face the crowd, his eyes impassive and cold. Terra and the American officer strode off purposefully towards the lighthouse.

Nathan and the rest of the Hurst group watched them leave in silence. Once they were further away a small murmur started and quickly grew into a full-scale hubbub. As soon as the pair had reached the lighthouse door and gone inside the crowd erupted with shouted questions. Toby held his father’s hand tightly, looking up and trying to read his expression. It was a mixture of hope and excitement. His father squeezed his hand back reassuringly, but his palms were hot and damp.

Chapter Nineteen

The two-hour trip back to Hurst from No Man’s Land Fort felt longer that afternoon. Sam and Jack did not speak much. They were each lost in their thoughts, standing side by side in the cramped wheelhouse. A fine drizzle formed specks on the windscreen that joined together in the buffeting wind to make tiny rivulets. A sudden rainsquall lashed against the glass, as the single wiper struggled to clear, half of the rubber blade missing. It did little better than smear the glass every few seconds in jerky motions, but it was better than nothing.
Sam made some tea for them both and put a little music on to lighten their mood. ‘
More than a woman
’, one of Sam’s favourites by The Bee Gees, strained to be heard over the engine and rain as they belted out in their distinctive falsetto. The smell of diesel fumes permeated everything. It never failed to make Sam feel a little queasy. The dog-eared charts, the worn cushions, the small cabin with two bunks down below. Everything smelt damp and faintly flammable. Jack drained the last of the tea from his darkly stained coffee cup. Its outside was decorated with a faded photo of his six-year old godson James in his pyjamas. The tea was warm and wet, but tasted of nothing much as the bags had been used multiple times. The powdered milk was borderline revolting at the best of times. Jack sighed and wondered what had happened to his godson and his sister Pauline. Whether there was any chance they had got out of Winchester in time. He doubted it. There was little enough reason to hope.
The ‘
Best of the Bee Gees
’ compilation moved on to ‘
Staying Alive
’. On a better day with a good catch and homeward bound, this song never failed to result in a full-scale disco inferno on the 
Nipper.
 It was not uncommon to find both men gyrating and bumping hips wildly in the cramped wheelhouse, in a full on karaoke duet sing-a-long. Today they both listened in silence.

Jack was deep in thought, shaken by what he’d seen at Spitbank. But he couldn’t allow himself to pity, to mourn. To indulge the suffocating sense of sorrow and despair that lurked like a shadow just out of sight. It was up to him to set an example, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to show weakness or self-pity. He was their rock. They looked up to him. He wasn’t a religious man, but it made him angry to think that God had allowed this to happen. That good people were made to suffer. That wasn’t right. Where was the justice in that?

His private anger and rising sense of frustration was interrupted by a question from Sam. He shook his head as if he could physically dispel these dark thoughts and turned to face Sam, his eyes vacant for a second. “What was that you said Sam? I was miles away.” Sam had to shout louder to be heard over the noise of the music and the rain, now hammering against the glass and wheelhouse.

"Do you think we'll make it Jack? I mean, do you think what happened at Spitbank could happen to us?" Jack glanced at Sam and noticed tears welling in his eyes.
He looked out over the sea towards Cowes and Yarmouth beyond, inhaling deeply, before answering. “That’s up to us Sam. We can't let it happen. That’s why we take precautions, right? The quarantine zone, the code, the rules we live by? We've fought too hard to make it this far. We owe it to ourselves and to each other to survive.”

“But we can’t live like this forever Jack. How long before they come? Before someone comes to rescue us?”

“What makes you think anyone’s coming?”

“But it stands to reason that others must have survived. Done as we did. Not just here, but everywhere. Maybe other countries weren’t affected.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times though Sam haven’t we? If they were coming, they’d have come already. Why wait till now? We’ve watched every day for ships, listened to the radio, we shouldn’t give up hope. But chances are, they’re all dead.”

He regretted that last sentence, noticing Sam’s lip wobbling as he fought back tears. Who knew after all, maybe Sam was right.

“I choose not to believe that. They can’t be dead. What about people in Africa? Australia? Maybe there are whole countries that survived. I reckon someone somewhere has figured this all out. Found the cure maybe?”

Jack nodded and smiled weakly. “That I don’t know Sam. But what I do know is that we can’t afford to sit around and wait for help to arrive. It’s up to us to survive, to make a new life for ourselves, on our own. Maybe one day, they’ll come. But until then…it’s up to us,” his voice trailed off.

“But, it could be years, right? Or maybe you’re right and they never come, what then?” He sounded close to tears again, his voice breaking a little. It had been a long day.
Jack turned to face Sam and took hold of his arm, looking him steadfastly in the eye, with a smile forming on his lips. “Until then, we’ve all got to believe they will, eh? Don’t we, lad?”

Just then, the radio crackled to life. “Jack, it’s Terra. Come in, over.”

He snatched the microphone from its cradle, bolted to the wall at head height. He depressed the receiver to speak: “Jack here. Go ahead Terra.”

“How far out are you, Jack?”

“What’s up Terra? Why the urgency?”

“There’s someone here to see you. Says he’ll wait.” Her voice clipped, hard to read.

Jack looked back at Sam puzzled. “Who is it, Terra?” He wasn’t expecting any visitors today.

There was a pause and they heard Terra’s voice barely above a whisper as if she’d moved to somewhere more private with the handheld radio and didn’t want to be overheard.

“You’re not going to believe this.” There was a moment of silence and Jack looked back at the set to check it was still receiving.

“Spit it out Terra. Who is it?”

“It’s the weirdest thing Jack. But there’s an American here to see you. Arrived in a helicopter. Says his name is Lieutenant Peterson. Will only talk to you personally. Says he’ll wait. But you better hurry.”

“Roger that. On our way.” Jack put his hand on the throttle and nudged the levers forward to make sure they were at full ahead. He was trying to coax every last ounce of power from the two ageing diesel Volvo engines. “An American, eh?” thought Jack to himself. “Well that’s a turn up for the books. Wonder where he’s come from. And what he wants with us.” With the extra encouragement, the
Nipper
surged powerfully through the waves with the tide now behind them, sweeping them back towards Hurst, their hopes rekindled.