Hurst by Robin Crumby (i read books .TXT) 📕

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In the outer courtyard, near the main gate, Copper had rounded up half a dozen prisoners, faces pressed against the brick wall. They were shoeless, unarmed, defenceless, at the mercy of their captors. Several of the women were sobbing, pleading for their lives. Copper looked away, avoiding eye contact, forcing their heads back, knowing what was coming next.

His boss walked down the line, studying their faces without a flicker of empathy. “Kill them all,” he commanded.

Copper heard the order but delayed a few seconds, remaining rooted to the spot. He processed the words but a shadow of his former self seemed to reject them as nonsensical. Since when had he grown a conscience? The moment of doubt passed. Copper nodded and relayed the order to his men, his face calm and emotionless. They raised their weapons and fired until their magazines were empty and no one was left standing, bodies jerking and twitching on the ground. Copper turned his head towards the man in black.

“What about the rest of them? What are your orders, sir?” asked Copper, an unusual edge to his deference.

“Burn it down. Smoke them out, those little piglets in their house of stone.”

“Yes, sir.” Copper gathered up a work party and set off to the campfire still smouldering in the distance. They grabbed firewood and piled it high inside the canteen, storerooms and living quarters that lined the castle walls and set them alight. In a few minutes the whole place went up like a tinderbox.

Sam supported Jack the last few yards from Osborne House through the long grass to the helicopter as its engines went into their start-up cycle and the rotors began to turn. The airmen hauled the wounded man through, laid him flat and strapped his legs and torso down tight, before taking a pair of surgical scissors and cutting the material of his blue woollen jumper, exposing the injury to his shoulder. He made Jack comfortable for the journey, setting up a drip and stabilising the wound before take-off.

The painkillers were numbing his senses but he noticed Sam was in some distress. He guessed he was still thinking about Terra and what could have happened to her. She was like a mother to Sam. The American had said they would take her back to a convict camp near Newport, but how did they really know?

Sam was shown to a jump seat just behind the pilot, facing backwards. When Peterson and the two other navy personnel were safely inside, the airman gave the nod and the two Seal team members who had been covering the aircraft left their kneeling positions and double-timed it to the aircraft, clipped into the safety harnesses and sat on the floor sill, their feet dangling free, weapons poised and ready. Peterson handed Jack what looked like a large pair of headphones with a microphone attached. He weighed the headset, turning it over in his hands before putting it on. The cabin was suddenly silent, the noise of the engine almost eliminated and he could hear Peterson talking to the pilot, relaying a message to the Chester with an update on their status and due warning that they would be on deck in less than fifteen minutes.

The helicopter, a MH-60R Seahawk, achieved full power and with a gentle tug on the stick lifted off into the night sky. Its navigation lights remained off as it banked round a few metres above the tree tops, staying low, following the river valley that led straight downhill back to the open water of the Solent. Peterson spoke rapidly into the radio, though the military jargon was hard to follow. Outside it was pitch black. Jack craned his neck to peer out of the right side of the aircraft. The pilot’s night-vision goggles allowed him to see in complete darkness. Jack could just make out treetops and the sweep of fields and farmland as they headed back out to sea.

Flying low, they banked left when they were over water. In the distance towards the mainland, they could just make out the oil refinery at Fawley bathed in orange light from billowing flames that leapt unchecked into the night sky. Further to the west, two tower blocks in the city of Southampton smouldered. The inferno that had engulfed them had moved on, spreading slowly across housing estates and residential areas, fanned by the night’s breeze.

Below them, in the lee of the land, the sea state was relatively calm, but further out Jack could make out white horses as the waves rose and fell, their crests foaming and breaking in the wind. The helicopter hugged the coastline of the island, accelerating as it turned west towards Yarmouth and Hurst Castle, before heading south-west into Christchurch Bay where the USS Chester was cruising towards them at impulse power. As they flew towards the western end of the island, Peterson’s voice came over the headset.

“Jack, you better take a look at this.”

Jack unclipped his safety harness and levered himself up to look out of the cockpit window, clinging on tight as the aircraft lurched violently. Out in front of them, he saw suddenly what Peterson was worried about. In the distance, they could make out the sweep of the shingle spit that joined Hurst to the mainland, with the castle at its eastern tip. Part of the castle was ablaze, flames leaping up above the walls and parapet. Jack couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He pleaded with Peterson to slow down and circle the castle to see what was going on. The instruction given, the pilot pulled the nose up to slow their airspeed as the helicopter came into a hover around two hundred feet above the eastern wall, circling slowly around the gun tower, its searchlight picked out several figures on the roof. Peterson pointed towards the fire and the helicopter proceeded along the southern wall, trying to make out what was going on beneath them.

As they neared the centre of the complex, a hail of gunfire pinged off the underbelly of the aircraft as the pilot began an evasive manoeuvre. One of the soldiers had been hit and was hanging by his harness, clinging on to the doorway, while the other team member returned fire towards the origin of the muzzle flashes. As soon as they were back over the water, Sergeant Jones reached a gloved hand down and hauled his squad member back up, slamming the sliding door shut.

Peterson was shouting over the intercom for the pilot to gain height and get the hell out of there. They had seen enough action for one night and now had another casualty to bring home.

Jack stared out of the window, his eyes wide in disbelief. One of the crewmen put a hand on his shoulder as his whole body seemed to sag. Head in hands, he started to sob, tears streaming down his face, his imagination running wild. The castle and the flames slipped from view as the helicopter skimmed the waves past the Needles, flying fast and low back out to sea. The Chester was cruising north-east five nautical miles south of Portland Bill, rapidly closing the gap to meet them.

In the bowels of the castle, deep within an alcove of one of the dark, dank cellars that had once been a dungeon for prisoners held at Hurst, Tommy and the others sat shivering under blankets. They were listening to the faint sounds of the battle above them, with the dim flickering light of a candle for company.

“We’re going to be fine, Toby,” said Simon, sat to his right. “There’s really nothing to worry about. We’re all perfectly safe down here.”

Toby pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, clasping the two corners in his clenched fists. The boy nodded, but said nothing. From the first explosion he had been terrified, cowering behind his father as they shielded their ears and watched the dust rain down upon them. They were not alone; there were as many as twenty others hiding down here, on the instructions of Liz. This was the safest place in the castle.

The only way in was defended by a dozen armed men, not to mention countless feet of thick stone and concrete. It was a bunker complex that would probably withstand any number of direct hits from heavy weapons and certainly impenetrable to small arms fire. And yet, knowing all that did little to reassure the younger members of the Hurst group. Many of them still carried the very real and psychological scars of the breakdown. They had each seen more than their fair share of death and destruction. They had witnessed sane people driven to madness. In the race for survival, it had been every man for himself. They had seen neighbours fighting, riots in supermarkets, men shot in cold blood before their very eyes. Hearing the explosions and fire fight above them brought those memories flooding back in technicolour.

Tommy knew from their stories that little Toby had seen his mother die. She had been wrenched from his hands, not by the virus, like so many others, but knocked down and killed by a motorbike, stolen and out of control. The driver had been hell-bent on getting out of town. Dodging stationary traffic he had mounted the pavement and clipped a bench, lost control and careered into two children holding hands, before striking his mother. She had died instantly, her eyes fixed with a look of surprise that was seared into Toby’s memory and nightmares forever.

Footsteps in the stairwell shook Tommy from his melancholy. Nathan stuck his head around the corner, putting on a brave face. His cheer was paper-thin. His eyes betrayed him.

“How are we all doing down here?” He stuck his thumbs up, trying to make eye contact with Toby and some of the other children, who looked at their feet, nodding their heads. “Good, good. Simon, Tommy, Shannon, we need you up top. Rest of you, stay put, we’ll bring you down something to eat as soon as we’re done, but for now, this is the safest place in the castle. Okay?”

Simon and the others got gingerly to their feet, exchanging sheepish glances. Toby started moaning, clawing at his father’s leg, pleading with him not to leave.

Simon smiled back at him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He ruffled his son’s hair and steeled himself for the task at hand.

At the top of the stairs, there was a palpable tension in the air, with half-seen faces hurrying through dimly lit passageways, torchlight dancing on walls. Nathan handed Tommy a revolver and deposited a box-full of bullets in his outstretched hand.

He handed out an antique sword and a machete to the other two and motioned them to huddle in close. “I need you three to guard the Drake doorway on the ground floor. Barricade it with whatever you can find. And if anyone or anything tries to come through, shoot them. This is our last line. We have to defend this bit of the castle, at all costs. All our lives depend on it.”

Tommy led the trio down to their station, checked the door was locked and bolted top and bottom and started piling up chairs and boxes, with an old carpet dumped on top to hold