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

to Spitbank, as a strengthening wind drove them onwards.

They had made this trip a dozen times. The Nipper came surging up to the rusted iron and steel stairwell that stretched from the very top of the wall and plunged fifteen feet into the murky depths below the waterline. The waves here rolled in from the Channel, smashing against the stone and sloshing between the supporting columns. At the last minute, Jack jammed the engine astern and the Nipper slowed abruptly to a complete stop, two or three feet from the platform. Sam looped a line round an iron ring as the boat began drifting back in the current.

Spitbank fort was circular in shape. Its thick stone walls were reinforced with iron, built to withstand cannon fire from the marauding French. Its own gun ports now stood vacant and bricked up, where cannon would have faced seawards.

Jack reached up at head height and heaved himself off the Nipper, climbing the stairwell towards the main entrance set thirty feet clear of the waves. He stopped midway up to look back and admire the Nipper from above. The reinforced glass in her small wheelhouse reflected the morning sun as she wallowed in the light swell. Sam was busy tidying ropes and putting out extra fenders to protect the bow from scraping against the jetty.

At the top of the stairwell, Jack found the place deserted, its heavy doors closed to visitors. He had grown used to a welcome party, half a dozen smiling faces, waving as they approached the fort. There were around thirty residents at the last count, four of five families, a few children he had grown fond of. Nice bunch, Jack thought to himself. This morning there were no children’s faces pressed to the glass, no lookout in the main building, nothing. Perhaps they were all inside having a late breakfast. He shrugged.

He tried the door handle but found it locked. Where was everyone? He cupped his hands to the glass trying to peer inside, scanning for movement. He tried to wipe away the salt and spray from the glass but realised it was condensation on the inside. He rattled the door and knocked to get their attention, listening at the glass for the sound of footsteps. The dark shape of a woman near the door startled him as she rose slowly from the shadows, adjusting her hair and wiping tears from her eyes.

Jack recognised the face instantly. Susan, or Susie, as he liked to call her. Her appearance was altered. She looked pale and drawn, dried-up tears had left dirty tracks. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. She was no more than thirty, but looked older, her face weathered, pressed up close against the glass.

The reinforced window was built to withstand the worst of the winter storms, thick enough to muffle her voice. He cupped his ear to the crack, trying to make out what she was saying against the waves and wind swirling around him.

“I can’t let you in, Jack.”

Her words sent an icy chill down his spine. She repeated them, shaking her head until he understood. Jack gulped and took an involuntary step back.

“When did this happen?”

“Last week. One of the children got it first, we’re not sure how. Little Grace coughed all night and the following morning, two more had come down with it. We were too slow, Jack, we didn’t isolate them fast enough.” She shook her head and the tears started again. “In three days, half of us had it, and by then it was too late. It spread so fast.”

“I’m so sorry, Susie. Is there anything we can do for you? We have food and supplies.”

“Save it,” she said bitterly, forcing a smile. “Don’t waste it on us.”

She pressed her moist palm to the glass and looked mournfully into Jack’s eyes. He put his own hand up to mirror hers. The glass was cold, but he thought he could feel the faint warmth of her skin.

“Pray for us. But don’t come back,” she called out, her voice breaking with emotion.

Jack managed a weak smile. “We will,” he mouthed, nodding his head gently. He turned, closing his eyes for a moment and then hurried away.

At the top level of the stairwell, he scratched a large skull and crossbones into the stone with his knife, warning others never to approach this cursed place again.

Chapter Twelve

Picking their way along the main road at walking pace, the Hurst convoy rounded abandoned cars and other detritus that littered their path. The lead vehicle, a bulky Mitsubishi Land Cruiser, carrying Mila and Riley, bumped heavily over some loose rubble. With a loud hiss, their back right tyre deflated. The Mitsubishi rumbled over to the side of the street and stopped, scraping on its rims.

Zed pulled in behind them and switched off the Land Rover’s ignition. He leaned forward over the steering wheel and peered at the buildings to the left of them, scanning for movement. A row of suburban houses on the outskirts of town overlooked what would once have been tidy flowerbeds full of roses and hydrangea bushes and manicured lawns. Today, those same gardens were an impassable tangle of weeds and bushes, grass growing lush and long. He shook his head, muttering to himself.

“So what?” said Sean, sat in the passenger seat. He shrugged his shoulders, oblivious to the danger. “We got a spare, yeah? We fix it and be on our way. It’ll take ten minutes. Tops.”

Zed shook his head. “Not here. Not now. In broad daylight? If that convoy comes through here we’ll be sitting ducks.”

He jumped out of the car and closed the driver’s door quietly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. They were vulnerable here and needed to get moving fast. Riley was already out, inspecting the damage, hands on hips, shaking her head.

Zed got down on his hands and knees and felt around the circumference of the tyre, feeling for a hole. He found it quickly. There was a large gash made by a fallen piece of sharp masonry and glass. He picked out a couple of smaller shards and dropped them, clinking on the tarmac. He sat back on his haunches, scratching the back of his head.

Sean stood behind him. “What do you want to do, boss? Fix it or come back later when it’s dark?”

“We hide it someplace safe and come back. There’s a lock-up round the corner we can use. Transfer all the gear to the Land Rover and get out of here.”

“You sure about this?” asked Riley. “What with Bob and Will, and now this? It’s not our lucky day. I say we cut our losses and come back tomorrow and start again.”

“I’m not leaving Will out here. We find out where they took him and then we make the call.”

He unholstered his revolver and put another couple of rounds from his breast pocket into the empty chambers. He spun the wheel and snapped it shut with a tilt of his wrist. A boyish grin illuminated his face. Life felt better with a loaded gun.

“Boys and their toys,” mocked Riley.

Zed looked back at her, his head cocked to one side. “We owe it to Will to at least try, don’t we? You’d do it for me, right, Riley?” He smirked.

Riley shook her head and walked away. They both knew the answer.

Mila and Sean helped transfer their gear to the other vehicle. Cardboard boxes and rucksacks were packed full of the stuff they had scavenged from this morning’s house searches. It was food mostly, plus a few other assorted items, CDs, books and tools. The back of the Land Rover was packed to bursting. They had stacked a couple of boxes on the back seat, making things a little cramped when they all climbed back in, shoulders touching. Zed was suddenly aware of the warmth of Mila’s wrist resting on his shoulder. Her hand was trembling ever so slightly. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly. She squeezed back and whispered, “I’m scared, Zed.”

He forced a smile. “We’ve been in worse scrapes than this. We’ll be fine.”

Zed had driven the Mitsubishi around the corner, its back tyre deflated, bumping along on the rubber and rim. He was gone for a couple of minutes, long enough for Riley to worry, watching the street the way he’d gone. She was just about to follow when he jogged back into view. He’d parked in a small residential cul-de-sac that ran parallel to the main road. It was well hidden in a carport attached to a semi-detached retirement bungalow. It would be safe there. At least for a while.

Zed climbed back into the driver seat and slowly pulled away. If his hunch was right they were no more than a mile from where they were heading, following the most likely trail the other group would have taken. Before the outbreak and on any normal day, the one-mile journey would have taken them a few minutes. But things had been far from “normal” for some time, thought Zed.

Road surfaces had degenerated quickly without anyone to repair them. From smaller potholes, vegetation spreading out from verges and walkways, weeds and tree roots pushing through the tarmac and whole sections collapsing, it was treacherous to the unwary, to say the least. Another few years and some of these roads through the forest that had existed in some form since Roman times would be reclaimed by nature.

They were heading for the hospital on the other side of Lymington. Zed had heard talk of another group holed up there and thought he recognised one of the men who’d taken Will. He knew him by reputation only. A former policeman, given the imaginative nickname “Copper” by those who knew him locally. Supposedly one of the good guys. Or at least he used to be. Who knew what he had become.

Chapter Thirteen

Will woke up and blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes. His sleepy gaze fixed on a poster promoting safe sex with a picture of two teenagers holding hands. Above the young couple was a list of clinical conditions and names for sexually transmitted diseases, superimposed on a fluffy cloud. Will recognised some of them but puzzled over others. Chlamydia? What the hell was that? His head was still pounding and the words danced a little, making his vision swim. He shook his head to try to clear his thoughts. A sharp pain made him reach up and touch the back of his scalp. His fingers came away damp with blood that was leaking from the crude gauze and tape, surrounded by matted hair crusted with dried blood. He tried to raise his other hand but it jerked back, handcuffed to the bedpost.

Memories of earlier events came flooding back into focus. The scavenging trip. Being discovered by the other group. How had they found them hiding? Of course, Will, you idiot. The cigarette butt. Stupid schoolboy error, he thought to himself. He remembered the hood over his head. A short drive in a large diesel vehicle. Yes, he was sure it was diesel from the sound of the engine and the distinctive smell. They had taken him to a large building, which he assumed was a hospital from the overpowering stink of disinfectant that masked something else he couldn’t place. His hunch was quickly confirmed by the sound of boots on linoleum tiles and what little décor he could see through the hood.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember. It was all a jumble. The interrogation. The man they called “Copper” slapping him hard whenever he failed to answer their incessant questions, one after the other in quick succession. They had asked him about Hurst, how many people were there, how they were armed. So many questions. They had injected him with something. That explained why he was still a little light-headed. His thoughts remained muddled.

He sat bolt upright as one painful memory broke through the fog. They had killed Bob. Shot him in the head. The