by Tim Flanagan
Beyond the plinth was the containment room. The walls were simple metal studded walls painted a dull grey-green colour and were chipped, scratched, and smeared with black marks. They stood awkwardly amongst the boxes and barrels that were stacked around the room. Muffled bangs and voices came from somewhere beyond the containment room where other rooms were still being loaded.
'Here,' said the guard, lifting a glass lantern from a hook on the wall and pushing it into Rhys' hands. He then fished around in one of his trouser pockets and brought out a small pack of matches. 'We can’t afford to waste too much fuel on light, so use it sparingly,' he added passing them to Rhys.
The guard stepped over the metal plinth and back into the corridor then began pulling down on a chain at the side of the door. Slowly the chain moved a mechanism that slid the containment door across the entrance, sealing the survivors inside with the rest of the cargo.
Everyone stood in silence.
Rhys pulled a match out of the box and began feeling in the darkness for the abrasive strip on the box. As he lit the match an orange glow illuminated the gloomy emotionless faces of the other survivors. He then looked at the lantern. There was an old thick candle welded to the metal base by the dribbled wax of previous lightings.
'Let me open the lantern,' said Will's voice from beside him.
Will reached out from the darkness, took the lantern from Rhys and then began unscrewing the glass dome. The match burnt to Rhys' fingers and faded out. He lit another, immediately taking the flame to the wick of the candle. Will placed the lantern on the top of a barrel in the centre of the room. The survivors crowded around it, desperate not to be left in darkness. Darkness was something they always associated with the time the creatures came out to hunt.
The hulk of metal suddenly began vibrating and rattling as the engines of the ferry ignited into life. High pitched squeaks created a look of fear on the faces of some of the survivors, but the sound was just caused by the metal of the ferry moving against the rubber tyres that protected the concrete harbour wall.
Within minutes the ferry was in the Solent. Although they couldn’t see the horizon, they could feel the motion of the sea as the ferry cut through the water.
Rhys presumed he would have about an hour before they would be docking at Yarmouth so, instead of sitting and waiting obediently like the rest of the survivors, he began searching the boxes that were inside the containment room using the limited light from the matches.
20. Community Integration
The metal hulk of the ferry edged into position alongside the jetty in the port of Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. Rhys casually sat on a wooden crate beside the other survivors as they waited in the fading candle light to be released. Following several metallic bangs and judders as the ferry manoeuvring into a secure position, they could hear movement once again from nearby areas of the ship. The thud of feet running along metal gangplanks, shouts and directions muffled by the thick containment room walls, and the monotonous beeping of a loading vehicle reversing, were sounds they could hear from within their cell. Eventually, a closer sound caught their attention - the chain on the other side of the containment door was being pulled down and with a creak and a groan the door slowly slid aside. They all squinted as light flooded into the room.
'Ok, everybody out,' instructed their jailor as soon as the door had opened wide enough to allow them to step out in single file. It was the same man that had escorted them to the ferry on the mainland, but Rhys noticed a change in him. He seemed more nervous and kept one hand rested on the gun that was slung across his chest, as if he felt like he might be needing it at any time. 'Quickly now.'
In silence they walked out of the containment room, along a network of corridors to an exit hatch. Connecting the hatch to the ground, and balanced at an awkward angle, was a metal gangplank they were expected to walk along. Rhys kept his hands in his pockets, trying his best to conceal the items he had stolen from the boxes during the crossing.
The guard nervously looked up at the sky. It seemed a natural instinct for all of the survivors to keep checking the sky for signs of creatures. The ferry crossing had taken slightly longer than expected, whether that was down to the inexperience of the ferry pilot, or the wind Rhys could feel whipping against his face, he couldn’t be sure. Glancing past the rear of the ferry, Rhys could see the open water of the Solent. The waves appeared to rise high out of the water and the mainland couldn't be seen through the spray kicked up by the wind. The sky was a dirty grey colour and everyone knew what happened when daylight became limited. That would explain the guards’ nervousness. Everyone seemed to be hurrying around them, trying desperately to get everything off the ferry before the creatures came out. Rhys recognised the guard who had taken his sword, shouting orders to others to hurry up, his voice echoing off the walls of the concrete dock.
As soon as the survivors were standing on solid ground the guard instructed them to help carry some of the boxes that were stacked up waiting to go inside a low building. Rhys watched a miniature pick-up truck move some of the heavier crates from the loading bay of the ferry and into a warehouse. He peered round the side of the building. Inside he could see his motorbike lined up alongside other vehicles: a couple of four wheel drives, a small minibus and three lorries. None of those frantically working around him looked like his son. He picked up a box and followed everyone else into the flat roofed building and stacked it where he was instructed. He then dashed back outside along with the other survivors to collect another.
A high pitched squeak ripped through the air.
Rhys searched the sky for signs of a creature, but saw nothing. Instead his attention was drawn to the rear of the ferry where the loading bay doors at the back were being pulled shut. As the last of the crates were placed inside the warehouse, one of the guards reached up with a long pole and pulled the shutter door down to crash against the floor. He then padlocked it on both sides and rattled it to make sure it was secure.
'Hurry!' shouted one of the guards as he rushed past Rhys and collected the last box. Everyone raced towards the low building, abandoning the ferry and quayside that moments ago had been a hive of activity. 'Take the box in or we will leave you outside!' said the guard again.
Rhys followed the guard into the building and stacked the box with the others. Two more guards darted through the door immediately after him. The man standing next to the door already had the key in the lock and as soon as the last man leapt through, he pushed the door into its frame, turned the key and locked the door. Guards and survivors moved together without saying a word through another door which was also locked behind them.
As they moved through a series of other doors, the mood between the guards appeared to improve. They knew that with every door that was locked, they would be safer from a creature attack
At the end of a long corridor they reached a room that was set out like a temporary canteen. There were already some people wandering around inside unloading boxes of food and water. As they entered, everyone lined up in front of the first table. Guards were checked in and survivor's details were logged. The next table had food and drink. Everyone was allocated the same amount, which they took over to one of the long tables. Although they were all survivors, the guards kept themselves separate to the newcomers.
‘Move along,’ instructed the guard that Rhys recognised from the security gate on the mainland.
‘Are these all the survivors there are?’ Rhys asked.
‘No. This is just a safe house for the staff that work on the docks. The main bulk of the community is over at Osborne House.’
‘Queen Victoria’s home?’
‘Yes. Main operations are organised from there. The land around the house is going to be cultivated into farmland. Everyone has a job or function in the community, depending on their skills. You will be transported there when it's safe to leave the dock.’
‘What happens to all of the boxes and crates that were brought over with us?’ Rhy
s asked.
‘They are held at the House and distributed accordingly.’
‘When do I get my motorbike back?’
‘You don’t. Anything you arrived with immediately becomes the property of the community. In times like this we have to share what we posses for the good of everyone.’
In the containment room they had been held in, Rhys had seen boxes full of pots and pans, others with books and paper, wine and water, but also one with expensively framed paintings, and another with carrier bags full of jewellery. If all these things automatically became the property of the community, it would be rich indeed. But wealth was to be had in food, water and safety, rather than in valuable possessions. Rhys wondered whether the money was being creamed off the top by the management of the community, whilst other survivors were unpaid members, working for food and being thankful for it. Rhys realised that being part of this community would only be slightly better than being a slave, whilst others enjoyed the finer things that could be salvaged.
Rhys moved along the line, giving his name and profession at one table then taking his bottle of water and food ration to sit beside Will.
As Rhys ate the cold baked beans that were on his plate, along with several dry cheese crackers, he continued to survey the room. Along one wall was a line of rolled up blankets and assorted cushions and pillows. As well as the canteen and administration room, Rhys realised that it was also going to be their sleeping quarters for the night. Next to the door they had entered was a wooden rack and box where all of the guards had handed in their guns. Whilst the others ate and chatted, one man stayed next to the weapons, cleaning and checking each one before reloading it if necessary and propping it up in an organised row on the rack.
Rhys’s thoughts returned to Steffan. So far, all of the people he had met going to the Isle of Wight, or manning the dock, bore no resemblance to his son. If there was a larger volume of survivors at Osborne House, he hoped that that may be where he would find him. But he thought back to the Wailing Wall in London. The couple he had met there had said that a man called Steven Knight had gone to the Isle of Wight to rescue a girl that had been taken. From what he had seen and could work out, Rhys presumed he was now part of the community that Steven had set out to find.
21. The Checkpoint
Steven, Georgia and Tracker drove away from Newport without their headlights turned on. It made the drive a lot slower than they would have liked, but they couldn’t risk exposing themselves, especially as they got nearer to Osborne House.
Once they had left Newport, the road opened out with fields on either side. A limited amount of light from the moon highlighted the edges of the stone walls and shiny car roofs. Occasionally a curious creature would swoop down towards the car and momentarily block the view through the front window.
The straight road they had been travelling along gently inclined upwards and turned to the left. A signpost indicated that they were approaching a roundabout. As soon as they turned the corner Steven could see the silhouette of a primitively constructed building amongst the plants in the centre of the roundabout. He tucked the car into the grassy embankment and waited to see if their approach had been noticed by any guards that may have been watching the road. They had assumed that, like all other human survivors, the members of Coldred's community would be hiding from the creatures at night, but knowing that Coldred had a supply of antibiotics and the knowledge to make a vaccine they couldn’t be sure he hadn’t posted immunised guards on all approaches to Osborne House. But Coldred may have casually presumed that during the night other humans posed no threat to his food supplies because of the ever present threat from the creatures.
There was no movement coming from the checkpoint.
Steven turned off the engine and pointed towards the building in front of them. Tracker had already seen it and nodded to Steven. All three of them picked up a gun, quietly opened the doors and stepped onto the road.
They crept towards the building as quietly as they could.
'If possible, try not to shoot,' whispered Steven. 'The sound will carry easily in the quiet air.' He indicated for the other two to go round one side of the building whilst he approached from the other.
Tracker and Georgia both nodded.
Now that they were closer, Steven could see that the make-shift checkpoint nestled amongst some ornamental grasses and was made from steel scaffolding poles bolted together to form a triangular shaped building. It was open at eye level for the guards to look out and each one of the three sides faced an approaching road to the roundabout. The roof flapped slightly in the breeze. It was made from thick tarpaulin sheets and stretched over the metal poles to try and form a tight waterproof roof. Each sheet was bound onto a pole by rope wound tightly through metal eyelets. This had the effect of creating a tinkling sound every time the wind blew causing the eyelet to tap repetitively against the hollow steel. Below eye level the sides of the building were made from various scraps the builders had found including metal panels that were hammered and twisted into shape, wooden planks torn from pallets and shop signs as well as bricks and stones piled together to form a temporary wall.
Steven edged closer to the checkpoint. He couldn’t hear any sounds that would indicate the presence of humans inside the building. Where each of the three sides of the building came together there was a narrow gap which Steven assumed the guards used as an entrance to move in and out. Keeping his head down, he crept towards the nearest apex of the triangle and peered inside. Because of the lack of light entering the makeshift building it appeared very dark. Steven could just about make out the outline of three boxes, one along each side of the building, but nothing that resembled a human.
Steven looked over towards Georgia and Tracker who were approaching a square section of building that was completely covered by tarpaulin. Steven shook his head, indicating to Tracker that there was no one in his section. He stepped through the gap at the apex and into the centre of the triangle. At the far end was an enclosed part that joined onto the square building that Georgia and Tracker were standing next to. From his side, Steven could see that the covered section was accessible by a knotted piece of string that tied a section of tarpaulin onto one of the poles.
Steven looked out of the checkpoint towards Tracker and waited.
Tracker found a small gap where the sheeting was loosely tied to its frame and carefully lifted it out so that he could peer inside. Steven knew that the inside would be pitch black and impossible to see into, but unless they checked they wouldn’t know if there was a guard on duty or not. If they drove past the checkpoint, a sleeping guard may become alerted to their presence by the noise from the car engine and raise the alarm.
Steven began to unpick the knot in the string that was holding the door flap closed from his side. As the tension in the string loosened he gripped his gun tightly with one hand and pointed it towards the covered section, then began slowly peeling the tarpaulin flap back so that he could move inside. It was so dark that it felt like he was walking into an empty void. He carefully nudged his foot forward, relying on the toe of his boot to feel if anything was on the floor in the absence of his eyesight.
The first thing he felt was something solid. As he reached out his free hand he felt the cardboard sides of a box. He tried desperately to listen for sounds of someone sleeping, the gentle intake of breath or the sticky sound of someone swallowing, but there was nothing.
Without warning, the fabric covered house was suddenly flooded with light.
Steven squinted, trying to protect his eyes from the sudden change, but he knew that his life depended on being able to see who had turned on the light. His mind instinctively knew, from the position of the shadows that the light had come from behind him. He spun round and gripped his gun tightly, ready to fire. As he turned and his eyes became more accustomed to the light he could see the outlines of two people, both with guns in their hands facing his direction.
'Nothing more than a store room,' said
the person holding the flashlight. Steven recognised the voice; it was Tracker.
'Turn the light out,' Steven said quickly.
'Don’t worry, the tarpaulin will block out the light to anyone outside,' Tracker replied.
'I know,' agreed Steven, 'but the flap you've just come through is still open.'
Realising his mistake, Tracker spun round, grabbed the flap and thrust it tightly against the pole opposite, ashamed that he had forgotten.
'Turn the light out!' Steven said again.
Tracker flicked the switch on the handle of the flashlight and the room immediately disappeared into darkness once again.
'Do you think anyone would have seen it?' Georgia asked.
'I don’t know,' replied Steven, 'it depends if Osborne House has guards posted at the windows.'
'It was only for a few seconds,' said Tracker, trying to be positive and play down his oversight.
Steven began edging his way in the dark towards Tracker and Georgia, guided by the sound of their voices. 'Come on. Let's get back to the car. There's no one here so we can safely drive on.'
They all moved out of the covered section of the checkpoint. Steven carefully retied the string back onto the scaffolding pole to try and hide the evidence that anyone had visited the makeshift building in the guards' absence, then they walked back down the road towards the car.
Osborne House was signposted along the road to the left of the roundabout.
Steven drove once again. No one said anything. The road was poorly lit, especially when cloud covered the moon, but slowly they crept forward.
'There's a turning before Osborne House that goes to a private estate called Barton Manor,' said Georgia as she held a map up to the window so that she could read the road markings by the moonlight. 'If we leave the car there we should be able to cross the fields on foot and approach Osborne House unseen,'