Sentinel: A post-apocalyptic thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 2)

by Robin Crumby

  “Who wants to know?” challenged Riley.

  The woman removed her hood and Riley was astonished to recognise Sister Imelda, one of Sister Theodora’s enforcers from The Chewton Glen hotel. The last time they had seen each other was in rather strained circumstances. Riley had been accused of starting the fire that had killed so many innocents. Even now she could picture Stella clutching her face after being struck by one of the guards for daring to intercede on behalf of the group from Hurst. Only Zed’s intervention with a shotgun had saved the day.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” said Riley putting her hand to her mouth, shaking her head, her eyes heavy with tears.

  Zed stepped forward. “You’ve got a nerve coming here.”

  Riley put her arm out and held him back, shaking her head slowly from side to side.

  Rain drops started landing all around them.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” asked Sister Imelda looking up at the sky.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They had come from miles around. Emerging from their shelters and makeshift homes like refugees from a war zone. Children dragged their feet, some with improvised footwear. Dressed in rags and blankets, their shoes were several sizes too big for them. It was poor protection against the wind and the rain. With them, they carried spare clothes, food and water in plastic bags. On wheelbarrows, shopping trolleys or on the back of push bikes were stacked all their worldly possessions. A rag-tag band of travellers picking their way along the road between the carcasses of rusting vehicles and discarded suitcases, too heavy to carry further.

  They kept the women and children towards the middle of the group. On the outside of the walking party were keen-eyed adults armed with sticks, golf clubs or baseball bats, anything they could find to defend themselves from the other travellers who coveted their possessions. At their head was a stocky middle-aged woman with a flowery headscarf and double-barrel shotgun slung over her arm. Without warning, she raised her arm and the shambolic group came to a disorderly halt. They looked around warily at the warehouses and industrial buildings with broken windows that lined the road leading to the old harbour-front at Portsmouth.

  At the heart of this motley crowd of washed-up humanity, Heather and her brother Connor craned their necks. They were trying to see what was going on over the shoulders of those in front of them. Heather pressed a finger to her lips and pulled her younger brother towards her, cautioning him to be quiet. Despite his exhaustion, his piercing blue eyes looked sharp and alert, framed by a filthy grime of accumulated dirt, smeared across his cheeks and forehead. She pulled at the sleeve of the woman in front who whipped her head round and scowled at Heather as if the children were an inconvenience to be tolerated. She softened when she looked them up and down noticing how pathetic they both looked, trembling with fear or cold, it wasn’t clear which. She relaxed into a thin smile, mouthing the word “Checkpoint” in barely more than a whisper.

  This was the third time their group had been stopped. They were so close now. Portsmouth harbour and Gunwharf Quays were just ahead. Ferries waited to take the fit and healthy to the island. Hope had got them this far. A small wave of weary excitement carried them onwards towards safety.

  As they got nearer, it was clear that they were by no means the first to come this route. Dozens of people were collapsed at the side of the road. They pleaded for food or water from those that passed by, their hands outstretched towards them like garden nettles reaching for sunlight. They had nowhere to go, no energy left to move, carried here by a tide of hope that had suddenly dissipated. Many they passed were clearly sick, racked by coughing fits, weak from fever.

  Momentarily, Connor staggered and brushed against an outstretched arm that grabbed at his sleeve. Heather reacted quickly and hauled him back, terrified. The woman in the headscarf looked round and bent lower to his level shaking her head.

  “Stay away from that lot, lad. Don’t let them touch you,” she cautioned. “They’re sick, can’t you see? That’s why they’re still here. The soldiers turned them away.”

  Heather nodded and dragged him back to the middle of the group, holding his hand tightly. Despite her best efforts to shield him from the horrors of this new world, he had seen far too much suffering for a boy his age. He spent much of the day whittling down sticks with his pen knife or staring off into the distance. She wondered how much he really understood. She knew it had been hard on him. He was still only nine.

  It was said that they were taking only those fit enough to work. Men, women and children. Every able-bodied person would be given safe passage. Those that worked, would be fed and watered, given shelter. Or at least that’s what they had been told.

  They weren’t taking everyone. She knew not to get her hopes up. The same rules applied to children after all. The quarantine rules were absolute. Only the healthy could make the crossing. Her worst fear was that they would be split up. That they would take her but not him, or vice versa.

  They had grown up fast over the last few months, living on their own. They had no choice. They had learned to look after themselves, find food, a place to live. When their mother had died not long after the outbreak, a kindly neighbour had driven them south towards the coast to the caravan they shared with some friends on Hayling Island. It wasn’t much, but it was home. They counted themselves lucky to have a roof over their heads, at the heart of a small community, where people looked after each other.

  Both of the children were painfully thin. She had heard one of the grown-ups use the words “borderline feral” to describe her brother. She hadn’t understood what they meant at first, but when she realised, she had wanted to slap her so hard for calling her brother names. It reminded her of the big words they used at the doctors or dentists. It was a secret language adults used to conceal their true meaning. To talk about someone rather than to them. She didn’t like being treated like a child; she never had. She was four years older than her brother, no longer a child; old beyond her years.

  After living off scraps for so long, catching the occasional rat or rabbit had meant a feast. They would spit-roast them over a small fire, picking clean the bones. Both of the children were now adept at trapping, skinning and gutting a variety of woodland creatures. They had occupied their days gathering berries, mushrooms and catching all manner of fish with rod and line, bringing home their haul in a trolley they had found and repaired in the sailing club boatyard. Life at the caravan park had been hard, but leaving their adopted home behind in the hope of something better had been harder still.

  They had been walking for what felt like days. It had rained without stopping. Hour after hour as if God was trying to wash the earth clean and start again. It reminded Heather of the Bible story of Noah’s Ark and the great flood. Perhaps that’s what this was. The pair of them going to the island, two by two, as the world cleansed itself.

  She wondered why the virus only affected humans. Would a new order emerge in their absence? One day they would all be allowed to return home when the virus had died out, just like when the waters had subsided after the flood.

  Between her and Connor, they were wearing all the clothes they possessed, soaked to the skin. On their backs, they carried school rucksacks with a half-eaten packet of biscuits, some water and a couple of tins. They had been saving the tinned pineapple for a special occasion, when they were safely on board the ferry, if they made it that far.

  The rumours about the island had reached the caravan park two weeks ago. Several of their group had volunteered to be the first to try. They never came back, nor sent a message back to the group as had been agreed. That didn’t seem to deter the rest. They maintained the belief that the first group had made it to the island. Many were undecided, unsure whether to risk what they had, to gamble on finding something better. In the end, Rowan, their leader, had said that they couldn’t last another winter at the caravan park. It was their duty to follow the others.

  Heather trusted Rowan. He had a gentle face with
a warm smile that hid a steely resolve. He had always been so kind to them both. He brought them fire wood and looked in on them from time to time. Once, she had heard Rowan talking to one of the other men, a young guy who was no more than eighteen. He used to stare at Heather until she blushed and looked away. Rowan told him in no uncertain terms to stay away and they had fought, pushing and shoving each other. After that, he told Heather to keep the door to the caravan locked at night and to ask before opening, just to be safe. He couldn’t always be around to look after them and furnished her with a small pocket-knife with a serrated blade and taught her how to use it. It never left a leather pouch on her belt, just in case. You could never be too careful, Rowan had said.

  He had told Heather that they would all have a fresh start on the island, that there was no sickness there. It sounded too good to be true, but Rowan said he believed it and she trusted him. Why would anyone lie about something like that? Besides, whatever lay in wait for them on the island could hardly be worse than facing another bitter winter in the caravan park with no heating and no power. Could it?

  They reached the next checkpoint and waited in line for their turn. A supermarket lorry was partially blocking the way ahead. The barricades were reinforced with rolls of barbed wire and upturned furniture and crates. She noticed improvised firing positions for those tasked with defending the line. On top of the articulated lorry, there were sandbags positioned to form a nest with a machine gun barrel poking over the top. The silhouette of a soldier against a dark grey skyline, drinking from a canteen, stared down at the approaching group. Connor gripped his sister’s hand tighter and she squeezed him back as a fit of coughing shook his slender frame.

  The soldier waved their group forward, pointing down the road towards another checkpoint in the distance as the next stage in the processing of refugees. The soldiers barked orders, impatient and irritable, passing instructions up the line.

  “No guns or knives beyond this point. Last chance to surrender any weapons. Anyone found concealing anything will be kicked out. You’ve been warned.”

  One by one, they stepped forward and submitted to a body search, holding their arms out wide to left and right, manhandled and prodded. Someone in front was questioning why they had to hand-over the guns.

  “You don’t need weapons on the island. You’ll have us lot protecting you from here on. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

  Each surrendered item was inspected and handed to a pair of gangly youths who sorted them into piles. Shotguns and rifles were taken through a doorway into a makeshift armoury. Knives and swords were thrown into a skip piled high with metalwork.

  “Look after that, will you. It’s a family heirloom,” demanded the woman in the headscarf, handing over an antique double-barrelled shotgun with ornate engraving on its stock and barrel. The soldier studied it for a second, admiring its artistry.

  “Very nice,” he nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after that one myself. Jerry, take that will you?”

  “I’ll get it back, right?” she asked.

  “Of course you will, darling. When this is all over, you come find me,” laughed the soldier, revealing two missing teeth.

  The final approach to Gunwharf Quay and the old Wightlink ferry terminal was bedlam. It was only mid-morning but already hundreds of refugees were waiting for their turn to cross. They were crammed under cover to avoid the downpour or huddling under canvas shelters, tarpaulins stretched taught. Heather had overheard two soldiers saying that more had come than they had expected. Many too sick to make the journey came anyway. Whispers of treatment lured them from their sick beds. Anyone with obvious symptoms, such as fever or coughing, was instantly escorted away to a quarantine zone, to avoid infecting others.

  The group from the caravan park tried to stay together, but the children were waved forward first and given priority. They exchanged concerned looks with the rest to calls of “good luck” and smiles of encouragement. Reluctantly they joined the long line of refugees queuing for their turn.

  “See you on the other side,” shouted Rowan cheerily from behind them.

  There was no shelter for those waiting. The incessant rain hammered down, seeping into every crevice and corner of clothing. A bout of shivering racked Connor’s slender frame. She stooped and rubbed his arms and back, trying to summon any remaining warmth from his emaciated arms. He was all skin and bone, badly undernourished but alive. That was the main thing.

  She cradled his grubby chin, lifting it from its hiding place in the folds of his hood and smiled at him. “Nearly there now Connor. Not much further.”

  He blinked back at her, his eyes tired, close to tears. After months of solitude and silence, being in such close proximity to hundreds of others was uncomfortable; intimidating, to say the least.

  The group in front of them, mostly women and children, shuffled forward and those behind pressed against them, surging towards the boarding ramp some two hundred meters away.

  In front of them was a solitary soldier in camouflage fatigues with a gun in his holster like a cowboy, thought Heather. He was unshaven and edgy, looking over his shoulder, waiting for his commanding officer to return. He was soaked through, rain dripping from his nose. An interminable wait to be relieved. The radio on his belt crackled and he stepped in front of the line, raising the palm of his right hand to make them stop. Heather pushed back her hood to expose her left ear, craning her head to listen. It was hard to hear anything over the howling wind and rain.

  “Say again, Hotel Quebec. Didn’t catch that.” He sounded exhausted, worn down by the flood of humanity he was responsible for keeping under some semblance of order. He screwed up his face and turned his back against the rain and wind, hunching over, trying to hear better. The voice from the radio was hard to make out, but Heather caught snatches of the response.

  “Repeat…compromised…our position is being overrun…we need reinforcements…don’t wait.”

  The next few words were unintelligible. The soldier stood shaking his head, shielding his ear with his free hand. He looked around distractedly, at the people in line nearest him and back towards the ferry, searching for something and not finding it. There were already what seemed like hundreds of people aboard, dozens more of them crowding the ramp, pressed together, impatient to get off the mainland.

  In the distance came a low indeterminate rumble. Everyone stopped their conversations, listening to the sound, trying to discern its source with puzzled expressions. They didn't have to wait long. The rumble was swiftly followed by a loud explosion, much closer this time, which shook the windows of the nearby portacabin and ticket office. The line of refugees ducked down as one. Some grabbed their children, pulling them closer, covering their heads protectively.

  At first, Heather was confused. It reminded her of the sound the rubbish truck made when it emptied the bins from outside their house on a Monday morning in Winchester. It was a noise so familiar and yet completely alien now.

  The growing panic in the soldier’s face suggested he realised it was something more serious. Perhaps they were under attack? He seemed flustered, fumbling with his radio. He was depressing the transmit button with growing alarm, adjusting the settings to check the handset was still working.

  “Say again Hotel Quebec. Your last message was garbled. Hello? Is anyone receiving this?”

  Another soldier came running back towards him from the portacabin and they hurriedly conferred before lowering the red and white vehicle barrier, blocking the way to the ramp and the ferry beyond. He started waving away the refugees motioning them back towards the gate.

  “I’m sorry, we can’t take any more. That’s it for today. You’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

  The people at the front of the line pleaded with him to take them, but the soldiers looked distracted, no longer interested in the waiting line.

  Heather looked beyond the barrier, watching the renewed urgency of the crowd by the ferry walkway who were now pushing and shoving a
t the people in front to hurry them inside. Those around Heather were beginning to panic, so close to safety, their hopes were being quashed unexpectedly at the last moment. The soldier looked back at them, surprised that they were still there.

  “I said clear the area. That means you, and you,” he said flustered, unholstering his weapon. “Go on, get out of here. You heard, go on.”

  Another explosion, much closer this time, certainly beyond the barricades. It was answered by the crackle of small arms and the staccato rhythm of a machine gun firing in short bursts. Inside the ferry terminal complex, a growing chorus of screams and gasps rose from those around them. A couple of women to their right seized their chance and ducked under the barrier, making a run for the ferry ramp.

  The soldiers lunged after them a fraction of a second too late, clutching for their collars and coats. Those they caught were manhandled forcefully back towards the line. The rest of the group was emboldened now and ducked under. Heather and Connor were forced on by the sheer weight of those behind, pushing forward. Twenty people were now beyond the barrier, making a run for it. Heather seized her brother’s hand and ran.

  A gunshot rang out close at hand, followed by shouted warnings to get back behind the barrier. Several of those closest to him and certainly within range, stopped in their tracks. The two children ran on, oblivious. This was their chance. They weren’t going to let it slip away.

  The soldier shook his head, took a deep breath and closed one eye, aiming squarely at Heather. She saw the weapon pointing in her direction but ran on, terrified. She stumbled in alarm as a wild shot rang out, close enough to split the air next to her ear. She clutched at her left temple, expecting to feel pain. Whether deliberately or not, he must have missed.

  “Have you gone completely mad?” shouted the Sergeant behind her. “They’re just kids for God’s sake.”

  “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking,” he cowered apologetically. “I panicked. It won’t happen again.”