by Tim Flanagan
At Lyndhurst they turned off and took a different road to the south west side of the New Forest, safely avoiding Lymington. The road towards Christchurch was slower to navigate around, a clear sign that Coldred’s convoy had not gone that way. Cars were littered at the sides of the road like discarded sweet wrappers. Others were abandoned and wedged amongst trees. The wild horses that had once roamed the forest had long since abandoned their home, either eaten by the creatures, or moved on to safer, denser areas of the countryside. In the thicker covered areas of the forest where the trees cast a dark shadow over the road, Steven noticed large bat-like shadows perched on some of the higher branches, their heads wrapped beneath their thick leathery wings whilst they slept.
At Christchurch they turned left and took a road back east along the coast as they tried to keep out of view of any potential guards posted at Lymington or at Yarmouth on the opposite side of the Solent. In a world where nothing moved and everything was silent, two cars driving in convoy would easily be spotted.
At Milford-on-Sea the two Range Rovers pulled into a car park that looked out over the big expanse of water: the Solent.
Once he had turned the engine off, Steven sat quietly and looked out of the front window. The waves gliding in to crash onto the bank of shingle below whilst to the right, a neat row of beach huts stood overlooking the sea, only made different by the distinctive and bold colours they were painted. On any other occasion, this would have been a peaceful place to sit and enjoy watching the sea, but today was not that day.
Steven glanced to his left and saw the tip of the Isle of Wight.
‘Wake up,’ Steven said gently to Georgia. He carefully placed a hand on her arm, being careful not to touch her wound.
Georgia opened her eyes, blinking as the light reflected off the sea.
‘Are they The Needles?’ asked Georgia, recognising the three formations of rock that stuck out from the sea at the side of the island.
‘Yes. We’re here,’ replied Steven with a hint of dread.
There was a tap on the window pane that made them both jump. Tracker’s face peered in through the glass. He held onto the peak of his cap against the breeze that blew off the sea.
Steven and Georgia got out and stood in the car park. It seemed strangely eerie to see an empty car park that would normally be packed with tourists, jostling for a place to leave their car whilst they enjoyed the seaside town of Milford-on-Sea.
‘That’s where we’re going,’ said Tracker pointing to a bank of shingle that protruded out into the sea. ‘It’s called Hurst Spit and the fortress is at the end. It’s about a two mile walk.’
They stood and looked at the narrow track. It miraculously appeared to be floating on the sea like a bridge that was only connected at one end, the other balanced dangerously above the water.
‘We won’t be able to take everything with us,’ said Tracker as they examined the supplies that were inside the back of the car.
‘We can only take what we can carry,’ replied Steven. ‘We must choose what is essential for our journey.’
‘How long do you think we will be over there?’ asked Georgia.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Steven. ‘Food and water we can probably find, but it’s the antibiotics that will limit the amount of time on the island. Especially if we rescue some survivors – they will need antibiotics as well.’
‘We take all the antibiotics we have,’ added Tracker, ‘and try to leave the island as quickly as possible.’
‘Coldred will have a supply of antibiotics, as well as a limited amount of the vaccine,’ said Steven.
‘Yes, but you can be certain they will be securely hidden.’
They stuffed what they could into hold-alls including the antibiotics, some food and bottles of water, additional clothes and a first aid kit so they could redress Georgia’s wound. They also took two maps of the Isle of Wight, a shotgun or rifle each, together with small hand guns and additional boxes of cartridges and bullets, a compass, hunting knives, and some rolled up polythene sheets that Tracker had borrowed from a camping store. They each put on a waterproof coat over their fleeces, expecting the walk to Hurst to be a cold and blustery one. Steven and Tracker took the two largest bags, whilst Georgia swung a smaller hold-all over her good shoulder.
Once they were ready they began to walk.
To start with it wasn’t too bad, but as the path extended further out into the mouth of the Solent, the air became colder, blowing directly off the sea and mixing with salty spray as it hit the rocks and blew into their faces.
On the left of the path, some small boats were moored up in the deeper parts of water, but the trio had no way of getting to them.
They continued to place one foot in front of the other, but it was becoming more tiring and difficult with every step.
To make things worse, the weather had slowly begun to deteriorate. Dark clouds had gathered over the English Channel, threatening to move across the Isle of Wight.
‘We need to get to Hurst, before those clouds reach us,’ said Tracker, watching the sky with concern. He didn’t fancy being stranded on a narrow ledge of shingle in the middle of the Solent if a storm should break.
With an extra burst of energy they pulled their zips high up beneath their chins and the draw-strings round the rim of their hoods and pushed forward. The straps of the hold-all were beginning to dig into Steven’s shoulders, every step making them slip slightly, rubbing the layers of clothing against his skin. He tried to lift the straps away by manoeuvring his hand underneath and taking the strain in his arms, but the biting wind quickly began to make his fingers go numb with cold.
Within minutes the wind had picked up.
The waves of the sea began to rise higher out of the water as they galloped in rows towards the walkway. They could see the low grey building that was Hurst in the distance ahead of them, but the shingle path now seemed weak and vulnerable to the waves. Occasionally a wave would hit against one of the larger boulders at the edge of the path and shoot water high into the air around them, showering them with cold water that dribbled into every tiny gap in their clothing. The clouds blew off the English Channel and hovered over the Isle of Wight. Streaks of grey seemed to gather between the cloud and land, signalling the downpour of heavy rain.
The three figures tucked their heads down and continued to tread across the path that seemed to get narrower as the level of the sea rose higher. From the main path they could see a smaller track ahead of them that filtered off towards the grasses and sand that was sheltered on the north side of Hurst. On the main path a flat grey building stood amongst the shingle. Tracker signalled they should take the lower path that seemed to follow alongside the walls of the building, whilst the higher path continued along the more exposed south side and was edged with wooden wave breakers.
The clouds quickly blew across the Isle of Wight towards the south coast of England and Hurst was in its path. In their exposed position, the wind whipped off the sea and stung their cheeks, closely followed by large drops of rain that seemed to hit them horizontally. The force of the wind and rain slowed their progress, every step now was a battle against the elements that tried to force them back.
The storm was not the only unwelcome visitor to Hurst.
In the dark sky above, black shadows had begun to move, playfully riding the gusts of wind that whipped up from the sea. Steven hoped the creatures’ presence would not give their location away to any look-outs on the coast of the island. But, when he turned to look towards the main land, he could see other flocks of creatures circling above areas where, he presumed, other survivors had also been spotted. The presence of shadows in the sky would not be an unfamiliar one to anyone watching from the Isle of Wight.
Blinded and squinting from the rain and sea spray, they made their way along the path of shingle. The side of the building they followed was flat and featureless with no signs of windows or doors. Above them were some towers, whilst further on was a low rou
nd building that stuck out with typical castle battlements that ran around the top. Before the round building was an arched doorway with recessed wooden double doors. They eagerly crowded beneath the stone archway, trying to shelter from the rain.
‘We need to get in,’ shouted Tracker above the wind. Droplets of rainwater sprayed from his lips as he spoke.
Putting their rain soaked hold-alls on the ground, Steven and Tracker began kicking at the rusted lock in the centre of the doors. At first the damp wood bounced back against the force, but eventually the lock began to splinter from the wood until it gave way and sprung in to slam against a stone wall. They quickly moved through the doorway into a narrow courtyard. It looked very much like a narrow street, bordered on both sides by high sided stone walls. The rain soaked stone floor was black and shiny, whilst down the centre of the street a thin river of water gathered and trickled away.
They turned to their left, towards the large central part of the fortress that seemed to be covered, and ran beneath a wide gateway that went underneath the outer wall. From there, the first thing they saw was an open doorway beside some stone steps. They rushed towards it, rain still blowing against their faces, and dashed into a small room that was bare except for the darkness. The walls were cold and damp and rain occasionally flew through the doorway, but at least they had made it to Hurst and found shelter.
Tracker quickly moved to the side of the room that was furthest from the doorway and began to remove his wet clothes.
‘Should we try and make a fire?’ asked Georgia, as she peeled herself out of her coat with just one hand.
‘What with?’ replied Tracker. ‘We don’t have any kindling, and even if we could find some driftwood that’s been washed up by the sea, it would be too damp to light.’
‘It might also attract unwanted attention,’ added Steven. ‘Take off your wet clothes, we will have to dry ourselves naturally.’
They began rubbing each others arms and legs, using the friction to generate heat in their limbs.
‘We will have to wait for better weather before we can think of crossing,’ said Tracker. ‘There were some boats moored off a jetty opposite the gate we broke through to get in. I’m sure we could get one of those started.’
‘We need something small and inconspicuous. Something that might look like it’s drifting across without any crew. That way, if it is spotted, Coldred’s guards would just think it was a boat that had broken loose.’
The rain continued to fall in sheets that raced along the exposed streets of Hurst Fortress, whilst three human survivors waited amongst the salt saturated stone walls for their opportunity to cross the Solent. Above them creatures continued to dart amongst the grey clouds, searching for prey and taking any animal that had been washed from its hiding place.
8. The Italian Restaurant
‘We need to be prepared to find shelter for tonight before the creatures reappear,’ said Edgar, as he sat on the grass in front of the church munching on an apple.
The Grey Man nodded. ‘We can’t hide behind tree roots every night.’
‘What about in there,’ added Scarlet, pointing towards a red painted shop next to the convenience store they had just raided.
Edgar squinted to read the sign in the window.
‘Giovanni’s Italian Restaurant,’ he read.
‘There might be a cellar where they keep the wines. That would be a safe place to sleep.’
‘Good idea. It’s worth checking,’ said the Grey Man.
As soon as they had finished eating their food, they crossed back over the road to the small red fronted restaurant. On the pavement directly in front of the door were some dark red stains together with a half smashed glass bottle. Edgar pushed on the door to the Italian restaurant allowing it to swing gently inside. The lock was already broken; someone else had already been there. At the side of the door the metal lock was only held in place by the weakest fragments of splintered wood that hung limply, relying on many layers of successive years of paint to stay together.
Inside, the restaurant smelt of stale red wine.
Directly in front of the door was the bar, wine stacked neatly on shelves behind it. A cash register hung open to one side, whilst a pile of menus had spilt from the bar onto the floor. On the top of the bar, half empty bottles of wine were lined up, as if someone had been sampling different vintages. They stepped across the wooden floor careful to avoid the sticky pools of alcohol that had tipped from overturned bottles. The broken door was not the only sign that someone had been in the restaurant. On the top of a wooden table nearest to the bar was a small bowl of abandoned green olives sitting in a pool of oil. Next to it was a wine glass with the concentrated remains of evaporated red wine at the bottom, together with a kitchen knife that had been thrust into the wooden table and now quivered on its point.
Silently they moved through the front of the restaurant and entered the kitchen via a set of swing doors. The room was square with stainless steel work surfaces along each wall, and a separate island in the middle. To one side of the kitchen was a walk-in fridge with a thick metal handle to keep the door bolted shut. They walked round the island, listening for any sound. Some of the store cupboard doors had been left open, revealing boxes and vacuum packed bags of food.
‘Edgar,’ whispered Max who was nearest to the walk-in fridge. There was a nervous tension in his voice that made them automatically look towards him, fearful for what he had found.
Max pointed towards the tiled floor at his feet.
As Edgar stepped around the central island, he saw what Max was looking at. Smeared across the white tiled floor was a trail of blood that disappeared beneath the door to the refrigerator, as if someone or something had been dragged into cold storage.
‘There could be a survivor trapped inside,’ said Flora. ‘We need to check.’
‘Take my sword,’ instructed the Grey Man to Edgar, who was surprised by the weight of the Donestre sword in comparison to Ethera.
The Grey Man grasped the metal handle that locked the fridge door ready to open it. Everyone else moved round the island, grabbing whatever metal implement they could get hold of.
The Grey Man paused.
As soon as the door was open, they would find out what had been dragged inside and whether any survivors were using it as a hideaway. He pulled on the metal handle which slid the bolt out of the frame and into the locking mechanism. As soon as the bolt was released from the frame, the Grey Man could feel the door spring towards him slightly.
He looked at Edgar who nodded back.
They were ready.
The Grey Man pulled the heavy door into the kitchen. There was a small hiss of air as it rushed into the refrigerator. Edgar could feel the wave of cold as it flooded into the kitchen and washed over his feet.
Instinctively, Scarlet screamed.
Edgar drew a quick breath in surprise.
Standing in the doorway was a Moon Stealer, its arms raised and ready to strike.
But, it didn’t move.
Edgar, noticed that something wasn’t quite right. He prodded the creature in the body with the point of his sword.
Nothing happened.
‘It’s frozen,’ Edgar said to the rest of them.
‘But there’s no power supply going to the fridge,’ said Joe.
‘The thick walls and vacuum inside would have held the temperature at a constant rate. Long enough to freeze it. The temperature will only slowly come back to normal over time.’
‘The creature doesn’t look like it’s been harmed. Whoever put it in there didn’t escape without injury,’ added Flora looking at the smear of blood on the floor again.
Edgar passed the Donestre sword back to the Grey Man and stepped towards the creature. On closer inspection, the black skin was coated in a frosty yellow liquid that had crystallized in the cold air. What he didn’t notice was the small pool of yellow liquid that had begun collecting around the creature’s feet, a sign that the temperature
inside the refrigerator had already begun to rise, slowly allowing the fluid to defrost. What they also failed to notice was a tiny muscle spasm that flickered around one of the claws of its feet.
‘Can we close the door again?’ asked Scarlet. ‘Even though it’s dead, it still makes me feel uncomfortable.’
The Grey Man nodded and pushed the door back into the frame, locking the bolt back into place.
Leaving the kitchen behind, they moved back into the restaurant. Apart from the chairs and tables there didn’t appear to be any other rooms to explore. The Grey Man walked behind the bar and looked at the variety of wines that were stacked neatly on the shelves. The sound of his shoes on the wooden floor echoed in the small room, but as he moved further along the bar, the sound changed. Instead of a solid, deep thud, the sound of his footsteps changed momentarily to a lighter, slightly higher pitched hollow sound.
Edgar heard the change in sound and turned immediately to the Grey Man.
‘The floor beneath you is hollow,’ he said.
The Grey Man looked down to his feet. Cut into the wooden floor was a square shape that had a recessed brass clasp on one side. Automatically, the Grey Man began to reach down ready to lift the hatch to see what was down there.
‘Wait!’ shouted Edgar. ‘What if there are creatures trapped down there as well? Or even nervous survivors with weapons.’
Edgar moved round the bar to stand beside the Grey Man. He searched amongst the bits and pieces that were in the drawer beneath the cash register, pushing pens, paperclips and business cards out of the way until he found what he was looking for. He then searched around for the compulsory romantic table candle and lit it with the lighter he had found in the drawer. Both of the men held onto their weapons, and, while the Grey Man began lifting the heavy wooden hatch upwards, Edgar nervously peered into the darkness below.