by Tim Flanagan
'Hi,' Rhys said, holding out his hand to the young man. 'My names Rhys.' It felt strange for him to speak his name after all the years living in the Underworld under the name of the Grey Man.
Subconsciously the young man's eyes seemed to examine Rhys' hand, inspecting it for signs of bacteria or disease, even though he knew Rhys would have been disinfected before being admitted to the waiting room.
The young man clutched the piece of paper tightly with one hand whilst he stretched out the other to shake Rhys'.
'My name's Will,' he replied in a shaky voice.
'When's the next crossing?' Rhys asked, trying to be friendly.
'This afternoon I think,' replied Will. His eyes were heavy. There were large purple bags hanging beneath them, caused, Rhys presumed, from a lack of sleep. Or, from the way he sniffed his nose, possibly from crying. Everyone in the room seemed to be lethargic and slow. A heavy unspoken cloud seemed to be hanging over everyone. No one seemed to have any energy or passion for life. Something that Rhys had seen before in the downtrodden people of the Underworld. It seemed to arrive when all hope had been abandoned. The other people in the room had accepted their fate and were simply waiting to be shipped off like slaves to live under someone else's protection and instruction.
Rhys turned back to Will. 'Where had you been staying?'
'At a hotel with my girlfriend. At night we hid, by day we searched for food. Yesterday one of the guards found me looting a newsagents along the road and brought me back here.'
'What about your girlfriend?'
'She got sick several days ago.'
'I'm sorry,' replied Rhys with a sympathetic look.
There was a pause. Rhys could see tears gathering around Will's already red and swollen eye lids. 'It's so hard to stay awake,' he sobbed. 'I only closed my eyes for a few seconds and then she was gone. But, I was so tired.'
Rhys didn’t say anything, but waited patiently for Will to continue. Although it was obviously upsetting for him, he could tell that Will was desperate to talk about it and share a connection with another human being.
'She knew she was ill,' Will sobbed. 'We had seen other people, their skin all black and poisoned, same as hers. Then one day we came across a house. There were dead people hiding inside the cupboard and they had the same marks on them. From then on, she knew she would end up the same way.'
Will wiped his tears on the sleeve of his jacket. He shook his head as if he was mentally casting aside his doubts. 'I suppose we both knew, but you just don’t want to admit it. After I had fallen asleep she wrote me a note then walked out of the door. She said she didn’t want me to catch the disease from her. That she didn’t want to be responsible for my death. And, without her, I would have a better chance of survival.'
Rhys reached over to Will and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
'Be strong Will. Don’t waste the most precious gift your girlfriend gave to you: the chance of life. I know for a fact that there are people out there working on a solution to rid us of the creatures and the disease they bring. So be strong. We can still survive this. If you die, so does the memory of your girlfriend.'
Suddenly there was movement within the waiting room. A guard had approached the outer door next to the glass window and was busy trying to find the right key for the lock. As soon as he did he stepped inside the room and addressed the survivors.
'We're going to cross to the island shortly. Weather is currently good so we should get to the other side in plenty of time before the light begins to fade. For your own safety, you will all be locked inside a containment room on board the ferry until we reach Yarmouth.'
Everyone nodded obediently.
'I want you all to follow me to the ferry in a quiet and orderly fashion. If anyone causes me any trouble, they will be left behind. Do you all understand?'
There was a muttering of acceptance. Everyone stood and began to walk out of the room in a solemn single file. Rhys and Will, being the furthest from the waiting room door, were the last to leave.
The group followed the guard to the side of the ferry and along a steel gangplank that sloped upwards away from the rear loading doors and along the side of the ferry. At the top of the gangplank was a round topped door that they entered, some of the men bowed slightly as they attempted to avoid banging their heads. Rhys tried to discreetly observe everything that was going on around the ferry without looking out of place, as well as making a mental map of the route they took inside. They followed the guard down several staircases that would normally have been restricted to ferry crew, and along narrow corridors that smelt of grease and dirt until they came to a large sliding door. They each stepped obediently over a wide metal plinth that housed a black greasy chain which stretched from one wall to the other.
Beyond the plinth was a containment room. The walls were simple metal studded walls painted a dull grey-green colour and chipped, scratched, and smeared with black marks in places. 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 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 the 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's hands reached out from the darkness and took the lantern from Rhys 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 high pitched squeaks casting a look of fear across some of the survivors, but it was just 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 on the ferry as it 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 faded candle light to be released. Following several metallic bangs and judders caused from 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 sl
id 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 that 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 the 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 could not 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 all to help and carry some of the boxes that were stacked up outside a low building. Rhys watched a miniature pick-up truck move some of the heavier crates from inside 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 the people that were 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 all 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 your skills. You will be transported over there when it is safe to leave the dock tomorrow.’
‘What happens to all of the boxes and crates that were brought over with us?’ Rhys 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 its 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 rations 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 might 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 the benefit of having the 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 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 other humans were no threat to his food supplies during the night 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 this make-shift checkpoint nestled amongst some ornamental grasses 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.