The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. Something so romantic about it. Don't you think?”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders. “Not for me.” He was closely monitoring the electronic beeps from a depth sounder giving a digital readout of the sea floor below them. Riley noticed the familiar outline of a ship’s hull on the monitor.

  “What's that?” she asked.

  “That's the Varvassi. Jack showed me this photo once of people standing on one of her boiler stacks at low water.”

  “Seriously?” said Riley, looking over the side in alarm, expecting to see rusting metal breaking the surface.

  “Don't worry. You can only see her at very low tide.”

  “Another troop carrier?”

  “No, she was a steamship bringing fruit from Algiers. Drifted on to the rocks. Engines failed.”

  Riley imagined exotic, brightly coloured fruit floating in on the tide, washing up on beaches for weeks afterwards. The thought of ripe fruit made her salivate like some Pavlovian dog. Something about the story made her think of far-away lands, a message in a bottle cast adrift on the ocean currents, discovered by some handsome stranger puzzling at its origins.

  “See that chalk ridge?” asked Sam, pointing beyond the Needles across the headland. “That’s the backbone of the entire island. Thousands of years ago, you could walk all the way from Culver Cliff to Old Harry Rocks twenty miles that way.” He pointed off into the distance. “Before the Isle of Wight was an island at least, when the Solent was just a river.”

  “Funny. Most people assume chalk is brittle, but those rocks are all that's left. Everything else fell into the sea.”

  “See there?” He directed Riley's attention to the gap between the rocks. “There used to be four stacks. You can still see the stump of that one at very low tide. Do you know what they called it? Lot’s Wife. She was the one turned into a pillar of salt for disobeying God or something. No one even remembers her name. Just Mrs Lot.”

  Something made Riley think of Terra, but she couldn’t think why. “How many more pots to check?” she asked.

  Sam checked the small screen showing their locations on a moving map. “Five more here.” He pointed to an area further west of the rocks. “Just the static gill nets in the Passage and we're done. Another hour here max. The rest is easy.”

  “Do you want me to help Tommy?”

  “Nah, leave him be. He's happy working on his own.”

  “What's Carter want today?”

  “Depends what we catch. Yesterday, we gave him a couple of bass and three big crabs. Should have seen the size of one of them. Massive thing.”

  “Must be teeming with them down there. They’ve never had it so good. They must wonder what’s going on up top.”

  Sam threw the engine lever into neutral as they came up into the wind, manoeuvring the Nipper alongside the next buoy as Tommy leant over, attaching the line to a windlass which did the heavy lifting. As the lobster trap broke the surface, he released the button. Inside were two enormous crabs. He grabbed the first by its shell for Riley to inspect, as it snapped its pincers in protest at the unwanted attention.

  The radio at head height in the wheel house crackled into life and they heard Corporal Carter hailing the Nipper from the Needles Battery high above their heads on the clifftop. Riley picked up the handset.

  “Morning, Carter. We're just catching your dinner. Crab or lobster?” she joked.

  “Riley? Shouldn’t you be doing Pilates on the beach or something?”

  “Chores first.”

  “We’ve had lobster twice this week already. Haven't you got anything else? Terry’s been very inventive. Boiled, grilled, baked, and curried leftovers.”

  “Wow, you really are slumming it up at the Battery.”

  “Maybe you should stay for dinner one time and find out?”

  Sam nudged Riley in the ribs, fluttering his eyelashes. “Now I see why you really wanted to come fishing.” She slapped his hand away. “Cut it out,” she warned. “I’m not doing this for fun, you know. I get enough abuse from Scottie about cougars and toy boys.”

  “And now you're giving him crabs?” he laughed.

  “Very funny.” She depressed the transmit button. “One day, I’ll take you up on the offer, when this is all back to normal.”

  “Please yourself.” There was a burst of static on the radio. “We’ve got the fuel and supplies you asked for. I’ll have it ready by the time you arrive in Freshwater.”

  Sam shook his head and silently expressed his concerns. “Sam says we can't hang around today. The weather’s picking up. Can we make the exchange in Alum Bay?”

  “Okay. I’ll ask the boys in the coastguard station to keep an eye on you.”

  “Thanks. We feel safer knowing you’re watching over us,” cooed Riley.

  “Apparently, the men enjoy watching you work.”

  “I bet they do. See you in an hour. Nipper out.”

  They collected the last of the pots and headed back towards the Needles Passage and the relative shelter of the Solent. Sam swapped with Tommy to handle the somewhat trickier task of gathering in the nets. Back in the wheelhouse, Tommy took off his oilskin jacket and warmed his hands on the portable heater, pouring himself a cup of tea, taking the wheel from Riley.

  Sam tapped on the wheelhouse window. “Don’t cut the corner. Make sure you stay further out this time,” he said, pointing to the Needles.

  Tommy grimaced and shook his head. “Paranoid, he is. Not another boat for miles.” Riley trusted Sam's experience. He warned them about hidden hazards. Detritus washed out to sea by the spring tides. Tree branches, shipping containers, drifting buoys, fishing nets, you name it. Riley blinked hard and stared at the next set of waves, scanning for anything in the water.

  Tommy put the wheel hard over, taking their way off, coming up into the wind as they approached the buoys marking the static nets. Sam was shouting, pointing at something half-submerged off their port bow, but Tommy was slow to react, unsighted as he made the turn.

  A trailing rope pulled taught by the tide disappeared beneath the hull. The engine strained and an eerie judder vibrated through the boat as Sam barged Tommy out of the way. He killed the engine, just as it stalled.

  “Didn’t you hear me? ‘Bear away’, I said.” Tommy had his hands either side of his face, shaking his head. “Whatever you do, don’t try and restart the engine. The rope could be caught around the prop.”

  Riley joined Sam at the stern, holding on to his belt as he leaned as far over as he dared. She grabbed hold of his oilskin jacket for good measure, making sure he wouldn’t fall. Without forward momentum the Nipper rolled heavily in the swell, yawing from side to side. It was hard to see anything from the stern. A larger wave slapped their side and sent spray high into the air before the strengthening wind carried it away.

  “Try to keep her bow on to the waves, will you Tommy?”

  Riley and Sam raced up to the bow and saw the blue polypropylene rope stretching out to a small orange buoy dragged below the surface. The Nipper slewed round until the sinking line held the full weight of the boat. Sam dropped anchor and tried to take the strain off the line, worried it might do more damage to their propellor shaft.

  “Do you want me to call Carter back, maybe he can help?” suggested Riley, gripping the rail.

  “What can he do?” replied Sam. “There isn’t another boat for miles.” Riley swallowed hard, a lump in her throat, realising their predicament. “We’re on our own out here,” confirmed Sam.

  Chapter 3

  In the crowded mess hall at St. Mary’s Hospital within the newly established Allied Command Headquarters, people from all different walks of life and professions sat cheek by jowl, their surgical masks hanging loosely under chins or perched awkwardly on top of heads. The same smells and sounds permeated the place: the clank of crockery; plates being stacked one on top of another; the scrape of knives and forks; a woman’s laughter. If you closed your eyes, sometimes it was
possible to imagine a different life before all this, when everyone took simple pleasures for granted. Few had lived under continuous threat for this length of time. From infection, from insurgents hell bent on disrupting the Allied plans. Beyond the security fences, the razor-wire and the fields of anti-personnel mines, lurked an invisible danger.

  Life expectancy had plummeted to levels not seen since the Black Death. People lived in fear of contact with each other. No-one had faced this gnawing hunger, a widening divide between the haves and the have-nots. A sense of loss overshadowed everyone and everything.

  Zed struggled to recall what the world had been like before the collapse. Had a pint of home-brewed beer always tasted so delicious on a Friday? Or had the paucity of supply just made every little luxury somehow taste better? In a world turned upside down, everything looked basically the same at a superficial level. Standards of hygiene had somewhat slipped. Military uniforms were no longer quite so pressed, shirt collars were unstarched. Women wore less makeup. Those in service wore their hair tied in pony tails or held in place under caps. They chose to express their individuality with brooches or pins, jewellery and tattoos. Small but significant protests from the routine of life within the compound.

  This lunchtime the items on Zed’s tray were disappointingly bland. Eating had become a functional process for restoring lost energy, refuelling the body so one could push oneself harder, working longer hours, as per the official guidelines issued to St Mary’s personnel. The kitchen served puréed vegetables and grilled meat, said to contain all the nutrients the human body needed. Zed remembered the delights of restaurant food. Chinese or Indian takeaways as a Friday night treat, spiced and flavoursome, unlike this slop.

  He pushed the pieces of indeterminate meat around his plate, too tough to cut with one hand. He stuck to the softened potato chunks, spooning them into his mouth. The newly acquired prosthetic arm one of the nurses had found for him provided additional utility from its predecessor, but he was yet to get used to the thing. It still felt like it belonged to someone else, like that of a mannequin.

  A grey-haired lab worker sat opposite with a nod. He devoured his own serving before coveting the lumps of fatty meat that ringed Zed’s plate.

  “Do you mind…?” His fork poised ready to spear any left-overs.

  “Be my guest,” responded Zed, pushing the tray across the dining table.

  “Waste not, want not, eh?” said the overweight scientist as he shovelled the sour, tasteless grizzle into his mouth, chewing each piece between uneven tobacco-stained teeth until he dared to swallow. A dribble of gravy stained the lapel of his threadbare lab coat.

  “You must be new,” he mumbled, mouth full.

  “I work for the Colonel,” whispered Zed, leaning forward surreptitiously.

  “Oh, you should have said.” He seemed surprised, jabbing at Zed with his fork. “You should be with the officers then,” he sneered, flicking his head towards the top table.

  Zed shrugged but chose not to continue their conversation. It rarely paid to talk about the substance of his work. Some assumed his role was tantamount to spying on the scientists, reporting anything out of the ordinary. He preferred to sit in anonymity with the rank and file. Fewer awkward questions that way. The colonel insisted that he eat with the others, so that he might build relationships, overhear private conversations, not hide himself away like some recluse, eating cheese sandwiches at his desk. Human company was important, the colonel repeated.

  Co-workers knew Zed for his interminable silences, staring off into the distance, often lost in reflection. His wife once claimed a nuclear bomb could detonate without him noticing. He considered his powers of concentration an asset, one that tried the patience of his family. No wonder she had given up on him. What had she called him once? ‘Preternaturally stubborn’, single-minded in the extreme. He took it as a compliment. It reminded him of his former colleagues at the Ministry of Defence who nicknamed him ‘Rain Man’ for his legendary capacity for detail. A near photographic memory established him as the darling of the MoD quiz team all those years ago. At least they understood the value of his skill set. What made him a terrible husband and father also made him a conscientious investigator and analyst. Driven by an oft-stated disgust for corrupt politicians and the power-hungry, he reserved a special place in hell for those who had commissioned scientists to pursue the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction. The human cost was too terrible to imagine.

  Zed became aware of the unrelenting glare of a uniformed officer at the far end of his bench seat. No doubt one of Armstrong’s men sent to report back on Zed’s movements, who he met with, spoke to. There was normally someone. Nothing personal, they monitored most of the key workers here. Just being careful, insisted the colonel. In the aftermath of repeated attacks, they monitored everyone these days. Major Donnelly had seen fit to have Porton Down’s Head of Security transferred here. Rumours were doing the rounds of multiple concurrent investigations. Those accused were spirited away, never to be seen again. Some said the cells of Parkhurst Prison were full of dissidents, political prisoners deemed too subversive.

  Zed had been repeatedly warned not to interfere. So long as the colonel was around, Zed was untouchable, encouraged to follow every lead wherever that took him.

  Most of the rank and file at St Mary’s seemed harmless enough. He found their lowbrow conversation a comfort. That blonde nurse with the long legs, the five-a-side tournament, the Friday night movie. Staff traded CDs and DVDs like children in a playground from their school days. The disks were only surpassed in value by the means to play them. People reminisced about internet-streaming services for music and entertainment, and other redundant technologies: cassette tapes, VHS, minidisk, mobile phones, vinyl. Formats taken for granted and now gone.

  Their routine conversations proved a welcome relief from the long hours working in solitude, poring over archive material, debating conspiracies and political intrigue with themselves. The humdrum of life here was broken by petty injustices, the rationing of beer and chocolate. The film projector breaking down. Otherwise everyone seemed to accept their life within the compound, a welcome sanctuary from the dangers outside.

  The Allies carefully managed news flow via daily and weekly briefings. Updates on the fight against the rebels, progress with vaccine trials, reconstruction, designed to inject meaning and purpose into daily activity, working towards a ‘better world’. Each message crafted to motivate and empower. Many talked about the ‘greater good’. David Woods, the former parliamentarian, threw himself into each announcement, taking personal control of all official communiqués. Zed knew more than most. The colonel provided Zed with insight into the real challenges that faced their reconstruction efforts. Over the last few weeks, he had grown increasingly desensitised to their lies. The truth seemed twisted to the Allies’ purpose. There were few leaders left to openly question, let alone contradict, the party line.

  Messages going back and forth to the mainland were heavily censored. Camp Wight was fed a regular diet of propaganda. The war against the rebels was being won. The search for a vaccine was progressing. Things were getting a little better every day. Food production had stabilised, quotas were being met and even exceeded. Zed somehow doubted these claims.

  In private, some expressed their disquiet. Trust was in short supply. Informers were everywhere, spying for Captain Armstrong. The officials paid lip service to a collective responsibility, offering rewards to those who identified those individuals that posed a risk to security.

  Zed had seen for himself the warehouses stacked to the rafters with dry stores and non-perishable items. Food was rationed not because it was a scarce resource but because it was a means of control. The illusion was at the heart of the Allies’ power construct. They justified their methods with claims of long-term planning or prudence, but the reality, at least Zed assumed, was to create dependency, a necessary component of the contract between worker and management. A siege mentality prevai
led that made people fear for their safety, grateful for the protective umbrella the Allies projected.

  Few dared whisper about the obvious injustices, the rumours of decadence and hedonism amongst the elite. The officers’ club had been nicknamed ‘Oblivion’. Champagne on tap, oysters, steak and lobster, whatever you wanted. For all Zed cared they could keep all that. Oysters never agreed with him, despite his wife’s claim they were an aphrodisiac. She always reported feeling ‘amazing’ after eating half a dozen, he remembered with a smile.

  Some officers spoke openly about their disgust for those outside the compound. Refugees were dehumanised, referred to as ‘test subjects’, press-ganged as volunteers for the clinical trials. The Allies relied on this subclass for manual labour: digging trenches; carrying equipment; operating machinery. Workers had no more rights than the lumbering beasts they cared for in the fields around Newport, butchered for their meat or milked daily. New arrivals were blinded to their servitude by promises of food, security and a vaccine.

  With the renewed threat of infection, the military tightened their grip, demanding unquestioning support, compliance and servitude. With mounting losses from each fresh outbreak of disease, Camp Wight depended on a steady flow of new recruits to complete the many half-finished construction projects. Earth-moving equipment rusted in giant puddles surrounded by piles of earth.

  Zed figured Captain Armstrong and the rest of the council of twelve at St Mary’s were as good as any other leadership team. Sweep them away and another tyranny would take its place. Regime change was unthinkable, their grip on power too tight. Zed dreamed of a return to the old world: freedom, family, and fatherhood. For now those aspirations must be placed on hold. It was still too painful to open the door to the past.

  A letter was tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket. It had arrived unexpectedly the previous week, postmarked from the Ministry of Defence facility at Porton Down. He reread the handwritten note from Gill, puzzling at its contents. Weekly postal deliveries remained something of a novelty. Communication with the mainland was strictly controlled, letters opened, their contents censored. Irradiated and quarantined to eliminate any chance of infection. The grapevine went into overdrive at the slightest rumour.