The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  From his gait and body language, cradling one arm, she convinced herself one figure had to be Zed. The other was surely Anders. The ship’s captain braced himself in the doorway, preparing to jump, shouting instructions over his shoulder. To her frustration, Zed disappeared inside again as another gigantic explosion swept through the crew quarters and bridge, shattering windows, flames billowing out in all directions. Everyone ducked as debris splashed around them in the water.

  As the dense smoke dissipated, the searchlight picked out the blackened face of Anders clinging to the rail. He clambered over, tumbling forward in to the waves below. Without a thought for their own safety, two of the Charlotte’s crew threw off their blankets and dived overboard, making for the desperate figure, his life jacket keeping his head upright. The swimmers nursed their semi-conscious skipper back towards the fishing boat, passing him to the outstretched arms of those aboard. Anders was exhausted, half-delirious, mumbling Zed’s name.

  Riley blinked back tears, scanning the bridge and open doorway. She half-glimpsed a dark shape through the smoke and flames, levering himself upright, patting at the flames that smouldered against his calf and thigh with a bare hand. To her horror, he backed away, clambering up the incline, towards the port side, disappearing from view. She could only assume his exit was blocked or someone else was with him.

  A shaft of light fell across Anders’s face as his crew wrapped him in a blanket, supporting him below deck. Barely conscious, he was muttering incoherently about going back.

  The Charlotte’s struggle was approaching its final death throes, her starboard quarter already submerged, her remaining deck lights flickered and died, the evacuation alarm silenced once and for all. Sporadic fires flared from the windows, briefly illuminating her darkened superstructure. With one last desperate groan she began a slow roll, sending powerful swells sweeping towards them. The Nipper was lifted like a bath time toy.

  Her stunned crew stared in tears as a dozen more container stacks toppled, launched in to the waves like Lego bricks. They stood traumatised, thinking of the crewmates they had left behind, still trapped below. Riley knew only too well the pain of survivors’ guilt.

  A cry of hope. A finger pointing towards movement on the port side, some seventy feet above the waves, two figures gripped the rail as it rose higher and higher, soaring like a fairground Ferris wheel. The ship continued its slow roll until it reached the apex of its rotation, the men shouting above the roar of the sea.

  One of them lost his grip, dropping into the chaotic jumble of rectangular shipping containers, half-submerged, bumping against each other in the water. The second lingered, staring down into the maelstrom of roiling, bubbling foam and water, not daring to jump. He clambered higher, defiant, determined to face his fate. No one knew for sure why he waited or what he planned, but his foot slipped, body somersaulting end over end, like a rag doll. They heard the impact. Their searchlight picked out his broken form, chest still heaving, clinging to the side of a container. There would be no way of safely reaching him. To their collective distress, he released his grasp, sliding down, disappearing from view. A cry for help drew their attention to the other survivor, thrashing the surface, dragged under by an invisible force. The vacuum left by the sinking ship tugged him back, until his hands seemed to wave a final goodbye.

  Riley could watch no more. She shoved her way through the standing figures, rechecking the face of every recovered person, hoping beyond hope that somehow Zed was amongst them, that one of the burned and blackened faces might still turn out to be him. She found Anders below deck, his body convulsing, hypothermic, blood soaking his sweater. Seeing Riley, he seemed to come to his senses, sitting up straighter, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders. He croaked something. A hoarse whisper, barely audible, eye-brows raised in expectation. Riley shook her head, as if expecting his question. “Not yet. But the other boat may have picked him up,” she whispered.

  Anders levered himself upright, pain doubling him over like a cripple. He reached out with a bloody, blistered hand and grabbed her arm. He needed to see the Charlotte one last time.

  Standing behind the Nipper’s wheelhouse, he struggled to take in the scene of destruction, oil burning on the water’s surface. The Charlotte’s cargo spread out in all directions, his beloved ship, half-submerged. Anders wept at the loss of everything he had worked so hard for. With a final gasp of air from the belly of the beast, the Charlotte’s bow settled in the water, completing her final roll on to her side. The depth of the Solent too shallow to swallow her whole, bumping gently against the sand and gravel seabed. With a final sigh, she lay still as the gentle sounds of the sea resumed around them.

  Chapter 51

  Zed lay back in the water, as if in a dream, staring up at a million pin-pricks of light. His entire body felt numb, kept afloat by the life jacket Anders had made him put on, snug underneath his chin. The stars seemed strangely bright tonight. He located the Plough, the polestar and that other one. He could never remember its name. Cassiopeia?

  A wave swept over him, seawater sluicing his mouth, stinging his eyes. His right arm and shoulder were on fire whenever he tried moving them. The pain jolted him back to the present.

  In great discomfort, Zed kicked his legs, twisting round, trying to get his bearings. The Charlotte and the Nipper were nowhere to be seen. A gigantic black hole stretched left and right. After a few seconds of confusion, he grasped what he was looking at, the Charlotte’s upturned hull, not fifty metres away, water lapping against its starboard propellor. How long had he lain unconscious?

  He paddled around, fighting to remain upright. Flotsam and jetsam littered the water’s surface in all directions. He kicked towards the largest floating object, dragging himself clear of the freezing water. Exposed to the breeze, his entire body began to shiver, his fingers clawing uselessly. He imagined what he must look like from above. A pathetic figure in a vast blackness of swirling water. The universe indifferent to his fate. At least a mile’s swim in any direction to reach land. A slick of oil settled around him creating an eerie calm, its glossy undulating surface a boundless glassy sweep. No other noises but the soporific sounds of the ocean. He wanted so badly to close his eyes and go to sleep.

  Something floated nearby, bobbing in the water beside him. A cork float with a line attached. Out of curiosity he hauled in the string to find a half-submerged tarpaulin, draping it over himself as a shield against the biting wind. He needed to conserve his remaining strength. His best bet was to stay put and wait for rescue. With any luck, the Americans would sweep the area for survivors.

  Another wave washed over his precarious platform, threatening to unbalance him. He gripped the edges, readjusting his body weight until the container rolled back into equilibrium. He became aware of a foul taste in his mouth. He clawed at his eyes, irritated by the salt and smoke.

  ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’ The words tumbled through his consciousness, like an automated response. ‘I will fear no evil’ in the ‘shadow of death’. He shook his head in frustration. Even in those darkest hours after his blood poisoning, after the fire, even the ambush and his interrogation, he never once resorted to prayer. But now, he felt so utterly alone, what else was there to do? Was this the end, he wondered? How many times he dreamed of this moment in that cell at Parkhurst Prison, sleep deprived and desperate?

  A cough close at hand, its source unseen in the darkness. At first, he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it, but there it was again. Zed slipped off his platform back into the water. “Hey”, he called out, “over here.” There was no response. The voice seemed so close, but if he left his float, he might never find it again. He clambered clear, dragging the tarpaulin over his torso again, throat on fire. What he wouldn’t give for a drink. Foolishly he rinsed his mouth with salt water, but instantly regretted the decision. It only seemed to make matters worse. ‘Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink’. He tried to remember the rest of The Ancient Mariner as if th
e lines from Coleridge might provide some degree of comfort, but he failed to summon them. He laughed at the irony, bringing on an uncontrollable fit of coughing. His entire body convulsing, powerless to take back control, slipping ever closer towards hypothermia. The end would come quickly now. He would not have long to wait.

  For a brief moment, the moon peeped out between passing clouds, creating a dull luminescence, shafts of light penetrating the depths, then the eerie illumination was gone again. He could see the Charlotte’s hull and port flank more clearly now, waves crashing against the barnacles clinging to her keel. And something else, barely audible. The low throb of a diesel engine. The beam of a searchlight sweeping the surface. He opened his mouth to shout but the wind drowned out the hoarse rasping sound his throat made. He lay back, exhausted, a hand raised in defeat, slipping in and out of consciousness.

  He blinked against a dazzling brightness, burning through his closed eyelids. A white heat. Was this what dying felt like? Then darkness enveloped him once more. He rolled on his side, squinting back towards the beam of light sweeping the glassy surface. It seemed so close. The hull of a cruiser, not a stone’s throw away. He had only to shout out, roll off, launch himself into the water and with a few dozen strokes, he could make it, if he could only summon the strength. His arms and legs remained unresponsive. He slapped the palm of his hand against the corrugated metal, prompting the light to flick towards him, bathing his freezing body in its warm glow. The engines spluttered and died as they came alongside.

  A boat hook snagged on his clothing, yanking him closer. He resisted, clinging on to the platform, gradually losing his grip. He slipped under water, his fingers grasping at the smoothness of the fibreglass hull, dragged towards a swimming platform at the stern. Manhandled clear of the water into the shelter of a wet room, ropes and fenders held back by webbing, dumped on a slick surface. A blanket dumped on top of him, like a fish out of water, twitching, blinking into the overhead strip light. Hands tugged at his clothes, cutting, tearing, pulling. Arms fed into the sleeves of a dry sweater, legs thrust into track suit trousers.

  He slumped back against the wall, closing his eyes for what felt like a few seconds, overcome by tiredness. “Here, drink this,” said a disembodied male voice, cold, professional, devoid of emotion. Hot liquid scolded Zed’s lips, forced to drink until he drained the cup. Then nothingness.

  A kick to his legs brought him back to full consciousness, squinting up at a silhouetted figure looming over him.

  “Of all the people we had to find,” said a mocking voice he recognised as Briggs, “it had to be you.” Zed grabbed the towel and wiped at his eyes. Briggs stood over him, like a hunter poised over his kill. “We should have left you to die.”

  “And saved you the trouble of killing me?” croaked Zed, propping himself up on his good arm.

  “Everyone else swam to safety, but no, not you,” sneered Briggs. “You’ve been swimming in circles half your life.”

  “You took my arm. What do you expect?” snarled Zed, holding up his prosthetic limb. “Where are the others?”

  “How should I know? You still think they care about you? They pity you. We’re just pawns to them. They’d sacrifice me or you without a second thought.”

  “We’re not the same, you and me,” panted Zed, repeatedly coughing.

  “You think?”

  “You’re a nuisance in the night time, Briggs. A dog barking at the moon. Soon they’ll chain you up, put you back in that kennel, where you belong.”

  “Not this time. No-one’s putting me back. Ten years I did, because of their lies.” Zed stared back at Briggs, too tired to understand or care any more. “Behind all those uniforms and shiny medals, they’re all twisted. They’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.”

  “Donnelly’s the real enemy.”

  “Enemy? Is that what you believe? Life’s never that black and white.”

  “Is that why you attacked the Charlotte?”

  “Me?” His laugh seemed a little forced. “You have no idea, do you? I could have killed you any time I wanted. Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

  “You found something out. Something you didn’t like. You saw an opportunity to seize control.”

  “And kill my own people, I don’t think so. Try again.”

  “Armstrong would never attack the Charlotte. It’s always been neutral.”

  “You don’t know Major Donnelly like I do.”

  “It was you I s-saw that night,” alleged Zed, suddenly making the connection. “Y-you sat in on my i-interrogation. W-why?” The adrenaline coursing through his body was beginning to subside, his teeth chattering, slurring words as his core temperature crashed, overwhelmed by tiredness. Briggs seemed to revel in Zed’s weakened state.

  “You really think Donnelly would have kept you alive if he thought you were still a threat?” Briggs stepped back, hands on hips. “He got what he wanted. The trial was just for show.”

  “What d-do you w-want from me?” Zed’s eyes were closing, barely able to speak.

  “What I’ve always wanted. Revenge.” Briggs unsheathed a huge bowie knife, inserting the serrated blade between Zed’s teeth. “You could never see what was right in front of you. Always so wrapped up in your investigation. Incapable of being happy. Maybe I should cut you a smile.” A tear ran down Zed’s face as he stared into Briggs’s lifeless eyes, tasting blood in his mouth. Yet something made Briggs hesitate. A sense of shame, perhaps. “No, the boy needs his father,” mumbled Briggs, half turning away.

  Zed could scarcely breathe. Fear gripped his chest like a vice. That same panic he experienced during Donnelly’s interrogation. The word ‘father’ stirred something deep inside him. Hopes of seeing Heather again crowded out his fears. Closing his eyes tight shut he could almost picture her standing there as he slipped into unconsciousness. Briggs kicked at his legs to keep him awake. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  He stepped back, shouting Terra’s name. A few seconds later she appeared in the doorway, clutching Connor’s hand in hers.

  “Go on,” encouraged Briggs, “this is your chance, boy. Tell your dad what you told me.”

  The son Zed assumed was dead stepped into the light, watching his father with unseeing eyes. Zed reached out a shaking hand, staring in disbelief, the blanket slipping from his grasp. Connor remained rooted to the spot.

  “Is it really him?” whispered Zed, as if this was another trick, not trusting his eyes..

  Briggs encouraged Connor forward so he stood before his father. “What kind of man leaves his son to die alone in those death camps?” sneered Briggs. “Now you see what a lowlife scum your dad is.”

  “Stop this,” implored Terra from the doorway.

  “Connor, if I’d known you were still alive, I would have come for you. I thought you were dead,” pleaded Zed, levering himself onto his elbows. Briggs pistol-whipped Zed across the cheek.

  “We need to teach them a lesson, don’t we? Parents lie. They only care about themselves. Don’t make the same mistake I made, will you, lad?” encouraged Briggs, handing Connor the silver Sig Sauer from the holster on his hip. The boy needed both hands to hold the weapon steady, pointed at his father’s chest.

  “That’s enough, Briggs,” cautioned Terra. “This has gone too far.” She turned to address the boy. “Connor, whatever you think your dad did or didn’t do, he’s still your dad.”

  “You’ve got a new family now. People who care for you. Go on, son, break the link with the past. Move on.”

  Connor was so confused, so damaged, he didn’t know what to do. Zed wanted so desperately to throw his arms around the boy, to hug him tight, but the fire in Connor’s eyes made him hesitate. Perhaps Briggs was right. No father could live with himself for deserting a child during their hour of need. He looked up at his son, resigned to his fate. Live or die, it was all the same now.

  Terra’s feet seemed rooted to the spot, perhaps wondering how far Briggs would take this charade.
Teaching Zed a lesson was one thing but this pantomime had gone too far. Unable to look away, like watching a slow motion car crash.

  “It’s no less than I deserve,” comforted Zed, tears streaming down his face.

  Terra reached out and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Her intervention seemed to break the spell Briggs had cast over the boy. The gun grew heavy in Connor’s hands, his resolve beginning to dissipate. “I can’t,” he admitted, placing the weapon on the ground, head lowered in defeat.

  She grabbed hold of the boy, burying his head in her bosom. “It’s alright, Connor.”

  “Go on, get out, both of you,” ordered Briggs, picking up the weapon.

  Once they had gone, Briggs forced Zed onto his back. “If you want something done properly...” He rammed the barrel between Zed’s teeth and pulled back the hammer. There was a kind of madness in Briggs’s eyes, sour breath, a trickle of sweat ran down the bridge of his nose, teeth bared, gripping the Sig tighter.

  “Kill me now and you’ll never find out what really happened,” warned Zed.

  Briggs laughed, enjoying the show of defiance. He tapped Zed’s forehead with his free hand. “What’s left in there ain’t worth knowing. You gave it all up to Donnelly.”

  “Not everything.” Zed’s eyes narrowed. “I’m still your best chance, Briggs.”

  Without warning, Briggs grabbed Zed’s hand, wrapping the fingers around the weapon, switching positions. “Maybe you should put me out of my misery, eh?”

  Zed took a moment to realise his finger now rested on the trigger. Confused, defeated, he tightened his grip, thoughts racing. However much he had dreamt of this moment of sweet revenge, now it had arrived, it felt anti-climactic.

  He steeled himself, desperate for this to be over. With a primeval cry, he squeezed the trigger to be met by a hollow click. He tried again and again, unsure of what was wrong. The weapon wouldn’t fire.