Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  The padre had been buoyed by reminiscences of his brother but now fell silent, staring over Riley’s shoulder, a distant look in his eyes.

  “He died some time ago. Took his own life.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “How could you? It was a huge shock to the family back home. He suffered from horrible bouts of depression, couldn’t seem to get out of bed most days. Temper got the better of him once too often. Wife walked out on him, took the kids. He had nothing left to live for. After everything he’d been through, he came to believe that his service to this country counted for nothing. When his wife told him he couldn’t see his own kids any more, it finished him, tipped him over the edge. Sorry,” he said, regretting his momentary loss of control, “I can’t abide people feeling sorry for themselves.”

  She reached out and touched his arm, but he shrank away from the contact. She persevered, gripping his sleeve.

  “Your brother was an incredibly brave soldier. Everyone who knew him liked him.” She paused, studying his reaction. “Look, I know what it’s like. Having to be strong for everyone else. If ever you need someone to talk to, with someone who actually knew your brother, you know where to find me.”

  “I might take you up on that.” He smiled weakly. “Still, it was probably for the best. Means he never got to see the outbreak and what followed. People with disabilities didn’t really stand a chance, did they?” he said, shaking his head, blinking away tears.

  Perhaps the padre was too proud to give in to emotion in front of strangers. Counselling veterans and their families, Riley had seen it a hundred times before. Those feelings never went away, but over time you got better at dealing with them.

  “We’ve all had to adapt as best we can,” he continued. “Survival is its own imperative. However profound our grief, life must go on. Ours is a stoicism borne from necessity.” He looked at his watch, taking a breath. “Right, I’m sorry, I’m expected up in Yarmouth for 17:00. Don’t forget about Corporal Carter at the Battery, will you? He’ll be expecting you.”

  As he turned away, Riley sensed a veiled hostility. Her intuition told her it was more than merely residual grief for the loss of his brother. Something about his tone and body language made her think that, subconsciously, he blamed Haileybury Court for failing to prevent his brother’s depression and slide towards suicide. She got the impression that somehow, deep down, he blamed her.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Riley and the others had climbed to the top of the cliff path that ran along the headland out towards the Old Needles Battery, daylight was already beginning to fade. They had been told to make contact with the platoon before nightfall. Why the urgency? thought Riley. Nothing seemed to happen in a hurry around here any more.

  Even with the crutch for support, the climb was physically demanding. She laboured up the slippery grassland, liberally embroidered with wildflowers. Her forehead beaded with perspiration despite the mild temperature.

  As the others brushed past her, she took a moment to catch her breath, leaning heavily against the crutch. Will was the last to arrive and paused beside her.

  “We’ll rest at the memorial,” he said, checking his watch and pointing to the top of the cliff.

  Riley’s leg was still throbbing from all the exertion. She gave Will’s shoulder a grateful squeeze, her hand lingering there for a few seconds, wincing against her pain. Will was a bull of a man, with thick arms and a broad chest.

  After what felt like a Herculean effort, they reached the stone cross that dominated the highest point of the headland. Will unhooked his rucksack and rummaged inside for a thermos flask, pouring out Rooibos tea into a single mug. He took a sip before offering it to the others.

  Riley inspected the dressing on her ankle. She stood back with both hands on her hips, taking deep breaths, filling her lungs with sea air. The wind whistling through the low railings made her think of distant music, melodic and soothing.

  Carved in large letters across the base of the weathered granite column she could make out the name Alfred Lord Tennyson. The upper-most section of the monument had been smashed off and lay broken on the ground. Spray-painted in red were the words: “Your God is Dead”.

  “Philistine,” said Scottie with genuine bitterness.

  “Who would do such a thing?” wondered Riley.

  “Perhaps they hated poetry,” joked Will.

  “Tennyson used to live not far from here,” added Scottie. “They say he walked up and down these slopes dressed in black with his broad-brimmed hat.”

  “You read that in your guidebook too?” Riley smiled.

  “Half a league, half a league…into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” started Scottie, trying to remember the lines from “The Charge of the Light Brigade”.

  Riley stood back and took in the view. As far as the eye could see, the English Channel stretched in all directions. Beyond the horizon, eighty miles to the south was the Cherbourg Peninsula and the coast of France. Directly west was Christchurch Bay and the Dorset coast. It wasn’t hard to imagine why Tennyson found this place so inspiring.

  On the way here, Riley couldn’t stop thinking about Sam and Tommy. If the rumours were true that Jack had been killed by King, she worried what the pair of them might do. She made a mental note to talk to Scottie. He could always make Tommy see sense.

  In the distance, she could just make out Studland Bay and Swanage. Jack always said it was one of his favourite places. There wasn’t a single sail or ship in sight. An uninterrupted blue-green canvas of slow-moving undulations, topped by dirty-white crests. She watched as each new set of waves advanced rhythmically towards the base of the sheer chalk cliffs hundreds of feet below them. Nearing the end of their journey, they took it in turns to smash against the rocks. High above their bare heads, gulls soared effortlessly on a south-westerly breeze. Below her feet, perched precariously, hidden among crevices in the cliff face, she imagined nests filled with squawking chicks waiting for their mothers to return with food.

  Will packed up the thermos and shouldered his bag before striding off on their final leg towards the Battery. “Come on, it’s not far now,” he said encouragingly.

  In the gorse bushes to their right, a startled rabbit scampered towards the safety of its burrow, its white tail disappearing from view as fast as it had appeared. Starlings and other small birds were disturbed by the sudden movement. They had become unused to humans walking these once-familiar paths.

  Further out, the lumbering shapes of cattle turned their heads, following the group’s passing with disinterest. Riley made a mental note to send Tommy out in the morning to round up the cows and return them to their rightful field. Someone must have left the gate open again.

  As they approached Needles Battery, the wind carried the hum of a generator from the old rocket-testing facility at High Down. From the mechanical sounds and shouting, it sounded like a work party carrying out maintenance. They got to within thirty metres of a furniture van before they were noticed.

  The soldiers seemed startled by the sudden sight of the group. Two of the men jumped down from the van and reached for the rifles propped against the back wheel. The other men took the opportunity to take a break from their work, hands on hips.

  “We’re looking for Corporal Carter,” said Riley, raising both palms defensively to show they meant no harm.

  “This is off limits. Military personnel only.” The older man said, scowling at them.

  “We were sent up from Freshwater Bay by Chaplain Bennett. The name’s Riley. This here’s Will and that’s Scottie over there.”

  The man scratched the back of his wiry hair, looking up at the overcast sky and dying light. It would be dark in an hour.

  “Freshwater, you say? Bit late to be out walking the cliffs. You best come back in the morning. There’d be no finding you if you slipped and fell.”

  “We were told to come before nightfall.” She shrugged nonchalantly as if she was just
following orders. “Is Carter around?”

  “He’s over there.” He gestured towards the bright light coming from the entrance to an underground bunker complex.

  Riley had heard about this place. Back in the 1950s and 1960s, there were said to have been huge gantries above Scratchell’s Bay used to test fire rockets for the British space programme. Seemed hard to imagine, but on a smaller scale this had been the British equivalent of NASA’s Cape Canaveral. All that remained now were the concrete bases and underground bunkers.

  They descended the stone steps into what looked like part of a museum whose exhibits had been cleared to make way for beds and living space for a dozen men. One of the work party broke off and strode towards them down the dimly lit hall, his hand outstretched, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

  “You must be the lot from Freshwater,” he said, shaking their hands firmly in turn as he studied each of them carefully, sizing them up. “I heard you might be paying us a visit. How are you settling in? Got everything you need?”

  Carter was a young man in his early twenties, blonde and good-looking. He had a scar across his right cheek that dragged at the corner of his eye. Riley noticed he favoured his left side as if self-conscious of his injury.

  “We’re getting there, thank you,” replied Riley, avoiding staring at his scar. “There’s still an awful lot to do. I understand we’re going to be working together.”

  “Yes, the chaplain has some grand plans for this end of the island.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Between High Down and Needles Battery, right now there are twenty of us, but we’ve been told to expect as many as seventy more over the coming weeks. We’re just the advance guard.”

  “That many?”

  “With the lighthouse keepers’ cottages up there and the Old Battery, we should have more than enough beds. There’s a canteen set up over there, a generator and fresh water. Food’s the priority. That’s where you lot come in. I gather you’ve had experience managing farmland and animals?”

  “We did back at Hurst Castle. We had several acres of winter crops, plus some livestock. We had all sorts: sheep, cows, goats, chickens. It’ll take time to recreate all that, but there are a couple of farms on the map that sound promising.”

  “Be careful how you go. There are a few dyed-in-the-wool locals living there.” He raised his eyebrows. “Last time we went there, some crazy old woman fired a shotgun at the car. Friendly bunch. They don’t like outsiders. They’ve taken full advantage to extend their boundaries.”

  “Wherever there’s death, there’s opportunity,” added Scottie.

  “I take it you’re not from around here?” Riley asked the corporal.

  “No, most of us transferred from Portsmouth a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Portsmouth? How was it?”

  “A real hot mess. The whole place is one giant refugee camp. We’re massively under-resourced. Too many refugees arriving every day, most of them sick or dying, too ill to make it across. Trouble is they have nowhere left to go.”

  “I suppose you’re loving all the peace and quiet over here then?”

  “Trust me, it won’t last long.”

  “I hear there’s been a fresh outbreak on the mainland?”

  “So they say. I can’t say I’m surprised. With so many refugees crammed into one place, it was always going to happen. Every Tom, Dick and Harry is trying to make it over here. Now there’s cholera and dysentery to worry about.”

  “What about these rebel groups? The ones who ambushed our convoy coming through the forest?”

  “I heard about that. Not much we can do though. We’ve got our hands full just securing the military bases. We’ve been attacked so many times, I suppose you just get used to it. Bit like back in Basra. What about Hurst Castle? Was it any better there?”

  Riley lowered her head and bit her lip, choosing her words carefully. It wouldn’t do well to blame the military right now. “Not really, but we were so remote, it felt safe.”

  “I heard about the attack,” he continued. “It all sounded a bit chaotic. How many of your people made it across?”

  “All but one. Our leader is still missing. No one’s heard anything. We believe he was either killed or captured.”

  “I shouldn’t give up hope. Miracles do happen.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Before it gets too dark why don’t I show you around the place? You’re welcome to join us for dinner. We normally eat at seven. Then I can get someone to drop you back at the hotel afterwards. How does that sound?”

  “Best offer we’ve had in days.”

  The sound of hurried footsteps drew their attention, and a uniformed man rounded the corner at speed, fighting to get his breath.

  “Corporal, we just got a call from the Chester. They’ve picked up an intermittent radar signature approaching the Needles Channel from the west. They’ve asked the team at Hurst to be on high alert just in case they try and run the gauntlet.”

  “Sounds like another fishing boat trying to get through before it gets dark. Where are they now?”

  “We spotted them staying close to shore, just rounding the Needles.”

  “Very well. Get a sharpshooter on the cliff top and get the GPMG prepped, can you?”

  “Already done, sir. Someone’s gone to find the Javelin.”

  “A missile, private? Do you have any idea how much those things cost?”

  “Still, sir. Just in case they don’t get the message, worth having handy,” he replied straight-faced.

  “Very well, but it’ll be like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Carry on, private.” He sighed, turning to Riley with a shrug. “Want to tag along? We can show you what we’re dealing with.”

  “Sure, why not?” said Riley, wide-eyed.

  ****

  By the time they reached the cliff top, looking back towards the mainland, it was almost too dark to see. Grey cloud threatened from the west, light rain falling beneath. On the mainland, she could see pinpricks of light from a dozen bonfires along the shoreline.

  Riley shivered involuntarily, feeling the cold through her fleece. The view up here was stunning. Scanning to her right, she noticed Hurst Spit and the castle just across the water, no more than a couple of miles away. There was smoke rising from the canteen. Checking her watch, she realised it would be dinner time for the soldiers stationed there. She imagined the men assembling in the dining hall, tray in hand, waiting their turn for whatever slop was on the menu this evening. Fresh vegetable soup or a rabbit stew perhaps. Meat was so hard to come by these days.

  Three soldiers were readying a tripod-mounted machine gun, removing the ties to a waterproof tarpaulin and bringing up ammunition boxes. Stepping close to the edge and looking over the low wall, she realised it was a long way down to the water, perhaps as much as three hundred feet. She could see nothing but grey water and stony shingle stretching round to the multicoloured chalk cliffs of Alum Bay. The smell of salt and seaweed carried to their elevated position. She could just make out the waves lapping at the shoreline.

  “There she is, sir,” said a man with binoculars, pointing to a skulking shape emerging between the Needles rocks, leaving behind a thin white trail. At first sight, it had the outline of a fishing trawler with a raised drum at the stern for its nets, several masts and lines strung above its wheelhouse. The hull seemed a brighter green colour, surging east at full throttle on the incoming tide.

  “Looks like they’re in a hurry to get somewhere,” confirmed Carter, studying the trawler with his own expensive-looking Zeiss binoculars. “Maybe just a returning fishing boat. Any reason to be suspicious?”

  “Yes, sir. Notice all the people on deck, just in front of the wheelhouse. I count at least ten. My guess would be they’re people smugglers, trying to get back from Ventnor or Bembridge.”

  “Long way to go, isn’t it?”

  “Those are about the only places you could land a trawler like that
on the south of the island.”

  “I see. Very well, let’s give them a shot across their bows and see what they do about it.”

  “Private, you heard Corporal Carter. Two-second burst ten metres ahead of his bow. Fire when ready.”

  Riley took a step back and followed the corporal’s lead, covering her ears. The sound of the machine gun firing was deafening. A ribbon of fire leapt out of the barrel and ripped up the water very close to the trawler. Considering it must have been at least a kilometre away, the gun was surprisingly accurate at range. She remembered Hurst Castle’s own machine gun, just like this, set up on the Gun Tower.

  Corporal Carter snatched the handheld walkie-talkie from his belt and raised it to his lips.

  “Yarmouth command, this is Needles Battery. We have a small fishing trawler making towards the Needles Passage at ten knots. We’ve put a shot across their bows, and they’re not taking the hint. What are your orders?”

  “Needles Battery. We have him on radar. No authorised traffic at this time. You are cleared to engage.”

  Carter shook his head with some regret, raising his binoculars again and studying the trawler, perhaps hoping for some response. By Riley’s reckoning, there was none.

  “Try hailing them directly on channel sixteen,” said Carter.

  “Unknown fishing vessel, this is Needles Battery. You are entering a restricted area. Change course immediately, or you will be fired upon.”

  Riley watched enthralled, half-hoping that they would come about and avoid a confrontation. The man on the radio repeated his warning. The corporal shook his head.

  “Private, you heard the man. You are cleared to engage. Short burst only. Target their bow, avoid the wheelhouse and passengers, if you can.”

  With a nod, the gunner depressed the trigger, and a line of bullets tore up the water, carving a line straight through the starboard bow, splintering its wooden deck. For a moment, Riley thought it had cut the whole boat in half, but through the spray and smoke, she saw them continue on their course. What was wrong with these people?