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

by Robin Crumby

  “Pointing fingers at each other and indulging in conspiracy theories will get us nowhere,” agreed the American.

  “Between the virus and the rebellion,” began the colonel, “a state of emergency exists that permits us, the acting government, to ask everyone to make sacrifices for the greater good. Our obligations to medical ethics and the rule of law must become secondary to our primary need for survival.”

  “We fight together or we die together,” confirmed Peterson with an air of finality.

  “Then if we are all agreed. May I suggest—”

  From outside came a sound that Zed initially struggled to identify. A low whine that built up into the full wail of a hand-turned air raid siren. It evoked black-and-white war movies from Zed’s youth, of Spitfires and Messerschmitts criss-crossing the skies.

  Everyone turned as one towards Captain Armstrong. He seemed momentarily lost for words. The door was thrown open and an aide ushered them all outside.

  “Follow me, please. We’ll take you to a safe location.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Downstairs in the central atrium of the hospital building, there was an air of panic as people raced to their appointed stations, elbowing others out of the way. The base commander stood rock-like in the middle, directing groups as they flowed around him.

  The colonel, padre and Zed fought their way towards him.

  “Commander!” the colonel shouted several times before making himself heard. “What’s going on?”

  “There was an attempted perimeter breach behind the Albany Prison compound. We’re getting initial reports of disturbances throughout the island.”

  “Where?” asked Zed, thinking about the others at Freshwater.

  “Ryde, Cowes and Newport, so far.”

  “And we think the attacks are coordinated?” asked the colonel.

  “We don’t know that yet, sir. We’re interrogating two of the intruders, but they’re not talking. There was a breakout from Camp Three earlier this morning.”

  “How did they get out?”

  “Apparently, they rushed the gate, overpowered the guard unit and took their weapons. We’ve sent an armoured convoy to intercept, but they’ve disappeared. Probably gone cross-country.”

  “Or they’ve headed west instead, away from here?”

  It made perfect sense to Zed. Why would civilians risk going head to head with a heavily armed group? More likely they would make for less populated areas in the south and west of the island.

  “St Mary’s is on high alert, just in case they come here to link up with the protesters.”

  “Have we tried to speak with the ringleaders? Perhaps we could send our resident MP, David Woods. They might listen to him,” suggested the padre.

  “We’ve tried. They blame the allies for not doing more to protect them. They’re threatening a mass uprising. They intend to take back the whole island for themselves. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, shall I find someone to take you all to the command bunker?”

  “That won’t be necessary, thank you. We know where we’re going.”

  They pushed through the crowd. With all the talk of island-wide disturbances, Zed was worried about Riley and Heather, and the new dangers heading their way.

  Outside, it was just beginning to rain, a thin drizzle. Dark clouds were blowing in from the north, threatening a heavier downpour.

  As they rounded the building, chants from the protesters at the front gate grew louder. Zed was surprised to see people ten-deep, pressed up against the fence as far as the eye could see.

  “It might be safer to take the long way round.”

  “Wait. I should try talking to these people. Maybe they’ll listen to me.”

  “Not now, padre. They’re about to use tear gas again. I don’t think we should stick around,” urged the colonel, retracing his steps away from the commotion.

  Soldiers were already setting up barricades and taking up secondary defensive positions as if they expected the fence to give way at any moment. The guards nearest them were unpacking what looked like smoke grenades and a launcher.

  The padre lingered, and Zed found himself frozen to the spot, caught between them, unsure what to do. He reached out to lead the padre away, but he shrugged him off.

  “We can’t let this escalate. Someone has to try,” he said purposefully, advancing from cover.

  “Wait, don’t…” started Zed, but it was too late. The padre set off towards the fence.

  For a moment, Zed stood and admired the chaplain’s courage, his refusal to accept that this confrontation was beyond resolution.

  The chaplain was no more than ten metres from the fence now, close enough for the ire of the crowd to become more focused. Then something unexpected happened. A pocket of silence seemed to radiate out as a sea of grubby faces stared back at him, puzzled by his boldness.

  “Don’t be fooled by the uniform. I’m not a soldier; I’m the chaplain here.” His voice carried a calm assurance, sustaining an eerie quiet as those further back strained to hear. He pointed to the small cross embroidered on his uniform.

  “I need you all to listen. We need everyone to return to their homes. There’s been a new outbreak, just south of here. You’re all in danger if you stay here. Help us deal with this.”

  He paused while his message rippled out to the others behind.

  “There’s no need to be alarmed. We’ve beaten this before, and we’ll beat it again.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re on the other side of the fence,” pointed out a mean-faced woman with grey hair.

  “This is our island, not yours!” shouted another, to the jeers and boos of those around her.

  “Please,” he said, appealing for calm.

  “Your sort don’t belong here.”

  The chaplain bristled at the implied racial slur but carried on. “If you don’t disperse and return to your homes, the soldiers behind me are under orders to disperse the crowd, whatever it takes,” he said, pointing at the men behind him readying their weapons.

  The padre’s voice was lost in a chorus of dissent, as more people shouted abuse at him. He seemed to hesitate in the face of such ferocity, glancing over his shoulder, appealing to Zed for moral support. The crowd latched onto the hesitation as a sign of weakness. He was isolated and exposed.

  Zed felt duty-bound to stand shoulder to shoulder with the chaplain but noticed soldiers to his right moving forward, taking up firing positions behind a low wall as if anticipating trouble.

  “Father!” shouted Zed, realising the danger he was in. Somehow he had to get him back to safety. He looked around for anything he could use.

  A single shot silenced the crowd as everyone turned towards its source. Along the fence, near some bushes, a hooded youth stood trembling, barely able to hold the smoking handgun steady in his shaking hands.

  The padre staggered for a moment, a look of disappointment settled on his features. He collapsed on the grass, clutching his side.

  Those around the youth stood motionless. The weapon was quickly torn from his hands. The crowd closed around him, smuggling him away.

  Without a thought for his own safety, Zed ran towards the body prone on the grass, throwing himself on the ground to shield him from further harm.

  The padre’s jaw was clenched as he gritted his teeth against the surging pain. His eyes flickered open long enough to recognise Zed.

  “I had to try.”

  Zed checked him over quickly. His right side was already soaked in blood.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “Just save yourself.”

  Behind them, a guard unit hurried forward, firing over the heads of the group beyond the fence. One of the soldiers broke off and ran towards Zed.

  Between them, they levered the injured man upright. He could barely stand, groaning, his body bent double in agony. The guard noticed Zed’s prosthetic arm.

  “Help me lift him,” implored Zed.


  The guard helped hoist the chaplain’s trembling frame over Zed’s shoulder, crying out with the effort. They staggered back towards the building as another shot kicked up a sod of grass by his feet.

  Zed felt the impact of the next bullet as much as heard it. A dull thud as the padre was hit again in the lower back. His whole body went limp.

  Zed reached the brick wall and rounded the corner, shielding them from further fire. The colonel helped lower the padre down, cradling his head against the crumbling masonry.

  “Medic!” cried the colonel above the distant shouting and intermittent rifle shots. Two paramedics from the hospital were already running towards them. One carried a green medical bag. They barged their way through the small crowd and knelt beside the padre’s body, checking for vital signs.

  “He’s still breathing.”

  Zed sat back on his haunches, pointing towards the chaplain’s right side.

  “Two shots. One in the stomach and one in the back.”

  “Okay, let’s get a drip set up. Stand back, please. Let me work.”

  Zed flinched as a machine gun started firing behind them. Screams from the crowd shook him to the core.

  They cut open the padre’s camouflaged jacket, exposing his chest and silver cross hanging from a chain. On his right side, just below the ribcage was a neat entry wound that pulsed with a steady flow of blood that trickled down his side. The paramedic half rolled him to the right.

  “Single entry point to the lower abdomen. No exit wound. Second entry wound lower back. Again, no exit.”

  Zed’s hand covered his mouth, watching the paramedic work. The man pushed his glasses back up his nose with gloved fingers, considering what he could do to keep him alive. He rummaged in his bag and ripped open a packet containing sterilised gauze. He tore strips off and stuffed the fabric directly into the bullet holes to staunch the bleeding. At the other end, his partner began giving chest compressions.

  “Can you get a trolley up here? Quickly, please!” he shouted towards a passing group of nurses hurrying towards their station.

  “Blood pressure is still falling,” said the other paramedic. “He’s losing too much blood.”

  The padre’s face was expressionless, almost beyond pain. They worked relentlessly, waiting for the trolley to arrive, but their exchange of looks betrayed what they already knew. The colonel put a hand on Zed’s shoulder and led him away.

  “He thought he could make them see sense,” half-whispered Zed, shaking his head.

  “Who shoots a man of the cloth, for God’s sake?” said the paramedic, noticing the cross on his uniform for the first time.

  “How were they to know?” mourned Zed.

  After several minutes the other paramedic ceased chest compressions. “I’m sorry.”

  “You did your best,” said the colonel. “You couldn’t have done more.”

  “He didn’t deserve this. Not after everything he’s done,” lamented Zed, as the colonel escorted him away.

  “Come on, we still have work to do.”

  ****

  They followed the colonel’s aide down a metal staircase towards the basement complex of the largest hospital building. This underground rabbit warren of interconnected storerooms had been designated as a backup operations centre in case of attack. A number of workstations were already set up to accommodate the various personnel relocated here.

  Zed’s hands were still shaking. After what had happened to Gill and now the padre, he felt numb. He was drowning in a rising tide of futility. What did any of this matter? Sooner or later they were all going to die. He cursed the nonsensical nature of a world turned on its head.

  At the doorway, the enormous frame of a professional soldier stood guard in his immaculate uniform, polished boots, and brass buttons. There was a holster on his hip. It took Zed a moment to recognise the man.

  “Flynn? Why, you…” Something in Zed snapped. He barged the larger man back against the wall, catching him cold. Flynn’s head smashed against the rough concrete as he wrestled with Zed.

  Flynn grabbed hold of Zed’s collar, forcing him back against the opposite wall. Zed’s blood was up, spoiling for a fight. He’d made a promise to himself that if he ever saw Flynn again, he’d make him pay for what happened back at Hurst.

  “Have you both lost your minds?” shouted the colonel as he tried to separate them.

  “Get him off me!” cried Flynn in the scuffle.

  They were finally prised apart. Zed fought to free his arms, straining to have another swing at the soldier. Flynn straightened his jacket and stooped to pick up the beret from the floor.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “He attacked me, sir.”

  “You know why—”

  “That’s enough. Get a grip, Samuels.”

  “You should be locked up. You’re unstable!” shouted Flynn.

  “You didn’t lift a finger to help him, did you?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the colonel, looking from one man to the other, waiting for an answer. “Explain yourselves.”

  “Jack got himself killed. He was his own worst enemy. He wouldn’t listen to any of us,” said Flynn.

  “Bullshit! Your men did nothing to stop it.”

  “How could we? There were too many of them. They overran the castle.”

  “You’re a coward, Flynn.” Zed surged against those restraining him, almost breaking free again.

  Flynn stood up taller, towering over Zed. “I’m not scared of you.”

  “Did no one tell you who I am?”

  “You’re nothing, a pencil-pusher,” he sneered.

  “No, Flynn. I’m your worst nightmare. You really think I’ll have any trouble bringing someone like you to justice?”

  “My men will back me up. You’ve got nothing on me. You’re pathetic,” he spat, looking Zed up and down, sneering at his prosthetic arm.

  “Corporal Flynn!” interrupted the colonel. “Either you show Mr Samuels the appropriate respect, or you’ll be back on the frontline before you know it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” He snapped to attention, staring at the wall beyond the colonel, his top lip trembling with indignation. He dipped his head in acquiescence, whispering under his breath. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Samuels.”

  “That’s enough, sergeant!” commanded the captain, arriving behind them. “You’re relieved. Get a grip of yourself.”

  Flynn brushed past Zed and headed outside. The colonel waited until the others had gone and leaned in close to Zed’s ear.

  “I will not tolerate another outburst like that. Do we understand each other? I expect you to conduct yourself like an officer, or not at all. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “This ends here.”

  “Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me why the corporal is here in the first place.”

  “Hurst Castle was abandoned weeks ago. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Since when?”

  “We couldn’t spare the men. They were needed elsewhere. Now go and make yourself useful. Find Doctor Hardy. He’ll be in the lab.”

  Zed retraced his steps back up to ground level, punching the plaster wall in frustration. He stared at his skinned knuckles, shaking with anger.

  The main concourse and thoroughfare were deserted. Aside from the last stragglers hurrying to where they should have been half an hour ago, he had the road to himself and time to think.

  From the direction of the main gate, he could see smoke now billowing above the two-story outbuildings. The mob had been driven back, but he was sure they would come again.

  Zed approached the checkpoint in front of the new science block. The guard looked him up and down, stiffening as he approached. Zed flashed his pass, and the guard waved him through.

  One of the orderlies at the main desk directed him towards the secure laboratories where they worked with more hazardous substances.

  He passe
d room after room filled with empty cages and intermittent animal noises of birds, cats, dogs, or chimpanzees. It was hard to tell from the cacophony. At the end was a prep room where lab workers were scrubbing down, sealing each other into pressure suits.

  Through a large perspex panel, he could see Doctor Hardy already inside the lab, wearing an oversized headpiece that exaggerated his features. He was unpacking the blue storage box he had brought from Porton. He looked up as Zed entered and held his arm up in welcome.

  “They’ve just gone in,” said a junior lab assistant, standing next to Zed. “You’re welcome to wait, if you like. There’s coffee next door. Help yourself.”

  Within the sealed room, the doctor was checking inside the storage container again as if hunting for something. He placed the vials of liquid on the countertop and counted them again. Several of the slots appeared to be empty.

  The doctor approached the glass viewing panel and pushed the intercom button. “You’re sure no one has tampered with this?”

  The lab assistant nodded, confused by the question.

  “Then I don’t understand,” continued the doctor. “This box has been in my possession since leaving Porton Down.”

  “What’s he looking for?” asked Zed, puzzled by their exchange. “The vaccine samples?”

  The lab assistant hesitated. “I guess so. Or the other items they brought back.”

  Zed struggled to hide his disappointment. He had naively assumed that the portable refrigeration unit contained a treasured source of hope and salvation, but now it appeared the unit might also hold the seeds of their destruction.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Victor led Terra back to the doctor’s office within Lymington New Forest Hospital, locking her in to avoid arousing further suspicion. He promised to return as soon as he had spoken to Briggs.

  All the clocks in this part of the management suite had stopped and, without a watch, the minutes felt like hours. Trapped in her makeshift cell, she wondered what lies Copper was telling Briggs and whether Victor could ever really be trusted again. She was caught between a rock and a hard place. Without his help as her advocate, she didn’t have many options left. How on earth could she get a message to the allies now?