by Robin Crumby
Terra nodded and Nathan ran off to tell the guards to be ready for anything.
Chapter Eighteen
The Seahawk, the Navy variant of the Blackhawk, banked over Hurst one more time, its engines flaring as the pitch and direction of the sound changed again, noise funneling through the gate and reverberating off the walls of the passageway. The helicopter’s searchlight slung under the nose powered up illuminating the landing zone behind the gathering horde. It came into a hover over the flat grassy area, sending dust and loose grass flying in all directions.
The crowd that had assembled, tightly packed together, retreated a few yards shielding their eyes from the glare and dust storm that swept over them. The young girl was still pointing in disbelief. She wore a loose hand-me-down dress embroidered with faded violets. Turning her back to the helicopter, she held the hem of her skirt as it fluttered against her skinny legs, her hair swirling in the wind, covering her face.
The Seahawk touched down and almost immediately the twin engines started powering down, its rotor blades slowing and the high pitch whine abating rapidly. There was a pause before the door slid open and two soldiers in battle gear jumped down, boots landing heavily on the shingle, automatic weapons held tightly at the ready, pointed downwards. Their faces were obscured by what looked like gasmasks. They were clearly taking no chances with infection.
A well dressed officer in military fatigues appeared behind them, looked left and right and strode confidently towards the group. He pulled up around ten meters short, keeping his distance, a surgical mask hid his nose and mouth. He kept one hand resting lightly on a pistol holstered at the waist, unbuttoning the safety strap. He cupped one hand to the side of his mouth and shouted over the dying engine noise to make himself heard.
“Who’s in charge here?”
His voice was a little muffled by the mask, but his southern American drawl was unmistakable. There was a slight pause as eyes turned towards Nathan and Terra standing near the middle of them, the crowd parting to reveal their leaders. Terra stepped forward holding one arm half raised in acknowledgement.
“I am,” she volunteered calmly.
“Mam. My name is Lieutenant Peterson from the warship USS Chester. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”
Terra gestured towards the lighthouse. “Yes, of course. Follow me.” Nathan put a hand on her shoulder and motioned as if to come with her, but Terra shook her head. She walked over to where the American was waiting.
He had turned his back on the Hurst group and was relaying commands to the two soldiers through the microphone in his sleeve. He pressed the earpiece more tightly into his ear and listened for their response. They stood guard by the helicopter, surveying the crowd and staying alert to any danger. The two soldiers acknowledged his instructions with a nod. He turned to face the crowd, his eyes impassive and cold. Terra and the American officer strode off purposefully towards the lighthouse.
Nathan and the rest of the Hurst group watched them leave in silence. Once they were further away a small murmur started and quickly grew into a full-scale hubbub. As soon as the pair had reached the lighthouse door and gone inside the crowd erupted with shouted questions. Toby held his father’s hand tightly, looking up and trying to read his expression. It was a mixture of hope and excitement. His father squeezed his hand back reassuringly, but his palms were hot and damp.
Chapter Nineteen
The two-hour trip back to Hurst from No Man’s Land Fort felt longer that afternoon. Sam and Jack did not speak much. They were each lost in their thoughts, standing side by side in the cramped wheelhouse. A fine drizzle formed specks on the windscreen that joined together in the buffeting wind to make tiny rivulets. A sudden rainsquall lashed against the glass, as the single wiper struggled to clear, half of the rubber blade missing. It did little better than smear the glass every few seconds in jerky motions, but it was better than nothing.
Sam made some tea for them both and put a little music on to lighten their mood. ‘More than a woman’, one of Sam’s favourites by The Bee Gees, strained to be heard over the engine and rain as they belted out in their distinctive falsetto. The smell of diesel fumes permeated everything. It never failed to make Sam feel a little queasy. The dog-eared charts, the worn cushions, the small cabin with two bunks down below. Everything smelt damp and faintly flammable. Jack drained the last of the tea from his darkly stained coffee cup. Its outside was decorated with a faded photo of his six-year old godson James in his pyjamas. The tea was warm and wet, but tasted of nothing much as the bags had been used multiple times. The powdered milk was borderline revolting at the best of times. Jack sighed and wondered what had happened to his godson and his sister Pauline. Whether there was any chance they had got out of Winchester in time. He doubted it. There was little enough reason to hope.
The ‘Best of the Bee Gees’ compilation moved on to ‘Staying Alive’. On a better day with a good catch and homeward bound, this song never failed to result in a full-scale disco inferno on the Nipper. It was not uncommon to find both men gyrating and bumping hips wildly in the cramped wheelhouse, in a full on karaoke duet sing-a-long. Today they both listened in silence.
Jack was deep in thought, shaken by what he’d seen at Spitbank. But he couldn’t allow himself to pity, to mourn. To indulge the suffocating sense of sorrow and despair that lurked like a shadow just out of sight. It was up to him to set an example, wasn’t it? He couldn’t afford to show weakness or self-pity. He was their rock. They looked up to him. He wasn’t a religious man, but it made him angry to think that God had allowed this to happen. That good people were made to suffer. That wasn’t right. Where was the justice in that?
His private anger and rising sense of frustration was interrupted by a question from Sam. He shook his head as if he could physically dispel these dark thoughts and turned to face Sam, his eyes vacant for a second. “What was that you said Sam? I was miles away.” Sam had to shout louder to be heard over the noise of the music and the rain, now hammering against the glass and wheelhouse.
"Do you think we'll make it Jack? I mean, do you think what happened at Spitbank could happen to us?" Jack glanced at Sam and noticed tears welling in his eyes.
He looked out over the sea towards Cowes and Yarmouth beyond, inhaling deeply, before answering. “That’s up to us Sam. We can't let it happen. That’s why we take precautions, right? The quarantine zone, the code, the rules we live by? We've fought too hard to make it this far. We owe it to ourselves and to each other to survive.”
“But we can’t live like this forever Jack. How long before they come? Before someone comes to rescue us?”
“What makes you think anyone’s coming?”
“But it stands to reason that others must have survived. Done as we did. Not just here, but everywhere. Maybe other countries weren’t affected.”
“We’ve talked about this a hundred times though Sam haven’t we? If they were coming, they’d have come already. Why wait till now? We’ve watched every day for ships, listened to the radio, we shouldn’t give up hope. But chances are, they’re all dead.”
He regretted that last sentence, noticing Sam’s lip wobbling as he fought back tears. Who knew after all, maybe Sam was right.
“I choose not to believe that. They can’t be dead. What about people in Africa? Australia? Maybe there are whole countries that survived. I reckon someone somewhere has figured this all out. Found the cure maybe?”
Jack nodded and smiled weakly. “That I don’t know Sam. But what I do know is that we can’t afford to sit around and wait for help to arrive. It’s up to us to survive, to make a new life for ourselves, on our own. Maybe one day, they’ll come. But until then…it’s up to us,” his voice trailed off.
“But, it could be years, right? Or maybe you’re right and they never come, what then?” He sounded close to tears again, his voice breaking a little. It had been a long day.
Jack turned to face Sam and took hold of his arm, looking him steadfas
tly in the eye, with a smile forming on his lips. “Until then, we’ve all got to believe they will, eh? Don’t we, lad?”
Just then, the radio crackled to life. “Jack, it’s Terra. Come in, over.”
He snatched the microphone from its cradle, bolted to the wall at head height. He depressed the receiver to speak: “Jack here. Go ahead Terra.”
“How far out are you, Jack?”
“What’s up Terra? Why the urgency?”
“There’s someone here to see you. Says he’ll wait.” Her voice clipped, hard to read.
Jack looked back at Sam puzzled. “Who is it, Terra?” He wasn’t expecting any visitors today.
There was a pause and they heard Terra’s voice barely above a whisper as if she’d moved to somewhere more private with the handheld radio and didn’t want to be overheard.
“You’re not going to believe this.” There was a moment of silence and Jack looked back at the set to check it was still receiving.
“Spit it out Terra. Who is it?”
“It’s the weirdest thing Jack. But there’s an American here to see you. Arrived in a helicopter. Says his name is Lieutenant Peterson. Will only talk to you personally. Says he’ll wait. But you better hurry.”
“Roger that. On our way.” Jack put his hand on the throttle and nudged the levers forward to make sure they were at full ahead. He was trying to coax every last ounce of power from the two ageing diesel Volvo engines. “An American, eh?” thought Jack to himself. “Well that’s a turn up for the books. Wonder where he’s come from. And what he wants with us.” With the extra encouragement, the Nipper surged powerfully through the waves with the tide now behind them, sweeping them back towards Hurst, their hopes rekindled.
Chapter Twenty
The helicopter sat squat on its haunches beside the lighthouse, its rotor blades drooping slightly towards the ground. A couple of the bolder kids crept closer. They circled the aircraft pointing and laughing, trying to peer through the window into the cockpit. Inside, the pilot was talking animatedly into his headset, the top half of his face obscured by a grey visor. One of the soldiers whistled through his teeth and gestured for the boys to keep their distance. They got the message and backed away.
Tommy strode over to one of the soldiers, chin up, hands thrust into his pockets. His patience exhausted, he wanted answers and he was fed up of waiting for someone to tell him what the hell was going on. His bravado was paper-thin though and his confidence stuttered, unsure of whether to go through with his plan.
The soldier held up the palm of his gloved hand cautioning Tommy to stop as if to say: “That’s close enough.”
Tommy’s confidence evaporated when he saw the gun close up. It was a black Colt M4 Carbine, a weapon he had used many times, though never in real life. Playing Call of Duty and other computer games he had a good knowledge of military hardware, enough to know that this M4 was not fitted with the grenade launcher the Navy Seals used. Awkwardly, he extended a hand of friendship waiting for the soldier to stride over and shake it warmly. The soldier remained motionless and left Tommy’s hand hanging there. His hand dropped back to his side, feeling a little foolish. The soldier looked straight through him as if he wasn’t there.
Tommy had had enough of this. He sneered back and looked the soldier up and down, sizing him up. He was wearing black boots, dark blue camouflaged combat gear, overlaid with webbing and pouches. Underneath was what looked like body armour, metal plates protecting his chest and abdomen. He reminded Tommy of an American footballer in all that gear, accentuating his size. The soldier was enormous, several inches taller than Tommy who himself was no midget. He gulped as he noticed the sleeves of his shirt bulging with what Tommy imagined must be heavily tattooed biceps like Arnold Schwarzenegger. A proper corn-fed American redneck he thought. He laughed nervously looking down at the soldier’s feet and back up at his face, taking in his size again.
There was something about the soldier’s attitude and unfriendliness that got right up his nose. Weren’t they on the same side? He felt emboldened, staring up in to his mask, trying to eyeball the guy.
The soldier remained static, motionless like one of the Queen's guards at Buckingham Palace facing a tourist. He repositioned the semi-automatic weapon a little on his shoulder, glanced at his partner and made sure Tommy saw him check the safety was on. He flexed his trigger finger before straightening it again and resting it back on the outside of the trigger guard. Tommy got the message and stepped back, his arms raised, head down submissively.
Behind Tommy and from the relative safety of the crowd, there was a palpable sense of excitement, mixed with anxiety. What did this all mean? Where had they come from? Had they come to rescue them? There were so many questions they each wanted to ask. Scottie was the first to break the silence and took up the inquisition, shouting out: “Where have you come from?”
Before the soldiers had time to answer, Scottie’s question was quickly followed by a flurry of others as they each gave voice to their hopes and fears.
“How did you get here?”
“Are there more of you?”
“Where’s your ship?”
“Are you here to save us?”
“How many have survived?”
The soldiers looked back at each other, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, but said nothing.
Scottie answered for them, calling back over his shoulder whilst still staring at the helicopter. “He cannae say. They’ve been told not to speak to us. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Why? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?” said Tommy hopefully.
“Clearly not,” shouted one of the others, frustrated at their refusal to cooperate.
“I’m sure they’re just taking precautions. They dinnae know we’re not sick,” offered Scottie.
“Maybe the States didn’t get the sickness like we did,” said Sarah, one of the teenagers.
Scottie shouted back. “Naw Sarah, I wish that were true. Don’t you remember? It was everywhere. You must remember on the news, before everything went dark? New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles. Every major city experienced outbreaks. Everyone and everywhere. There was nowhere to hide.”
“So why would they come here then if they’re not here to save us? Perhaps we’ve got it all the wrong way round. Maybe it’s them that need our help?” Tommy laughed and those around him joined in.
“That’s a very good question,” repeated Scottie. “Why are they here?”
In the distance, they could hear the low chugging of the Nipper’s engine just before she rounded the headland and hove into view. Tommy ran down to the jetty and waited patiently to catch the bowline from Sam and together they helped tie her up, bow and stern. Jack turned off the ignition, grabbed his bag and stepped ashore. Tommy fell into step beside him. As they walked towards the lighthouse, he brought Jack up to speed on the events thus far and led him to where Terra and the American were waiting inside.
Tommy knocked lightly on the sun-blistered wooden door, its off-white paint peeling and flaking. They heard footsteps inside and the door opened wide. Lieutenant Peterson was sitting upright and alert at the kitchen table, his face dimly lit by a single kerosene lamp. He held a steaming cup of black tea in what looked like one of Jack’s camping mugs he used for fishing trips. The American made to stand and his chair scraped back on the slate floor. He strode over to greet Jack, passing Terra who stood warming her back on the stove. The door swung closed behind him, leaving Tommy out in the cool damp evening air of the approaching nightfall.
Chapter Twenty-one
On the crest of a small man-made bank overlooking the hospital, Zed and Riley were lying flat on their fronts on the grass. He scanned the outside of the buildings through some pocketsize Zeiss binoculars. They were both watching carefully for any movement, hidden from view beside a small coniferous tree, a scattering of daffodils at its base.
They had parked the Land Rover a discrete distance away in a quiet back street and walke
d the remaining quarter mile. Keeping to the shadows, stealing from cover, they had raced across any open ground one person at a time. They were taking no chances.
Zed passed the binoculars to Riley and whispered: “What do you think?”
Riley took them, put the strap round her neck and slowly brushed aside the daffodils in front of her with her free arm to clear her field of view. She did a slow sweep of the buildings from left to right, lingering a couple of times before continuing her scan. “You know what I think.” There was an edge to her voice. “I told you already. This is a suicide mission.”
“And I told you already, we aren’t leaving Will here.”
“Zed this isn’t our style. You’re putting the entire group at risk and for what? We don’t even know for sure he’s in there. You want to know what I’m thinking? Well, I’m thinking: is this a rescue or some weird macho bullshit revenge mission? Because that’s what it feels like. Take a look around you. Your little ‘band of brothers’ doesn’t stand a chance against these guys. They’re better armed and there’s probably a whole army of them down there. We go in, there’s a strong chance we don’t come out.”