by Robin Crumby
The revolver felt comforting in his right hand, where he’d retrieved it from his belt. Standing up, it was fine tucked into his trousers, but sitting down made things uncomfortable. The cold metal against his skin and the barrel plunged deep into his Calvin Klein’s made Sam worry that the revolver might just go off and do some lasting damage. It would be just his kind of luck.
He angled his head towards a faint throbbing noise in the distance but it was gone again before he located its source. It sounded large and mechanical, close and far away all at the same time. He turned his head back towards the stateroom. It was nearly dark outside and he was fairly sure he couldn’t be seen with his back to the bush. He had no idea what was going on in there, but from the looks on people’s faces, they were scared. The large man in the grey t-shirt with the tattoos paced around the room, talking loudly, jabbing his finger a couple of times, raising his voice in an angry rant at someone’s expense.
He kept watch for some time, pondering his next move and was craning his head forward trying to hear better when footsteps behind him caused him to freeze. All he could make out from his cramped position, without disturbing the flower heads were dark shadows, figures advancing very deliberately towards him, their faces obscured by helmets and goggles. They were armed and moving fluidly as one connected organism. They took up position with their backs against the brick wall of the building. Sam was only a few feet away holding his breath and secretly hoping he was invisible in the half-light.
One of the men walked straight up to the bush where Sam was crouched within and put his finger to his lips. He removed his headset and gestured for Sam to come out from his hiding place. Sam dropped the gun and came out holding his hands up. The soldier grabbed him, span him round and roughly pushed him down on to his knees. He drew Sam’s arms behind his back and secured both hands together with what felt like a cable tie, doing the same with his legs. He stuffed a piece of cloth in Sam’s mouth and whispered in his ear. “Stay down and you’ll be fine. Don’t move. Are we clear?” Sam nodded, reassured by the American accent that they were friendly. He lay on the ground with his face resting on the lawn. It was already damp with the evening dew.
He saw the soldiers move together as a unit towards the main entrance, hearing the pop of a silenced weapon as the guard went down. One of the team caught the guard’s body and weapon before it could clatter on the ground.
The team moved inside and Sam waited, prone on the ground, incapacitated. He was not a religious man, but found himself whispering a silent prayer that Jack and Terra would be unharmed, whatever came next.
There was a loud explosion that made the windows rattle but not shatter. He heard an American voice shouting instructions to lay down their weapons and surrender, which was swiftly greeted by small arms fire. He craned his neck round towards the window but couldn’t move his arms or legs to adjust his position. He could see smoke through the windows and bright flashes and then darkness as all the lights went out. It was all over pretty quickly after that. Briggs’s men didn’t stand a chance against highly trained soldiers expert in hostage rescue and equipped with night-vision goggles.
A few of them must have got away as the fire fight seemed to move to a different part of the building and then grew louder outside beyond view.
Two minutes later, the Seal team re-emerged escorting Peterson to safety; two other injured hostages were helped out and lowered down next to the wall. Sam couldn’t see their faces. The soldier who had bound Sam trotted over and flashed a torch in his face, leaning down and removing the gag from his mouth. “Talk fast. Who are you?”
“My name’s Sam,” his voice cracking, “I’m one of the good guys, came here with Jack and Terra from Hurst. They’re my friends.”
The soldier dumped him back on the floor and double-timed it over to the main group, where a medic was checking the hostages and treating their injuries. He spoke in a low voice with his Sergeant and Lieutenant Peterson who nodded in Sam’s direction. The soldier relaxed a little and wandered back, flicking open a knife to cut the ties securing his hands and feet, and hauled his prisoner back to his feet.
“You ok? Nothing personal, just doing my job.”
Sam nodded. The blood was rushing back to his extremities and he felt a little faint but unharmed. “There’s someone over here wants to talk to you, will you come with me sir?”
Sam followed the soldier, his legs stiff and leaden. He spotted Jack propped up against the other hostage, being cleaned up by the medic who was swabbing at a cut on his forehead. He looked a bit bashed up, with a blackened face, split lip, blood soaked down his right side, but otherwise in one piece.
Peterson looked anxious and interrupted their reunion. “Gentlemen. I suggest you come with us. We can’t vouch for your safety here. Briggs’s men were easily scared off but they’re likely to come back in greater numbers.”
Jack looked up with fire in his eyes. “Wait, what about Terra?” he said, seizing hold of Peterson’s arm, to the protestation of the medic, who was restraining Jack and lowered him back down.
Peterson looked confused. Jack continued: “The woman I came here with? Terra? What happened to her? I need to go back and look for her.”
“Jack, there’s no time. Listen…” he took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I saw her. Briggs took her, along with some of the others. I couldn’t get to her. I’m sorry.”
Jack looked exhausted and distressed. Sam put his hand on his shoulder to console him. “Will she be ok? I couldn’t take it if they did something to her.”
“I can’t promise you that Jack. But if they’ve got any sense they’ll look after her and make a trade. We’ve captured a couple of theirs. She’s a smart lady, Jack. She’ll do what it takes to stay alive.”
Peterson turned towards the Seal team leader. “Sergeant Jones. Your team stay behind to secure the area and help with the clean up. I’ll take Jack back to the ship to get patched up. Sam? You want to tag along and keep the old man company?”
Sam nodded enthusiastically and they both followed Peterson and his men through the wood behind the house, over a small ridge and down a slope towards a hidden valley where the Seahawk had landed to maintain the advantage of surprise and stealth.
Sam put his arm around Jack’s shoulders, supporting his weight. “I’m sure she’ll be fine Jack. Like he says, Terra’s a survivor. She’ll find a way. Have faith Jack. She’ll be fine.”
Jack shook his head. “You didn’t see this guy, Sam. He was like something out of a gangland movie, straight out of prison, with an axe to grind. He’s delusional. Thinks the island and all that’s on it belongs to him. Certifiable and he’s surrounded by an entourage of crooks and Neanderthal thugs.”
“Sounds a bit like Hurst then. She’ll fit right in,” joked Sam, trying to put a brave face on it. “Knowing Terra, she’ll charm them to death, twist them round her little finger.”
Jack winced with pain as his chest was wracked with another coughing fit from smoke inhalation. They both trudged off behind the others to find their ride back to the ship, with Sam helping support his weight.
Chapter thirty-four
Zed was dreaming. It was a fitful, restless sort of sleep he’d been trying to wake from. It was as if he was trying to climb out of a giant petri dish with smooth slippery sides. Every time he nearly reached the top he’d lose his grip reaching up to the top and slide back down again. The pit was an inferno, sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. Drip, drip, drop. It wouldn’t stop. His skin was prickling and pulsating with boils and sores that appeared and disappeared on his hands and forearms. He steeled himself one more time and clambered up the sheer wall, palms pressed firmly against the contour-less surface, hands damp with perspiration, a tingling sensation in his finger tips. Just as he felt himself begin to slide back down, he thrust his hand in to the air, every sinew stretching, hoping. A woman’s hand grabbed his, grasping it firmly, holding on tight and pulling him clear.
He
opened his eyes and found Riley sitting patiently next to his bedside, holding his hand tightly, her eyes closed. She looked so peaceful. His other arm was sore, but the bandages were fresh on and blood free. He flexed his fingers gingerly and a wave of pain shot up to his shoulder and made him wince. The pain felt good though and reminded him he was still alive.
Riley relaxed her grip, placing Zed’s hand back down on the bed sheet and went to find the nurse. His mouth was parched, his lips cracked and blistered. There was a glass of water on the bedside table which he drained in one.
The nurse bustled back into the room with quiet efficiency. She fumbled in her top pocket and inserted a digital thermometer into his right ear, waited for the beep and showed the screen to Riley. “99.4 degrees. His fever has come right down. Nearly back to normal, dear. We’ll keep you in one more night and then I think you’ll be back on your feet in the morning. OK?”
Riley thanked the nurse who stared blankly past her, turned brusquely and left. Riley poured another glass of water and handed it to Zed, waiting for him to drain it in one and then placed it back on the bedside table next to the jug. “You gave us quite a scare there collapsing like that. Looks like you’re not quite as indestructible as we thought. Human after all then?” said Riley.
“I don’t remember much after we got here. How long was I out?” asked Zed.
She checked her watch, a black plastic looking Casio she never took off. “You’ve been asleep for about eighteen hours straight.”
He raised a single eyebrow quizzically. The dividing lines between dream and reality had become blurred. With the drugs, he was no longer sure what was real and what was imagined. It was all rather disconcerting. “The fever gave me the worst dreams. I’m sincerely hoping that the three witches who have been tormenting me in my sleep are not real.”
“Oh the Sisters are all too real I’m afraid. You don’t know the half of it. The women who live here are terrified of them. They are trying to force Stella to stay, because she’s part of some weird cult breeding program and the Sisters claim she’s pregnant. Oh and then they’ve got Joe locked up because they think he’s some kind of sex pest and can’t be trusted around all these sex-starved women.”
“What? He must love that then. He’s never had much luck with the ladies. He’ll be loving all the attention.”
He tried to sit up straight but the strain on his face was palpable.
“Hey, hey, easy fella. Nurse told me you need to rest up some more and not to tire yourself out. I brought some reading material for you.”
She dumped the small pile of well-thumbed magazines on the bedside table. Zed picked up the top one, whose cover was ringed with stains from half a dozen coffee cups. He flicked through grainy images of half-remembered celebrities in swimwear photos shot through telephoto lenses by the paparazzi. Page after page of smug fake-tan couples posing in front of replica Greek columns outside their country houses, dripping in gold jewellery. Precocious young children dressed in Ralph Lauren, the upper classes playing polo on horseback watched by minor royalty. He turned on his side shaking his head in disgust.
“Hey, it’s better than nothing. The only other thing I could find in the hall were copies of the Bible and I didn’t think you’d want that.”
She went through the stack and found what she was looking for, a vintage Top Gear magazine. “This is probably more your thing. Nuns on bikes. Special on the Stig. Richard Hammond interview, yeah?”
Zed’s face was pale, his skin drawn and paper-thin. He looked much older with grey circles under his clear blue eyes and two days’ worth of stubble, giving him a lived-in look that Riley found pleasing. Flicking through the pages of Ferraris and Lamborghinis, reasonably-priced cars and beautiful landscapes, burned rubber, winding roads, tarmac stretching into the distance. The colour seemed to flood back into his cheeks as memories came rushing back like soothing waves of sound. The corner of his mouth turned upwards. “I used to love that show. Seems like a long time ago doesn't it?”
He leaned back and sighed. “To think people back then were so obsessed with material possessions like cars, houses, clothes, and gadgets. Remember the shopping channels on TV full of chintz? How normal sane people could spend hours gossiping about celebrities, who’s dating who, who’s wearing what? It was all so trivial, just tittle tattle for the masses.”
He rolled on his back and turned towards Riley, suddenly aware of how heavy his head felt, leaning back against the pillow. He gazed deep into her grey-green eyes, a serious world-weary look on his face. It was like the accumulated strain of the last few months had caught up with him and he had given in to his exhaustion.
“It was everything I detested, Riley. Didn’t you think it was all just so superficial? You look back now and wonder what it was all about. It was just stuff. None of it mattered. It was like people’s lives were a shallow veneer, a topcoat that masked something rotten just below the surface. Scratch your fingernail across the paint and the truth revealed itself. You realised that your whole existence was skin deep. Beyond the routine of work and life, there was absolutely nothing. Just a hollow emptiness.”
Riley had never heard him talk like this. They had spent a lot of time together on the road or back at camp chewing the fat, passing time, and Zed was not normally one for soul searching or philosophising.
“Everyone needs someone or something, right?” said Riley. “If you don’t have that, then sure, life’s a drag. It can feel quite empty at times.”
She encouraged him to go on. After a short pause, lost in his thoughts, he continued staring up at a stain on the ceiling where water had discoloured the paintwork.
“Back then I had a wife and family you know Riley. Living in Croydon. It was my own fault.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I made some poor choices, took them for granted, put my work first. I came home one day and they were gone. No note, no forwarding address. I had no idea she was even unhappy. Should have realised. Then all this happened with the virus. Times like this, I find myself thinking about them, where they ended up, wondering what I would do differently. Whether they’d still be alive if we’d all stayed together. But it’s too painful. Knowing I wasn’t there when it mattered...” his voice faded away.
“Hey, we’ve all lost people, yeah? It’s best not to think about it. Anyway, you’ve got a new family now at Hurst. A new start.”
He nodded weakly, still lost in his memories. “You think everything’s fine, until it’s not.” He took another sip of water, swallowing painfully. “Do you remember the London riots back in 2011 just before the Olympics?” asked Zed, pausing before continuing.
“People I knew thought that was the start of the revolution, that the working classes were ready to rise up and tear it all down. Take back the streets for the people. Fight back against the ruling classes. Reject a life of poverty, mediocrity, subservience. Did I ever tell you I was there, Riley? A riot in Croydon, for God’s sake. I saw it on my doorstep, and it was all just so tangible suddenly. The social fabric stretched to breaking point, there within touching distance.”
Riley nodded, it had been some time since she had thought about that time in her life. “I was living in America then, but I remember seeing it on the news and thinking ‘How did that happen?’ No-one saw that coming.”
“It was terrifying and exciting all at the same time. Bit like 9/11 and the attack on the Twin Towers. A slow motion car crash. You couldn’t look away. Like witnessing a fold in history, live and televised. The earth’s rotation knocked off its axis, albeit for a second. It was the same with the riots, a moment in time. When it’s gone, it’s hard to explain. But in the end that passion and fervour melted away. The crowds went home and the status quo resumed, more or less. It was all just forgotten. Everything changed and yet everything stayed the same. No, I’m wrong, something did change. CCTV saw to it that all those hooded figures who ransacked JD Sports and helped themselves to the latest sportswear, all those ring-leaders throwing stones at the police, a
ll those looters smashing down shop windows and helping themselves to flat-screen TVs, were rounded up and prosecuted. It was an unprecedented triumph for Big Brother and the state.”
“Is that what you did before all this then? Worked for the government?” She waited for him to respond, but he remained silent. “You’re deluded if you think revolution was ever going to happen in this country, Zed. Dream on, comrade.”
“No that’s where you’re wrong, Riley. We may have had the longest history of democracy of any nation, but one thing that made it robust was a pressure valve of strike action, rioting and civic protest. In my book, those are the hallmarks of a high functioning democracy. But they’ve always fallen short of revolution because boring old British reserve always got in the way. Things never reached their necessary conclusion: a change in the status quo. You know the closest this country has come to a revolution was tearing down the railings outside parliament in the 19th century. ”