Hurst, Robin Crumby [funny books to read .txt] 📗

full-scale hubbub.

Toby held his father’s hand tightly, trying to read his expression. It was a mixture of hope and excitement. His father reassuringly squeezed his hand, but his palms were hot and clammy.

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 both lost in thought, 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 its rubber blade missing. It did little better than smear the glass every few seconds in jerky motions.

Sam made some tea for them and put some music on to lighten the mood. “More than a woman”, one of Sam’s favourites by the Bee Gees, strained to be heard over the engine noise and sheeting 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 smelled damp and faintly flammable. Jack drained the last of the tea from his stained coffee cup. Its outside was decorated with a faded photo of his six-year-old godson 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. 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 wildly bumping hips in the cramped wheelhouse, in a full-on karaoke duet. Today they both listened in silence.

Jack was deep in thought, shaken by what he’d seen at Spitbank. He refused to 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 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, taking a deep breath before answering. “That’s up to us, Sam. That’s why we take precautions, right? We can't let it happen. 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, can we? How long before they come? Before someone comes to rescue us?”

“What makes you think anyone’s coming?” Jack replied indignantly.

“But it stands to reason that others must have survived. Did as we did. Not just here, but everywhere. Maybe other countries weren’t affected.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times though, 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 no one's coming to rescue us.”

He regretted that last sentence, noticing Sam’s lip quiver as he fought back tears. Who knew? After all, maybe Sam was right?

“I refuse to believe that,” said Sam, shaking his head. “They can’t all be dead. What about people in Africa or 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 we can’t afford to sit around and wait for help to arrive. It’s up to us to make a new life for ourselves, on our own. Maybe one day, they’ll come. But until then…” His voice trailed off.

“But, it could be years, right? Or maybe they never come, what then?” His voice sounded brittle again. It had been a long day.

Jack put an arm around his shoulder, looking him steadfastly 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 handset 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? Why the urgency?”

“There’s someone here to see you.” Her voice sounded clipped, hard to read.

Jack looked back at Sam puzzled. He wasn’t expecting any visitors today. “Who is it, Terra?”

There was a pause, and then they heard Terra’s voice barely above a whisper as if she’d moved to somewhere more private, not wanting to be overheard.

“You’re not going to believe this.” There was a moment of silence and Jack looked back at the radio 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.

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 acknowledge him. The soldier remained motionless and left Tommy’s hand hanging there. He dropped his hand 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, sizing up the soldier. The American wore 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 boots 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 meant to be on the same side? He felt emboldened, staring in to the 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 him there was a palpable sense of excitement, mixed with anxiety. There were so many questions they each wanted answered.

Scottie was the first to break the silence. “So 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 survived?”

The soldiers ignored their questions, but Scottie answered on their behalf. “He cannae say. They’ve been told not to speak to us. Isn’t it obvious?”

“I thought we were all on the same side,” said Tommy hopefully.

“Clearly not,” shouted one of the others, frustrated at the soldiers’ refusal to cooperate.

“They’re just taking precautions. They dinnae know we’re not sick,” conceded Scottie.

“Maybe the States didn’t get the sickness like we did,” said another.

Scottie shouted back. “Naw, Sarah, I wish that were true. Don’t you remember? It was everywhere. You must remember. Every major city experienced outbreaks. New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles. Everyone and everywhere. There was nowhere to hide.”

“So why would they come if they’re not here to save us? Perhaps we’ve got this 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. 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 the lighthouse.

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