✮ Book One Of The Hurst Chronicles ✮
by
Robin Crumby
Hurst
Castle is the setting for a recently released dystopian thriller written by
local author Robin Crumby.
The
story focuses on a group of survivors living at Hurst, on the South Coast of
England, following the outbreak of a pandemic virus.
In
an all-too realistic vision of the near future, law and order on the mainland
has collapsed. Those that survive scrape a living in remote outposts. Hiding
behind high walls, far away from the smoking ruins of the cities, waiting and
hoping. When the arrival of outsiders threatens to tip the balance of power,
Hurst is faced with a desperate choice: set aside their differences and join an
alliance that promises new hope or unite against the newcomers and their plans
for reconstruction. Who can be trusted? Only time will tell. The battle for
Hurst has begun.
Author
Robin Crumby hopes that the book will generate "international interest in
Hurst Castle and provide an additional boost for visitor numbers."
Book
Extract
Chapter One
This was an ancient place, remote and desolate. Peaceful, yet witness to
centuries of war mongering, standing ready to do its duty. A never-ending vigil
set to the rhythmic rise and fall of the ocean.
It was only a matter of time before all this would be swept away. The
castle’s resolute defences were imperceptibly weakened by every breaking wave,
sweeping in from the channel, sent crashing against the groynes and stones.
A pale sun rose silently and unnoticed over Hurst Castle. Shadows
stretching over the rippled tidal waters that all but surrounded it, bar a
narrow finger of shingle linking the fortifications to the mainland. Hurst’s
seventy-four occupants were slumbering in their quarters. The more recent
arrivals camping out in the East Wing, tents pitched where grass and space
allowed. In the dorm room in the main building, a shaft of sunlight pierced the
makeshift curtains. Two grey blankets strung across the large stone window
aperture prolonged the darkness. The shaft of light fell across the pillow
of one of the iron-framed beds, bathing the unshaven face of a man in white
light as he began to wake.
Zed stretched and yawned, looking around at his companions. Packed
tightly together, a sleeping mass of washed-up humanity snored gently.
There was a low snuffle of someone stirring in the corner, heavy breathing and
the universal stench of unwashed bodies and morning breath. From outside came
the low sound of waves breaking gently over the rocks and shingle spit,
seagulls soaring above the castle that spoke of a new
morning, bringing with it new hope. For many, the sounds reminded them
of former lives, holidays by the seaside, long forgotten memories.
A base need to breathe fresh air and enjoy the peace of the castle in
the early dawn compelled Zed to take his morning constitutional walk. He
was fond of rising before anyone else was up and having the place to himself.
Stepping outside, he squinted, shading his eyes, taking a moment to
bathe his face in the sunshine, inhaling deeply the sea air. His hair was
unkempt and unwashed, long sideburns grew down his cheeks and a tuft of hair
stuck upright. He wore a grubby t-shirt with ‘Weyland Corporation’ on the
front. Chest high salt stains from wading in seawater to unload stores from a
visiting fishing boat. He had the air of someone who looked after himself, a
loner, a survivor with the scars to prove it. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy
the company of others, he did. But when push came to shove, he had no time for
the weak. Survive or die. Get in his way and face the consequences.
Leaving the castle keep and its cold grey stone walls, he meandered
sleepily, still yawning, through the Tudor archway. Beyond the gate was a
narrow strip of grass that stretched for one hundred meters or so to the
western walls of the fort, extended in Victorian times. A large
marquee dominated the interior. Half a dozen smaller tents were pitched
haphazardly around it. Passing the canteen he took the stairs two at
a time. Up on to the raised walkway and ramparts, he looked southwest across
the narrow channel towards the Isle of Wight and the Needles rocks. There was
still a faint haze that shrouded the rocks in a light mist, slowly evaporating
as the shadows shortened on the water.
He unzipped his fly to pee over the battlements. Urine rained down on to
some weeds that grew against the base of the crumbling brick wall, some thirty
feet below. He scanned the horizon across the saltmarshes towards
Keyhaven. A pair of swans glided gracefully against the incoming tide within the
sheltered estuary that lay behind a narrow shingle spit. As he turned to look
back up the finger of land and the raised roadway on top of the
shingle, the movement of a dark shape in the distance interrupted his
gaze.
The figure was limping awkwardly. A long heavy coat several
sizes too big was draped around his shoulders. On the castle walls Zed reached
for the pair of binoculars that lived in a large blue plastic Ikea storage box
under the bench seat. He took a couple of seconds to find and focus on the
figure in the distance. There was no question. What had first appeared as a
limp was more severe in focus, the left leg dragging heavily on the shingle,
scrapping at each step. His progress was laboured, but he showed no sign of
discomfort or pain as he approached.
Zed lowered the binoculars and squinted back at the shape with his bare
eyes. The hint of a smile appeared on his lips. He reached back into the
blue container and brought up a hunting rifle. Loading a single bullet into the
breach, he took careful aim at the figure in the distance. Adjusting his
position a couple of times, he relaxed into a wide stance, the rifle
resting on the edge of the brick wall. The cross hairs of the telescopic sight
danced around the head of the approaching figure. It was still perhaps two
hundred meters away now, making steady progress. He regulated his breathing
before exhaling deeply.
The rifle shot rang out across Christchurch Bay, echoing around the
battlements, shattering the silence of the early morning.
A flock of birds rose startled from the salt marshes. In the fenced off
field next to the lighthouse, a herd of dairy cows started and bumped into each
other wild eyed. The two horses bolted, one jumping over the low wire fence and
charging away from the noise. Its hooves clattered on the pebbles as it
galloped along the beach.
About the author
Robin Crumby is an author and writer living in London with his wife and
two children. Since reading John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids as a
child, he became fascinated by end of the world dystopian literature.
More recently, re-reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Emily St. John
Mandel’s Station Eleven inspired him to start writing. Why? Because
post-apocalyptic fiction fires the imagination like nothing else.
Pondering what comes next, who would survive, what would life look like?
Much of the best fiction in this popular genre focuses on brain-eating
zombies or events unfolding in the USA so Robin determined to write a
story set in the UK. His Eureka moment came wandering the shingle beach
at Milford-on-sea, inspired by the beauty and rich history of the
Solent. Where better to survive the end of the world than a medieval
castle surrounded by water? Robin spent much of his childhood messing
about in boats, exploring the many waterways, ports and military forts
of the Isle of Wight, where The Hurst Chronicles are set.
Useful Links
Twitter: @HurstChronicles
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/HurstChronicles
Book series
website: http://www.hurstchronicles.com/
Author bio:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Robin-Crumby/e/B01E5WGVXS/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
