Aftermath

61

This was a boat which had never been designed for making sea crossings. More at home pottering along rivers or drifting along the Norfolk Broads and similar gentle waterways, the overloaded little vessel was clearly struggling. The group’s euphia at having finally made it off the mainland disappeared quickly, replaced with an undeniable unease. They felt uncomfortably low in the water, and despite the relatively clear sky overhead, the vicious wind continued to whip up the waves and repeatedly knock them off course. The seven survivors crammed onto the boat were cold, wet, and afraid.

But it could have been worse.

They could have died last September along with everyone else, Lorna thought. They could have got sick like Ellie and Anita and ended their time alone, desperately frightened, wallowing in their own waste. They could have cracked under the pressure of everything that had happened like Webb and Martin Priest and, most recently, Jas, or died senselessly like Ainsworth, Hollis, or Jackson. They could have fallen apart in any one of a hundred thousand different ways but they hadn’t, not yet. They could have been trapped in the burning chaos of Chadwick, or buried under the castle, or they might still be trapped on the first floor of the besieged hotel, but they weren’t. Unlike most people she’d come across since the end of the world, the seven of them still had a chance, albeit a small one. No matter how positive she tried to make herself feel, however, the endless gray water which surrounded them now made their situation feel increasingly hopeless again.

Driver used a compass and a map to navigate, doing his best to hide the fact that he was struggling from the others. Although shielded from the worst of the sea spray which soaked everyone and everything else, the rolling waves were making it increasingly difficult to concentrate. And they’d just reached a psychologically important point, he realized as he looked up and around for inspiration. His last visual reference point had disappeared far behind them, the faintest trace of the smoke hanging over Chadwick still remained like a smudge on the horizon, but otherwise there was absolutely nothing. He turned back around to face the bow again, trying to avoid catching the eye of any of the others for fear of starting another uncomfortable, slightly panic-tinged conversation which, inevitably, wouldn’t do them any good. Instead, he just looked into the rolling waves; port, starboard, aft, bow … all he could see in every direction was water now.

* * *

Another hour, maybe slightly longer, and the silent nervousness in the boat had reached new levels. Conditions were deteriorating. The wind had picked up markedly, and although the sea wasn’t particularly wild, to the seven people in the inappropriately small boat being knocked around by the waves, it certainly felt that way.

Caron was beginning to panic. Lorna, despite feeling increasingly anxious herself, did what she could to calm her. Michael squeezed through the others to reach Driver. Harte did the same, his sudden movements far less subtle than Michael’s.

“How much longer?” he demanded as the boat swayed to one side, lurching sickeningly.

“How am I supposed to know?” Driver grumbled.

“You must have some idea.”

“Forgot my sat nav.”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“Don’t talk bollocks, then. You can get out and walk if you like.”

“Do we have any life jackets?” Caron wailed from close behind.

“Do we look like we have any life jackets?” Harte angrily protested. “Wouldn’t we be wearing them?”

“Would you all just shut up and let me concentrate,” Driver shouted. “All this noise is doing my bloody head in.”

“You mean you haven’t been concentrating so far?” Howard asked, semi-seriously. The pointless bickering continued, and Michael took the opportunity to try and find out how much of it was justified. He clung to the side of the boat as a wave crashed against the starboard side. Bigger than any of the waves they’d so far seen, it splashed over the deck, soaking everyone, filling the bottom of the boat with about an inch of water and cranking Caron’s nervousness up to another level.

“Do you have any idea?” he asked quietly. Driver looked at him.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “I’m not completely sure. I mean, I have a bearing and I’ve been sticking to it as best I can, but it’s difficult. This boat’s not ideal, you know, and the weather’s getting worse.”

“So what’s the prognosis?”

“Keep heading in this direction for about another hour if we can. Then start with the flares.”

“Flares?”

Driver looked down and kicked the door of a waterproof cupboard with the toe of his boot.

“That was the plan,” he explained. “Richard said sail as close as you can to where you think the island is, then set off a flare. Put one up every hour.”

“And then?”

“And then he’ll hopefully see us at some point, then come out and guide us in.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully. It sounded like a pretty piss-poor plan, but it was still slightly better than he’d expected. At worst they could keep setting off flares all night until someone on the island saw them. “So how many flares do you have down there?”

Driver looked at him before reluctantly answering. “Three.”